ED McBAIN (b. 1926)

He was born Salvatore A. Lombino in an impoverished New York City neighbourhood, but he has written under the names Ezra Hannon, Richard Marstan, Evan Hunter, and Ed McBain-the last two of which made him famous. McBain studied at both the New York City Art Students League and Cooper Union Art School on scholarships, but even then his love was writing. After service on a destroyer during World War II, he switched to Hunter College to earn a degree in English and membership in Phi Beta Kapa.
McBain worked as a lobster salesman and a substitute teacher, among other jobs, and published scores of short stories and three novels before The Blackboard Jungle, written as Evan Hunter, brought him financial success in 1954. Remarkably prolific, he also has written two plays, four film scripts, two television plays, and a number of books for children. But his fame and his reputation rest principally on his Eighty-seventh Precinct series, which began in 1956 with the publication of Cop Hater.
These novels-many of which feature Steve Carela, the precinct’s chief detective, but often focus on other members of the force-won for McBain the 1986 Grand Master award of the Mystery Writers of America and a reputation among his peers as the pre-eminent creator of the police-procedural form. His plots focus on the crime and on the exhausting work required of lawmen to catch the criminal. McBain makes his policemen human, with lives outside their duty, and he peoples the streets with minor characters who are interesting because he makes them real.
The Eighty-seventh Precinct works, with their multiple story lines, require the length of the novel form. But a similar atmosphere is depicted in many of McBain’s short stories. While it does not use the characters who made the Eighty-seventh Precinct famous, Small Homicide is illustrative of McBain’s keen knowledge of the details of police work and of the human misery that lies behind so many crimes. It stands as the prime example of a police procedural that induces an overwhelming sensation of pity in the reader.

Small Homicide

Her face was small and chubby, the eyes blue and innocently rounded, but seeing nothing. Her body rested on the seat of the wooden bench, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her. The candles near the altar flickered and cast their dancing shadows on her face. There was a faded, pink blanket wrapped around her, and against the whiteness of her throat were the purple bruises that told us she’d been strangled.
Her mouth was open, exposing two small teeth and the beginnings of a third.
She was no more than eight months old.
The church was quiet and immense, with early-morning sunlight lighting the stained-glass windows. Dust motes filtered down the long, slanting columns of sunlight, and Father Barren stood tall and darkly sombre at the end of the pew, the sun touching his hair like an angel’s kiss.
“This is the way you found her, Father?” I asked.
“Yes. Just that way.” The priest’s eyes were a deep brown against the chalky whiteness of his face. “I didn’t touch her.”
Pat Travers scratched his jaw and stood up, reaching for the pad in his back pocket. His mouth was set in a tight, angry line. Pat had three children of his own. “What time was this, Father?”
“At about five-thirty. We have six o’clock mass, and I came out to see that the altar was prepared. Our altar boys go to school, you understand, and they usually arrive at the last moment. I generally attend to the altar myself.”
“No sexton?” Pat asked.
“Yes, we have a sexton, but he doesn’t arrive until about eight every morning. He comes earlier on Sundays.”
I nodded while Pat jotted the information in his pad. “How did you happen to see her, Father?”
“I was walking to the back of the church to open the doors. I saw something in the pew, and I... well, at first I thought it was just a package someone had forgotten. When I came closer, I saw it was... was a baby.” He sighed deeply and shook his head.
“The doors were locked, Father?”
“No. No, they’re never locked. This is God’s house, you know. They were simply closed. I was walking back to open them. I usually open them before the first mass in the morning.”
“They were unlocked all night?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I see.” I looked down at the baby again. “You... you wouldn’t know who she is, would you, Father?”
Father Barron shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. She may have been baptized here, but infants all look alike, you know. It would be different if I saw her every Sunday. But...” He spread his hands wide in a helpless gesture.
Pat nodded, and kept looking at the dead child. “We’ll have to send some of the boys to take pictures and prints, Father. I hope you don’t mind. And we’ll have to chalk up the pew. It shouldn’t take too long, and we’ll have the body out as soon as possible.”
Father Barron looked down at the dead baby. He crossed himself then and said, “God have mercy on her soul.”

I was sipping at my hot coffee when the buzzer on my desk sounded. I pushed down the toggle and said, “Levine here.”
“Dave, want to come into my office a minute? This is the lieutenant.”
“Sure thing,” I told him. I put down the cup and said, “Be right back,” to Pat, and headed for the Skipper’s office.
He was sitting behind his desk with our report in his hands. He glanced up when I came in and said, “Sit down, Dave. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m holding it back from the papers, Dave. If this breaks, we’ll have every mother in the city telephoning us. You know what that means?”
“You want it fast.”
“I want it damned fast. I’m pulling six men from other jobs to help you and Pat. I don’t want to go to another precinct for help because the bigger this gets, the better its chances of breaking print are. I want it quiet and small, and I want it fast.” He stopped and shook his head, and then muttered, “Goddamn thing.”
“We’re waiting for the autopsy report now,” I said. “As soon as we get it, we may be able to-“
“What did it look like to you?”
“Strangulation. It’s there in our report.”
The lieutenant glanced at the typewritten sheet in his hands, mumbled, “Uhm,” and then said, “While you’re waiting, you’d better start checking the Missing Persons calls.”
“Pat’s doing that now, sir.”
“Good, good. You know what to do, Dave. Just get me an answer to it fast.”
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
He leaned back in his leather chair. “A little girl, huh?” He shook his head. “Damn shame. Damn shame.” He kept shaking his head and looking at the report, and then he dropped the report on his desk and said, “Here’re the boys you’ve got to work with.” He handed me a typewritten list of names. “All good, Dave. Get me results.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Pat had a list of calls on his desk when I went outside again. I picked it up and glanced through it rapidly. A few older kids were lost, and there had been the usual frantic pleas from frantic mothers who should have watched their kids more carefully in the first place.
“What’s this?” I asked. I put my forefinger alongside a call clocked in at eight-fifteen. A Mrs. Wilkes had phoned to say she’d left her baby outside in the carriage, and the carriage was gone.
“They found the kid,” Pat said. “Her older daughter had simply taken the kid for a walk. There’s nothing there, Dave.”
“The Skipper wants action, Pat. The photos come in yet?”
“Over there,” He indicated a pile of glossy photographs on his desk. I picked up the stack and thumbed through it. They’d shot the baby from every conceivable angle, and there were two good close-ups of her face. I fanned the pictures out on my desk top and phoned the lab. I recognised Caputo’s voice at once.
“Any luck, Cappy?”
“That you, Dave?”
“Yep.”
“You mean on the baby?”
“Yeah.”
“The boys brought in a whole slew of stuff. A pew collects a lot of prints, Dave.”
“Anything we can use?”
“I’m running them through now. If we get anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Fine. I want the baby’s footprints taken and a stat sent to every hospital in the state.”
“Okay. It’s going to be tough if the baby was born outside, though.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky. Put the stat on the machine, will you? And tell them we want immediate replies.”
“I’ll have it taken care of, Dave.”
“Good. Cappy, we’re going to need all the help we can get on this one. So...”
“I’ll do all I can.”
“Thanks. Let me know if you get anything.”
“I will. So long, Dave. I’ve got work,”
He clicked off, and I leaned back and lighted a cigarette. Pat picked up one of the baby’s photos and glumly studied it.
“When they get him, they should cut off his...”
“He’ll get the chair,” I said. “That’s for sure.”
“I’ll pull the switch. Personally. Just ask me. Just ask me and I’ll do it.”

The baby was stretched out on the long white table when I went down to see Doc Edwards. A sheet covered the corpse, and Doc was busy typing up a report. I looked over his shoulder:

POLICE DEPARTMENT
City of New York
Date:	June 10, 19S3
From:	Commanding Officer, To: Chief Medical Examiner SUBJECT: DEATH OF Baby girl 
	Charlss E. Brandon, 77th Pot.
	Please furnish information on items checked below in connection with the death of the above named. Body was found on June 12, 1959
	Church of the Holy Mother,
	1230 Benson Avenue, Bronx, New York
	Autopsy performed or examination made by - James L. Edwards, Fordham Hospital Mortuary Date: June 12, 1983
Date:	June 10, 19S3
From:	Commanding Officer, To: Chief Medical Examiner SUBJECT: DEATH OF Baby girl 

Where?      Bronx County
Cause of death:     Broken neck
Doc Edwards looked up from the typewriter.
“Not nice, Dave.”
“No, not nice at all.” I saw that he was ready to type in the Result of chemical analysis space. “Anything else on her?”
“Not much. Dried tears on her face. Urine on her abdomen, buttocks, and genitals. Traces of Desitin and petroleum jelly there, too. That’s about it.”
“Time of death?”
“I’d put it at about three A.M. last night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want a guess?”
“Sure.”
“Somebody doesn’t like his sleep to be disturbed by a crying kid. That’s my guess.”
“Nobody likes his sleep disturbed,” I said. “What’s the Desitin and petroleum jelly for? That normal?”
“Yeah, sure. Lots of mothers use it. Mostly for minor irritations. Urine burn, diaper rash, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“This shouldn’t be too tough, Dave. You know who the kid is yet?”
“We’re working on that now.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I turned to go, and Doc Edwards began pecking at the typewriter again, completing the autopsy report on a dead girl.

There was good news waiting for me back at the office. Pat rushed over with a smile on his face and a thick sheet of paper in his hands.
“Here’s the ticket,” he said.
I took the paper and looked at it. It was the photostat of a birth certificate.

U. S. NAVAL HOSPITAL        St. Albans, N. Y.        Birth Certificate
This certifies that Alice Dreiser  was born to Louise Ann Dreiser on the tenth day of November 1958 in this hospital at 4:15 P.M. Weight 7lb, 6ozs.
In witness whereof, the said hospital has caused this certificate to be issued, properly signed and the seal of the hospital hereunto affixed.
Gregory Freeman, LTJG MC USN
Frederick L. Mann, CAPTAIN MC Commanding Officer USN

“Here’s how they got it,” Pat said, handing me another stat. I looked at it quickly. It was obviously the reverse side of the birth certificate.

Baby’s Footprint (Permanent Evidence of Identity)
Left foot
Right foot
Sex of child      Female
Weight at birth. 7lb 6oz.
Certificate of birth should be carefully preserved as record of value for future use:
1.	To identify relationship
2.	To establish age to enter school

There were several more good reasons why a birth certificate should be kept in the sugar bowl, and then below that:

Official registration at Jamaica, L.I., N.Y.
148-15 Archer Avenue,
Mother’s left thumb    Mother’s right thumb

“Alice Dreiser,” I said.
“That’s the mother. Prints and all. I’ve already sent a copy down to Cappy to check against the ones they lifted from the pew.”
“Fine. Pick one of the boys from the list the Skipper gave us, Pat. Tell him to get whatever he can on Alice Dreiser and her husband. They have to be sailors or relations to get admitted to a naval hospital, don’t they?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to prove dependency.”
“Fine. Get the guy’s last address, and we’ll try to run down the woman, or him, or both. Get whoever you pick to call right away, will you?”
“Right. Why pick anyone? I’ll make the call myself.”
“No, I want you to check the phone book for any Alice Dreisers. In the meantime, I’ll be looking over the baby’s garments.”
“You’ll be down at the lab?”
“Yeah. Phone me, Pat.”
“Right.”

Caputo had the garments separated and tagged when I got there.
“You’re not going to get much out of these,” he told me.
“No luck, huh?”
He held out the pink blanket. “Black River Mills. A big trade name. You can probably buy it in any retail shop in the city.” He picked up the small pink sweater with the pearl buttons. “Toddlers, Inc., ditto. The socks have no markings at all. The undershirt came from Gilman’s here in the city. It’s the largest department store in the world, so you can imagine how many of these they sell every day. The cotton pyjamas were bought there, too.”
“No shoes?”
“No shoes.”
“What about the diaper?”
“What about it? It’s a plain diaper. No label. You got any kids, Dave?”
“One.”
“You ever see a diaper with a label?”
“I don’t recall.”
“If you did, it wasn’t in it long. Diapers take a hell of a beating.”
“Maybe this one came from a diaper service.”
“Maybe. You can check that.”
“Safety pins?”
“Two. No identifying marks. Look like five-and-dime stuff.”
“Any prints?”
“Yeah. There are smudged prints on the pins, but there’s a good partial thumbprint on one of the pyjama snaps.”
“Whose?”
“It matches the right thumbprint on the stat you sent down. Mrs. Dreiser’s.”
“Uh-huh. Did you check her prints against the ones from the pew?”
“Nothing, Dave. None of her, anyway.”
“Okay, Cappy. Thanks a lot.”
Cappy shrugged. “I get paid,” he said. He grinned and waved as I walked out and headed upstairs again. I met Pat in the hallway, coming down to the lab after me.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I called the Naval Hospital. They gave me the last address they had for the guy. His name is Carl Dreiser, lived at 831 East 217th Street, Bronx, when the baby was born.”
“How come?”
“He was a yeoman, working downtown on Church Street. Lived with his wife uptown, got an allotment. You know the story.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I sent Artie to check at that address. He should be calling in soon now.”
“What about the sailor?”
“I called the Church Street office, spoke to the commanding officer, Captain”-he consulted a slip of paper-“Captain Thibot. This Dreiser was working there back in November. He got orders in January, reported aboard the U.S.S. Hanfield, DD 981, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on January fifth of this year.”
“Where is he now?”
“That’s the problem, Dave.”
‘What kind of problem?”
“The Hanfield was sunk off Pyongyang in March.”
“Oh.”
“Dreiser is listed as missing in action.”
I didn’t say anything. I nodded, and waited.
“A telegram was sent to Mrs. Dreiser at the Bronx address. The Navy says the telegram was delivered and signed for by Alice Dreiser.”
“Let’s wait for Artie to call in,” I said.
We ordered more coffee and waited. Pat had checked the phone book, and there’d been no listing for either Carl or Alice Dreiser. He’d had a list typed of every Dreiser in the city, and it ran longer than my arm.
“Why didn’t you ask the Navy what his parents’ names are?” I said.
“I did. Both parents are dead.”
“Who does he list as next of kin?”
“His wife. Alice Dreiser.”
“Great.”
In a half hour, Artie called in. There was no Alice Dreiser living at the Bronx address. The landlady said she’d lived there until April and had left without giving a forwarding address. Yes, she’d had a baby daughter. I told Artie to keep the place staked out, and then buzzed George Tabin and told him to check the Post Office Department for any forwarding address.
When he buzzed back in twenty minutes, he said, “Nothing, Dave. Nothing at all.”

We split the available force of men, and I managed to wangle four more men from the lieutenant. Half of us began checking on the Dreisers listed in the phone directory, and the rest of us began checking the diaper services.
The first diaper place I called on had a manager who needed only a beard to look like Santa Claus. He greeted me affably and offered all his assistance. Unfortunately, they’d never had a customer named Alice Dreiser.
At my fourth stop, I got what looked like a lead.
I spoke directly to the vice-president, and he listened intently.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps.” He was a big man, with a wide waist, a gold watch chain straddling it. He leaned over and pushed down on his intercom buzzer.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring in a list of our customers. Starting with November of 1952.”
“Sir?”
“Starting with November of 1952.”
“Yes, sir.”
We chatted about the diaper business in general until the list came, and then he handed it to me and I began checking off the names. There were a hell of a lot of names on it. For the month of December, I found a listing for Alice Dreiser. The address given was the one we’d checked in the Bronx.
“Here she is,” I said. “Can you get her records?”
The vice-president looked at the name. “Certainly, just a moment.” He buzzed his secretary again, told her what he wanted, and she brought the yellow file cards in a few minutes later. The cards told me that Alice Dreiser had continued the diaper service through February. She’d been late on her February payment, and had cancelled service in March. She’d had the diapers delivered for the first week in March but had not paid for them. She did not notify the company that she was moving. She had not returned the diapers they’d sent her that first week in March. The company did not know where she was.
“If you find her,” the vice-president told me, “I’d like to know. She owes us money.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
The reports on the Dreisers were waiting for me back at the precinct. George had found a couple who claimed to be Carl’s aunt and uncle. They knew he was married. They gave Alice’s maiden name as Grant. They said she lived somewhere on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, or at least had lived there when Carl first met her, they hadn’t seen either her or Carl for months. Yes, they knew the Dreisers had had a daughter. They’d received an announcement card. They had never seen the baby.
Pat and I looked up the Grants on Walton Avenue, found a listing for Peter Grant, and went there together.
A bald man in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging over his trousers, opened the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Police officers,” I said. “We’d like to ask a few questions.”
“What about? Let me see your badges.”
Pat and I flashed our buzzers and the bald man studied them.
“What kind of questions do you want to ask?”
“Are you Peter Grant?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What’s this all about?”
“May we come in?”
“Sure, come on in.” We followed him into the apartment, and he motioned us to chairs in the small living room. “Now, what is it?” he asked.
“Your daughter is Alice Dreiser?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No.”
“Come on, mister,” Pat said. “You know where your daughter lives.”
“I don’t,” Grant snapped, “and I don’t give a damn, either.”      
“Why? What’s wrong, mister?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s none of your business, anyway,”
“Her daughter had her neck broken,” I said. “It is our business.”
“I don’t give a...” he started to say. He stopped then and looked straight ahead of him, his brows pulled together into a tight frown. “I’m sorry. I still don’t know where she lives.”
“Did you know she was married?”
“To that sailor. Yes, I knew.”
“And you knew she had a daughter?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Grant said.
“What’s funny, mister?” Pat said.
“Did I know she had a daughter? Why the hell do you think she married the sailor? Don’t make me laugh!”
“When was your daughter married, Mr. Grant?”
“Last September.” He saw the look on my face, and added, “Go ahead, you count it. The kid was born in November.”
“Have you seen her since the marriage?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen the baby?”
“No.”
“Do you have a picture of your daughter?”
“I think so. Is she in trouble? Do you think she did it?”
“We don’t know who did it yet.”
“Maybe she did,” Grant said softly. “She just maybe did. I’ll get you the picture.”
He came back in a few minutes with a picture of a plain girl wearing a cap and gown. She had light eyes and straight hair, and her face was intently serious.
“She favours her mother,” Grant said, “God rest her soul.”
“Your wife is dead?”
“Yes. That picture was taken when Alice graduated high school. She graduated in June and married the sailor in September. She’s... she’s only just nineteen now, you know.”
“May we have this?”
He hesitated and said, “It’s the only one I’ve got. She... she didn’t take many pictures. She wasn’t a very... pretty kid.”
“We’ll return it.”
“All right,” he said. His eyes began to blink. “She... If she’s in trouble, you’ll... you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“We’ll let you know.”
“Kids... kids make mistakes sometimes.” He stood up abruptly. “Let me know.”

We had copies of the photo made, and then we staked out every church in the neighbourhood in which the baby was found. Pat and I covered the Church of the Holy Mother, because we figured the suspect was most likely to come back there.
We didn’t talk much. There is something about a church of any denomination that makes a man think rather than talk. Pat and I knocked off at about seven every night, and the night boys took over then. We were back on the job at seven in the morning, every morning.
It was a week before she came in.
She was a thin girl, with the body of a child and a pinched, tired face. She stopped at the font in the rear of the church, dipped her hand in the holy water, and crossed herself. Then she walked to the altar, stopped before an idol of the Virgin Mary, lighted a candle, and knelt before it.
“That’s her,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Pat answered.
“Not here. Outside.”
Pat’s eyes locked with mine for an instant. “Sure,” he said.
She knelt before the idol for a long time, and then got to her feet slowly, drying her eyes. She walked up the aisle, stopped at the font, crossed herself, and then walked outside.
We followed her out, catching up with her at the corner. I pulled up on one side of her and Pat on the other.
“Mrs. Dreiser?” I asked.
She stopped walking, “Yes?”
I showed my buzzer. “Police officers,” I said. “We’d like to ask some questions.”
She stared at my face for a long time. She drew a trembling breath then, and said, “I killed her. I... Carl was dead, you see. I... I guess that was it. It wasn’t right-his getting killed, I mean. And she was crying.” She nodded blankly. “Yes, that was it. She just cried all the time, not knowing that I was crying inside. You don’t know how I cried inside. Carl... he was all I had. I... I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told her to shut up and when she didn’t I... I...”
“Come on now, ma’m,” I said.
“I brought her to the church.” She nodded, remembering it all now. “She was innocent, you know. So I brought her to the church. Did you find her there?”
“Yes, ma’m,” I said. “That’s where we found her.”
She seemed pleased. A small smile covered her mouth and she said, “I’m glad you found her.”
She told the story again to the lieutenant. Pat and I checked out and on the way to the subway, I asked him, “Do you still want to pull the switch, Pat?”
He didn’t answer.

Small Homicide from The McBain Brief by Ed McBain. Copyright © 1982 by Hui Corporation. Reprinted by permission of the William Morris Agency, Inc., on behalf of the author