Fuzz (87th Precinct Mysteries) by Ed McBain
By Ed McBain
During this nice novel set in and round a NYC police stationhouse, Steve Carella reveals how brutal homicide situations converge via accident in a startling and savage end.
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Okay, sure,” Meyer said, “But why? ” “No, sir. ” “Send Hawes over there! Send him over the minute he gets back. Get on the phone to Ballistics. Find out what they’ve got. ’s office and get that autopsy report. “ Meyer snapped, and went immediately to the telephone. “This goddamn racket drives me crazy,” Byrnes said, and started to storm back into his office, remembered that the jolly green painters were in there slopping around, and stormed into the Clerical Office instead. ” he shouted. ” Miscolo said, because that’s exactly what he was doing at the moment.
That was pretty serious. The amusing part was that the victims had been vagrants. Ever since Carella could remember, the police had been waging an unremitting war against this city’s vagrants, arresting them, jailing them, releasing them, arresting them again, on and on ad infinitum. So now the police had been presented with two benefactors who were generously attempting to rid the streets of any and all bums Fuzz 41 by setting them aflame, and what did the police do? The police promptly dispatched a valuable man to a cold dark alley to lie on his side facing a dirty snowbank while hoping to catch the very fellows who were in charge of incinerating bums.
So they let the kid go at two-thirty without even offering him an ice cream cone or some gumdrops, and then they sat around the squadroom handling the suspect note with a pair of tweezers and decided to send it over to Lieutenant Sam Grossman at the police lab in the hope that he could lift some latent prints that did not belong to Sergeant Murchison. None of them mentioned the deaf man. Nobody likes to talk about ghosts. Or even think about them. “Hello, Bernice,” Meyer said into the telephone, “is your boss around?