Chapter 13 chapter Ten

At exactly twelve o'clock at noon, Ed "Coffin Bucket" was driving his Plymouth RV into the northbound traffic of Lower Broadway. "What are the two cops who got kicked out of the force doing?" he asked. "Try to get reinstated," said "Gravedigger" Johns in a dry, hoarse voice. He didn't say another word all the way to the uptown; he sat silent, furious. They reported to the Harlem Police Station at twelve-thirty and handed their badges to Captain Bryce. They stopped for a while on the steps of the district police station, staring at the black people coming and going on the street, and the residents of Harlem all dodged to give way to the white policemen who wanted to go back to the police station.

The sun beat down viciously. "Pinkboy must be found first," said "Gravedigger" Johns. "The only evidence we have is that Jack was in possession of drugs. If we can prove that he was also dealing in heroin, that might give us some clues to follow." "Then he has to talk." Ed "Coffin Bucket" emphasized. "Speak! Talk! Do you think he can't talk! As long as you say something nice to me to coax him, no scumbag who knows Jack will refuse to say something." Fifteen minutes later, their car stopped in front of the apartment on Riverside Drive.

"Did you see that?" Ed "Coffin Bucket" said as the two of them got out of the car. "That must have been done by one of them," said "Gravedigger" Johns. The dog was lying in front of the grated gate of the rear entrance.It was lying on its side, with its back against the gate, and its limbs stretched out.Appears to be asleep.The midday sun shone mercilessly on its tawny fur. "There must be something in here," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Maybe it died." The dog still wore a heavy, reinforced iron muzzle, and a chain attached to a collar studded with brass studs.

They walked towards it in unison. It half-opened its soft, bright eyes as they approached, and let out a low growl like distant thunder in its throat, but it didn't move. Blowflies swarmed on the grimy wound on its head that oozes black blood. "Africans are a poor job," commented "Gravedigger" Jones. "Maybe he's in a hurry to go back." "Gravedigger" Johns bent to pick up the dog leash near his collar.The rest of the chain was crushed under the dog's body.With a light pull from him, the dog slowly got up, like a camel getting up.It stood up weakly, with an indifferent expression on its face.

"It's dying," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "If someone knocked you on the head and then threw it into the river, you'll die too." The dog followed them meekly back to the front entrance, and they rang the caretaker's bell.No one responded. "Coffin Bucket" Ed stepped to the mailbox and rang many doorbells without any hesitation. The snap lock ratchets continuously. "It seems that everyone is waiting for someone." "Seems right." They went down the stairs to the basement, Ed "Coffin Bucket" asked curiously, "What if we get into trouble?"

Although they were still in their shirts, they had left their revolvers at home this morning. "Pray," said "Gravedigger" Jorns hoarsely, with renewed anger in his chest. "Don't forget, if we call ourselves police officers, we will be charged with impersonating police officers." "How could I forget?" Ed "Coffin Bucket" said bitterly. The first thing they noticed was that the suitcase was gone. "Looks like we're late." "Gravedigger" Johns said nothing. They rang the administrator's bell, but no one answered. "Gravedigger" Johns examines the Yale cylinder lock above the old-fashioned mortise lock.He handed the chain to Ed "Coffin Bucket" and took a Scout knife from his trouser pocket.

"I wish it wasn't locked at night," he said, turning on the screwdriver. "It should be said that we'd better hope not to get caught." Ed "Coffin Bucket" corrected his words, turning his head and paying attention to all the entrances and exits. "Gravedigger" Johns forced the blade between the doorpost and the lock, then slowly pulled back the latch, and pushed the door open.They both grunted in shock. The African body lay in a grotesque position in the middle of the bare linoleum floor, its throat slit ear to ear.Clotted blood surrounds wounds that no longer bleed, reminiscent of monster mouths with purple lips.

Blood was splattered everywhere, on the furniture, on the floor, on the Africans' white turbans and crumpled robes. For a while, all they could hear was their own heavy breathing and the hum of an electric fan coming from nowhere. Then Ed "Coffin Bucket" reached out from behind him, put the dog aside for a moment, and closed the door.The click of the lock knocked them out of a stunned trance. "Whoever did it is no joke," said Gravedigger Jones gravely, his anger fading. "Although I have seen this kind of scene many times, I am still surprised every time." "Coffin Bucket" Ed admitted.

"Me too. This fucking stupid violence!" "Yeah, but what are you going to do?" Ed "Coffin Bucket" said, thinking of their own situation. "Damn it, it's enough to see such a thing happen." Unnoticed, the dog crept forward, and when Ed "Coffin Bucket" looked down briefly, he saw it sniffing its slit throat and licking blood. "Back off, damn it!" he yelled, grabbing the leash. Eventually they started poking around and found the interior in disarray.Rugs were torn apart; drawers were emptied and their contents strewn about; stuffed birds and animal figures disembowelled, figurines smashed, and upholstery hacked Stamped and ripped apart; faulty televisions and radios were pried open, and organ covers were broken.

"Coffin Bucket" Ed put the handle of the dog chain on the doorknob without comment, and then explored the other rooms with Jorns the gravedigger, carefully avoiding the blood pool.The vestibule has two doors leading to the kitchen and a bedroom, and beyond that a bathroom.These places, too, are all in chaos.So they turned back again and stared at the dead African. Against the backdrop of the humming electric fan, the bloody and appalling corpse was even more creepy. "Gravedigger" Johns bent down, followed the floor and looked under the blood-stained broken furniture, looking for the electric fan.The electric fan was overturned under the dining table, half-obscured by the broken TV screen.He found the wall outlet and unplugged it.

Silence was restored.It's dinner time and the basement is empty. They could almost hear the sound of each other's thoughts flowing. "If the administrator's wife is right about Pinky, then he might have cut the throat of the African." Ed "Coffin Bucket" said his thoughts aloud. "I don't think he did it," said "Gravedigger" Johns. "Is he looking for something?" "I don't know. What about her? Everyone knows cat-eyed women are good at cutting throats." "And her own house?" said "Gravedigger" Jones. "Who knows? The heat is delirious. Maybe she thinks her husband is hiding something here." "Then why did she kill the African? I think they're accomplices, obviously they're together." "I don't mean to go into that," said Edmin the Coffin Bucket. "It seems that someone wants something crazy, but unfortunately they still can't find it." "But what the hell are they looking for, important enough to kill? What would an old black person administrator have worth?" "Gravedigger" Johns began to think about it from the perspective of sexual relations. "Do you think he's that old? Old enough to kill Africans out of jealousy? Or maybe he finds out they've cheated him in some way?" "I don't think he would do that. But if he's an old man, it's easy to understand. Because old people usually don't like to take risks." "Who told you that?" "Anyway, there's a heap of goddamn problems to be solved here," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. They approached the corpse in tacit agreement, and made a way through the pool of blood. "Coffin Bucket" Ed frowned, and his facial muscles began to twitch. "Gravedigger" Jones raised one of the African's arms, grasped the wrist with his thumb and forefinger, and lowered it.Although the blood had clotted, the corpse was not stiff yet. "How do you explain that?" "Coffin Bucket" Ed asked. "Maybe it's the heat. The weather is so hot, it probably takes a while for the corpse to start to ossify." "Or maybe he just died not long ago." The two of them looked at each other, and the same thought ran through their minds.A chill seemed to blow into the house. "You think he bumped into and interrupted someone's search? That's why he was killed?" "It's possible," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Then, when we got here, the murderer's search might not be over yet." "Or the murderers, there may not be only one murderer." "If so, they're probably still hiding somewhere in this basement." "Coffin Bucket" Ed did not immediately respond.The skin graft on his face twisted and quivered. The two of them stood there for a while, neither of them moved, they just listened quietly.Indistinct sounds came from the street, the sound of cars passing by, the whistle of ships in the distance, and many indistinguishable small sounds in the city, forming a low background sound.Upstairs there was the thud of a woman's heels sprinting down the corridor, followed by the rumble of an elevator going up and down.But there was no sound near the basement.It was a quiet residential street outside, and at this hour, most of the tenants, whether adults or children, were having their lunch. The two of them coincidentally tried to reorganize the environmental layout of the basement in their minds by relying on only a small part of the pattern they saw.On a previous visit, they had noticed that the laundry room was to the right of the rear entrance, facing a corridor that ran parallel to the rear wall.Adjacent to the laundry room are the elevators, stairs to the vestibule, the utility room and the door to the caretaker's suite; all facing the whitewashed walls of the storage room which is accessed from the other side.Another hall, parallel to the front of the house, turned right by the door of the caretaker's room, and continued undoubtedly around the other side of the house, enclosing the basement.They also noticed that the door to the boiler room opened into the vestibule. "If I had a gun on me, I would feel much better." "Gravedigger" Jornstein said. "I think we're making too much of a fuss," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Let's be careful," said "Gravedigger" Johns. "In any case, the guy who cut the boy's throat is not easy to mess with." Ed "Coffin Bucket" unhooked the dog chain on the doorknob, opened a crack in the door, and cautiously looked all the way down the corridor. "It's a funny situation," he said, "to see us two, supposedly tough cops, in one of the safest houses in the city, terrified of poking our heads out of this basement door." "You call this safety?" "Gravedigger" Johns said, pointing to the dead body in a pool of blood. "Also, it's not so funny if your head is blown off." "Forget it, we can't hide and hide like gangsters." "Coffin Bucket" Ed said, slamming the door open. "Gravedigger" Johns jumped to the side and leaned against the wall beside the door, but "Coffin Bucket" Ed stood boldly at the door. "You remind me of a Hemingway book I read, and there was a Spanish captain in that book," said "Gravedigger" Jones irritably. "This captain thought the enemy was all dead, so he went straight to the bunker single-handedly, shouting at them to get out and shoot him, as if he was brave. And you know what happened? One of the enemies Stand up and shoot him right through the heart." "Does it look like there are any enemies here?" Ed "Coffin Bucket" demanded.To the left and right, the brightly lit white stucco corridors were deserted and silent.The door to the laundry room was open, but the doors to the tool room and boiler room were closed.However, there was barbed wire on the upper paneling in both places, and no sound came from the interior.As peaceful as a grave.The idea of ​​a killer lurking suddenly seemed ridiculous. "Damn it, I'm going to spin around," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. But "Gravedigger" Johns still insisted on being cautious. "Don't do it without a gun, man," he warned again, and suddenly an idea popped into his head. "Let's let the dog out and smell it first." "Coffin Bucket" Ed looked at him disdainfully. "With that muzzle, it can't even hurt a mouse." "I'll take care of that." As he spoke, "Gravedigger" Jones stepped forward to take off the bitch's muzzle and unchain it. He pushed it out of the hallway, but it just turned to look at him, like it wanted to come back.He looked around for something to throw, but everything that moved was stained with blood, so he took off his hat and threw it in the direction of the boiler room in the hallway. "Go over there, boy, over there, boy, go find it and come back." He urged. But the bitch suddenly turned with her tail between her legs and ran into the kitchen.They heard it licking water. "I'm going to report to the Major Crimes Unit," "Gravedigger" Johns said. "Did you see the phone?" "It's in the kitchen." "That's a house phone." Ed "Coffin Bucket" walked out and walked up and down the corridor. "There's a payphone by that door. Do you have coins?" "Gravedigger" Johns took some change from his pocket. "Yes, I have." It was an old-fashioned telephone fixed to the wall, and the microphone was positioned at the same height as the mouth of an ordinary person. "Gravedigger" Johns went around the corner, picked up the microphone, and put in a coin.He held the handset to his ear and waited for the dial tone. "I'm going to get some monkey wrenches and the like, which can be used as sticks, just in case." "Coffin bucket" Ed said, and walked to the tool room. "Why don't you let it go, let's wait for the policemen with guns to deal with it." "Gravedigger" Jones turned his head and shouted. But Ed "Coffin Bucket" had better ideas.He pushed open the door to the tool room, leaned in, and reached for the light switch. He never knew what hit him.There was a flash in his head, as if his head had exploded right in front of his eyes. "Gravedigger" Jones had just received the dial signal, and dialed the number "seven" with his index finger, when he heard the loud muffled sound of a blunt weapon hitting a human skull.He couldn't have heard it wrong because he had heard too much.He bent over and moved, turning his head quickly to detect the movement, until he heard the follow-up grunt in his ear. He couldn't get around it, but his head moved just in time to avoid the bullet that was meant to pierce his temple, but instead hit the gutta-percha microphone in his left hand, which shattered, but the misaligned head just missed the shot. The scorching blisters were left on the back of his neck. The shooter was a master with a gun.He used a short-barreled pocket pistol with a suppressor, similar to the gun that the gunman St. Burr shot down had.As soon as Ed "Coffin Bucket" opened the door of the tool room, the gunman immediately exited the boiler room and turned into the corridor, and aimed at the head of "Gravedigger" Jorns, leaning the muzzle of the trigger on the raised left arm at the elbow.Still, even the best sharpshooter can miss with a single-shot pistol, so he keeps a .38 police-style standard-issue pistol in his left hand just in case. "Gravedigger" Jorns' left hand and the entire left head were numb, and he felt as if he had been kicked in the head by a mule.But he didn't pass out.Immediately he sprang to his feet like a clockspring, moving swiftly.He crouched down and swooped in a rolling motion towards the open door of the administrator's suite. He wasn't looking in the shooter's direction; his eyes, mind, tensed muscles, and all of his senses were focused on the escape.But for some reason, a face kept popping up in his mind—a pale, dead face, with bloodless lips drawn back from small yellow teeth, and big, deep-set eyes like pistol shots The target of the field: a thin white circle around the edge of the black eyeball, surrounded by large irregular black patches - that is the face of a drug addict. The shooter extended his left arm and opened fire with a police-issue gun. "Gravedigger" Johns moved towards the diagonal line almost flat on the ground, and just as he turned around, the bullet hit him.The bullet entered just below the left shoulder blade and exited three inches above the heart. "Gravedigger" Johns let out a muffled grunt like a trapped pig, and immediately fell face down.But he didn't lose consciousness.He felt his face brush against the smooth, cool linoleum floor and knew he was inside the room.He exhausted his last bit of strength, flipped over like a kitten in the air, and lay on his back suddenly. He kicked the door with his left foot and tried to close it, but he couldn't reach the door, and his foot stopped in mid-air.He stared desperately through the door, and found himself looking up at the barrel of the policeman's gun. A thought flashed through his mind, without remorse or fear. "Gravedigger" Johns, it's over for you now. That was the last he knew. The shooter, grimacing, strode forward to fire another shot at the motionless body, but a second shooter, standing by the tool room door, yelled, "For God's sake, that's enough!" , God damn it! Do you have to use that fucking cannon?" The hyperactive shooter ignored him completely.He insisted on blasting the victim again. But in an instant, a woman screamed.It was a high decibel scream full of infinite fear and disbelief.It could be heard screaming from the bottom of the heart of a black woman, and it was also the loudest scream that an overexcited shooter had never heard before, shattering his self-control like shattering glass. He started running around aimlessly.He bumped head-on into the second gunman and wrestled with him, and the two wrestled for a while. The black maid froze as soon as she stepped out of the elevator.The laundry basket fell from her hands and turned over on the floor, her whole body froze.The round mouth was big enough to swallow an ostrich egg, and the serrated edges of the molars could be seen; the white, mossy tongue, which was attached to the palate, hung down like a bright red stalagmite; Her eyes were dull, and bursts of continuous screams that could shatter nerves came out of her mouth. The first shooter freed his left arm and slapped the hyperactive shooter twice. The sober mind was accompanied by panic, and returned to the dilated pupils of the excited shooter again. He put the police-style sidearm in the holster on his left shoulder strap, put the short-barreled pocket pistol in the right pocket of his coat, and climbed the stairs as if pursued by a shrew. "Don't run so fast, you poisonous bastard!" the second shooter yelled after him. "Just walk and get out on the street."