Investigation Read Free Page A

night?”
    “No.”
    “As far as you know, did anyone, anyone at all, come into the apartment last night?”
    She closed her eyes, tapped an index finger against her temple, then snapped her eyes open and said, “Yeah. The doctor.”
    Catalano said softly, “No, Kitty. Joe means anyone besides the doctor.”
    “Oh. Is that what Joe means?”
    The little mother was just a little too cute for me. I pulled out my notebook and didn’t look up at her again. “Let’s have a description of the boys, Mrs. Keeler. Start with the older boy, Terry.”
    The descriptions were of two unextraordinary boys: three and a half and six years old. Both tall for their ages; very blond hair; blue eyes; fair skin. Both dressed in two-piece cotton knit pajamas. Terry’s pajamas had yellow smiling moon faces; Georgie’s had a big yellow duck face on the front of the top half and a big yellow duck bottom on the back, with little yellow ducks on the pants. And Georgie had a measles rash all over his face and body.
    “Is any of their clothing missing, Mrs. Keeler?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
    “Well, look now.”
    She apparently considered this another challenge, something she had to decide to do or not to do. Finally she got up. “Sure, why not?”
    It took her four or five minutes. Nothing was missing. When asked, she came up with an eight-by-ten studio photograph of the boys. They appeared to be little versions of their mother, with small teeth showing through plastic smiles.
    When the telephone rang, George Keeler jumped as though he’d touched a live wire. It was loud and he grabbed it in the middle of the second ring; he listened, then said, “Detective Peters, it’s for you.”
    “I’ll take it in the kitchen.” There was a yellow wall phone offering a little more privacy. Keeler hung up as soon as he heard my voice.
    “Joe? Can you talk?”
    I had left the Keelers’ phone number on Tim Neary’s desk; he probably was going to ask what the hell I was doing in the middle of a domestic quarrel, which is what I had been asking myself.
    “What’s up, Tim?”
    His voice went flat and expressionless; the official kind of voice used to relay the kind of information Tim Neary had.
    “Joe, I’m going to read the descriptions of two D.O.A.s that just turned up over on Peck Avenue. That’s about six blocks from where you are. I haven’t been there, but I’ll relay what I just got from the precinct. Two male Caucasians. Subject number one—approximately three to four years old; death apparently by strangulation. Subject number two—approximately five to six years old; death apparently caused by an as yet undetermined caliber gunshot wound at the base of the right side of the skull. Both victims blond hair, blue eyes; both dressed in yellow-and-white cotton knit pajamas.”
    “One kid’s pajamas has smiling moon faces; the other kid’s has a yellow duck face.” I tried to swallow the sour lump that had become wedged in my throat.
    There was a long silence, then Neary said, “Them’s our babies.” He gave the exact location. “You got the father there, Joe? For an identification?”
    “Yeah. Is there a doctor at the scene, Tim? The guy’s an asthmatic. I think he’s gonna need some help.”
    “Probably someone from the M.E.’s office. Listen, get back to me with the confirmation—or whatever—as soon as you can. And, Joe? Put Catalano on for a minute; I want him to seal the premises. We’re dealing with a double homicide.” He couldn’t resist adding, in an irritated voice, “Christ, Joe, that’s just what I need right now, huh?”
    I couldn’t think of anyone who really needed a double homicide, now or at any other time. I went back into the living room. “Sam, captain wants to talk to you. He’s not happy about the report you did on the Flushing bank heist.”
    Sam’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything; both Keelers were watching us closely. I went over to George and said, a