Cop Hater by Ed McBain Page A

brilliance against the cool dimness. The heat in the streets was still insufferable, and he was thankful for the cool living room, but his topic was death, and he would have preferred the heat.
    Mrs. Foster was a small, dried-up woman. Her face was wrinkled and seamed, as brown as David's had been. She sat hunched hi the chair, a small withered woman with a withered face and withered hands, and he thought A strong wind would blow her away, poor woman, and he watched the grief that lay quietly contained behind the expressionless withered face.
    "David was a good boy," she said. Her voice was hollow, a narrow sepulchral voice. He had come to talk of death, and now he could smell death on this woman, could hear death in the creak of her voice, and he thought it strange that David Foster, her son, who was alive and strong and young several hours ago was now dead—and his mother, who had probably longed for the peaceful sleep of death many a time, was alive and talking to Carella.
    "Always a good boy. You raise 'em in a neighborhood like this one," Mrs. Foster said, "and you fear for how they'll turn out. My husband was a good worker, but he died young, and it wasn't always easy to see that David wasn't needing. But he was a good boy, always. He would come home and tell me what the other boys were doing, the stealing and all the things they were doing, and I knew he was all right."
    "Yes, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.
    "And they all liked him around here, too," Mrs. Foster went on, shaking her head. "All the boys he grew up with, and all the old folks, too. The people around here, Mr. Carella, they don't take much to cops. But they liked my David because he grew up among them, and he was a part of them, and I guess they were sort of proud of him, the way I was proud."
    "We were all proud of him, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.
    "He was a good cop, wasn't he?"
    "Yes, he was a fine cop."
    "Then why would anyone want to kill him?" Mrs. Foster asked. "Oh, I knew his job was a dangerous one, yes, but this is different, this is senseless. He wasn't even on duty. He was coming home. Who would want to shoot my boy, Mr. Carella. Who would want to shoot my boy?"
    "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Foster. I hope you don't mind if I ask a few questions."
    "If it'll help you find the man who killed David, I'll answer questions all day for you." "Did he ever talk about his work?"
    "Yes, he did. He always told me what happened around the precinct, what you were working on. He told me about his partner being killed, and he told me he was leafing through pictures in his mind, just waiting until he hit the right one."
    "Did he say anything else about the pictures? Did he say he suspected anyone?" "No."
    "Mrs. Foster, what about his friends?" "Everyone was his friend."
    "Did he have an address book or anything in which their names might be listed?"
    "I don't think he had an address book, but there's a pad near the telephone he always used." "May I have that before I leave?" "Certainly."
    "Did he have a sweetheart?"
    "No, not anyone steady. He went out with a lot of different girls."
    "Did he keep a diary?"                                             
    "No."
    "Does he have a photograph collection?" "Yes, he liked music a lot. He was always playing his records whenever he..."
    "No, not phonograph. Photograph."
    "Oh. No. He carried a few pictures in his wallet, but that's all."
    "Did he ever tell you where he went on his free time?" "Oh, lots of different places. He liked the theatre a lot The stage, I mean. He went often."
    "These boyhood friends of his. Did he pal around with them much?"
    "No, I don't think so."
    "Did he drink?"
    "Not heavily."
    "I mean, would you know whether or not he frequented any of the bars in the neighborhood? Social drinking, of course."
    "I don't know."
    "Had he received any threatening letters or notes that you know of?"
    "He never mentioned any."
    "Ever behave peculiarly