Masters of Noir: Volume 1

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The cheap furnished room in the brownstone where the girl had been murdered was so cramped that it was hard for Walt and the assistant M.E. and me to keep out of each other’s way. The photographer and the other techs had finished half an hour ago and gone back to the station house. I’d put a patrolman at either end of the third-floor corridor to keep the crowd back. From the noise that came up both the front and back stairs, it seemed that half of New York’s west side must be down there.

The building super was talking to the two ambulance attendants in the hallway just outside the door. He was beginning to rub on my nerves. The M.E. had stripped the girl, of course, and the super was trying his damnedest to get a clear gander at her.

“Relax, Jacobson,” I told him. “You’ve seen young girls before. Wait for us down the hall.”

He gave me a hard look, but he moved away.

The M.E. pulled the sheet up over the girl’s body. “That’s it,” he said.

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