Blood Relatives by Ed McBain Page A

one of them be in the dishwasher?”
    “We never put those knives in the dishwasher,” Gaddis said. “They’ve got wooden handles, we wash them by hand. Those are expensive knives. They’re made in Germany, you know.”
    “Would this be the fourth knife?” Carella asked, and opened the manila envelope again, and pulled the knife out by the evidence tag, and put it down on the cutting board. Gaddis looked at the knife.
    “Is that…is that the murder weapon?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Carella said.
    “It looks like one of our knives,” Gaddis said, “but I can’t tell for sure. I mean, I suppose there are lots of knives that are similar to these. I mean, these aren’t unique knives or anything, you can buy them in any good store in the city. But if I had to say, just looking at the knife there, I would have to say yes, it looks as if it could be the fourth knife, it looks as if it could be the fourth paring knife in the set there.” He looked up suddenly. “That means he was here, doesn’t it?” he said. “The one who killed her. If he took that knife from the rack, he was here.”
    “Yes,” Carella said. “He was here.”

At 6:00 that Wednesday night, just as they were preparing to leave the squadroom, the phone on Carella’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “87th Squad, Carella.”
    “Steve, this is Dave Murchison on the desk.”
    “Yes, Dave.”
    “Patricia Lowery here to see you.”
    “Send her right up.”
    Carella put the receiver back onto the cradle and turned to Kling, who was rolling down his shirt sleeves. “Bert,” he said, “Patricia Lowery’s on her way up.”
    “What does she want?” Kling asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    Patricia was wearing blue jeans, a gray Shetland sweater, brown low-heeled walking shoes, and a striped muffler that she had wrapped around her neck so that the ends trailed down her back. The temperature outside had dropped a bit since morning,and her cheeks were glowing and pink. She greeted both detectives by name and then took a seat at Carella’s desk. The first thing she said was, “I want to make a statement.”
    “What about?” Carella asked.
    “The murder,” Patricia said. “I want to tell you who killed my cousin Muriel.”
    The detectives glanced at each other in surprise. Neither of them said anything. They waited. Her bandaged hands were in her lap. She sat unmoving in the straight-backed chair, and when finally she began speaking, her voice was almost a whisper, a pained and halting monotone.
    “My brother killed her,” she said.
    Again the detectives looked at each other.
    “Yes,” Patricia said, and nodded. “My brother.”
    “Patricia, do—?”
    “My brother killed her.”
    “That’s a very serious accusation,” Kling said. “Are you sure—?”
    “Patricia, do you know what you’re saying?” Carella asked.
    “I know what I’m saying. My brother killed her.”
    “On the night of the murder, you told us—”
    “I was lying. My brother killed her.”
    “Patricia, I want to tape this,” Carella said. “Is that all right with you?”
    “Yes. Tape it. I want you to have a record.”
    Carella went to one of the metal filing cabinets, opened a drawer in it, and pulled out a tape recorder, which he brought immediately to the desk. On the face of the recorder, someone had pasted a label that read PROPERTY OF 87 TH SQUAD—DO NOT REMOVE FROM THIS OFFICE! !!! He placed the microphone on the desk in front of Patricia, and then said, “All right, Patricia, you can begin talking now.”
    PATRICIA : Is it on?
    CARELLA : Yes, it’s on. Would you repeat what you said just a moment ago?
    PATRICIA : I said my brother killed her.
    CARELLA : Your brother killed Muriel Stark?
    PATRICIA : Yes. My brother killed Muriel Stark.
    CARELLA : Okay, just a second, Patricia, I want to make sure we’re getting this. He rewound the tape, played back the segment they had just recorded, and then said, “Okay, we’re fine. I’m going