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said.
    Carella nodded, said, “Thanks, Dave,” and studied the envelope as he climbed the steps to the second floor of the old building. Name of the courier service was Speed-O-Gram. The envelope was addressed to Detective Stephen Louis Carella. The return name on it was Adam Fen, the return address P.O. Box 4884, Abernathy Station. Willis had drawn a blank on each of those yesterday. There were only five Fens listed in all of the city’s telephone directories. None of them was an Adam. Willis had called each and every one of them, with no luck. He got Chinese accents each and every time, “So solly, no Adam Fen here”; for a change, Genero had been right. There were only 300 post office boxes at the Abernathy Station downtown. A box numbered 4884 simply did not exist.
    â€œSee you got another one,” O’Brien said.
    Carella didn’t know what he was talking about.
    O’Brien handed him the MetroFlash envelope and the note that had been inside it:
    A WET CORPUS?
CORN, ETC?
    â€œMeaning?” Carella asked.
    â€œYou’re the detective,” O’Brien said.
    â€œHe’s still trying to confess,” Carella said.
    â€œYou think?”
    â€œTelling us there’s a dead body wet with her own blood.”
    â€œMaybe so,” O’Brien admitted dubiously, not wishing to press his good fortune by venturing a true opinion. O’Brien was known far and wide as a hard-luck cop. Not only just here in the confines of the Eight-Seven. Everywhere in the city. Far and wide. Walk down the street with Detective Bob O’Brien, there’d be shooting. Just standing beside him here in the squadroom, Carella was wondering if a bullet would come smashing through one of the windows.
    â€œBut what does he mean by ‘corn, etc?’ ” O’Brien asked, stepping out boldly.
    â€œHe’s referring to the same old routine,” Carella said. “A body, an investigation, like that. He’s telling us this is all corny by now. We’ve seen it a thousand times on television.”
    â€œYou think?” O’Brien said again.
    â€œI’m guessing. Same as you.”
    â€œWhat’s the new one say?” O’Brien asked.
    He knew his own hard-luck reputation. Shrugged it aside. He’d had to shoot only six, or maybe seven, people in his entire career, but who was counting? And, anyway, that wasn’t so much. Besides, if they couldn’t take a joke, fuck ’em.
    Carella fished a pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer, pulled them on, opened the Speed-O-Gram envelope. A business-size envelope inside. A pattern here. Same lunatic. He slit open the inner envelope, removed from it a folded white sheet of paper. The message on it read:
    BRASS HUNT?
CELLAR?
    â€œSo what’s that got to do with your wet corpse?” O’Brien asked.
    â€œI haven’t the foggiest,” Carella said.
    Which was when the telephone rang.
    It was Bert Kling telling him that Cotton Hawes had been shot and that Sharyn was having him moved from the notorious St. Luke’s to Boniface, one of the city’s better hospitals.
    Â 
    O N THE WAY to Boniface, Carella and Meyer tried to dope out what the three notes meant. The first one said:
    WHO’S IT, ETC?
A DARN SOFT GIRL?
O, THERE’S A HOT HINT!
    â€œOkay, the darn soft girl is the female stiff we caught. That’s obvious.”
    â€œThen why’s he asking us who it is?” Carella asked.
    He was driving. Meyer was riding shotgun.
    â€œCause he’s a madman,” Meyer said. “Lunatics don’t behave like normal people.”
    â€œHe asks us who it is, etcetera, etcetera, and so on, and then he tells us that’s a hot hint ? Right after he’s already told us the vic is a darn soft girl who we already know is Gloria Stanford? I don’t get it, Meyer, I really don’t.”
    â€œHe’s confessing, is all. He wants us to catch him, is all.