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gloves.
    The man, whose name was Gregory Turner, went to the stove, opened the oven door, and lighted the gas jets. He left the door
     open. In a few moments, they could feel heat beginning to seep into the kitchen. Turner put up a pot of coffee. A short while
     later, while he was pouring for them, they took off the coats and gloves.
    He was sixty-nine years old, he told them, a creature of impeccable habit, set in his ways. Got up to pee every night at three-thirty.
     They’d got him out of bed forty minutes early, he didn’t like this break in his routine. Hoped he could fall back asleep again
     after they were done with him here and he had his nocturnal pee. For all his grumbling, though, he seemed cooperative, even
     hospitable. Like buddies about to go on an early morning fishing trip, the three men sat around the oilcloth-covered kitchen
     table sipping coffee. Their hands were warm around the steaming cups. Heat poured from the oven. Springtime didn’t seem all
     that far away.
    “I hated those records she played day and night,” he told them. “Sounded like somebody
practicing
. All classical music sounds that way to me. How can anyone make any sense of it? I like swing, do you know what swing is?
     Before your time, swing. I’m sixty-nine years old, did I tell you that? Get up to pee regular every night at three-thirty
     in the morning, go back to sleep again till eight, get up, have my breakfast, go for a long walk. Jenny used to go with me
     before she died last year. My wife. Jenny. We’d walk together in the park, rain or shine. Settled a lot of our problems on
     those walks. Talked them out. Well, I don’t have any problems now she’s gone. But I miss her like the devil.”
    He sighed heavily, freshened the coffee in his cup.
    “More?” he asked.
    “Thank you, no,” Carella said.
    “Just a drop,” Hawes said.
    “Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, that was swing. Harry James, the Dorsey Brothers, wonderful stuff back then. You had a new song
     come out, maybe six, seven bands covered it. Best record usually was the one made the charts. ‘Blues in the Night’ came out,
     there must’ve been a dozen different big-band versions of it. Well, that was some song. Johnny Mercer wrote that song. You
     ever hear of Johnny Mercer?”
    Both detectives shook their heads.
    “He wrote that song,” Turner said. “Woody Herman had the best record of that song. That was some song.” He began singing it.
     His voice, thin and frail, filled the stillness of the night with the sound of train whistles echoing down the track. He stopped
     abruptly. There were tears in his eyes. They both wondered if he’d been singing it to Jenny. Or for Jenny.
    “People come and go, you hardly get a chance to say hello to them, no less really know them,” he said. “Woman who got killed
     tonight, I don’t think I even knew her name till the super told me later on. All I knew was she irritated me playing those
     damn old records of hers. Then I hear three shots and first thing I wonder is did the old lady shoot herself? She seemed very
     sad,” he said, “glimpses I got of her on the stairs. Very sad. All bent and twisted and bleary-eyed, a very sad old lady.
     I ran out in the hall …”
    “When was this?”
    “Right after I heard the shots.”
    “Do you remember what time that was?”
    “Around a quarter past eleven.”
    “Did you see anyone in the hall?”
    “No.”
    “Or coming out of her apartment?”
    “No.”
    “Was the door to the apartment open or closed?”
    “Closed.”
    “What’d you do, Mr. Turner?”
    “I went right downstairs and knocked on the super’s door.”
    “You didn’t call the police?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Why not?”
    “Don’t trust the police.”
    “What then?”
    “I stayed in the street, watched the show. Cops coming, ambulances coming. Detectives like you. A regular show. I wasn’t the
     only one.”
    “Watching, do you mean?”
    “Watching, yes. Is it getting too hot in