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way.”
    “No signs of forced entry. Tim,” Captain Wise told us. “Not via door or window.” He turned to me, took a few seconds to control his annoyance. “Collins gave you that?”
    He was referring to a pink-leather-covered telephone book; stamped in gold script letters on the cover was the name “Kitty Keeler.” Just a quick scan through the pages revealed a lot of men’s names; just first names and telephone numbers.
    “Well, you are senior man in the team catching this, right? So I guess it’s rightfully yours, but make sure I get a Xerox of every page, right, Joey?”
    Neary said, not kidding. “You can have the case, lock, stock and whorey bedroom, Chris. Just say the word and it’s all yours.”
    “Well, it would be the first time I got handed something as easy as this.” Wise recited the facts for us. “Mama is alone with the kids. Mama goes to bed and sleeps through the night, doesn’t hear a thing. Wakes up in the morning and the kids are gone. No forced entry; no signs of violence. Nothing. Kids are found dead six blocks away. And Mama didn’t hear nothing at all.” He leaned close to me, winked and said confidently, “Come on, Joe, show Captain Timmy here what you learned working for me for four years. Give him the answer to the whole damn thing. Give him the windup, Joe, before we go further.” He poked me in the ribs with his elbow. “Who done it, Joe? In one word.”
    The first place you look for a perpetrator is within the immediate family: husbands kill wives; wives kill husbands; brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, in-laws all kill each other. Only after they’ve all been cleared do you start looking at the wider circle of friends, old friends, new friends, ex-friends; then the circle widens and you begin to look at strangers.
    In most cases, you don’t have to go that far.
    In most cases, the murderer is found right inside the four walls of the victim’s home. Instead of stalking the streets looking for new victims, the murderer is usually at home helping to make the funeral plans.
    I rocked back on my heels a little, looked toward the Hollywood-style bedroom, thought about the clothes and then about the woman and the little boys who had been taken from their beds without anyone hearing anything unusual at all.
    Wise had stopped smiling. I gave him his one-word answer.
    “Mama.”
    Tim Neary whistled thoughtfully between his teeth, and Chris Wise said in a raspy, certain voice, “You betcha balls it’s Mama.”

CHAPTER 3
    D R. ALEXANDER FRIEDMAN WAS a neat, compact man with a clipped precise manner and intelligent eyes. He was Viennese. According to the various framed documents decorating the wall of his office, he was a pediatrician with diplomat status, which meant he was qualified to teach pediatrics.
    His time was tightly scheduled. Every morning, between 7 and 8 A.M., he was available for telephone consultation, and, barring emergency, he would not discuss symptoms with parents during another person’s scheduled appointment. He made hospital rounds between 8:30 and noon; had lunch between noon and 1 P.M. His first office appointment was scheduled for 1 P.M. He took no break between appointments; he saw patients at his office until 5:30 or 6 P.M. His house calls began at 7 P.M., allowing him an hour for dinner. House calls were limited to communicable diseases, high-fever patients and emergencies.
    I knew all this because when we spoke on the telephone Dr. Friedman told me his schedule and also that 2 P.M. was available to me, since there had been a cancellation.
    So far, Dr. Friedman was the last known person, besides Kitty Keeler, to have seen the Keeler boys alive on the night they were murdered.
    “Sit down, Detective Peters.” He checked his wristwatch against his desk clock. I was right on time.
    Dr. Friedman extended two cards. Each card was a precise, accurate record, containing every known medical fact from date