Reardon

by Robert L. Fish

  The body was thrown a distance of twelve feet eight inches, measuring at the waistline, stopped partially by striking the curb. The brakes were tested on the surface of Indiana prior to removing the car to the Police Garage and found to be in normal working order. Duplicate skid marks were obtained. (See photographs.)

  The lights of the Buick were found to pull slightly to the left but not excessively. Lights were on normal, not high beam. This is required on this street. Driver has no sight restriction on his license and claims to be ready to take the eye test again if required. Horn is in working order, but driver claims he had no time to use it.

  In the opinion of the APB Squad, everything is consistent with the theory of accidental death caused by the carelessness of the victim in stepping from the curb in the path of the Buick without proper precautions.

  Signed: Frank A. Wilkins, Sergeant.

  Reardon flipped the last page over, looking at the list of the contents-of-pocket. Beyond what Wilkins had mentioned the night before, there had been a second handkerchief in the jacket, a pen and pencil set with a comb and nail file, and a folded twenty-dollar bill in the trouser watch pocket. Which makes more sense, Reardon thought. Twenty-eight dollars for the bar on the Fairmont roof, plus the Little Tokyo would have been a little tight. He tossed the report down to study the photographs.

  The first must have been taken as he was driving away; Reardon could see the back of the Charger and a general view of the scene. Wilkins had marked, in white ink, the dimensions already noted on Form 12-2. The next two photographs were of the body taken from different angles; the handkerchief had been removed and in both the face stared up gravely, patiently, into the lens. The fourth showed the front of the car, head lamps intact, bumper slightly dented, no other visible damage. In the fifth the car had been removed and the skid marks were detailed, with Lundahl squatting at one end and Wilkins at the other; a steel tape between them indicated the length. Wilkins was looking down, one hand holding the tape, the other supporting himself on the pavement. Lundahl was staring at the camera with a smile at being drafted into a Traffic case; his free hand was holding his jacket back from a smear of oil on the pavement. The sixth photograph showed similar skid marks taken from a different angle on a different section of the street. The final shot was a close-up of the actual front end of the true skid mark, enlarged to show Lundahl’s hand holding the tape and the eighteen-foot point of the tape held to the end of the mark.

  Reardon held the photographs a moment and then shuffled them together, sliding them back into the envelope together with the forms and the typed report. He tossed it aside. An accident, rough on the girl, and—of course—even rougher on young Robert Cooke of Hawaii, with a lot to live for, including a girl friend that was one in a million. Reardon sighed and shook his head, unhappy about something in the report without knowing what it was. He thought of going over it again and then decided he’d had enough of Traffic as it was.

  Dondero walked into the room, delicately balancing two plastic containers of coffee. “Black with plenty of sugar,” he said and set one down in front of Reardon. He grinned in friendly fashion. “Although you don’t deserve it after last night.”

  “Sorry about that,” Reardon said, making no attempt to sound sorry. Something was itching at his mind and he had no idea what it was. He picked up his coffee, sipped it, made a face, and looked at Dondero curiously. “Why don’t they put coffee in this stuff?”

  “Ruins the hot water,” Dondero explained cheerfully and returned to the subject of the previous evening, sounding confident. “Don’t look so down in the dumps. Don’t worry about Jan. She’ll snap out of it.”

  Reardon frowned. “That’s only part of the trouble.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  The stocky red-haired lieutenant picked up the manila envelope containing Wilkins report, tossing it across the desk. “That’s the rest.”

  Dondero set his coffee down, dragged a chair up, and straddled it, picking up the report. He withdrew the contents, looked at it a moment and then frowned at Reardon.

  “What’s this got to do with you? It’s Traffic.”

  “Read it.”

  Dondero shrugged and obeyed. Reardon waited patiently, sipping his coffee while the sergeant studied the pictures. When he was through he put them back on the desk and looked at Reardon questioningly.

  “So?”

  “So I don’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Reardon shook his head. “But I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” Dondero pointed out. “It’s not your job. Unless you think it wasn’t really an accident, and I don’t buy that. I worked in Traffic two years, and Wilkins doesn’t make many mistakes. He’s good, and you know it, Jim.”

  “I know.”

  Dondero thought a moment, trying to see some logic in the other’s position, some excuse for his attitude.

  “What’s this guy Crocker like? A sharpie? Smoothie? Wise guy? Type of character who rubs you the wrong way?”

  Reardon shook his head. He swiveled his chair, staring somberly out of the window. It was a beautiful sunny day, exceptional considering the weather department had been threatening rain and fog for a week. He swung back, shaking his head again.

  “No. Actually, he’s a sad sack. He looks more like the kind of guy who steps off curbs without looking than the guy who actually did.” He smiled without humor. “Maybe that’s why I’m not happy. Wrong victim.” His humorless smile disappeared. “You know, I don’t like automobile accidents.”

  “Who likes them?”

  “What I mean is that an automobile is a weapon, a legal weapon, and I’ve often wondered how many people who get killed by cars are actually murdered. It’s a difficult thing to prove. But the fact remains that a speeding car is a dangerous weapon.”

  “Hell, Jimmy,” Dondero said, his tone requesting reason, “a piano’s a dangerous weapon if it slips when you’re dragging it upstairs. So is a safe if a cable busts when they’re hauling it up three stories. But this—” He tapped the envelope. “This looks as clean as they come.”

  “Too clean, maybe? Is that why I don’t like it?”

  “When I was in Traffic no accident was ever too clean for me,” Dondero said decisively and came to his feet. He dropped his unfinished coffee into the wastebasket and dusted his fingers as if he had soiled them on the container. “I think you’re just sore about last night in general. Has Captain Tower had you on the carpet yet?”

  “I saw him last night.”

  “And?”

  Reardon shrugged. “I’ve been chewed out worse. He told me to forget it.”

  “So forget it,” Dondero said, and walked to the door. He grinned. “And I don’t blame you for not thanking me for the coffee. It was pretty sad.” He winked and walked out.

  Reardon drummed his strong fingertips on his desktop impatiently. What the devil had gotten under his skin? It didn’t have to have come from the report, because he had been far from convinced before that it had been an accident. And, after reading the report he was still far from sure. Why? He frowned at the calendar on the wall, thinking, and then made up his mind. He dragged the telephone over, dialed an extension, and waited while the instrument at the other end rang several times and was finally answered.

  “Medical Examiner’s office.”

  “Hello? This is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. Who am I speaking to, please?”

  “This is Dr. Stevens, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

  Reardon hesitated a moment and then plunged in. “You have a body in D-4, a Robert Cooke, supposedly an accident victim. Have you seen him yet? Examined him?”

  “We looked at him the first thing this morning, Lieutenant. Why?”

  “How does it look?”

  Dr. Stevens’ voice was a bit puzzled. “It looks like a man hit and killed by an automobile. What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

  Reardon shook his
head stubbornly at the telephone, almost as if the other could see him. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. There wasn’t anything queer about it?”

  “Not a thing. We even talked to the garage. They hadn’t started on the car yet, but they described it to us. Do you have an idea there’s something fishy about it? Because I’d stake my reputation he was hit by that Buick and killed. The bumper caught him thigh-high and flung him. It broke his thigh bone and snapped his neck. I’ve seen a hundred the same way.”

  Reardon thought a moment. “He still had his shoes on …”

  “They don’t always lose their shoes, Lieutenant. Believe me.”

  “Just one more thing, Doctor. Are you planning on doing an autopsy on him?”

  There was a moment’s silence on the part of the other. When at last the doctor spoke his voice had become cooler.

  “We are not. We have plenty of work without inventing any. If you have any reason for demanding an autopsy, you’ll have to present it through channels. All right, Lieutenant?”

  “I suppose so,” Reardon said, and sighed. “Thanks, Doctor.”

  He hung up, starting to drum his fingers on the desk again. Captain Tower would never agree to an autopsy, and even if he did, what could it possibly prove? From Penny’s story Cooke certainly didn’t sound drunk or doped, and even if he were, as Wilkins had pointed out, it made the argument for accident that much stronger. Still, a deck officer on a liner was usually a fairly alert character, if he wanted to stay alive, and it didn’t sound like a sober alert character would step off a curb without looking. Except, of course, all the evidence pointed to the fact that he did. And he hadn’t been alert one time on deck when whatever caught him in the mouth did a real job on his upper lip. So just why am I so bugged about this one? Reardon asked himself, and once again made up his mind. He dragged the phone over, dialing once again.

  “Hello?”

  “Garage here.” There was the sound of an engine racing in the background, the cheerful voice was raised above it. “Morrison speaking.”

  “Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. Have the technical boys started checking out that that 1940 Buick that was in that accident last night?”

  “They’re just getting started now, Lieutenant. You’ll have the report before police court this afternoon, don’t worry.”

  “Well, I am worried. Tell them to forget it for the time being.”

  Morrison was mystified. “You mean they ain’t going to check her out, Lieutenant?”

  “They’ll check her out, all right, but not today. That’s what I mean. Do you understand? They can check it tomorrow. Is that clear?”

  “Well, sure, Lieutenant,” Morrison said in a voice that demonstrated that it wasn’t clear at all. “I’ll tell them right away. But—”

  “That’s all,” Reardon said flatly. “Tomorrow. And no buts.”

  He hung up and dialed a third number, happy to have a program to follow that satisfied him or at least kept him busy enough to ease some of the pressures of doubt he had regarding the case. “Hello?”

  “Prosecutor’s office.”

  “Let me talk to Merkel, will you? This is Lieutenant Reardon.” He waited, a faint smile on his lips. “Merkel? Jim Reardon here. You have a case coming up this afternoon in Municipal Court. An accident last night, a man killed. The victim was a Robert Cooke, downstairs in the morgue right now. Your man is a Ralph Crocker—”

  “I know.” Merkel shrugged. “There isn’t much to it, though, that I can see. I have a copy of Wilkins’ report and it seems pretty cut and dried to me. We can’t ask for anything, not even a thirty-day suspension of his license. Not on the basis of that report.”

  “Well,” Reardon said slowly, trailing the telephone cord through his fingers as he stared at the copy of the report on his desk, “there’s a little problem. We really should wait for the technical boys to finish going over the car before we release the man—certainly before we release the car. And it seems that the technical boys can’t get to it this morning. So I’d suggest a continuance of the case. Say, for just two or three days—until Friday. Day after tomorrow. How about it? Do you think you could talk the court into it?”

  “Jim,” Merkel said suspiciously, “what do you think you know that I don’t know? Or that wasn’t in Frank Wilkins’ report? Other than the identification, of course?”

  “Not a thing,” Reardon said honestly. “That’s the unfortunate truth. It’s just that I’d like to hold the car a few more days until the technical boys go over it. What the hell!” he said with a touch of irritation, “the man’ll still be free on his own cognizance. So let him rent a car for a few days and be damned happy it isn’t any worse!”

  “His lawyer isn’t going to stand for a postponement. He has a right to see Wilkins’ report.”

  “But what can he do if we haven’t been able to get to the car yet? For good and sufficient reasons?”

  “Lump it, I guess,” Merkel said. “Or scream to the newspapers.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Reardon pictured Captain Tower faced with a host of unfriendly reporters, and instantly shut the picture from his mind. “Look, I’m asking you as a favor. Let’s hope Crocker’s lawyer is a reasonable guy.”

  Merkel sighed. “All right, Jim. I imagine you’ve got some reason for holding the boys off the car, because I know they started on it ten minutes ago. I phoned to find out when I’d get the report.”

  “A lot can happen in ten minutes,” Reardon said. “In this case they all had to go to the bathroom.”

  “I figured that’s where they were,” Merkel said dryly. “Are you planning on being in court this afternoon?”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “No. I’m sure the judge will give me a continuance until Friday, but I’d say that would be about the limit.”

  “Well,” Reardon said judiciously, as if he had given the matter considerable thought, “I would imagine the boys ought to be out of the bathroom by then.”

  “They’d better be,” Merkel said and hung up.

  One more call, Reardon thought, and we ought to be on our way. Where to and why, were questions he preferred not to ask himself, because he didn’t know the answers, but he did know his next call would be pleasurable no matter what the result. He dialed the number he had gotten from Missing Persons and waited with less than his usual patience. Penny’s low voice finally answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Wilkinson? Penny? This is Lieutenant Reardon. How are you this morning?”

  “I hurt,” she said simply. “I feel numb and I still hurt. That doesn’t make any sense, does it? And I feel empty.”

  “Well,” Reardon said, trying not to sound too light, “we can do something about the emptiness, because I was calling to ask if you’d have lunch with me today.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “You see,” Reardon hurried on, “I’d like to bring you down to headquarters this afternoon to take a look at this man Crocker. And tell me if you’ve ever seen him before. With Bob Cooke, for example, or on the ship. Or anywhere else.”

  “Crocker?”

  “The driver of the car that killed your friend.”

  “Bob never mentioned his name, I’m sure of that. And I’ve never heard of him. But if you want me to come down—”

  “I’ll pick you up. We’ll have lunch at Freddy’s and then come back here. All right?”

  “I suppose it’s all right.” She still sounded half-dazed.

  “Fine,” Reardon said heartily. “Then I’ll see you about twelve-fifteen to twelve-thirty.” He tried to think of a proper way to end the conversation. “Take it easy.”

  Even as he hung up he recognized it was a pretty sad phrase, but it had been the best he could come up with.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wednesday—12:10 P.M.

  Penny Wilkinson lived in a first-floor apartment on Gough near Greenwich; to Reardon the gaily painted three-story house looked far less sinister than it had at mid
night the night before when he sat in his car and waited until she had mounted the fifteen steps, used her key, and firmly closed the door behind her. Then, as he drove off, the black gaunt height of the building seemed almost threatening. Now, in the bright noon sunshine, it looked quite Victorian and rococo, but both safe and homey.

  He parked the Charger, angling the wheels to hold the car against the incline, and walked up the steps to the front door. The ornate door held an old-fashioned knocker, but Reardon correctly assumed it was purely ornamental, and rang the bell next to the Wilkinson name. From the railinged porch the hill dropped down toward the walls of Fort Mason like the first drop on a roller coaster. He rang the bell again, enjoying the refreshing breeze from the bay; the buzzer sounded and he pushed his way into the cool dimness of a high-ceilinged hallway leading to a long flight of steps. To one side a door stood open with Penny standing beside it. She was wearing a floor-length house coat, quilted, buttoned to the throat.

  “Come in, Lieutenant. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Reardon followed her into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “You sound a lot better than you did a while ago.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose you have to learn to live with things, with facts. There isn’t much you can do about it.” For the first time since he had met her he saw her smile. It was faint, and more brave than humorous, but it was a smile. “And, too, I had a strong drink since I spoke to you this morning. I don’t usually drink during the day, but I needed it.” She moved toward her bedroom. “The liquor’s in the living room on a card table. Help yourself. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  He watched her straight back disappear down a hallway; her long hair gleamed dimly in the shadows. He turned and walked through the dining room to the living room which faced the street, pleased with the light decor, the bright Hawaiian prints on the wall intermixed with Japanese sketches, the general look of lived-in comfort of the room. The card table was apparently never used for anything except a bar; an ice bucket, glasses, and bottles covered it fairly completely. He raised his voice.