A middle-aged pathologist named Treloar was working at a sink in the corner. He cleaned his instruments and set them on the sinkboard one by one: a scalpel and a larger knife, a bone-saw, an electric vibrator saw. They gleamed in the frosty fluorescent light.
He turned to me, peeling off his rubber gloves. “You had some questions.”
“Have you recovered the bullet?”
He nodded and smiled with professional cheerfulness. “I went after it first thing. Had to use X-ray to find it. It pierced the heart and lodged between the ribs close to the spine.”
“Can I have a look at it?”
“I turned it over to Danelaw an hour ago. It’s definitely .38-caliber, but he has to use his comparison microscope to ascertain if it came from the same revolver.”
“How long has she been dead, doctor?”
“I can give you a more precise answer when I have a chance to make some slides. Right now I’d say a week, give or take a day.”
“Six days minimum?”
“Absolute minimum.”
“This is Saturday. She was shot last Sunday then.”
“No later than last Sunday.”
“And she couldn’t have been seen alive on Monday.”
“Not a chance. I’m telling you the same thing I told Westmore. I’m scientifically certain, even without the slides.” Professional pride sparkled behind his glasses. “I’ve done over forty-three hundred autopsies, here and overseas.”
“I’m not questioning your competence, doctor.”
“I didn’t think you were. Your witness was either lying or mistaken. Westmore believes he was lying.”
“Where’s Westmore now?”
“In the hospital somewhere. Try the emergency room— they’re sewing up your prisoner.”
Treloar went back to the sink to wash his hands. I started for the door. It opened before I touched it. Displaced air moved coldly against my face, and Church came in.
He passed me without noticing me. All he saw was the woman under the light. He leaned on the foot of the table.
Treloar glanced over his shoulder. “Where have you been, Brand? We held up the p.m. as long as we thought we should.”
Church paid no attention. His eyes were steady and shining, focused on the woman. They seemed to be witnessing a revelation, looking directly into the white heat at the center of things.
“You’re dead, Anne.” He spoke to her as though he was addressing a dumb animal, or a child too young to talk. “You’re really dead, Anne.”
Treloar looked at him curiously and came forward wiping his fingers on a hospital towel. Church was unaware. He was alone with the woman, hidden in the intensity of his dream. His large hands moved and took one of her feet between them. He chafed it gently as if he could warm it back to life.
Treloar backed to the door and jerked his head at me. We went outside. The door shushed closed behind us.
He whistled softly. “I heard that he was stuck on his sister-in-law. I didn’t realize he had it so bad.” His smile was crooked with embarrassment. “Cigarette?”
I shook my head. Something deeper than embarrassment tied my tongue. On the other side of the metal door there were rough and broken sounds: a man’s dry grief, a woman’s name repeated in deaf ears.
“Excuse me,” Treloar said. “I have to make a call.”
He walked away quickly, his white smock flapping behind him.
CHAPTER 28: Westmore was leaning against the wall beside the door of the emergency receiving-room. His face looked thinner and grayer, and his glasses were dirty. When he saw me he straightened up and squared his narrow shoulders.
“Good morning,” he said with a kind of aggressive formality. “Where have you been, if I may inquire?”
“I snatched a couple of hours’ sleep.”
“That’s more than I was able to do. I understand you’ve been leaving quite a trail of destruction—you and your old man of the mountain.”
“It seemed to be indicated. You can’t handle armed mobsters with kid gloves.” But I felt more compunction than I admitted: red fire had swirled and flared through my morning dreams.
“I hate to say I told you so,” he said. “But your sainted MacGowan seems to be a liar after all.”
“MacGowan made an honest mistake. He never claimed to be making a positive identification of the woman. What I don’t understand is how the heel got there. It came off Anne Meyer’s shoe, didn’t it?”
“No question about that. But it’s obvious it was planted.”
“MacGowan saw her lose it.”
“So he claims. The chances are he planted it himself and led you to it deliberately. I’m holding him as a material witness.”
“And the girl?”
“She’s in the custodial ward. I’ll interrogate her later. Right now I’m waiting to question Bozey. With the evidence we have, he should be ready to make a full confession.”
“So the case is all wrapped up in a neat package and tied with a blue ribbon?”
“Thanks to you, yes.”
“Don’t thank me. I don’t want any part of it as it stands.”
He peered in surprise through his smeared lenses.
“I have a question for you, Mr. D.A. A hypothetical question.”
He fended with his hands, half-humorously. “I’m rather leery of those. I’ve seen them last three and four hours in court.”
“This one is short and simple, and not so very hypothetical. Say one of your colleagues in county government was fronting for hoods, or worse. What would your attitude be?”
“Negative, of course. I’d put him in jail.”
“And if he ran the jail?”
“We won’t beat around the bush. You mean Brandon Church.”
“Yes. You should be questioning him instead of Bozey.”
He laid a hard white hand on my arm. “Are you quite well, Archer? You’ve had a rough couple of days—”
“I don’t have ideas of reference. And if you want to check my batting average, call the D.A.’s office in Los Angeles.”
“I already have,” he said. “They told me among other things that you’ve been a bit of a pistol on occasion. You make enemies. Which didn’t exactly astound me.”
“I make the right kind of enemies.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Did Danelaw find anything in Meyer’s basement?”
“Some slugs, which he’s working on now. I’m waiting for his report. But whatever it is, you can’t use it against Church. He’s not responsible for anything that Meyer does or did.” His eyes were hostile, and his voice metallic. “Do you have any evidence at all against Church himself?”
“Nothing you could take to a grand jury. I can’t check his movements, or question him. You can.”
“You expect me to crawl out on the same limb with you? You’re pretty far out, you know. If somebody sawed it off, you’d have a long way to fall.”
“I like it here. It gives me a bird’s-eye view of your whole rotten county.”
He bristled. “This county is clean, as counties go. Church and I have worked together for years to make it clean. You don’t know him, or what he’s done for this community.” Westmore’s voice was trembling with sincerity. “Brandon Church is a genuine practical idealist. If there’s one man in the valley whose character I’m sure of, he’s the man.”
“A man can change. Character can warp in the heat. I’ve been watching it happen to Church.”
He looked at me anxiously. “Have you said anything to him?”
“I said it all, yesterday afternoon. He pulled his gun and nearly shot me with it. I think he would have killed me if his wife hadn’t stopped him.”
“You made these accusations to his face?”
I nodded.
“I’d hardly blame him for wanting to kill you. Where is he now, do you know?”
“In the post-mortem room, with his sister-in-law.”
Westmore turned on his heel
and walked away from me, the full length of the corridor. The metal door at the end brought him up short. He stood and looked at it for a while, and finally rapped with his fist.
The door sprang open. Church came out. Westmore said something to him which I missed. Church brushed him aside with a wide sweep of his arm and moved toward me along the corridor. His eyes were fixed on something beyond its walls, and he was grinning fiercely. He pushed out through the exit door. The roar of his engine split the morning and faded into the distance.
Westmore followed him slowly, walking with his head down as if he was butting his way through invisible obstacles. His mouth was distorted by internal pressure.
“If you could question Church, what questions would you ask him?”
“Who shot Aquista and Kerrigan and Anne Meyer.”
“You’re not suggesting he did?”
“I say he has guilty knowledge of those murders. He let Bozey get away with Meyer’s truck last night.”
“Is that what Bozey says?”
“Practically. He was afraid to come right out with it.”
“Whatever he said, you can’t use him to damage a man like Church.”
“I saw Church on the pass road about one o’clock in the morning. He relieved the roadblock and took the post himself, which is highly unusual—”
He raised a stiff hand in a forensic gesture. “You’re contradicting yourself. Church couldn’t have been in two places at once. If he was on the pass road at one, he didn’t shoot Kerrigan. And do you know for certain that Bozey took that route?”
“I don’t know anything for certain.”
“I suspected that. Bozey’s obviously trying to fake some kind of an alibi.”
I said: “You’ve got your hooks on one young professional criminal, so you’re tying everything up in one heavy bundle and hanging it around his neck. I know it’s standard procedure, but I don’t like it. This isn’t simply professional crime we’re dealing with. It’s a complicated case, involving a number of people, pro and amateur both.”
“It’s not as complicated as you’re trying to make out.”
“Maybe not, when we know the answers. We don’t know them yet.”
“I thought you regarded Church as the answer.”
“Church puzzles me,” I said. “I think he puzzles you, if you’d admit it. You wouldn’t be defending him unless you had a reason.”
“I’m not defending him. He doesn’t need defense.”
“Aren’t you a little suspicious of him yourself? You saw his reaction to Anne Meyer’s death.”
“She’s his sister-in-law, after all. And he’s an emotional man.”
“A passionate man, would you say?”
“Just what are you getting at?”
“She was more than his sister-in-law. They were lovers. Weren’t they?”
He drew his fingers wearily across his forehead. “I’ve heard they were having an affair. But that doesn’t prove anything. In fact, it makes it even less likely that he had anything to do with her death.”
“It doesn’t rule out passional crime. He may have shot her out of jealousy.”
“You saw the grief on his face.”
“I saw it. Murderers feel grief like anyone else.”
“Who could he be jealous of?”
“I can think of several people. Aquista is one. He was an old follower of hers, and he was up at the lake Saturday night. It could account for what happened to Aquista. And Kerrigan’s hold over Church, and Kerrigan’s death.”
“Church didn’t kill Kerrigan, you know that.”
“He may have had it done for him. There are plenty of ready guns under his orders.”
Westmore said: “No,” in a voice as sharp and high as a cry of pain. “I can’t believe Brand would harm a living soul.”
“Ask him. If he’s an honest cop, or has any vestiges of honesty left, he’ll tell you the truth. You might even be doing him a favor. He’s carrying hell around with him now. Give him a chance to let it out before it burns him down.”
“You’re very sure of his guilt,” Westmore said softly. “I’m not.”
But he seemed to be deeply divided against himself. The artificial light reflected from the pale green hospital walls lent his face a ghostly pallor.
The light in the corridor altered suddenly. I turned to face the doctor who had failed to save Aquista. He had quietly opened the door of the emergency room.
“You can take him now, Mr. Westmore. The leaks are caulked, at any rate. You want to query him in here?”
“No. Send him out.” Westmore sounded angry with the world.
Bozey came through the doorway. Between the bandages that swathed his head, his one visible eye swung wildly to the exit. The guard behind him put his hand on his holster. Bozey caught the movement and slumped into resignation.
Westmore led the procession to the morgue, and I brought up the rear.
CHAPTER 29: Treloar wheeled the bodies out of their glass-doored compartments, one by one, and uncovered their faces. Aquista’s was pale and gaunt, Kerrigan’s fleshy and imperturbable. Anne Meyer was already old in death.
“Handsome cadavers,” the doctor said. “Their organs were in beautiful shape, every one of them. It’s a pity they had to die.” He gave Bozey a mildly chiding look.
“What you bring me in here for?”
Westmore answered him. “To assist your memory. What’s your name and age?”
Leonard Bozey. Age twenty-one. No address. No occupation. No hope.
“When did you last see this man, Donald Kerrigan?”
“Thursday night. About midnight, I guess it was.”
“You guess?”
“I know. It wasn’t any later.”
“Where did you see him? At his motor court?”
“No. At a drive-in near there. I don’t remember the name.”
“The Steakburger,” I said. “I witnessed the meeting.”
“We’ll hear from you later.” Westmore turned back to Bozey: “What occurred at that meeting?”
“I don’t have to answer. It’s self-incineration.”
Westmore smiled grimly. “Did a package of money change hands?”
“I guess so.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went away.”
“What were you running away from?”
“Nothing. I just went for a drive. I like night driving.”
“Before you went for your joy-ride, did you take a .38-caliber revolver and shoot Kerrigan through the head with it?”
“I did not.”
“Where is your gun?”
“I got no gun. It’s against the law to carry one.”
“And you never do anything against the law?”
“Not if I can help it. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
Westmore breathed deeply. “What about the truck you stole? What about the bank you robbed in Portland? Couldn’t you help doing those things?”
“I never been to Portland. You mean Portland, Maine?”
“I mean Portland, Oregon.”
“Is there a Portland in Oregon?”
Westmore leaned forward. In the flat bright light his profile was sharp-edged and thin, like something cut from sheet metal. “You’re talking pretty flip for an ex-con with the blood of three citizens on his hands.”
“I didn’t kill any of them.”
“Didn’t you? Take a good look at them, Leonard, refresh your recollection.” Westmore said to the guard: “Move him up closer.”
The guard pushed Bozey forward to the head of Aquista’s stretcher. The closed Latin face seemed to be haunted by its lifelong yearnings, persisting into death.
“I never saw him before.”
“How could you shoot a man and steal his truck without seeing him?”
“I didn’t shoot him. He wasn’t in the truck, and I didn’t exactly steal it. It was sitting here on the open highway, see. People oughtn’t to leave their trucks sitting around in
the open with the engine running.”
“I see. This was one of those things you couldn’t help. Was shooting Aquista another? Was that another one of the things you couldn’t help?”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“You didn’t take your revolver and point it at this man’s heart and pull the trigger and inflict a fatal wound on him?”
“I don’t even own a revolver.”
The interrogation went on for an hour. It reminded me of a fight between a young club fighter and an educated southpaw. Gradually Bozey was being worn down under the padded blows of words. After a while he had nothing left but a stubborn mulish terror. His voice was a croak, and the bandages that masked his face were stained with a reddish sweat.
I sweated with him, trying to guess the life behind his record. I had lifted cars myself when I was a kid, shared joy-rides and brawls with the lost gangs in the endless stucco maze of Los Angeles. My life had been like Bozey’s up to a point. Then a whisky-smelling plain-clothes man caught me stealing a battery from the back room of a Sears Roebuck store in Long Beach. He stood me up against the wall and told me what it meant and where it led. He didn’t turn me in.
I hated him for years, and never stole again.
But I remembered how it felt to be a thief. It felt like living in a room without any windows. Then it felt like living in a room without any walls. It felt as cold as death around the heart, and after a while the heart would die and there would be no more hope, just the fury in the head and the fear in the bowels. Bozey. But for the grace of an alcoholic detective sergeant, me.
There was another reason for my sense of identification with Bozey. Westmore was using him as my whipping boy, trying to force his answers to prove me wrong, and not succeeding. Not quite.
CHAPTER 30: I was grateful for the interruption when it came. Captain Danelaw opened the door and called Westmore out. The room was perfectly quiet for a moment after he left, the four living as still as the three dead. Then I said:
“You’re in a box, Leonard. If you don’t talk now, you may not have another chance. You’ll be sniffing cyanide before you can turn around.”
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