He went out, a little unsteadily.
That was the way it went, down one minute, up the next. Fenn grinned at the misty rain beading the windshield, beads that were wiped away by the swinging rubber blades only to form again the next instant. Down and up, down and up, bad luck and good. He might have known. What the hell had he felt so low about today?
Something always turns up.
He slowed carefully for the red of a traffic light. While he waited, he snaked a pint out of his raincoat pocket and took a gulp. Not much, just enough to keep an edge on. He accelerated gently as the light turned green. Always drive carefully when you’re drunk, that was his rule. He’d never had a serious accident yet.
He drove on, taking advantage of stop lights to sneak a couple more drinks. The hell with that screwball Perry Brand, he thought. Things were going to be much better now. Lucky. Call me lucky, he thought.
Well, here was the place.
He turned in at a big parking lot, glistening in the light rain. It was a factory lot, empty now except for one car parked in the farthest corner. Fenn wasn’t going that far—he couldn’t. A chain strung between two posts gleamed wetly in his headlights, and he slowed with elaborate care. This was as far as he could take the car. He stopped, turned off the motor and lights, and had one more drink before he climbed out into the chilly rain.
It was a long walk across the lot to the low building on the far side. Fenn stepped over the chain, grimacing, his joints creaking. Huddling up his raincoat collar, he started across the broad asphalt plain, trying to locate and avoid puddles by watching for their reflections.
It wasn’t easy. There wasn’t much light. He swore as water sloshed into his shoe. Why the hell they had to meet in a God-forsaken spot like this was beyond him, anyhow.
He was drawing near enough to that single parked car to realize now that its motor was idling. Somebody must be sitting there in the dark. The car growled softly to itself, almost as if it were waiting for him.
Then he heard the motor sound rise to a roar as someone stepped on the gas. The headlights flashed on. “That’ll help,” Fenn thought, seeing a puddle ahead of him just in time. But turn the headlights this way a little…
The car rolled forward slowly and began to swing around straight toward him. All right, that’s enough, not right in my eyes…
Fenn shaded his eyes with his hand and slogged on, caught in the rhythm of walking, drunk enough to feel the rising drone of the car as a half-hypnotic undertone.
What the hell was the matter with that driver, anyhow? The light was still on him, too close, too bright. The engine was roaring too loud. He dropped his shielding hand and saw two headlights, two glaring, blinding eyes rushing straight at him. The engine’s grinding roar was paralyzing. Shift, he thought idiotically, you’re going too fast for second gear, shift into high—
At the last minute, almost too late, he woke enough out of his amazement to realize what the car was trying to do. Deliberately trying to do to him. He jumped desperately side-wise, just in time.
And then he was running, bent half over, foolishly holding onto his hat, his legs working like pistons. There was a screech of burning rubber behind him as the car wrenched itself around and the pitiless headlights swung and searched and found him.
He ran. His raincoat flapped behind him, the bottle banging against his leg, water splashing high as he hit a puddle. The car came roaring down the path of light straight toward him.
He had to wait until the last possible moment before he jumped. He knew that. He watched it coming, half hypnotized, not thinking at all that there was a human being behind its wheel, guiding those staring eyes at him. The car itself was his enemy, a wild beast hunting him down for no reason at all, in the enormous wastes of this empty place.
He bent his knees and jumped sidewise, slipped, fell, the bottle splintering under him. The rush of wind as the car plunged past him tugged at his hat. Buy another bottle, he thought confusedly, buy another one fast, I’ll need it after this.
He got up on his hands and knees and stared at the two glaring lights that were swinging around for a third try, scything the wet asphalt looking for him.
I need a drink, he thought, oh God, I’ve got to have a drink.
But there wasn’t time. He had to get to his feet and run. He pulled himself laboriously up, got a purchase on the wet pavement with one foot—and slipped as he tried to spring. The shock of icy water in his face woke him out of a second’s stunned inertia. The twin beams of light had revolved, hesitated, fixed themselves on him in that instant.
Get up, he thought. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move any more. The light blazed in his face and the motor roared in his ears and he stayed where he was, on hands and knees, waiting while the car came rushing like a juggernaut down on him along an avenue of blinding light.
He thought as it came, It isn’t the bottle I want, after all. Oh, no, it isn’t the bottle—it’s this. This is what I’ve been looking for, all the time.
Now it’s over. Now I can stop running.
24
Michael Gray was sitting on his sofa watching a dull television play when his phone rang a little before midnight that night. His cat, Julia, was heavily asleep across his knees, and Gray himself felt just too drowsy to get up and turn off the television. He wasn’t even trying to follow the play, and his mind was vaguely exploring various possibilities as to why Karen Champion told lies, when the ringing of the phone interrupted him.
He had a brief disagreement with Julia, who at once made herself immensely heavy and complained in a small voice with her eyes shut, determined to maintain the status quo. Gray laid her limp, heavy form on the sofa and got up to answer the ringing.
A voice he didn’t know said that Captain Zucker of Homicide wanted very urgently to see him at once, and could he come down immediately to headquarters. The voice had no information about what had happened to make his presence necessary. Gray, balanced between interest and resentment, said he would get there as fast as he could.
He drove down through a light, misty rain that made the streets glisten, spoke briefly to the sergeant at the desk, and was directed to an office upstairs.
“You Mr. Gray?” a clerk asked him. “Captain Zucker said for you to read this when you came in.” He thrust a thin, typewritten sheaf into. Gray’s hand and waved toward a chair.
“I’ll tell Captain Zucker you’re here,” the clerk added, and went out of the room. Gray settled down to read the typescript. At the first words he whistled softly to himself, murmured, “I’ll be damned,” and began to read rapidly.
The typescript was an account by a man named Dennis Champion of how he had found the dead body of Ira Fenn, private investigator, in the parking lot of the CQD plant at ten-thirty that same night.
At ten-twenty-six some excited citizen had telephoned the police that there was a dead body in the parking lot. Four minutes later a squad car, arriving at the scene, had discovered Dennis Champion standing over the body of Ira Fenn, who had been knocked down and repeatedly run over by an automobile not yet identified.
According to Champion’s story, Ira Fenn himself had telephoned Champion urging him to come at once to the parking lot to meet Fenn, who had information of great importance to tell him. What the information was Champion said he couldn’t learn. He came at once, parking outside the chained-off entry to the lot, and claimed he had been standing over the body, stunned with shock, only a few minutes when the squad car found him there.
With a troubled frown Gray finished the last page and sat staring blankly at it for several minutes. Then he flipped back to the first page and was starting to go over the account more slowly when a familiar, growling voice said from just in front of him, “Well, Mike, now you know as much as we do—almost.”
Gray looked up. Zucker’s big, seamed face had a look of quiet triumph on it. Gray said, “It’s hard to believe. I can’t quite take it in yet.”
Zucker nodded toward the door to h
is office. “Come on. Can’t hear yourself think out here.” He waited until the door had closed behind them before he said, “Well, this time we’ve got the killer.”
“Champion confessed?” Gray sounded dubious.
“Nuts,” Zucker said. “He didn’t have to. We’re charging him, all right, and this time it’ll stick.”
Gray began dubiously, “I’m not so sure, Harry—”
Zucker’s snort interrupted him. “Why make it hard for ourselves?” he demanded. “Nine times out of ten the simple answer’s the right one. We had a long talk this afternoon with his wife, Karen, and this time we tried to keep an open mind. Sure, she’s a pathological liar, but it stands to reason some of the things she says are true. We double-checked everything we could. And she told us plenty. Claims her husband’s nutty as a fruitcake. Said he tried to kill her once before, up at Tahoe. Said she was positive he was the man who broke into her place and attacked her with the glass lamp.” Zucker shrugged. “So she’s a liar. You said yourself you thought somebody did break in on her that night.”
“I still think so. But not necessarily her husband.”
“Well, we think it was. Along with the Tahoe episode and Champion’s jealousy of Albano it made a pattern even before this thing tonight. Hell, Mike, what choice have we got?”
“You think he killed Albano too?”
“Who else? There isn’t a jury in the country wouldn’t convict, unless—” Zucker gave Gray a keen glance, “—unless he pulls an insanity plea. That’s where you come in.”
“Has he mentioned insanity?”
“No. But his lawyer’s bound to. It’s Champion’s only chance. He’s guilty and we can prove it. But the ground’s already been laid for a ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ plea. There’s his wife’s statements this afternoon, and I understand his partners have been talking to you about the same idea.”
“What do you think?” Gray asked.
“I think he’s as sane as I am,” Zucker said belligerently. “I think he killed Albano and Fenn and I want to see him convicted. But any smart lawyer’s going to raise the question, was the defendant insane at the time of committing the murder. Well, that was less than two hours ago. I want you to talk to Champion now. Give him a going-over, decide for yourself whether he’s crazy or not.”
Gray flipped the pages of the typescript.
“I can talk to him, give him some tests. I’ll have to send for them. But you know how much, and how little, tests alone can tell about a man. They don’t mean much unless they’re correlated with his behavior under normal living conditions.”
“That’s just why we want you here. You’ve met Champion in ordinary situations. You can compare his actions then and now. You know his background and associates. Give him the works, Mike. We don’t want to railroad him. If the guy is insane, the D.A. wants to know it.”
Gray said, “Okay, if he’ll stand still for it. What kind of shape is he in?”
“Oh—cooperative enough. Pretty shook up. But I think he’ll go along with you. Look, I’m busy as hell now. All the returns aren’t in yet, but there’ll be time to talk later. Here’s a copy of the arresting officer’s report. Better read that.” Zucker opened the door and spoke to somebody outside. Over his shoulder he said to Gray, “Farrell will take care of you.”
Gray nodded absently, concentrating on the report.
Four hours later Gray came back into Zucker’s office, walking slowly. His red hair was rumpled and his face looked haggard. Zucker was talking on the telephone. He nodded briefly at Gray and with his free hand pushed a cardboard container of coffee across the desk.
Gray sat down with a sigh and pried the lid off the container. He drank the hot, strong coffee gratefully. Zucker hung up the telephone and rubbed his eyes.
“These late hours will kill me yet,” he said. “Well, what’s the word. Champion crazy?”
Gray made a tired gesture of protest. “You know insanity’s a legal term, not a medical one. He isn’t insane—in my opinion. He isn’t psychotic. He’s tired, he’s been through a rough time, had a bad shock—he still can’t quite take in what’s happened to him, I think. But he’s well oriented, has no delusions, no perceptive disorders. His emotional reactions seem pretty appropriate, under the circumstances. He has good control. From what I know of his private life, I realize he has some inflexible attitudes. Sometimes he acts almost compulsively—”
“Like killing people?”
“Like emotional problems. That’s all.”
“You tested him thoroughly?”
“I haven’t finished. I gave him a Rorschach and we started the Thematic Apperception test, but he just Wasn’t able to go on with it and I don’t blame him. I felt pretty beat myself, and I hadn’t just got myself involved with a corpse that must have been a damned messy sight to see. Whether he killed Fenn or only found the body, it must have given him quite a jolt.”
“But the tests he did take showed nothing?” Zucker persisted.
“They showed he’s a highly intelligent man whose thinking processes just now are distorted by anxiety and apprehension. He sees hostility everywhere. He feels very inadequate and isolated. He’s resentful and bitter. He’s had a series of terrific emotional problems lately. But in spite of all this, he’s adequately oriented, as I said, and well enough integrated to get back onto an even keel if he doesn’t have too many more jolts to take. I hope he won’t have to. I admire the guy.”
Zucker nodded. “Okay, okay. But does he know right from wrong? Can he plead irresistible impulse as a defense?”
Gray said, “Oh, God, that damn fool M’Naghten rule. Right from wrong, for God’s sake. You can’t define insanity in terms of a symptom.”
“All right, get off that kick. I know it backwards. Just answer my question.”
“I don’t think an insanity defense would hold. That’s my opinion based on partial testing, plus observation. I’ll want an expert to do the Rorschach interpretation. Champion ought to have a full battery of psychological tests when he’s had some sleep. And you’d better get a specialist to confirm my findings. But I’m sure he will confirm them. Champion’s not psychotic.”
Zucker nodded briskly. “That’s what I wanted to know.”
Gray drained his coffee. “According to Champion,” he said, “he hadn’t seen Fenn since he fired him off the job of watching Karen. When Fenn called he implied he’d made some discoveries about the Albano killing. That was why Champion said he went out at that hour of the night to meet the guy. He also mentioned something a little odd.” Gray gazed at Zucker. “Said Fenn had a bad cold.”
“So?” Zucker sounded impatient.
“So maybe the medical examiner could check up and find out if it’s true.”
Zucker snorted. “What difference does it make? Who cares? Not even Fenn—now.”
“If he didn’t have one,” Gray said slowly, “maybe the caller wasn’t Fenn. Maybe it was somebody trying to change his voice to get Champion on the spot.”
Zucker said, “You need sleep. Well—okay, I’ll see if they can find out for us at the autopsy. But it’s a waste of time.”
“One more thing,” Gray said. “What about the time of death?”
“Rough guess—within half an hour of the time we found Champion with the body.” Zucker gave Gray a glance. “I see what you mean. Tell you how I figure it. Champion somehow lured Fenn to the lot, ran over him four or five times, then took the car away and ditched it. Naturally he wasn’t driving his own. Later, before he went home, he probably got to worrying whether Fenn was really dead. He came back to make sure. That was when the report alerted us and we got him.”
“Who phoned in the report?”
“Anonymous.”
“Oh,” Gray said. “Well, what about the car? Found it yet?”
“Yep. Reported missing an hour ago. A big Buick somebody had left unlocked not far from the CQD plant. We spotted it about half a mile from the plant, where Champion left it.”<
br />
“Keys?”
“No, the owner had sense enough not to leave his keys in the ignition. Somebody’d used a wire to connect the terminals—didn’t even need a jumper. It was the murder car, all right. The rain hadn’t washed off the blood underneath.”
“Any traces to connect Champion with the car?”
“Not yet. The lab men are working. He probably used his piece of wire on the Buick and drove it into the CQD lot. The gate has a chain across it at night. He drove around to the side and right on through a wood fence. Then he must have waited till Fenn was in the middle of the big lot. The skid marks show where he chased the poor bastard until he caught him. And then—” Zucker’s face hardened. “Then he drove the Buick back and forth over Fenn until he’d made certain.”
Gray whistled softly.
“It’s bad. But it may not be Champion. Just for the record, I suppose you’ve checked the alibis of the other people involved. The Quigleys? Brand?”
“We have. The Quigleys were taking in a movie. Brand—well, Brand had a rough day.” Zucker laughed a little. “Seems an angry husband beat him up. Our men found him in bed with his ribs taped up, so high on codeine and whisky they couldn’t get a word out of him that made sense. He’d been in bed since afternoon, or so his nurse said.”
Gray thought about it. “And Karen Champion?” he asked.
“Went to a show.”
“So the fact is,” Gray said, “any one of them could have done the job on Fenn. None of those alibis looks foolproof.” He grinned. “The story about Brand makes me feel a lot better.” He stood up and stretched.
“Well, I’ll try to catch a few hours’ sleep before tomorrow starts in. You’d better do the same, Harry. You look like hell.”
“I feel fine,” Zucker told him. “It always makes me feel good to wrap up a murder. This time we really caught him red-handed.”
“Maybe,” Gray said. “Just maybe.”
25
The half hour next morning between the time Gray woke and the time he left his apartment was a half hour of difficult indecision. He kept reaching for the telephone and then stopping himself. He couldn’t make up his mind what to do about Karen Champion. He wanted to see her. It was important that he see her, and today. This morning. But if the suggestion came from him, it seemed to him half his influence with her would be lost.
Michael Gray Novels Page 66