Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Am I speaking to Bruce Hoadley?”

  A silence. Then, cautiously: “Who is this? Who’s out there?”

  “It’s the police, Hoadley. Open up.”

  Another silence, longer this time. Finally: “What’d you want?”

  “We want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “We’ve got a complaint against you,” I lied. “Assault on one Frederick Shelby.”

  Whenever I tried the ruse I always used the same name, with a few variations. Years ago, in high school, I’d played football with Fred Shelby.

  “Who the hell’s Frederick Shelby? I never heard of him.”

  “He says you roughed him up, six weeks ago. At the Mark Hopkins Hotel. He lives in St. Louis, and he was here for a convention. The girl called you, he says. And you attacked him.”

  “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “That may be. But you’ll have to sign the complaint, saying that we read it to you.”

  I heard an aggrieved sigh. Then, resigned: “All right. Hold on a minute.” The speaker clicked, and went dead.

  “As soon as he opens the gate,” I said, “we’ll hit him hard.”

  “Right,” Canelli breathed, slipping his revolver from its holster and holding it close to the gate, concealed.

  “I’ll hit him first,” I said, drawing my own revolver.

  A half minute passed.

  A minute.

  Raising the radio, I asked, “Any change back there, Culligan?”

  “No.”

  “He could be coming your way.”

  “All right.”

  But the next moment the front door swung slowly open. Kicking four frisking, yapping miniature white poodles back into the house, Hoadley closed the door on them and came striding down a short flagstone walk. As the front door swung open, floodlights had come on, illuminating the entry-way, the flagstone walk and the gate. Hoadley was wearing a light leather jacket, flared slacks and a striped sport shirt. With his curly hair, broad shoulders and slim hips, he was a handsome man who moved with the graceful economy of a natural athlete. His gait was rolling, insolent and swaggering. With the light behind him, I couldn’t see his face. But he could see mine—plainly.

  As he came close to the gate, he reached out with his left hand for the latch. At the same time, his right hand disappeared behind his back. He was reaching into his hip pocket.

  While I tried to keep my expression noncommittal, I handed the walkie-talkie to Canelli, then raised my revolver until its muzzle came just below the top of the gate.

  “This won’t take long, Hoadley,” I said. “Not if you’re really the wrong man.”

  “Watch his right hand, Lieutenant,” Canelli whispered.

  “I see it.”

  Now the light shone full in Hoadley’s face. He showed no sign of anxiety, or anger. Instead, he wore the hood’s standard expression facing arrest: puzzlement, combined with a kind of outraged innocence.

  As his left hand came closer to the latch, I surreptitiously braced myself, bending my knees and planting my feet more firmly. When the latch was released, I would crash my shoulder into the gate. If the gate struck him, throwing him off balance, I’d have the split second I needed, whether or not he had a gun.

  I heard the latch click, saw the gate begin to move away from its frame. Instantly I lowered my shoulder and hit the gate, hard.

  But, instead of striking Hoadley, the gate swung wide as he stepped quickly back. Lunging forward, momentarily off balance as I tripped on the uneven flagstones, I fought for balance as I pivoted to face him, raising my revolver.

  “Freeze,” a voice screamed…

  Hoadley’s voice, not Canelli’s.

  I was facing an automatic, aimed squarely at my chest.

  “Freeze,” he screamed again. “Drop the fucking guns. Both of them. Drop them, or he dies.”

  With my revolver angled down toward the flagstones, I slowly, deliberately straightened to face him squarely. About six feet separated us. At that range, he couldn’t miss. In the glare of the floodlights, the automatic’s bore was enormous. Hoadley’s eyes were wild; the gun was shaking violently as he raved:

  “All right, here it comes. Bite it, you bastard.”

  “Wait—” I raised my free hand, as if to ward off the bullet. “Don’t. Here it is.” Holding his eyes locked with mine, I slowly, cautiously bent my knees, laying my revolver on the flagstones. Behind me, I heard another metallic click as Canelli’s gun came down.

  For one desperate, incoherent moment, all I could think about was Sergeant Gait, at the police academy. “A cop’s the same as his gun,” he’d said. “If you give up your gun, you’re no cop.”

  In fourteen years, I’d never given up my gun.

  “Move,” Hoadley screamed suddenly, gesticulating with the automatic. “Get back, away from the goddamn gun. Move it.”

  With our hands raised to shoulder height, side by side, Canelli and I stepped off the flagstones and into ankle-high ivy.

  “St. Louis, eh,” Hoadley breathed viciously. “Complaints, eh? I should kill you. I should blow your goddamn heads off.” He stooped, caught up our revolvers, thrust one in either pocket of his leather jacket. Now, one slow step at a time, he was moving toward the open gate. His hand was tightening around the automatic. His finger was curved on the trigger; the safety catch was off. Another ounce of pressure, and the gun would fire.

  “Lie down,” he hissed. “Flat on your face. Now.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Canelli said. It wasn’t a curse, it was a prayer. I could hear terror in his voice—the same mouth-parched, throat-clenched terror I felt.

  As I looked at Canelli lowering himself to all fours, I saw the walkie-talkie bulging in his jacket pocket. Was the radio on transmit? Could Culligan make out words, with the radio muffled by the thickness of a pocket?

  As if I were doing push-ups, I lowered myself into the thick, damp-smelling ivy. Turning my head away from Hoadley, I whispered, “Is the radio on?”

  “No.”

  “Christ.”

  Now Hoadley advanced on us. I could see his booted feet less than a yard from my face. “Is there anyone else?” he said. “Any other cops?”

  “No,” I lied. “Just us. We came about a complaint. Like I told you.”

  “A lieutenant, eh? About a complaint, eh?” His voice was hoarse, choked by the fury that tore at his throat. He took another step toward us. Now he stood directly above me.

  “A complaint, eh? You—you—” As his voice suddenly rose to a high, hysterical note, I felt his feet shift in the ivy beside me…felt his boot crash into my rib cage.

  As I groaned, Hoadley’s voice dropped again, trembling as he spoke close to my ear. “I’m leaving now,” he breathed. “I’m going to get in my car, and leave. It’s parked across the street. I can sit in my car, and still see you. And if you come after me—if you stick your fucking heads up—I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

  “Go ahead,” I gasped, struggling for breath. “Leave.” With the right side of my head flat on the ground, I watched him begin moving toward the gate, one step at a time. “Go ahead. We won’t stop you.”

  “You’re goddamn right you won’t stop me, you sons of bitches.”

  He was within fifteen feet of the open gate—ten feet—five feet. With every step, his wildly unsteady gun threatened us.

  Then, in the open gateway, a silent black shape appeared.

  It was the Doberman, straining against his leash.

  Followed by a tall silhouette of the man, demanding: “What the hell’s going—”

  As Hoadley turned toward the voice, I pushed myself away from the ground, got my feet under me, lunged for Hoadley’s legs. Instantly, he turned to face me, bringing up the automatic. At the same moment, a black form leaped through the darkness, straight for his throat. As my arms closed around Hoadley’s thrashing legs, I felt the force of the dog’s weight crashing into him. My right hand found t
he automatic’s barrel. I released his legs, clamping both hands around the barrel. I twisted the gun, throwing all my weight against his right arm, incredibly strong. In the swearing, snarling, thrashing melee, I saw Canelli fall on Hoadley’s left arm. Suddenly, a knee crashed into my chest. Still clinging to the gun, I was thrown on my back—to face the Doberman’s teeth, flecked red with blood. Above the shouting and snarling, I heard Hoadley scream. “He’s killing me. Get him off. He’s killing me.”

  “Drop it,” I shouted. “Drop the goddamn gun.”

  “Jesus. Please. Get him off.”

  “Then drop it.”

  And, suddenly, I felt his fingers give way. The gun was mine. Above me, the dog still raged. Then I saw the leash jerk taut.

  “Come on, Crusher. Back.” Again, the leash jerked taut. The dog was giving ground. I found the automatic’s safety catch, set it, tossed the gun carefully in a nearby flower bed and reached for my handcuffs. Beside me, holding his shoulder with bloodied fingers, Hoadley was whimpering.

  Fourteen

  THE YOUNG, BEARDED INTERN was shaking his head doubtfully.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I’d like to help. But I’ve got my duty, just like you’ve got yours. And the man’s in shock. The lacerations aren’t a problem. But shock is always a problem. Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning?”

  I drew a deep, slow breath, then said, “Are you a Rebecca Carlton fan, by any chance?”

  He looked at me, then looked down the hospital corridor, where a patrolman was posted outside Hoadley’s room.

  “You mean—” His questioning stare was skeptically cautious.

  I nodded. “According to our information, he murdered Rebecca Carlton.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” His bright, quick eyes shone with sudden interest. He was a teen-ager again, star-struck. But, a moment later, he countered conscientiously: “All the more reason, then, for us to take precautions, it seems to me. Don’t forget Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully, trying to decide how he’d react to pressure. Something about the aggressive set of his jaw suggested that he’d dig in his heels even harder. So I tried to sound placating as I said, “Listen, Doctor, I don’t want to give you a hard time. But you’ve only got two choices. Either let me talk to him, or else turn me over to your supervisor. I don’t like to put it like that, but I can’t help myself. This man is a suspect in a homicide that’s front-page news everywhere. It’s the kind of publicity that a lawyer would do anything to get. Anything. And, to be honest with you, I want to interrogate Hoadley before word gets out that we’ve got someone in custody. Because, when that happens, my job immediately becomes tougher. And, believe me, it’s tough enough already.”

  He’d stood impassively eying me as I spoke. Now he turned to look at a wall clock, which read almost midnight. Finally he turned back to face me. “If you want to call Doctor Saunders, Lieutenant, be my guest. But I can tell you that he’ll be totally pissed off. He went home yesterday afternoon with a cold and fever.” The intern’s eyes were calm, his voice deliberate, his manner a little haughty. The jaw was set at an even more uncompromising angle. Like most doctors, he considered himself superior to mere policemen.

  So I decided to try pandering to his sense of superiority. Looking him earnestly in the eye I said, “Listen, Doctor, there must be some way we can work this out. Isn’t there something you can suggest? Some way around it?” I paused, assessing his reaction. Arms folded across his stethoscope, he waited for me to continue. He knew he’d won the first round. But he looked as if he might be generous in victory.

  “Why don’t you come in the room with me?” I asked. “Just the two of us. You can watch him. And if you’re worried about him, I swear to God I’ll knock it off.”

  “Well—” He began judiciously stroking his neatly trimmed blond beard, obviously enjoying the ease with which he’d forced me to compromise.

  “Well, I suppose we could try that.” Then, suddenly, he smiled. It was an unexpectedly boyish smile. “God, what a gas,” he said impulsively, “hearing him confess to murdering Rebecca Carlton.”

  “There’s no guarantees, though,” I said. “Not in my business.”

  “Nor in my business, either, Lieutenant. Come on—” Eagerly, he led the way down the corridor. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got every record that Rebecca Carlton ever cut. I’m a collector, as a matter of fact. I’ve even got her version of ‘Careless Love’ which was the first single she ever cut, ten years ago.”

  As we stopped before Hoadley’s door while I identified myself to the patrolman, the intern said, “Let’s really put the blocks to him. What’d you say?”

  As he looked from me to the intern, the patrolman blinked.

  Lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, Hoadley licked his mucus-stuck lips, weakly hawked as he tried to clear his throat, and said, “All I want to know is whether that dog was yours.” His voice was toneless, weak and thick. He was heavily sedated. As I watched him, I wondered whether his sedation would work for me or against me. Across the bed, the intern reached for Hoadley’s wrist, glanced at his watch, counted, then nodded to me.

  “It wasn’t my dog, Hoadley.”

  “Was it the police department’s?”

  “No. He belongs to a man named McNie. He’s an interior designer who lives three doors from Sally Grant’s house.”

  “Jesus—” Noisily, he cleared his throat again. “Yeah. I remember now. I remember seeing him when I walked her goddamn poodles.” Weakly, he smiled. His words slurred thickly together as he said, “He’s a mean bastard, that dog.”

  “Listen, Hoadley, we don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get to it.” I pointed to his right hand, lying beside him on the bed. “We’ve got a witness who’ll connect you to the gun that killed Rebecca Carlton. We’ve got a positive paraffin test on your right wrist, proving that you fired a gun during the past forty-eight hours. And we’ve also got your fingerprint on one of the cartridges inside the gun’s cylinder.” The last statement was a lie, risky with a witness present. But I could always deny that I’d said it, and hope for the best.

  “You used rubber gloves when you shot her, but not when you loaded the gun,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” he answered wearily. “It was already loaded when she gave it—” Confused, he broke off. Then, realizing what he’d said, he laboriously turned his head on the pillow so that he could scan my face, trying to discover whether his slip of the tongue had registered—whether I knew that I had my first break.

  “When who gave it to you?” I asked softly.

  Quickly—desperately—he turned his head away.

  Who had given him the gun? Was it Rebecca? No, not Rebecca. At least, not according to my conception of Rebecca Carlton and her life. It was a wide-open life—and yet closely proscribed. Everything Rebecca had done was on public view, even her sex life. And someone like Hoadley simply didn’t fit.

  I decided on one last gamble:

  “It was Sally Grant,” I said. “You did the job for her. She got the gun, somehow—and she gave it to you.” I tried to speak in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, implying that the truth of the statement was self-evident.

  Suddenly his head thrashed back and forth, denying it. The movement made him cry out in pain; his free hand flew to his wounded shoulder. The intern raised a warning hand to me.

  “You owed her money, and you were working it off.” But, even as I said it, I could see the fallacy in the theory. If Hoadley couldn’t have gotten access to the gun, then Sally Grant probably couldn’t, either.

  Yet I could see fear in Hoadley’s eyes. I knew that I was close to the truth—close to breaking him down. I knew that he and Sally Grant had done the job. His weak, wall-eyed protest confirmed it: “No, Jesus. You got it all wrong. You—”

  “I’ve got it all right, Hoadley. I’ve got the whole story. Everything. All I need.”

  Again he turned to look at me. With great effort, spea
king with a kind of exaggerated, drunken precision, he said, “All you’ve got is talk. Just talk.”

  “Wrong. I’ve got you tied to the murder weapon. I’ve got you tied to it two ways, at least. And I’ve got a witness who’ll swear you did the job. And I’ve got a motive, too. Money. You owed Sally Grant a bundle. To square it, you pulled the trigger. It’s an airtight case. There isn’t a D.A. in the country who wouldn’t jump at a chance to prosecute you, with evidence like that.” As his eyes still searched my face, I let a beat pass before I said, “Whoever prosecutes you, Hoadley, he’ll be famous. That’s a powerful incentive. He can get a death sentence, sure as hell. He’ll get his picture on the cover of Time.” Again I paused. Then, with delicately timed malice, I added, “You might get your picture on the cover, too. When you’re executed.”

  Leaning suddenly across the bed, eyes shining with excitement, the intern said, “He’s right, Hoadley. He’s telling you the truth. You’re as good as dead right now.”

  “But—” The injured man’s tongue circled his lips as he laboriously turned on the pillow to stare at the doctor, then returned his gaze to me. “But, Jesus, you’ve got it all wrong. I—you—”

  “The only way you can help yourself,” I said, “is to take Sally with you. If she’ll admit that she hired you—if you give us enough to convict her—then the D.A. will probably give you a break. If I ask him to do it, he will. If I tell him that you didn’t plan the murder—that you just pulled the trigger—he’ll go easy on you.”

  “It’s a con,” he whispered. “A fucking con.” The words were desperately defiant. But, deep in his eyes, I saw terror beginning. No one wants to face death.

  “Remember what I said about the D.A.’s reputation, Hoadley,” I said softly. “He’ll be playing to the audience, all the time. He’ll be a celebrity—especially if he can nail someone like Sally. He doesn’t want you. You’re nothing. He wants someone who’ll make a big crash, falling.”

  “Yeah,” the intern echoed. “You’re a zero, Hoadley. “You’re nothing but a goddamn cipher.”

  Frowning at the intern, surreptitiously shaking my head, I rose from my chair. The time had come for the closing bit of business: the walkaway.