Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons

by Dane Hartman

  Anyone else could’ve surveyed this sunset-dappled scene and thought about the grace, nobility, and great variety of the human species. All Harry could think about was murder. He saw the passersby and knew murder could come to or from any one of them. And for no reason. He remembered the Perry Mason TV show. He remembered the actor Raymond Burr cross-examining the suspect until he or she broke down and admitted to the killing. More importantly, they admitted why they killed.

  That was the end of an era. Like it or not, television and movies influenced people. Most of the people Harry hauled in usually confessed to their inspirations: “She cheated on me . . .” “He tried to ruin me . . .”

  More recently, Harry remembered a premiere episode of Charlie’s Angels his associate and sometime partner Frank DiGeorgio had made him watch one night. The actor Jack Albertson had played a crazy man who took photos of models until he thought he knew enough about them to kill them. When the girls finally ran him to ground—because of a coincidence, not detective work—he told him his motive.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  That was the primary cause of violent death today, Harry thought sardonically. More and more he was capturing killers who couldn’t care less why they killed. “I didn’t like his face . . .” “I felt like it . . .”

  The words of the girl who had opened up with a rifle on a grammar school playground came back to him. “I don’t like Mondays.” Terrific. Harry knew some people who didn’t like any day of the week.

  Harry looked away from the Common and concentrated on the steep incline of the wide sidewalk he was traversing. He felt the comforting weight of his Smith and Wesson Model 29 .44-caliber Magnum in its shoulder holster, and he was glad he had it. He couldn’t remember where he heard it, but he still felt the line had the solid basis of truth. “An armed society is a polite society.”

  The San Francisco inspector emptied his mind of the dour thoughts. It must be jet lag, Harry reasoned about his depressive state of mind. That, or he was fighting against the feeling that he still cared. He had always known that he cared for some things. Things like justice. But he hadn’t felt like he cared for some body for years. There were people he was concerned about, people he liked and had faith in, but no one he really let himself care for. He already knew full well the dangers in caring. Then Shanna had to enter his life again.

  Linda had said that her daughter was confused. She was trying to “find herself” almost any way she could. She was striking off in all directions at once, trying to find a suitable solution to “who she was.” Linda thought she was making some mistakes along the way.

  That was mother talk, Harry decided. He translated to himself that Shanna was going too fast, weaving across too many lanes for her own good. She was trying things that she shouldn’t simply for the sake of experience. On the plus side, she was helping at the Unitarian Headquarters in many capacities. On the minus side, she was discovering new means of worship from other people there.

  “It is some sort of Fellowship group unconnected to the church,” Linda had said. “Shanna says it’s based on many American Indian precepts of honor. But all I know, Harry, is that she comes over late at night sometimes and doesn’t know who she is. We sit in the kitchen and talk about the strangest things, and she doesn’t know who she is. And the scary thing is she doesn’t care.

  “I try to keep her there until she remembers her name, but she still usually goes back to her apartment. One night though, she slept over. We still keep her room available. So I took her clothes to the laundry room downstairs. They were a mess. Her nice blue skirt and a white shirt. There were brown and deep red spots all over the shirt, Harry. I’m sure they were bloodstains.”

  Callahan stopped in front of the Unitarian Headquarters. He had come to the end of the block along the north side of the Common. He had crossed the street in front of the gold-topped Statehouse. The building right next door, to the left as you looked at it, was the Unitarian facilities.

  It was a big, multistoried place of handsome design. There was a small portico. and stone stairway up to a handsome wood door. On the second floor was a large window made up of many small panes of clear, bright glass that almost looked like crystal. On either side of this window were several hanging flags. One was the American flag, one was the Massachusetts state flag, and the last was the Unitarian flag.

  Farther down the street were more handsome buildings looking out onto the west side of the Common. Harry trotted up the stone steps and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it onto a handsome wood hall with an office to the right—connected by a box-office-like window to the foyer—a wide stairway up on the left, and a lobby in front of him.

  It was after working hours so the office and lobby were empty. But there were still signs of activity upstairs. Harry did not stand on ceremony. He walked right up the steps, keeping his eyes and ears open. He heard a boisterous discussion coming from somewhere above him. At first he couldn’t make out the words. They were just loud and obviously spoken by a male. The higher he climbed, the clearer the words became.

  “You don’t understand . . . ,” he heard at first.

  “Don’t worry . . . complete control . . .” Harry became aware of some soft mumbles in between the male ragings. It sounded as if a girl and boy were talking—the girl being the calm one in the situation.

  “I tell you no!” the male voice shouted. “You can’t! I won’t let you! Who is the boss here anyway?”

  The words were coming from a single doorway near the front of the building on the second floor. When Harry reached the top of the stairs he could begin to hear both sides of the conversation.

  “I don’t like it,” said a quiet female voice. “It isn’t fun anymore.”

  “It’s not supposed to be fun!” the angry male replied. “We are supposed to stand for something. We’re supposed to be working toward something. We need everyone’s energy, everyone’s manitou to keep our power up!”

  “Come on, Tom, there’s no reason to come down so hard,” said a third voice, another female.

  “I’m only thinking about what we’re trying to achieve!” the newly christened Tom said. “We can’t afford to lose anybody now. We can’t!”

  “Tom, you’re raving,” said the first female’s calm voice. “Have you eaten today?”

  “I’m on a fast,” Tom answered sullenly.

  “You’re on a strike,” the woman answered. “You haven’t eaten for days. You’ve hardly slept . . .”

  “You know why! You know why!” Tom replied, his hysteria reaching a peak.

  “Come on, Tom, take it easy,” said the third voice.

  “Yeah, hey, I don’t know about you,” the first girl said soothingly, “but I’m starving. Tell you what, Tom. Why don’t we talk this over some more at Brigham’s or the Muffin House or something?”

  “I’m not going to eat!” the boy yelled. “I have to see the wolf!”

  “All right, OK,” the first girl soothed. “But you can watch me eat, can’t you? That won’t scare the wolf away, will it?”

  “Don’t scoff, Christine,” the boy said threateningly. “I’m warning you . . .”

  Harry had heard enough. His sense of timing told him it was a good moment for making himself known. He walked over and leaned against the doorway.

  All three people inside froze in place. They were standing in what looked like a loft—a wide, fairly high enclosure that consisted of one room interrupted only by round support beams. The only window in the large space was a big one made to look like an arc in the far wall. Through it Harry could see most of the Common. Around the room were tables covered with pamphlets and boxes of envelopes. On the corner of the farthest table was a typewriter and several stamp dispensers.

  Behind the tables were the trio of young people. The boy was very good-looking. He was tall, brown-haired, well built, and wearing a tight sweater, designer jeans, and boots. The girl next to him was a knockout. She could’ve bee
n any age between eighteen and twenty-seven. She had loosely curled brown hair that rolled lustrously down to her shoulders and broiled over her forehead. Her eyes were perfectly shaped and deep brown. Her lips were inordinately rich and red. She looked to be model height—about five-nine. All her feminine parts hung onto her for dear life.

  She too was wearing jeans but had a beige, silky-looking shirt tucked into them. Her lines were smooth, shaped, and strong. Callahan was impressed. Compared to the tan blondes of California, this rich-skinned brunette gave off a solid glow to their pale yellow rays.

  Shanna was behind her. There was no mistaking her. The hair was still bright red, but it was longer and parted slightly to the side. The freckles were still there, blasting into every corner of her face. From a distance they combined to give her normally pretty pale skin color the impression of a tan. Her eyes were bright green and her lips, still fairly thin, were highlighted with lipstick. She was wearing a blue leotard top and jeans. Shanna’s denims were worn and obviously non-fashion Levis, Lees, or Wranglers. The brunette’s jeans were obviously designer, Vanderbilts or Calvin Kleins or Sergio Valentes or one of those thirty-four million other labels.

  Taken together, the two women could make a weaker man fall to his knees and beg to kiss the ground they walked on.

  The recognition was instantaneous on Shanna’s part as well. Her eyes widened. Christine’s eyes looked him over with pleased appraisal. Tom’s eyes couldn’t help but stay the way they were: bloodshot, heavily lined, and slightly bulging.

  “Harry,” Shanna breathed.

  The other two looked at her at the same time.

  “You know him?” Christine asked.

  “He’s my uncle . . . I mean, a relative of mine,” Shanna hastily corrected herself.

  “Good Heavens,” Christine replied, turning back to Harry. “Where have you been hiding him?”

  Tom interrupted in the same suave manner he had been handling the rest of the conversation with. “How long have you been out there?” he demanded in a voice that neared rage.

  “I just came in,” Harry answered quietly.

  “That doesn’t answer my question!” Tom yelled.

  Harry shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

  Tom’s hands were clenching and unclenching. He started to move toward Callahan.

  “Tom,” Shanna called out, “take it easy. He’s a cop.”

  Tom froze again. He looked frightened for a second, then closed down on all expression. His face became a calm blank slate.

  “What are you doing here, Harry?” Shanna asked.

  “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop in. Would you buy that?”

  Shanna’s expression said that she wouldn’t. First she smirked because of the hoary cliché, then she thought about why Callahan would actually be there. She turned sullen, looking down.

  Christine took it all in. “Well,” she said lightly. “I guess you two have a lot to talk about.” One good cliché deserves another, Harry thought. “I’m ready for a little supper anyway. Coming, Tom?”

  “Yeah, right,” said the young man flatly.

  Christine went out first. Harry entered the room so she could get out the doorway without rubbing him down. She looked disappointed about the missed opportunity. As she exited she favored him with a smile that said “Hello, welcome to Boston” at the very least and “I’d like to see you in a Playgirl photo spread” at the very most. Harry had to admit to himself that he wouldn’t mind doing an extended stake-out on her either. And if DiGeorgio ever came into the office with pictures of her in Playboy, he wouldn’t keep himself from folding her out.

  Tom gave him a look as he left after Christine that would only fit in Field and Stream. Harry could even smell his lack of nutriments on his breath. When he passed, the air had a definite aroma of rotting liver.

  Shanna waited until the door downstairs slammed shut. “It’s Mom, right?” she said, still looking at the table and fingering the corner of a brochure.

  Harry moved farther into the room. “I had the vacation time coming,” he said. “I thought I’d visit.” She still didn’t look up. Harry stopped on the other side of the table from her. “It’s been a long time,” he said.

  She looked up then. Her green eyes were clear and close to devastating. Her lips were set. She nodded curtly. “A long time,” she agreed.

  They looked at each other for a while. Harry could see Shanna mentally arguing with herself. He could imagine she hated her mother for sicking Harry on her, but she had too many fond memories of him to completely reject him. All the pent-up anger and indignity was going to be unleashed on Linda the next time mother and daughter met.

  Finally, Shanna looked down again, her index fingers making little circles atop a pamphlet. “I heard about your wife,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” said Harry simply.

  “I mean I’m sorry we didn’t come to the funeral.”

  “You were too young. You lived too far away. It was ten years ago. It’s over. Don’t worry about it.”

  “A lot has changed since then,” Shanna continued, building up assurance. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  “Obviously,” Harry commented.

  Shanna looked down at herself. She saw the solid musculature, the wide, strong breasts, and the long legs. She looked at Harry with a smile. She wasn’t insulted. He had said it in a non-sexual manner. “I’m pretty together,” she said with a combination of humor and conviction.

  Harry figured it was a good time to introduce a more delicate subject matter. He wanted to find out more about her blackouts and bloodstains. “Linda says you’re pretty popular, all right.”

  The chill returned between them. “What does she know?” Shanna said vindictively. “I don’t even live there anymore.” The redhead started busying herself with the envelopes and stamps.

  Harry didn’t let up. “But you visit occasionally. And you talk.”

  “What is this? The third degree?” Shanna wondered, trying to make it sound funny, but her voice cracked just a bit.

  “Come on, Shanna, you know better than that. I’m just concerned, that’s all. I want to know how you are.”

  “No, I don’t know!” Shanna flared, the Irish temper coming into evidence. “It was ten years ago; Harry. We don’t play anymore. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’ve changed. I’ve changed inside.”

  “So have I,” Harry interjected softly.

  “Hey,” Shanna went on, unabated, “if anybody should know better, it’s you! Where do you come off coming in here and trying to question me? It may look the same, Harry, but this isn’t San Francisco. You’ve got no jurisdiction here. So back off, copper. You wanted to see how I was? So you saw me. I’m fine. I’m taking care of my own life. You can go back to Mom and tell her that. Then you can go back west!”

  Harry bore the tirade out in silence. Questions weren’t answered, but under the tongue-lashing Harry was ready to tell himself that Shanna was right. It was none of his business. Linda could’ve been wrong. The supposed bloodstains could’ve been ink, they could’ve been chocolate, they could’ve been anything. Shanna could’ve just been exhausted and uncommunicative after a long night. Harry was ready to accept all of it as a mother’s imagination when he glimpsed something over Shanna’s shoulder.

  As she yelled at him, he saw Tom and Christine running across the Common. Even in the twilight and even from that distance, Harry could see it wasn’t the playful run of laughing friends. Christine was running from Tom. As Harry watched, Tom caught up with her and slapped her across the back. The girl fell down, and Tom fell on top of her. They became a fuzzy jumble, but Harry could tell that an arm was rising and falling quickly, curtly, violently.

  By the time he reconcentrated on Shanna, she was a bit remorseful over her outburst. “Look, Harry,” she said miserably. “It is good to see you. Why don’t we start again? Look, I’m not doing anything after I finish here. Why don’t we go to eat some
place? Just talk and patch up with what is going on with each other?”

  Harry pulled her face into focus after trying to make out the two others’ struggling forms again. “I’ll be right back,” he said, not really hearing her offer. “Hang on,” he said more to Christine than to Shanna. “I’ll be right there.” With that he was out the door and running down the stairs.

  Callahan barreled through the office’s front door and out into the four lanes of Beacon Street. Cars coming around the corners braked madly to avoid the tall man who raced right out into the street. Harry dodged behind one swerving car. The other braked right in front of him. He leaped without slowing down and ran across its still bucking hood. He outran two other cars and went through an ornate entrance gate on the side of the park. He ran down a long, multileveled stone stairway flanked by lion sculptures into the park. He watched the faraway forms of Christine and Tom as he went. The boy had sat up. The girl was cowering flat out beneath him. He was yelling something at her while punching her across the body.

  As Harry neared, he saw Tom pull something out of his waistband. He saw what it was and heard what he was shouting at the same time.

  It was a hunting knife. A long, sharp, carved-handle hunting knife. Tom swept back and forth viciously in front of Christine’s terrified face.

  “You want it?” he shouted. “You want it? I’ll give it to you, by God! You’re asking for it!”

  The Magnum was out and in his hand almost before Harry knew it. He pointed it up in the air and pulled the trigger. The resounding boom turned heads across the length of eight city blocks. All the birds resting in trees nearby took off, darkening the night sky even more. Harry didn’t care. He had fired the gun to serve one purpose. It worked. He got Tom’s attention.

  Both the young man and Christine had stiffened at the loud report. Tom whirled to see Harry running at him. He leaped off the girl’s body and charged in the opposite direction. Harry slowed when he neared the brunette. She was slightly bruised and her clothes were scuffed, but other than that she looked all right. Harry had to make sure before he continued.