Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Unless the city decides to pay.”

  “Yeah,” Friedman said, looking at me quizzically. “Unless the city decides to—”

  A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Lieutenant?” It was Canelli’s voice.

  “Come on in.”

  Canelli entered, carrying a large revolver swinging in its clear plastic evidence bag. As he put the gun on the table beside me, Friedman muttered, “A goddam Ruger Single Six. Right? A .22 Magnum. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Canelli said, surprised. “How’d you know?”

  Not replying, Friedman approached the table to stare down at the gun. “It’s a goddam Wild West gun,” he said incredulously. “A goddam single-action six-shooter with a seven-inch barrel. And not only that, it’s a goddam .22. A peashooter.”

  “A .22 Magnum,” I corrected automatically. “At this range, with a hollow-point bullet—which you can get in .22s—it’s as good as a .38. Better, some say, because you can’t buy hollow-point .38s, because they aren’t hunting cartridges. The Masked Man knows his guns.”

  “Single-action?” Canelli echoed. “You mean you have to cock it every time. Like Wyatt Earp?”

  “That’s right,” Friedman said heavily. “Just like Wyatt Earp.”

  Sixteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, SATURDAY, the Hall would normally have been almost deserted, with many of the employees, both uniformed and civilian, off duty for the weekend.

  This Saturday, though, every department was at least partially manned, and most of the detectives were at their desks, either by choice or by command. Friedman and I had requested that the Ruger be fingerprinted without delay, even though the laboratory was normally closed on weekends. We’d also ordered the lab crews to begin processing everything they’d found at 898 Elizabeth: fingerprints, floor sweepings, dust, food particles—everything. Next we’d requested—demanded—immediate backup from Sacramento on the Ruger: a registration and ownership readout plus same-hour fingerprint classification identification of any prints found on the gun.

  Now, at 10 A.M., I waited for the phone to ring. I’d returned home at 2 A.M. I’d slept only fitfully until eight o’clock. Without shaving, I’d put on slacks and a sweater, and called for a black-and-white car to pick me up. Waiting for the car to arrive, I’d put two bananas and a glass of milk into the blender—then forgotten to put the lid on before I’d switched on the motor. Instantly, the countertop and the wall beside it were dripping a thick mixture of pureed banana and milk. Staring at the mess, I’d suddenly felt defeated—drained of energy and confidence and resolution. The sensation had been a sickening surprise, evoking similar moments from the past—moments so desperately lonely, so unbearably painful that only alcohol could ease the pain: first one drink and then another, until finally the day was gone.

  I’d realized that I was backed up against the kitchen wall, dazed, staring at the countertop as if the mess somehow palpably threatened me. At that moment, the doorbell had rung; the patrol car had arrived. The sound of the doorbell had shocked me, helped me. I’d let the patrolman in and handed him a bath towel. Together, we’d mopped up my breakfast, leaving the soggy towels in the sink.

  Now, with my office door closed and my feet propped on an open file cabinet, I allowed myself to think about the moment of defeat I’d experienced, braced against the kitchen wall.

  What did it mean—really mean?

  Did it mean that, having had my life threatened on two successive days, I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and therefore vulnerable? Was the simplest explanation the truth?

  Was the condition temporary—some momentary weakness of the mind and body that could be cured by rest—and a sleeping pill?

  Or was it something more serious—a chronic condition, reappearing?

  Any disease, I knew, could recur. And any weakness of the spirit is exaggerated by exhaustion and frustration. Textbooks written on the art of interrogation recommend that the suspect be softened up by fatigue and confusion. The suspect’s sense of self-esteem must be undermined. He must be …

  My phone was ringing.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “This is Radebaugh, sir. In the fingerprint lab. I’m reporting on the Ruger revolver used in the Callendar homicide.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I’ve got four good, clear prints that match the unclassified prints on the .45 and the .380, Lieutenant. But that’s all. Or, at least”—he hesitated—“that’s all that’s a matter of fact, as you might say. But I’ve got a couple of opinions, if you’d like to hear them.”

  “Before you give me your opinions, let me get this straight. There’s no question that one person handled all three guns. Right?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Good. Now, what about your opinions?”

  “Well, I’m not so sure that the owner of those prints actually fired the guns.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because, especially in the case of the Ruger, the prints just don’t occur in a position that would allow the subject to fire the gun. Not only that, but there are glove-smudges in the firing positions.”

  “In other words, the person with the unclassified prints could have handed the gun to the murderer, who wore gloves. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s about it, sir.”

  “And there’s no possibility of getting anything from Washington on the unclassified fingerprints. Right?”

  I heard him sigh. “I’m afraid that’s right, Lieutenant. Unless, of course, the subject has his prints recorded following a recent arrest. If that happens, we’ll get an update. But it would take ten days, at least.”

  I echoed his sigh. “All right, Radebaugh. Thanks.”

  “So suddenly,” Friedman said, “those unclassified prints are a big deal.”

  “They’ve always been a big deal,” I answered.

  “Vicente’s prints are on record,” he mused. “So are Mobley’s and Jamison’s and Rifkin’s. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “How about Laura Farley’s prints?” he asked. “Are they on file?”

  “Yes. I checked.”

  “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why neither Mobley’s nor Jamison’s prints aren’t on some of those guns. That would be natural.”

  “I know.”

  “Incidentally,” he said, “I thought I should tell you that I ordered Culligan and Canelli to organize a background check on Captain Rifkin, as well as Mobley and Jamison and Laura. We should be getting the results pretty soon. Rifkin, I’m sure, will scream. But I have a special reason for wanting Rifkin checked. Call it an ulterior motive.” As he spoke, he began the ritual process of unwrapping his morning cigar, giving the task his abstracted attention.

  “What’s the reason?”

  He lit the cigar, shook out the match and sailed it toward my wastebasket. “I figured we should have Dwyer checked out, too. And if we check out Rifkin—going up the line of command, you see, then it won’t seem so strange to Dwyer that—”

  “You’re checking out Dwyer? The chief?” As I stared at him, I realized that my mouth was open.

  He shrugged. “Why not? Dwyer has access to the property room keys.”

  “But it—it’s illogical. Jesus Christ, Pete, you—you’re flipping out.”

  “If you don’t approve,” he said, “then say so. I haven’t given the order yet. I figured I should check with you first.” He gazed at me through a thick cloud of smoke—waiting.

  I muttered an obscenity. “All right, go ahead.”

  “I think it’s the democratic thing to do,” he offered.

  “They say death’s democratic, too—and poverty. Which results from being unemployed. And they also say that—”

  My phone rang. Swearing, I answered.

  “This is Chief Dwyer, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh”—I coughed—“yessir.”

  “Are you making any progress?”

  “I�
�m not—sure, sir.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Is Friedman there with you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m”—he hesitated—“I’m going to meet with the deputy mayor in forty-five minutes. Secretly. I’d like to have either you or Friedman there, unless you’ve got something that can’t wait.”

  “There’s no problem, sir. Not now, anyhow.”

  “That means there isn’t any progress,” he answered dryly. “Right?”

  “I’m afraid that’s right.”

  “Well—” He paused wearily, then said, “Why don’t you send Friedman to me? He’s better at dealing with politicians than you are.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Tell him we’re meeting at eleven o’clock in the view area on the south side of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m at home now, but I’ll be leaving immediately. I’ll be in a metallic-brown Mercedes. Friedman can park, then get into my car. He’s to come in his own car, not a cruiser. Clear?”

  “A metallic-brown Mercedes sedan. That’s clear.”

  When I’d relayed the instructions to Friedman, he sat for a moment in thoughtful silence, smoking. Then: “It appears to me that the city is considering paying the half-million.”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, it’d be bad for Dwyer’s image. And for the Department’s image, too.”

  “That’s true,” Friedman replied. “But it’d be a lot worse, imagewise, if he got killed. This Masked Man’s good—we know it, and so does Dwyer. And the Masked Man might have a rifle. Dwyer knows there’s almost no way to stop a sniper. Besides which”—Friedman heaved himself to his feet and headed for the door—“it might be our only chance to catch this character. It’s a whole lot harder to collect ransoms than it is to shoot people.” Friedman opened the door, flipped a hand in casual farewell and disappeared.

  Almost immediately, a knock sounded on my door’s frosted-glass panel. Culligan came in, followed by Canelli. Both men carried manila folders. Culligan was dressed in what looked like gardening clothes, Canelli in mod clothing: boldly patterned bell-bottom slacks secured by a broad, flower-carved leather belt, a paisley-printed shirt and suede boots—all of which, on Canelli, had an incongruous, overstuffed appearance.

  “We’ve got the background reports,” Culligan said, spreading his opened folder on the corner of my desk. “Such as they are, considering that we didn’t have much time.”

  I smiled to myself. Until a suspect had signed a confession, Culligan was never completely satisfied with the work he’d done. To Culligan, there were always more problems, more potential discouragements.

  “Let’s have it,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

  “I had Rifkin and Laura Farley,” Culligan said.

  “All right. Start with them.”

  Culligan fished a pair of reading glasses from a shirt pocket.

  “What I was looking for,” Culligan said, “was anything I could pick up that would make it seem reasonable that the subject could—or would—be involved in this thing. But, like I said, there just wasn’t time to do a thorough job.”

  I nodded. “I realize that. What’ve you got?”

  “Well,” Culligan said, eyeing his notes, “in one way, I suppose you’ve got to put Captain Rifkin at the top of the list, as far as opportunity is concerned. If he’d wanted to get those guns, it would’ve been no sweat. Absolutely none. The only one with a better shot at them, in terms of opportunity, would be Chief Dwyer himself. But—”

  Canelli suddenly guffawed—then immediately apologized, silenced by Culligan’s long-suffering stare.

  “But,” Culligan continued, “if you forget about opportunity, then Rifkin just doesn’t fit. At least, he doesn’t fit my idea of the Masked Man, who’s got to be either some kind of a nut or else someone who wants—or needs—lots of money, quick. And Rifkin’s not in any trouble at all, either at home or at his bank or on the job. He’s got a wife and two kids, and he goes home every night He doesn’t even stop for a drink—unless a superior officer asks him. He’s got eight thousand dollars in a savings account, and his house is almost all paid off. He’s got one kid just finishing college, and another about to start. But even that’s no sweat, financially, because Rifkin’s wife’s got a good job. I forgot to mention that.”

  “So you scrub him.”

  He nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “What about Laura Farley?”

  “Laura Farley,” Culligan said, “is a different story. Or, at least, her personal life is a different story—all screwed up.” Culligan’s glance was apologetic. “I guess—ah—you know what I mean, Lieutenant.”

  I nodded. “I guess I do. What’re the particulars?”

  “Well, there’s not many particulars, especially. She’s been divorced for five years. During that time she’s”—again his glance strayed toward me—“she’s fooled around with several guys, according to her landlady, who’s one of those nosy old biddies who doesn’t seem like a nosy old biddy. She—”

  “They’re the best kind,” Canelli offered. “For cops, anyhow.”

  Culligan threw Canelli another long-suffering glance before saying, “Lately, still according to the landlady, the subject has been bringing home guys from bars—things like that. Which she never did before, I gather.”

  “I can’t figure that,” Canelli said, shaking his head. “Not with her looks, I can’t figure that.”

  “What else’ve you got, Culligan?” I asked.

  “The subject has no visible savings,” Culligan said stiffly. “In fact, she’s one of those who apparently can’t resist charge accounts. She’s in hock to BankAmericard, Master Charge and a couple of finance companies. Deep in hock.”

  “Is she a security risk, would you say, because of all those charge accounts?” I asked. “Is she in over her head?”

  “I wouldn’t say so,” Culligan answered judiciously. “It’s just her life style, I guess you’d say.” Disapprovingly, he shrugged.

  “How’s her job performance?”

  He spread his hands. “It’s excellent. Apparently she’s smart, and she’s conscientious. No problems there.”

  “It sounds to me,” Canelli said, “like she might be a setup for some guy who’s looking for an accomplice to get him the guns.”

  “That’s assuming she’s dishonest,” Culligan countered. “And I didn’t see any indication of that. Just the opposite. As a matter of fact, she’s bonded. She handles money. Lots of money, sometimes.”

  “Yeah, well, that could change, you know.”

  “It takes a lot to turn an honest person into a crook,” Culligan objected. “That’s about the only thing I’ve learned in this business. And, besides, if someone connected with the property room stole the guns and used them, and then ditched them, he’d realize, sure as hell, that he’d be the first one questioned, if they were found. So—” Shaking his head, Culligan broke off, unable to solve the problem he’d posed.

  “Maybe it’s doublethink,” I said. “Maybe he—or she—figures he wouldn’t be suspected because he’d be the most logical suspect.”

  “Hey, yeah,” Canelli said, brightening. “Maybe that’s it, Lieutenant.” Then he frowned uncertainly.

  Morosely, Culligan shook his head, dissatisfied.

  “What about Jamison and Mobley?” I asked, turning to Canelli.

  “Well,” he said, pawing at his notes, “the funny thing is that, for two guys who’re in sensitive security positions, both of them have a few kinks, the way I see it.”

  “What kind of kinks?” I asked.

  “Jamison is one of those closet queers,” Canelli answered promptly, “and Sergeant Mobley is—” Canelli frowned, searching for the phrase. “He’s about half screwed up, with all that’s happened to him. He’s bitter and he’s—he doesn’t track straight, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t
quite add up.”

  “Jamison is gay?” I asked incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  “All I know,” Canelli answered, “is that he goes to gay bars—two, sometimes three times a week.”

  “Does Jamison live with a guy?” I asked.

  “No. He lives alone.”

  “How’re his finances?”

  “They’re okay. Everything else, in fact, is okay. Except that he likes boys better than girls.”

  “Gay or not,” Culligan snorted, “I sure as hell can’t see Jamison pulling the trigger. No way.”

  “He might have a sweetie,” Canelli said. “They could be in it together—a love pact, or something. Some of those gay guys are pretty heavy, you know.”

  “What about Mobley?” I asked, glancing at my watch. “What’d you find out about him?”

  “Well,” Canelli said hesitantly, “I didn’t find out anything in particular. With Mobley, it’s more of a—a feeling, I guess I’d have to say.”

  “What kind of a feeling?”

  “Well, it’s like Culligan said a few minutes ago—about what it takes to turn someone into a crook. And, I mean, you’re right,” Canelli said, turning to Culligan. “I go along with what you said. But still, people can turn dishonest, or crazy, or something. And with everything that’s happened to Mobley—getting shot, and then having his wife leave him, for God’s sake, and everything—well, you could understand it, almost, if he slipped a cog, you might say. Plus I hear he used to drink a lot, and then he quit. But according to what I understand, he still drinks, except that now he just does it on weekends. And then there’s—” Canelli paused, gulping for breath.

  “What’s the point, Canelli?” Culligan asked with heavy sarcasm. “We’re a little short on time, according to those extortion notes.”

  “Well, all I’m saying is that I could see Mobley flipping out, like I said.”

  “What about the nuts and bolts?” I asked. “The background.”

  “The nuts and bolts are a little—seedy,” Canelli said. “Mobley lives way out in the Mission district, in a little, run-down apartment.”