Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Still kneeling, I used thumb and forefinger to unzip Rawlings’ jacket, careful not to touch the blood.

  Harrington’s shot had gone five inches wide. The .30-caliber bullet had torn through the big trapezius muscle just above the collarbone, striking at the angle of the neck and shoulder. Rawlings was only stunned, in deep shock. If the shot had gone an inch higher, it would have been a clean miss.

  Straightening, I motioned for the ambulance stewards standing by. Then I turned toward the small group surrounding Jane Swanson. Meeting my eye, Friedman shook his head.

  The boy was on his feet, swaying, stumbling toward the blanket-covered shape at Friedman’s feet.

  24

  “TO SHOW YOU THAT there’s no hard feelings about the great jogging conspiracy,” Friedman said, sinking gratefully into my visitor’s chair, “I thought I’d show you this. Prepublication, you might say.” He tossed a slim sheaf of foolscap sheets haphazardly across my desk. “What is it?”

  “My report on your war with Howard Draper. It’ll probably make you famous—a departmental celebrity.”

  “If it’s that good, I probably couldn’t improve on it.” He extracted a slightly bent cigar from his inside pocket. Frowning, he straightened it. “You don’t have to read it, of course. If I were you, in fact, I think I’d go home. For a week.”

  “I haven’t finished my report on Rawlings.”

  “Is he still confessing to anyone who’ll listen?”

  “About the murders, yes. But he still won’t say whether he robbed Valenti.”

  “Maybe it was a crime of pure passion.”

  “That’s a lot of it. But whenever he’s asked about torturing Valenti, he looks a little wall-eyed. And he denies the robbery too loudly—like he’s shocked at the mere suggestion.”

  “He’s probably got the loot stashed somewhere, for his old age.”

  “Maybe.” I was moodily fingering a pack of cigarettes I kept on the desk, testing the strength of my no-smoking resolution.

  “How’d he actually commit the murder?”

  “About like I had it figured. He got in through the front service entrance, then went along the side of the house. He jimmied the back door, then just walked in on them, waving the gun. He says they were making love and didn’t hear him until he was right in the room with them. And, apparently, the fact that they were making love pushed him over the edge. He kept talking about the naked woman. Every time he mentioned her, he got a kind of wild glint in his eye, like he was one of those nutty revivalists preaching against sin.”

  “Are you saying he’s a nut?”

  “No. Not certifiable, anyhow. In fact, he’s pretty plausible-sounding most of the time—pretty lucid. He claims that he originally intended just to scare Valenti—warn him to stay away from Jane. It turns out that Jane did phone Valenti, after all. She made the call the minute Rawlings was out of the apartment. He listened from the hallway, and heard her talking—hitting Valenti for money, because she wanted to leave Rawlings and go back to Los Angeles. That’s when Rawlings decided to do the job. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, even though he’d obviously already done some planning.”

  “Were they sleeping together—Jane and Valenti? Was that what really bugged Rawlings?”

  “I don’t think so. I think she used Valenti like a whip. She was one of these man-eating women.”

  “Most hookers are. Their one true love is their pimp—because he beats them. It’s a father thing, according to my son the psychology student.” He drew thoughtfully, slowly, on the cigar, then said, “Personally, I think robbery was at least a secondary motive. A hot-blooded lover acting in the heat of passion doesn’t plan a month ahead of time to steal a car for the job.”

  “Exactly. That’s the way I put it to him, too.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. Essentially, he’s just telling us what he wants us to hear.”

  “Did he steal the car because he wanted to throw suspicion on Bruce Manley?”

  “No. That was pure coincidence. He doesn’t even know Bruce Manley exists. As Kreiger said, there’re thousands of white Volkswagens around.”

  “Coincidence is very tough on cops,” Friedman observed. “What’d he do after he walked in during their sex scene?”

  “He’s not really sure,” I answered slowly, “and I believe him. The only thing that’s really clear is that, first, he had Karen tie Valenti to the bedpost. Then he tortured Valenti, while she watched. Then he shot Valenti. He didn’t shoot the girl until he was ready to leave, I don’t think.”

  “And he did it all because of unrequited love,” Friedman rumbled ironically. “Sometimes I think there’re almost as many people slaughtered in the name of true love as there are in the name of the one true God.” He glanced wearily at his watch. “Well, it’s eight o’clock, and my wife’s still keeping dinner warm. These days, it takes longer to write the report than it does to catch the bad guys. In my youth, it was a duplicate society. Now it’s a triplicate society. And before long—”

  My phone rang.

  “This is Canelli, Lieutenant. I’m down in the garage, where the lab boys are working on Rawlings’ car. And guess what?”

  “I give up, Canelli. What?”

  “They found almost eighteen thousand dollars wired to the frame of Rawlings’ car, up over the differential. All in used tens and twenties. I bet it’ll turn out to be the Valenti money.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. You can bring it up here, along with one lab man as witness. I’ll give you a receipt and have it put in the safe.”

  “Check.”

  “What about Jane Swanson’s boy?”

  I could hear him sigh. “He’s over at Youth Guidance. And the hell of it is, Draper’s little girl’s there, too. Christ, two orphans in one day. It makes you think.”

  “I’ve just been talking to Judge Walker and Susan Draper’s parents. They’ll be able to get the little girl tomorrow.” I hesitated, then asked, “How’s she doing, would you say?”

  Again he sighed. “I’d say she isn’t doing very good, Lieutenant. She keeps saying that she knows her daddy didn’t kill her mommy, because her daddy loved her mommy.”

  “I suppose he did, once.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Jane Swanson’s kid? How’d he take it?”

  “Well, he didn’t say much. He just sat staring at me—like he was accusing me, or something. He’s a real strange kid—like a small, shrunken little man, or something. I bet he never laughs.”

  “He’s probably never had much to laugh about.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He paused. “I’m sorry I took so long over at Youth Guidance. I—you know—I got bogged down, I guess you’d say.”

  “That’s all right, Canelli. Bring that money up. I’m going home pretty soon.”

  “Right.”

  I hung up and swiveled to face Friedman.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, holding up a warning hand. “Canelli found the loot. By accident.”

  “Wrong. The lab boys found it. Eighteen thousand dollars.”

  “The way Bruce Manley and Billy Mitchell were talking,” he said absently, “Valenti and the girl probably stashed the money under their pillow, so they wouldn’t have to leave bed even to make change for their drug customers.” He flicked his cigar ash, missing my ashtray. His eyes had a faraway look. “I wonder what they do at Youth Guidance Center for Christmas,” he said finally, staring impassively down at his cigar.

  “They pass out presents to the little kids—the ones under twelve.” I sailed his report across the desk. “Here—you proofread it. I’ve got my own report to do.”

  He shrugged, collected the papers and slowly got to his feet. “You never did tell me what you’re doing for Christmas, much less Hanukkah.”

  “It just so happens,” I said, walking with him to the door, “that I got an invitation for Christmas dinner, just an hour ago. From a very pretty
lady. For Hanukkah, I’m coming to your house.”

  He nodded, opening the door. “Good. Who’s the pretty lady?”

  “The mother of one of our ex-suspects, Ann Haywood. She’s an admirer of good police work, I guess.”

  He snorted. “She’s probably got a thing about aging football players.” He looked me up and down, frowning reflectively. “You’re beaming like a schoolboy,” he said finally. “Maybe you should bring her for Hanukkah.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  One

  I UNLOCKED MY TOP right-hand desk drawer and grunted as I drew my revolver. I balanced the .38 in my hand, idly frowning at my “in” basket. The basket had been empty when I’d left to get a haircut an hour ago. Now two letters, a departmental memo, and a manila case folder lay in the gray metal tray.

  I used the gun barrel to push the memo aside, revealing the folder’s label. Recognizing the case, I sighed, surrendering to a Monday morning’s moment of glum self-pity. Outside, the sky was cold and gray, threatening a day-long winter’s rain. I’d just come off a sunny three-day weekend, after sixteen straight days of duty. And already my fellow officers were up to their departmental tricks.

  Irritably I ignored the “in” basket, looking instead at the .38, held flat on my open palm. The gun needed cleaning. For more than a month, ever since I last fired it, I’d been meaning to clean the gun thoroughly, instead of haphazardly swabbing out the bore with powder solvent.

  Years ago, when I’d first made inspector, I had faithfully cleaned the revolver once a week, every Friday. But the feel of the gun had been different then—different in my hand, different on my hip. Years ago the metallic bulge beneath my coat had seemed my very special secret. Now the gun sometimes seemed merely a bulky nuisance.

  I laid it in the open drawer. The drawer was stained with gun oil, even though I’d had the office for less than a year. Had the desk’s previous owner kept his gun in the same drawer? I’d never know. The previous owner, Lieutenant Travis, had died in the men’s room, of a heart attack. After almost thirty years of “meritorious duty serving the people of San Francisco,” they’d found Travis propped against a urinal, dead.

  No one had really mourned him. As he’d gotten older, Travis had started to believe his own press clippings.

  The gun, I noticed, was scarred and worn-looking. Bright metal showed through the bluing; the walnut grips were chipped and scratched.

  The departmental psychologist had once said that a cop’s gun was his phallic wish-fulfillment. Cops, he’d said, fondled their guns instead of themselves. He’d been drunk at a Christmas party when he’d said it—sloppily, pugnaciously drunk. But no one would fight with him, and he’d finally passed out, snoring loudly, mouth wide open, his dentures clicking as he breathed. He’d been…

  A knock sounded on my office door.

  “Come in.” I closed the drawer, turning the key.

  Pete Friedman, my senior co-lieutenant, stood in the open doorway. As usual, his suit was rumpled, his collar wilted, his vest powdered with chronic cigar ash. His shirt bloused between his vest and his belly-bagged trousers. His collar was unbuttoned, his twisted tie loosened.

  Smiling quizzically, he glanced amiably toward my “in” basket as he nodded a sly, knowing greeting. “I see you got the Wagner case.” He eased his bulk into my visitor’s chair, sighing deeply, settling himself elaborately. “No hard feelings, I hope. The captain decided to give you a shot at it, with my blessing.”

  “That case,” I said slowly, “is three months old. Half the witnesses aren’t even around.”

  “Four months old, actually. Don’t worry about the witnesses, though. They weren’t worth a damn.”

  “What am I supposed to do, read it and file it with my other sixty-two open cases?”

  He shrugged indifferently, drawing a cigar from his vest pocket. “Use your own judgment. As far as I’m concerned, Wagner is just another dead hooker. She turned the wrong trick, and got herself strangled. Probably the John couldn’t get an erection, so he strangled her instead. Or maybe it was one of those sadistic-masochistic tricks. That’s very big now, I understand.”

  “And the John left town. And has never been traced. Right?”

  “Now, now, don’t get testy. You’ve got to expect these things, when you haven’t been a lieutenant for even a year.” He lit the cigar, shook the dead match once, and dropped it into my wastebasket, trailing a tiny plume of smoke. As I turned to stare pointedly at the paper-filled basket, I heard him saying, “When you’re the senior homicide lieutenant—when I’m comfortably retired, that is—you’ll have the privilege of sloughing off your unwanted cases on your fellow officer. Besides, maybe you’ll get lucky with Wagner. A different approach, you know, can often do…”

  My phone rang.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “Just a minute, Lieutenant. I have Sergeant Markham for you.” It was Communications.

  A moment later Markham came on the line. His voice was metallic; he was calling on his radio. “We’ve got a homicide in Golden Gate Park, Lieutenant—a female Caucasian, about eighteen years of age. Apparently she’s been dead since last night. She’s been bludgeoned. She seems to be clean and well dressed. Her name is apparently June Towers, address 848 Twenty-fourth Avenue.”

  “Robbed?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Raped?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Anyone else on the scene with you?”

  “Just me and Culligan. And the park patrolman who discovered the body.”

  I glanced at my watch; the time was 11:15 A.M. The date was January 17. June Towers was our first homicide of the new year. With last year’s San Francisco homicides totaling more than a hundred, she was an overdue statistic.

  “All right,” I said into the phone, “I’ll call the lab and the M.E. and the coroner. I’ll be out in a half-hour. You’d better get reinforcements.”

  “I’ve already put in the call. A black-and-white car’s just now arriving, in fact.”

  “Anything else to report?”

  “No. Culligan’s trying to line up possible witnesses, and the uniformed man is guarding the body. So far there isn’t a crowd.”

  “Roger. I’ll see you in a half-hour or so.”

  “Right.”

  I broke the connection and gave the necessary orders, instructing Canelli to get my car. Finally I swiveled to face Friedman.

  “I was beginning to believe the mayor’s oratory about how we’re stamping out violent crime.” He leaned laboriously forward, flicked his cigar ash into my wastebasket, then subsided, grunting. In the field—in action—Friedman could be surprisingly quick on his feet, especially taking cover. In the office, though, he seemed incapable of more than a portly, rolling waddle, propelling himself like an overweight banker from one chair to another, always seating himself with a long, grateful sigh.

  I gestured to my “in” basket. “Wagner will have to wait.”

  “Obviously. Who’s dead?”

  “A teen-aged girl named June Towers. Well dressed. Lived in the Sunset, apparently. Robbed. Not raped.” I unlocked my top desk drawer.

  “I wonder why Markham bothered to call in. Since he’s made acting sergeant, I’d expect him to be even more one-way than ever. Which is pretty one-way.”

  “Here—” I pushed an ashtray across the desk.

  Flicking the ash without looking, and missing the tray, Friedman said, “Did you recommend Markham for sergeant?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t either; I was for Culligan. Markham must’ve been entirely the captain’s idea.”

  “Culligan’s a good man, but he’s got an ulcer,” I said shortly. “He’s a worrier. Besides, Markham’s smart.” I scanned the two letters and the memo, and returned them to the basket. “Markham’s efficient too, and he doesn’t get rattled.”

  “But you don’t lik
e him much.”

  “I wish he’d smile once in a while. But for that matter, I wish Culligan would smile once in a while.” I holstered my gun.

  “I could say the same about you, if you want the truth. The plain fact is, there really aren’t many laughs in this business. It’s…”

  My phone rang.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “Frank?” It was Ann.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Well, I…”

  “I’ll just be a minute. That’s all I can talk, actually. I’m between classes. But I just wanted to tell you that Billy’s spending the night with a classmate. So I wondered whether—” She let it go unfinished.

  Glancing at Friedman, half turning away, I spoke into the phone. “Why don’t I call you about five? Maybe we can go to a movie. I’m not sure, though. I’ll have to see how things work out.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be home by four-thirty. “Bye.”

  “Goodbye.” As I hung up, I realized that I was avoiding Friedman’s eye.

  “Don’t let me keep you from the year’s first corpse,” he said breezily. “I’ll stay here and finish my cigar, if you don’t mind. Sometimes I think better in your office than in mine.”

  “You’ll probably set it on fire.” I rose, taking my coat from the rack.

  “Was that Ann Haywood? Your favorite grammar-school teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded mock-solemnly. “If I were you, I think I’d marry her. You might not realize it, but your face actually softens when you talk to her. Or for that matter, when you talk about her. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

  “Listen, Pete, Canelli’s probably…”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Approximately a month, as a matter of fact. Not that it’s really any of your…”

  “You’ve smiled more this last month than you have during all of last year. Not only that, but my wife thinks you’re perfect for each other. Did you know that?”