Badge of Evil

by Whit Masterson

  Farnum sighed, almost contentedly. “That’s good. We going down to the jail now?”

  “Eventually. I want you to talk to some people first, make a statement.”

  “Okay.” Farnum rose to get his coat. The newspaper slid off his lap to the floor and lay there, unheeded. At the doorway, Farnum hesitated. “I really should leave a note for the people here. They’ll want to rent the room. Or maybe you can tell them I won’t be back.”

  “They’ll hear about it,” said Holt. “They won’t expect you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I, ERNEST FARNUM, testify that the following statement, given and signed by me on this the 6th day of February, is wholly voluntary and given without threat of coercion or promise of immunity by any official person or persons …

  So began Farnum’s confession to the dynamite murder of Rudy Linneker. At midnight, Mitch Holt sat in the district attorney’s private office and read through a carbon copy while in the larger room outside the confessed killer signed the original. It was a sordid and petty document, as such things usually were, and to absorb its contents Holt had withdrawn from the maelstrom of the outer office where police, reporters, photographers and the district attorney’s staff surged about. Holt, though quietly elated, did not feel a part of the circus-like celebration.

  “Hey now,” exclaimed his boss, who came bustling in and discovered him. “What’re you doing in here? You’re missing all the fun.”

  “I never was much for tearing down the goal posts. I wanted to read Farnum’s statement all the way through.”

  “Amazing document, isn’t it? Hard to believe that a man could be so cowardly and so stupid at the same time. But there it is.”

  Holt shrugged, not wanting to pass judgment so lightly. “I think we’re going to have trouble hanging a Murder First on him though. The defence can make a good case for insanity, it seems to me. Farnum’s a definite paranoiac.”

  “The delusions of persecution, you mean? Well, we’ll see. I’ve handled these defence psychologists before.” Adair, on top of the world, radiated confidence. He flicked the typewritten sheets with his finger. “We’ve got it made, son, thanks to you.”

  “It just fell into my lap.”

  “What was that line you were giving me about being no detective? You showed up the cops from hell to breakfast.” Adair clapped his hands in high good humour. “I can hardly wait to rub it in to Chief Gould in the morning.”

  “It could happen to anybody. The police had their eyes so firmly fixed on Tara and Shayon that they overlooked the obvious. If I hadn’t been so inexperienced, maybe I’d have done the same thing.”

  “You play it as modest as you like. The results speak for themselves.” He saw Holt frowning. “What’s bothering you, Mitch?”

  “I don’t know. Have you read Farnum’s statement?”

  “Not completely. I was in on the interrogation and I glanced over the rough draft. I heard enough.”

  “Well, it’s pretty rambling, about what you’d expect from his kind of mind.” Holt began to leaf through the pages. “He tells about how Linneker never gave him a chance down at the yard, promoted other men over him, that sort of thing. Farnum blamed Linneker personally, though Linneker probably didn’t even know he existed. That’s your paranoiac mind for you. Then he tells about the fight with O’Hara — he got beat up pretty bad — and he saw Linneker as he left the yard after being fired. Says Linneker was standing at the window in his upstairs office, laughing at him. That’s when he swore he was going to pay him back. He bought the dynamite two weeks later, after brooding a while.”

  “Why’d he wait so long to use it? I missed that part.”

  “I’m reconstructing that he lost his nerve or maybe changed his mind — Farnum doesn’t say — but it was probably tied up with his not being able to get another job. He says right here that Linneker had blackballed him all over town. Ridiculous, of course, but that’s what he thought. So he finally went down to the yard the other night, says he just intended to blow things up. Then across the harbour he saw Linneker’s private beach, all lit up with floodlights, and the beach cabana. That seemed to symbolize everything so he hiked around the edge of the harbour, some two miles, climbed over the fence and stuck the dynamite through the nearest window of the cabana. Then he ran away. He didn’t even know he’d killed anybody until he saw the papers.”

  “How come this beach cabana fixation?”

  “He was one of the lumber yard crew that built it.” Holt put aside the confession. “Anything else in his story strike you?”

  “Yes. Farnum’s crazy like a fox. He’s going to try for second degree. But we’ll tear him to pieces, wait and see.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. This confession is eleven pages long, covers the whole affair from stem to stern.” Holt grimaced thoughtfully. “But nowhere in it does Farnum mention planting the dynamite sticks in that storage closet under Shayon’s stairs.”

  “Probably forgot about it,” said Adair, shrugging.

  “He didn’t forget because I asked him. He denies doing it. Furthermore, he claims explicitly that he had several sticks left over and that he broke them up and flushed them down the drain in his hotel room.”

  “Mental quirk, most likely. You can’t expect logic from a guy like that. Anyway, what difference does it make? We’re bound to have a few loose ends. The important thing is that we’ve got our man.”

  “Yeah, I guess that is the important thing.”

  “You’re bushed and no wonder. Go on home and get some sleep. Count those antelope you’re going to shoot down in Mexico.” Adair chuckled. “If I were the suspicious type, I’d say you rigged this quick confession just so you could take your vacation.”

  “I had a notion of dropping over to the jail and seeing Shayon released.”

  “Good idea,” Adair agreed, nodding. “Very good idea. Show him that our heart’s in the right place. Do you think he might get nasty?”

  “Maybe. But that wasn’t why I’m going.” Holt didn’t explain further but said goodnight to his boss and pushed his way through the outer office. The crowd had dissipated considerably; Farnum had been taken away by the police, and most of the reporters and photographers had followed. Those who remained closed in on Holt but he declined to give a statement and shooed them in to see Adair.

  They didn’t like it much. “You’re the one we want to talk to,” one of the newsmen told him. “Give us a break, huh, Holt?”

  “Mr. Adair speaks for this office,” alibied Holt, ducking out. He was in a hurry but he didn’t care to tell the reporters why. He was afraid that Shayon might be gone before he reached police headquarters.

  As it turned out, there was no reason to rush. The police machinery, which didn’t operate in reverse very often, was slow, and Holt waited nearly a half-hour in the shadowy corridor before Delmont Shayon was given his freedom. Imprisonment hadn’t tarnished his cockiness a bit. He grinned when he saw Holt and said, “What are you here for, Holt? Going to sing Aloha as I sail off into the sunset?”

  “Wanted to talk to you a minute.”

  “I guess I can spare you that.” Shayon gave a contemptuous flip of his hand to the desk sergeant who had escorted him from the detention section. “Don’t think it hasn’t been charming, Sergeant. I’ll tell all my friends about your place here.”

  “Most of our customers stay longer,” said the sergeant. “Count yourself lucky.”

  “Oh, I do, I do. Who else gets a reception committee?” Shayon slung his coat over his shoulder and swaggered down the corridor toward the freedom of the main archway. Holt matched his stride. “Well, what’s on your mind, Holt? Afraid I’m going to sue the life out of the city for false arrest?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I might just do that little thing, though.”

  “You might,” Holt agreed. “But you’d be smarter to put it behind you and forget it. It’s not a favoured action.”

  “You come down here to giv
e me advice?”

  “I came down here to ask if you’ve got any enemies who might have tried to frame you with that dynamite. I still want to know how it got in your storage closet.”

  “I haven’t got an enemy in the world,” said Shayon jocularly. “Everybody likes me — except the cops. You know what, Holt? I don’t believe there ever was any dynamite.”

  “There was,” said Holt. “I saw it — and the shoe box it was stored in.”

  “Well, the shoe box was mine, all right. That’s my life’s work, remember? But I never bought any dynamite in my life. Anyway, what difference does it make? The guy confessed, didn’t he?”

  “Not to everything,” said Holt. “That’s what bothers me.”

  “Well, it doesn’t bother me.” Shayon stepped out on to the driveway and took a deep breath of the night air. “Boy, that smells good. Now I know how a canary feels. Say, Holt, you want to do me a favour and drop me off somewhere on your way home? I don’t have my car.”

  “There’s a taxi,” suggested Holt, nodding at the yellow vehicle against the curb.

  “It’s taken,” objected Shayon, peering at it.

  “Sure, it is. I phoned Tara while I was waiting for you.”

  Shayon’s studied him for a moment and then began to grin. “You’re an awful meddler, Holt, and that’s a fact. But I guess I should be damn grateful that you are.” He turned and moved off toward the waiting taxi. Over his shoulder he called, “If you ever need a pair of shoes, look me up.”

  “Sure,” murmured Holt. But the embrace he witnessed told him that Delmont Shayon had sold his last pair of shoes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE district attorney held a press conference at ten the next morning but Holt did not attend. He had other business on his mind, although it was also public relations in its own way. In last night’s excitement, the men nominally in charge of the case — Captain McCoy and Sergeant Quinlan — had virtually been forgotten. And since he might have to work with the pair at some future time, Holt wanted to soothe ruffled feelings, if such existed.

  His first attempt was not especially successful, however. Quinlan was hunched over his desk in the police administration section and he simply scowled at Holt’s greeting. “What do you want?” he asked. “Coming around to rub it in?”

  “There’s nothing to rub in. I just had a piece of good luck, and I wanted you and the captain to know I wasn’t trying to go behind your backs.”

  “What do you call it, then? I read the papers.” And Quinlan rose and limped into the inner office where he closed the door. Holt waited a moment but the sergeant did not return. Holt sighed. Quinlan had considered him an interloper from the beginning and there was little hope of changing his mind now, considering how things had turned out. The old-timers were very conscious of protocol and from Quinlan’s point of view Holt’s actions had been highhanded. Holt hoped that McCoy would take a more tolerant attitude.

  McCoy, however, was not immediately available. Since he was retired, the conclusion of the Linneker case had relieved him of the necessity of reporting in to headquarters. The desk sergeant didn’t know when, if ever, McCoy might put in an appearance. So, since he considered the continuance of friendly relations important, Holt drove out to see him.

  McCoy’s turkey ranch was located in a farming community known as Whiteside, which took its name from its proximity to White Mountain. It was a sprawling little settlement of avocado groves and dairy farms with an occasional cluster of stores located at strategic intervals on the winding road. It was a forty-five minute drive from the city and out of the coastal fog belt. Holt, who seldom ventured far in this direction, was impressed by the beauty of the countryside. He admired McCoy’s choice of retreats.

  He had a little trouble finding the right gate, since it was identified only by the name on the mailbox. But, once located, a gravelled road led up through a grove of pepper trees to a knoll where stood a weathered ranch bungalow. It was neat but not luxurious, about what one might expect a police officer’s lifetime savings could afford. McCoy was a bachelor, Holt remembered.

  Behind the house was a large fenced area and it was here, after repeated knocking on the front door failed to rouse anyone, that he found McCoy. The captain was sitting on an orange crate, smoking his pipe and watching a flock of red-wattled turkeys scratch for grain. He wore jeans and a faded wool plaid shirt and looked as if he had spent his entire life feeding turkeys rather than chasing murderers.

  After Quinlan’s frosty reception, Holt was prepared for another rebuff but he didn’t get it. McCoy looked surprised at his arrival but rose, grinning, and put out his hand. “Well, well,” he said genially. “I didn’t really think I’d be seeing you so soon, Holt. You should be busy taking bows.”

  “I sort of wanted to explain to you about what happened, Captain.”

  “Sit down,” McCoy invited, indicating a second box. “There’s nothing to explain to me. You got your man and that’s all there is to it.” He eyed Holt’s relieved expression with dry amusement. “What’s the trouble, Holt? You think I was going to be browned off at you?”

  “Well, Sergeant Quinlan certainly was,” admitted Holt, seating himself.

  “Hank takes these things pretty seriously. I think his leg has something to do with it, kind of sours his disposition and makes him touchy.” McCoy chuckled around his pipe. “You should have seen him last night. He was out here, you know, and we were playing pinochle and having a beer when the flash came on television. Poor Hank nearly blew a fuse. The way he carried on you’d think you’d stolen his wallet.”

  “I didn’t have any idea how it was going to turn out. Farnum just handed me his confession on a silver platter.”

  “Yeah, but you were there to take it,” McCoy said. “You were and I wasn’t. That’s the difference. More power to you Holt. Like I told Hank last night, youth will be served.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, Captain. I didn’t want any hard feelings.”

  “Not in the least. Say, Holt, what do you think of my flock?” McCoy gestured at the ungainly birds that stalked around on the other side of the fence like prisoners in an exercise yard. “While you’re here, you might as well pick out the bird I promised you. You can take it back with you.”

  “Would it be all right if I left it for now? My wife and I are getting away on our vacation the first of the week and I’m afraid it would just go to waste.”

  “Any time,” McCoy agreed. “I’ve usually got more turkeys than I know what to do with — toms, anyway — except around Thanksgiving. I try to supply the boys on the force, you know. So you’re going to take a rest, huh? I imagined you’d be hanging around for the trial.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back before the case goes to court and anybody can handle the preliminary work.”

  “From what I hear, the trial will be a snap, too.”

  “Well, you never can tell. Farnum may repudiate his confession. That won’t change the outcome but we’re going to have to prepare for the possibility.” Holt hesitated. Since they were getting on well together, he decided to ask McCoy’s opinion about the one facet of the case which still bothered him. “Also, there’s the business about the dynamite that was found in Shayon’s apartment.”

  “Yeah,” said McCoy slowly, sucking on his pipe. “I was wondering about that.”

  “Farnum denies planting it there and I believe he’s telling the truth. It worries me. A good defence attorney might be able to make something of it.”

  “It’s possible that Shayon has an enemy who saw an opportunity.”

  “Shayon doesn’t think so. That may be merely egotism, of course. But whoever put the dynamite there would have to be someone who was close to the case. Otherwise, how would you account for the precise brand being used?”

  “That may not be so hard to do. Seems to me the papers had it that Black Fox brand was used — back when we got the first lab reports.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Holt admitted. “I gues
s I wasn’t reading the papers.”

  “A lot of people were. Maybe one of them was a crackpot, some eight-ball who decided to take matters into his own hands. Black Fox is a common brand, you can buy it just about anywhere. And I guess I told you that the lock on that outside storage closet was no good.”

  “Pretty screwy thing to do, it seems to me. What did the person stand to gain?”

  McCoy studied the strutting gobblers for a moment before he answered. “Holt, you’d be surprised how personally some people can take a thing like the Linneker murder. People who have nothing to do with it at all, I mean. There’s a great human drive to see justice done and there’s some of us who can’t always wait for the normal order of things. Personal gain doesn’t enter into it in those instances.” He spoke soberly, as if he had thought about the matter a great deal. “That’s how it looks to me. I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

  “Well, let’s hope not,” said Holt noncommittally, getting up. The sunshine and the quiet peacefulness of the ranch had made him a little drowsy and he realized how much he was in need of the imminent vacation. It would be nice to get away and do nothing for a while. “Thanks a lot, Captain. Sure a fine place you’ve got here. I envy you.”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad.” McCoy looked off across the turkey run with an expression Holt couldn’t decipher. “Sort of hard being out of the swim of things, though. You’re too young to understand that yet. That’s why I let them talk me into coming back for this Linneker job. I guess it was a mistake, huh?”

  His tone was so wistful that Holt said, “Not in my opinion. Like I told you, I just got a lucky break. By rights, it should have gone to you.”

  “Never believed much in luck,” McCoy murmured. Then he smiled and put out his hand. “Congratulations, Holt — and thanks for not making me eat crow. I’m not used to the diet and it goes down hard.”

  Holt, left, glad that he had made the long drive out here, although some men might consider it a waste of the morning. He felt it had been worth it, if the only result proved to be an assuaging of McCoy’s pride. The veteran police officer had done enough for society to deserve something better than a kick in the teeth at the twilight of his career. A man like McCoy lived on his pride to a great extent; take it away and there wasn’t much left.