Badge of Evil

by Whit Masterson

  “No, never that much. I’ve been dumb but I haven’t been crooked. I’m not your partner any longer, Mac. I guess I never really was.” Quinlan’s voice hardened. “Now get me that gun.”

  There was a moment of silence during which Holt held his breath. Then McCoy said calmly, “If that’s the way you want it, Hank. I’ve got it right here.”

  Quinlan cried out hastily, “Mac! Don’t be a damn — ”

  The gunshots exploded in Holt’s ear phones like thunderclaps. An instant later, another sound followed, like an echo. It was a heavy thud, as if someone had accidentally dropped a telephone receiver during a conversation, then a thrashing sound, then silence. Holt sat in the darkness of the automobile’s back seat, a sick sensation enveloping him, and knew what had occurred as plainly as if he had seen it. Despite the shocking revelations he had heard, Quinlan had still not been quite able to break his faith in his old partner. Thirty years couldn’t be destroyed in thirty minutes. And Quinlan had paid for his last shred of trust.

  Holt heard McCoy’s voice. It was muffled and sounded a great distance off, which meant that Quinlan had fallen face down, on top of the microphone. Then McCoy’s voice grew more distinct and Holt guessed that he was turning Quinlan over.

  It sounded as if McCoy were sobbing. “Hank!” he moaned. “You damn fool! I didn’t want to do it — you hear me, Hank? What’d you make me do it for? You’re the only one who …” Suddenly, he stopped and his voice changed completely, from remorse to consternation. “What the hell’s this thing?”

  He had discovered the microphone. The ear phones went dead.

  Holt knew that it was only a question of seconds before McCoy understood the entire set-up, and that he stood in the greatest peril of his life. If McCoy would shoot down his old friend to save himself, he could hardly be expected to show Holt any mercy.

  Holt cast aside the now useless ear phones and scrambled into the front seat of the autmobile. For one horrible moment, he thought that Quinlan might have taken the keys with him. But they still dangled from the ignition. Holt groped among the unfamiliar controls, seeking to bring the engine to life. The starter ground raspingly and the engine coughed and sputtered.

  At that instant, floodlamps on the ranch-house roof burst into light, illuminating the parking area, and McCoy ran out on to the porch. He was in shirt sleeves and dishevelled, and his eyes were wild. In one hand he held Holt’s pistol.

  “Holt!” he shouted, and the pistol came up. “Hank’s dead! Do you hear me? Hank’s dead — you killed him!”

  Holt didn’t wait to reply. The engine raced and he sent the car lurching forward, swinging it around in a tight circle of the direction that spelled escape. He wasn’t aware of the shot but the windshield in front of him suddenly splintered.

  “Don’t try to get away!” McCoy yelled. “You’re under arrest!”

  Holt had to pass broadside to the porch and automatically he ducked as he wheeled the car around. But he couldn’t duck far enough. A crushing blow descended upon his shoulder and his right arm went abruptly numb. Somehow, he managed to keep the automobile under control with his left hand alone.

  “You shot Hank!” McCoy screamed at him as he passed. “I saw you do it! They’ll believe me! They always believe me!”

  The car was pointed in the right direction now, down the lane that led to the highway. Holt stamped on the gas. He couldn’t outrun the bullets, however. They whined off the body of the fleeing automobile like frustrated bees. Holt, glancing in the rearview mirror, caught a brief vision of McCoy, running after him down the driveway, firing as he ran, his agonized mouth shouting. Holt wasn’t sure what McCoy was saying. His words blended with the pound of the labouring engine and the thunder of the gunshots, but Holt thought it sounded like, “I’ll get you yet!”

  And though it was only the raving of a frantic old man, his legs no match for the horsepower that Holt commanded, Holt nearly believed him. At this panicked moment, McCoy seemed to have the powers of darkness at his summons. The ranch’s main gate barred Holt’s way at the bottom of the lane but he did not slacken his speed. He sent the automobile crashing into it head-on and carried the wooden barricade away before him with the rending sound of bones splintering.

  He had won. He was several miles down the highway toward the city before his mind could thaw from its panic sufficiently to realize it. On the back seat, the tape recorder still turned slowly, like a mechanical spider spinning its web. It recorded nothing now. But it had recorded enough, enough to blow the lid off a scandal thirty years in the making. It was all there, on a little spool no larger than a pocket watch. Three deaths had contributed to the making of it. Linneker, Farnum, Quinlan — and the web spun on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A MIDNIGHT session was held in the offices of the district attorney.

  It was Holt’s party, despite the fact that he no longer had an official status. No one thought of this when the purpose of the gathering became clear.

  Holt drove directly from McCoy’s turkey ranch to the district attorney’s home. Adair had already retired but Holt roused him and the sight of Holt’s wounded arm silenced his grumblings. They sat in the living room, Adair still in pyjamas, while Holt played back the recording he had made. Afterward, a stunned district attorney made several phone calls.

  The first was to Van Dusen, who was directed to contact the sheriff and arrange for McCoy’s immediate arrest. The second was to Chief Gould at his home. The third was to police headquarters to summon the surgeon.

  All of them, save only Van Dusen, met in Adair’s Civic Centre office. While the chief of police listened to the recording with the same fascinated horror that Adair had evinced, the police surgeon treated Holt’s wound. It was hurting badly now and the doctor’s probing didn’t make it feel any better.

  “You certainly like to get yourself in trouble, don’t you?” the doctor said as he worked. “In medical terms, I’d call you a carrier.”

  “How’s my wife?”

  “Fine. Still locked up, though. I ran every test I could think of but nothing proved she couldn’t have doped herself. Hypo mark on her left thigh, but that doesn’t mean — ”

  “Never mind. Thanks, anyway. What I got tonight clears her better than any medical tests could.”

  “How serious is it?” Adair asked, coming over to where Holt sat.

  “He won’t be playing any tennis for a while,” said the doctor. “Or much of anything that uses that arm. The bullet passed through the dorsal muscle and lodged in his collarbone. At least, that’s what it looks like from here. I can tell more when we get an X-ray.”

  “We don’t want to lose him, doctor.” Adair’s tone was hearty. He was back on Holt’s side of the fence again.

  “Not too much chance of that. I want to get him over to County and get that bullet out, though.”

  “That can wait.” Holt raised his voice. He wanted Chief Gould to hear this. “In your opinion, doctor, could I have possibly inflicted this wound on myself?”

  “What are you talking about?” the doctor asked. “You’d have to have arms about thirty feet long.”

  Gould got the point. He gave a dismal grunt. “It’s not necessary to rub it in. What do you want, me to kiss your boots in the middle of Broadway?”

  “Just call headquarters and have my wife released. I’ll settle for that.”

  “Yeah. I’d forgotten about her. That’s the easiest part. I’ll have her here in ten minutes.” He went to the phone.

  Adair pulled up a chair to face Holt. “I think we’d better have a little talk before the newspapers get wind of what’s happened. Maybe I’d better get Rackmill and the mayor over here to see where we stand.”

  Holt shook his head. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave politics out of it. That’s been the trouble all along. This case was handled as a question of politics when it should have been only a question of justice.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Adair said unhappily. “God, w
hat a mess! We’re going to have to go back into every single case McCoy ever worked on.” He hesitated. “I said ‘we’ but maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Am I, Mitch?”

  Holt said slowly, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “You can have your job back. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “I don’t know,” Holt said again. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want you to bring Rackmill into it. He’d want to bargain, my reinstatement for a pledge to support you. I’m not ready to bargain.”

  Adair nodded. “You don’t owe me any loyalty after what’s happened and I’d be the last man to expect it. But, personally, I’d be mighty happy if you came back to us.” He paused and then added with an effort, “Even if it meant that I was out of a job.”

  “I don’t want your job.” Holt pondered while Adair watched him anxiously. “There’s really only one job I do want. That’s seeing that the people McCoy framed get a fair shake the second time around.”

  “I think that could be arranged,” Adair said. “I’m certain that some sort of a position could be created, a special public defender or something like that …” He halted and his face flushed. “I guess I am trying to bargain with you, after all.”

  “Special public defender,” Holt repeated slowly. “Maybe that would do it. But I’d have to have autonomous charge of handling all the old cases. No interference and no cover-ups, whoever gets burned.”

  “You’d have it.”

  “Otherwise, my best bet is to stay on the outside and handle it as a private attorney. I want you to know where I stand ahead of time. Right now, it’s easy to promise me the world but later on, when this has cooled off some, you might change your mind. I’ve seen what pressure can do.”

  “I’ll put it in writing,” Adair promised, “and to hell with the pressure. Sure, there’ll be plenty, from all sides. But I guess I can stand it. If I can’t, well, I built a good private practice once. I’m not too old to do it again.”

  “I wish I had your prospects,” Gould said gloomily, rejoining them. “I’m just a cop. And, starting tomorrow, that’s going to be about the lowest form of animal life in town.”

  “Maybe,” said Holt, “but I don’t think so. Sure, it’s a scandal and everybody connected with the law is going to pay for it. For a while, anyway. But in the end I think that this whole approach — our willingness to admit our mistakes and correct them where we can — will build an even greater public confidence in our justice. And on a firm foundation. McCoy was just one cop, not the whole system.”

  “McCoy was more than a cop, he was a symbol for all cops. It’s like finding out that Abraham Lincoln owned slaves.”

  “Sure, McCoy was a symbol, a false symbol as it turned out. You lost a hero tonight but you got another one to take his place.” They looked at him, not understanding. “I mean Quinlan. He didn’t have to die. He could have just closed his eyes, the way most men would. But Quinlan was true to his badge and he died doing his duty. If you need a hero, Quinlan will do nicely.”

  “I can think of another,” said Adair.

  “Not me. Once I got started on this thing, I didn’t have any choice but to follow it through to the end. But Quinlan did have a choice, a terrible problem of loyalties. That’s the standard to judge by.”

  “Have it your way,” Gould murmured. With an effort, he added, “All the same, I wish now I had you on my team.”

  “I am. I have been all along. I wasn’t the lone wolf in this affair. Nobody is who believes in the law. McCoy was the lone wolf because, basically, he didn’t believe in the law.”

  The outer door burst open and Van Dusen rushed in, calling for Adair. He spotted the group in the inner office and came to join them. His cherubic face was more solemn than any of them had ever seen it. “All taken care of,” he announced. “I just came from the ranch.”

  “He put up any fight?” Adair asked.

  Van Dusen shook his head. “We were too late. McCoy shot himself through the head. He was dead when we got there. That living room looks like a butcher shop, blood all over the place, his and Quinlan’s. The sheriff’s taken over.”

  They were all silent for a moment and then Holt murmured, “Well, maybe it’s better that way.”

  “He might have been able to help us,” Adair demurred. “That’s all I regret.”

  “I don’t think so. Even if McCoy had wanted to, I doubt if he’d have been able to remember details. And what good would his oath have been?”

  Van Dusen said, “He left a note, or at least part of one. It’s pretty incoherent but he seemed to be trying to work out a story that would blame Holt for Quinlan’s murder.” He shrugged. “I guess he finally figured out that it was hopeless.”

  Holt was gazing thoughtfully at the frontier relics on the wall, the tin stars and pistols, left-over tokens from yesterday’s dream of simple justice. He gave a short empty laugh. “It just occurred to me, the likeness between McCoy and Farnum. Even the great McCoy wasn’t any better than that. Neither of them had any use for the law, both of them had delusions and both killed themselves rather than face the music.”

  “The total effect, that’s the ungodly difference,” Adair pointed out. “Farnum’s career was over in a matter of days. McCoy’s lasted for years. We’ve already closed Farnum’s case. But when will we ever be able to close McCoy’s? I wonder if we’ll ever be positive we know the whole story.”

  In the street outside, a siren grew in volume and then died to a moan. Gould, at the window, said, “This’ll be your wife, Holt.”

  Holt rose painfully, the police surgeon assisting him. “I guess we’re finished here. I’ll see you all in the morning — or whenever the doctor turns me loose.”

  “Don’t hurry,” Adair told him glumly. “I’ve got a hunch we’ll be living with this thing for a long time to come.”

  Van Dusen rode down in the elevator with Holt and the surgeon. “Well, boy scout, I guess you earned your merit badge.”

  “I had help. Thanks, Van.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Van Dusen grinned. “I may ask you to return the favour when Two-Gun gets around to wondering just how you happened to get hold of that recorder gadget.”

  “He’ll have plenty of other things to think about,” Holt promised.

  They met Connie in the lobby. Escorted by two uniformed policemen, she was waiting to enter the elevator in which Holt had descended. Her clothes had been restored to her and, aside from a certain pallor, she looked completely recovered from her ordeal. Her eyes widened with glad surprise at the sight of her husband and she flung forward to hug him.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.” She felt him flinch and her gladness changed immediately to concern. “You’re hurt! Mitch — where? Are you all right?”

  “My shoulder,” he told her. “But I’m fine now. Everything’s fine.”

  Connie, eyes worried, sought confirmation from the doctor, who supplied it. “He’ll be all right. I’m taking him to the hospital now.”

  “Hospital! Is it that bad? Oh, Mitch!”

  “He won’t be there long,” the doctor soothed. “Maybe only a few hours and you’ll be able to take him home.”

  “I’ve got a better idea than that,” Connie announced. She clung to Holt’s good arm as they moved out of the lobby and down the steps toward the waiting prowl car. “You’ll have to take a vacation now.” When he hesitated, she appealed to the surgeon. “Isn’t that right, doctor? For his health.”

  “I’d certainly advise it.”

  “You hear that, dear? It’s all settled.”

  He had stood alone against a city administration and its supporters but Mitch Holt was wise enough to see that now he was hopelessly outnumbered. So he pretended that his shoulder was paining him and he didn’t argue. There would be time for that later. There might even be time some day for his vacation. Not now, but some day. First, though, there were several things he had to do.

  THE
END

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  Copyright © 1956 by Whit Masterson, Registration Renewed 1984

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  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-4063-2

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4063-9