…A Dangerous Thing

by Crider, Bill

  "You certainly did do something. Of course I wasn't here for the Elmore business, thank goodness, but I know what you did about the Street matter. If it hadn't been for you, the police would most likely have botched it."

  That wasn't strictly true, but Miller had made up his mind, and Burns wasn't going to bother trying to convince him otherwise.

  "And so," Miller said, "I'd like to think that you were working with Chief Napier on this case as well. Then I'd know that matters were well in hand."

  "I saw Bo—Chief Napier on campus the other day," Burns said. "We talked, and I've been trying to do what I could, but I wouldn't say that I've accomplished much."

  "Nonsense. I'm sure you've accomplished a great deal. Yes, indeed. That's the best news I've heard all day. I don't have to tell you, Burns, that I'm worried about this. It affects us all when someone dies under mysterious circumstances like Tom did. But I'm sure you'll have everything solved before the weekend's over."

  Burns felt a momentary stab of panic. "That might be rushing things a little."

  Miller reached out and tapped Burns on the knee. "Modesty. That's a quality that I've always admired in men of accomplishment, Burns. You're much better at this sort of thing than you want to admit."

  Miller stood up. "Remember, I'm counting on you. And don't hesitate to call on me if I can do anything at all to assist you."

  "I'll do that," Burns said.

  Miller walked to the door. "And Burns?"

  "Yes?"

  "It's good to see you here so late on a Friday. Most of the faculty don't take their responsibilities as seriously as you do."

  "I wouldn't say that, sir," Burns told him.

  "Modesty," Miller said, and laughed. He gave Burns a salute and walked away.

  Burns started to get up and leave, but he didn't. The conversation with Miller had left him too depressed. So he sank back in his chair and brooded.

  At seven-thirty that evening, Burns's doorbell rang. He wondered who it could be. He didn't often have callers at home.

  He reluctantly put down the copy of You'll Die Next!, the Harry Whittington classic that he was reading, then went to the door and opened it. Boss Napier stood on the mat outside. If George Kaspar had looked unhappy, Napier looked furious.

  "Hello, Burns," he said. "It's good to see that you're having a nice quiet evening at home."

  "I'm only here because I couldn't get a date," Burns said. He had spoken to Elaine on Thursday evening about going out on Friday, but she had told him she would be busy. Probably with Napier, Burns had surmised, though she hadn't said that. Anyway, if Napier had gone out with her, things clearly hadn't turned out very well.

  "You going to make me stand out here all night?" Napier asked.

  Burns stepped back from the door, holding it open. "Not at all. Come on in."

  Napier walked into the house. He didn't wait for an invitation to sit down. He dropped into the first chair he came to.

  "Can I get you a Pepsi?" Burns asked, trying to be a good host.

  Napier wasn't impressed. "Don't try to cozy up to me, Burns. I know what's going on."

  "Well I don't," Burns said, though he was afraid that he probably did. "Why don't you tell me."

  Napier settled back in his chair. "All right. I will. But first why don't you define lookism for me."

  "So that's it."

  "That's it, all right, and don't tell me you didn't know something about it." Napier stood up. "If I had my bullwhip here, Burns—"

  So the bullwhip rumor was true. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just something Napier liked to talk about to scare people. Well, he wasn't going to scare Burns.

  "You can't blame me for this," Burns said. "I didn't have a thing to do with it. In fact, I don't even know what you're talking about."

  Napier wasn't going to be put off that easily. "You teach at that school, don't you? And that's where all this Looney Tunes business started, isn't it? You can't weasel out of it, Burns. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  That wasn't strictly true, but Burns didn't think it would do any good to split hairs. "I'm not trying to weasel out of anything. But none of this politically correct stuff was my idea."

  Napier sat back down. "So that's it. Political correctness. I should've known."

  "Why?" Burns asked, surprised.

  Napier gave him a hard look. "You think I don't know what's going on in the world, don't you, Burns. You think I'm a real dummy, and all I do is watch Hawaii Five-0 reruns in my spare time, isn't that right?"

  Burns was well aware of Napier's fondness for Steve McGarrett and the men of the Hawaiian State Police. "I know you like to paint model soldiers, too."

  "Yeah. Right. That and watch TV. But that's not all, Burns. I even read newspapers and magazines occasionally. So I know a little about political correctness and how it's the big thing on college campuses these days."

  Burns was curious. "Well, what do you think of it?"

  "I think it's cultural Nazism, that's what I think. It's not just in the schools, either, Burns. It's all around us. I read that in some city in Canada you can't even call a manhole cover a manhole cover anymore, not if you work for the city. You have to call it a 'maintenance access cover.' What would an English teacher think about that?"

  Burns thought it was about the same thing as calling a toothbrush a "home plaque removal implement," though the purpose was slightly different. Not all that different if you thought about it, however.

  "That's what I think, too," Napier said. "I don't mind calling a fireman a firefighter, and I don't see anything wrong with talking about mail carriers instead of mailmen. But maintenance access covers? It's just stupid, if you ask me. That's off the subject, though, and it's not what I came here to talk about."

  Too bad, Burns thought. If Napier had gotten sidetracked, it might have been easier all around. In fact, the idea was so appealing that Burns tried again to steer Napier away from the subject of lookism.

  "I'm sure you didn't come here to talk about anything that trivial," he said. "You probably came to talk about Tom Henderson's murder."

  Napier's jaw tightened. "The murder. No, Burns, that's not really why I came here. But you're right. Maybe this other stuff is just trivial, considering that someone's been killed. So let's talk about that. Let's talk about the murder."

  Burns started to relax.

  But not for long. Napier glared at him. "And then we'll talk about Elaine Tanner and lookism and what a low-life backstabber you are."

  "All right," Burns said weakly.

  "Yeah," Napier said. "But now let's talk about the murder. You go first, Burns."

  So Burns went first, thinking about the story of Scheherazade, although he was afraid that he couldn't hold out for a thousand and one nights, as appealing as the idea was to him. Napier wouldn't let him get away with it.

  His only hope was that Napier would get so caught up in the murder case that he wouldn't remember his real purpose in visiting. Somehow, Burns didn't think that would happen, but it was worth a try.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In fact, Burns didn't last anywhere near a thousand and one nights. He didn't last even fifteen minutes, for the simple reason that he didn't have that much to say. He didn't want to make any accusations about Melling or Holt because he didn't really know anything for sure. Of course he knew that Melling had lied about being in Henderson's office at first, and he was convinced that Melling hadn't told him the whole truth even yet, but that didn't make the man a killer.

  On the other hand, Holt was obviously concealing something as well, but what he was concealing might not be murder. Then again, it might be, but Burns wasn't sure of that.

  And Burns hadn't even talked to Kristi Albert yet. He was planning to do that on Saturday if he could find her after Henderson's funeral.

  So all he could do was tell Napier that he was "looking into things" and mention that Henderson had something of a reputation as a womanizer or at least as someone who was
not above a little sexual harassment now and then.

  "But not to hear his wife tell it," Burns went on. "Her version of the story is that Henderson was irresistible to women. They were the ones who came on to him instead of the other way around."

  "You've been talking to your buddies, haven't you?" Napier said.

  "Not since early this morning. Why?"

  "I talked to their wives about Henderson. Mrs. Henderson told me that both of them were after her husband and that their husbands might have done him in."

  "You didn't believe that, did you?"

  "I never believe anybody in a murder case, Burns."

  Burns tried to look offended. "Does that include me?"

  "Especially you. Anyway, those two women told me that things were just about the opposite of what Mrs. Henderson had said. Somebody's lying, right?"

  "Right," Burns agreed. "Samantha Henderson."

  "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Burns. You never can tell about who some women might be attracted to."

  "That's probably a sexist remark," Burns told him.

  "Maybe. But if it is, I don't care. Let's just call it an observation based on my experience. Not everyone is attracted to physical appearances."

  Burns studied Napier's face to see if there was a double meaning in the police chief's words, but it was like looking at a weathered stone. Napier revealed nothing.

  "Did Mrs. Henderson mention anyone else?" he asked.

  "Yeah. Somebody named Spelling. Used to be a big-time football player, but now he works at the college. I haven't talked to him or his wife yet."

  "Melling," Burns said. "He's a recruiter."

  "That's him. Mrs. Henderson says his wife used to be all over her husband."

  "She's wrong," Burns said.

  "That's what you say. How do you know. Have you talked to her?"

  "As a matter of fact, I have. Her story is a lot different."

  "I'll get around to her, and her husband, too. But that won't let your pals off the hook. Their wives, either."

  "Well," Burns said, "if you think Joynell Tomlin or Rae Fox would be interested in Tom Henderson, you're not as experienced a cop as I think you are."

  The mild jibe didn't bother Napier in the least. "Maybe I'm not. Anything else, Burns?"

  "There is one thing. I'd like for you to run a check on someone through your computer set-up. You can do that, can't you?"

  "Run somebody through the computer? Sure. I can do that. But didn't you mean to ask me if I will to that?"

  Now Napier was lecturing him on the use of can and will. Would wonders never cease? Maybe there was a frustrated English teacher lurking under the tough-cop exterior.

  "Yes," Burns said. "That's what I meant to ask you. Will you do that for me?"

  "OK. Now which of your buddies do you want to know about?"

  Burns was surprised it had been so easy. "It's not one of my buddies. It's not even someone I know."

  Napier was puzzled. "What does this have to do with Henderson's murder, then?"

  "I'm not really sure," Burns admitted.

  "That's great, Burns. Just great. Now let me be sure I've got this straight. You haven't found out anything about anybody, and you're sure that I'm wrong if I think your buddies might be involved, not to mention this Melling, but you want me to run a name though NCIC just out of idle curiosity."

  "That covers it pretty well," Burns said.

  "OK. What's the name?"

  Napier had surprised Burns again. "You're going to give in just like that?"

  "Why not? You'll tell me the rest of it when you get around to it. But don't blame me if whatever you're sitting on gets you in big trouble."

  "I won't." It was an easy promise to make. Burns didn't see how anything he knew could cause him a problem.

  "So what's the name?" Napier asked.

  "Mitchum," Burns said. "Henry Mitchum."

  "That's it?"

  "Also known as Hank."

  "And after I run the name through? Then what?"

  "You tell me what you find out."

  "Fine." Napier took out a pocket-sized spiral notebook and wrote something in it with a Bic pen. Then he shut the notebook and looked at Burns. "And that's it?"

  "That's it."

  "You're sure there's nothing else? You don't want me to fix a few speeding tickets for you while I'm at it?"

  Burns wasn't going to be baited. "No. But thanks for asking."

  "Don't mention it," Napier said. He had a thoughtful look. "Funny thing. That name seems familiar to me for some reason."

  "Do you watch America's Most Wanted?" Burns asked, wondering whether Mal Tomlin could have been right.

  "Is that what this is? You've seen some wanted felon on TV and you want me to check him out?"

  "No," Burns said. "It was just something that popped into my head. Forget it."

  Napier opened his notebook and stared at what he'd written. "I don't know. It's like I've heard the name before but I can't remember where. You ever get that feeling, Burns?"

  Burns was having it now, sort of. He was thinking that there was something that he had heard in the last couple of days that he'd interpreted incorrectly, but he couldn't think what it might be. However, he thought that if he could only figure it out, he'd have a completely different outlook on Tom Henderson's murder.

  "I've had the feeling," he said. "But it doesn't make much difference, does it? Not unless we can tie it to Tom Henderson. Why don't you tell me what you've found out?"

  Napier told him, but it didn't add anything to what Burns already knew. Actually, Napier hadn't found out anything of any significance. So far, his chief suspects were Tomlin and Fox, which was patently ridiculous. Napier and his men clearly weren't as good at investigation as Burns was.

  Or maybe Burns just happened to be in a better position to hear things.

  "It's not going so well, is it?" Burns said.

  "Nope," Napier said. "It's not. Unless your buddies happen to be guilty. Then I'd say it was going pretty well, wouldn't you?"

  "Not for them."

  "Right. I bet they're counting on you to clear them, Burns. Think you can do it?"

  "Counting on me? Have you arrested them?"

  "Not yet. Not enough evidence for that. But we're looking."

  "You won't find anything."

  "You might be surprised. But like I said, they're probably counting on you to keep them in the clear. You're not doing so hot, though, are you?"

  "We'll see," Burns said.

  "Yeah, I guess we will. And now let's have a little talk about lookism."

  "Let me get something to drink first," Burns said, hoping to postpone the discussion a little longer. "You're sure you don't want a Pepsi?"

  Napier gave in. "OK, bring me one. But it's not going to get you off the hook."

  Burns hadn't thought that it would.

  When Napier finally left it was after eleven o'clock. As it turned out to his credit, he didn't really blame Burns for Elaine's accusations. And besides, as Napier himself admitted, "She's probably right. I wouldn't have been attracted to her if she weren't a dynamite looker. Anyway, she didn't really mean it when she told me not to come around anymore. I could tell her heart wasn't in it."

  "What's bothering you, then?" Burns wanted to know.

  "What's bothering me is that she thinks you like her because she's smart, not because she looks great."

  "She's right," Burns said.

  He tried not to feel smug, and didn't mention that what he really liked about Elaine was that she was smart and looked great at the same time. He wondered, however, why Elaine was suddenly giving him so much credit, while at the same time revising her opinion of Napier. Maybe it was because he had discussed the case with her and sought her opinion. Napier was likely to discuss things, true, but not nearly as likely as Burns to ask for advice.

  "Baloney," Napier said. "I know you better than you think I do, Burns. You might read poetry and all that, but you've got eyes.
You know what Elaine looks like, and that's for sure."

  Burns didn't say anything.

  "That's all right," Napier told him. "She'll catch on to you sooner or later. And then I'll move in again. Or maybe she'll just want to talk cop talk with somebody. She really likes that stuff, you know."

  Burns knew. And he suspected that Napier was right about Napier's moving in again. But he was going to enjoy his advantage while he could.

  "There's just one more thing," Napier said as he was leaving. "I know you've found out more than you're telling me, and that's all right. But you might think about what's happened to you in the past when you got in over your head. I might not be there to save you this time."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Burns said.

  After Napier was gone, Burns found that he wasn't ready for bed, but he couldn't get back to his reading. There was something bothering him, and he went back over every conversation he'd had recently, letting them play back in his mind word for word, or as nearly as he could come. He was pretty sure that he was nowhere near word for word. Maybe he should buy himself a little notebook like Napier's and write things down.

  Recalling the conversations was good mental exercise, but it didn't provide Burns with any new clues. He told himself that maybe things would become clear while he slept. He would wake up on Saturday with a head full of clues and the name of the killer on the tip of his tongue.

  Or then again, maybe he wouldn't.

  He didn't. He woke up thinking how much he hated to give up his Saturday morning for something like a funeral. Then he told himself that he was even more selfish than he'd thought and rolled out of bed, trying not to resent the fact that he'd have to wear a suit and tie.

  The funeral was at ten o'clock, which meant that he wouldn't have to wear the suit all day, just most of the morning. There was that to be thankful for. But before he changed, he intended to look up Kristi Albert. If she lived in the women's dorm, she would be easy to find.

  He got up, dressed, and read the paper while eating a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats. He wasn't reading the Pecan City paper, which didn't publish on Saturdays. It was The Dallas Morning News. Burns subscribed because he liked the comic strips, which he considered more relevant to real live than most of what the paper published. He wouldn't have been surprised if Eric Holt agreed with him on that.