“Now suppose she’d been killed by that burglar, or at the airport? Who would have wound up with that money? Obviously if she died intestate it would go to her next of kin. Who’s her next of kin? Her parents are dead, her only child is dead—but she had a brother who dropped out of sight fifteen years ago.
“Now the picture clears up,” he went on. “Charles and Cindy Greene die in a tragic accident that gets heavy coverage in the media. Wherever he was at the time. Donna’s brother hears of it, sees huge financial possibilities, comes to the city quietly, and begins shadowing her. He satisfied himself that the wrongful-death action is going to produce big money and that his sister hasn’t made out a new will. He had to get rid of her before she does. He looks around—the forged ID and bugging equipment and plastique show he has underworld connections—and hires Frank Wilt for the hit.
“Wilt breaks into her house a week ago Monday night and bungles the job. Brother gives him another chance. Wilt follows her to the airport, makes his move—and by blind chance a man with a name similar to Donna’s is next to her in line, turns faster than she does, and dies instead of her.
“Brother has gone to the airport too, as a backup in case Wilt blew it again. He and Donna are both rounded up as witnesses and taken to the auditorium but either she doesn’t see him in the crowd or just doesn’t recognize him after fifteen years. When she’s let go he follows her to my place and works out a plan to kill her here, doing the job himself this time. He reads the newspaper stories about the airport murder, picks up the name of Sergeant Gene Holt, and uses it as his cover identity but makes the big mistake of assuming from the name that the sergeant is a man.”
“And that bit of chauvinism’s going to cost him twenty years in the slam.” Krauzer yawned and lumbered wearily to his feet. “Well, if you’ll excuse me it’s Christmas morning and I’ve got grandkids to play Santy for.” He winked broadly at Val. “Remember he’s a sick man and needs his rest.”
When he had let himself out Val slid off the hassock to sit on the floor. “Funny,” Loren said as he ran his hand through her hair. “The way Christmas turned out isn’t anything like what I either was afraid of or hoping for. I can’t walk, I haven’t slept in two nights, I’ve got the chills, but all in all I feel good. The crazy way this world goes. I’ll be damned if I know if it’s all chance or if it’s meant.”
“I’ll take the world either way if you’re part of it,” Val told him softly.
CHRISTMAS GIFT – Robert Turner
There was no snow and the temperature was a mild sixty-eight degrees and in some of the yards nearby the shrubbery was green, along with the palm trees, but still you knew it was Christmas Eve. Doors on the houses along the street held wreaths, some of them lighted. A lot of windows were lighted with red, green, and blue lights. Through some of them you could see the lighted glitter of Christmas trees. Then, of course, there was the music, which you could hear coming from some of the houses, the old familiar songs, “White Christmas,” “Ave Maria,” “Silent Night.”
All of that should have been fine because Christmas in a Florida city is like Christmas anyplace else, a good time, a tender time. Even if you’re a cop. Even if you pulled duty Christmas Eve and can’t be home with your own wife and kid. But not necessarily if you’re a cop on duty with four others and you’re going to have to grab an escaped con and send him back, or more probably have to kill him because he was a lifer and just won’t go back.
In the car with me was McKee, a Third-Grade, only away from a beat a few months. Young, clear-eyed, rosy-cheeked All-American-boy type, and very, very serious about his work. Which was fine; which was the way you should be. We were parked about four houses down from the rented house where Mrs. Bogen and her three children were living.
At the same distance the other side of the house was a sedan in which sat Lieutenant Mortell and Detective First-Grade Thrasher. Mortell was a bitter-mouthed, needle-thin man, middle-aged and with very little human expression left in his eyes. He was in charge. Thrasher was a plumpish, ordinary guy, an ordinary cop.
On the street behind the Bogen house was another precinct car with two other Firsts in it, a couple of guys named Dodey and Fischman. They were back there in case Earl Bogen got away from us and took off through some yards to that other block. I didn’t much think he’d get to do that.
After a while McKee said: “I wonder if it’s snowing up north. I’ll bet the hell it is.” He shifted his position. “It don’t really seem like Christmas, no snow. Christmas with palm trees, what a deal!”
“That’s the way it was with the first one,” I reminded him.
He thought about that. Then he said: “Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. But I still don’t like it.”
I started to ask him why he stayed down here, then I remembered about his mother. She needed the climate; it was all that kept her alive.
“Y’know,” McKee said then, “sarge, I been thinking; this guy Bogen must be nuts.”
“You mean because he’s human? Because he wants to see his wife and kids on Christmas?”
“Well, he must know there’s a chance he’ll be caught. If he is, it’ll be worse for his wife and kids, won’t it? Why the hell couldn’t he just have sent them presents or something and then called them on the phone? Huh?”
“You’re not married, are you, McKee?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have kids of your own. So I can’t answer that question for you.”
“I still think he’s nuts.”
I didn’t answer. I was thinking how I could hound the stinking stoolie who had tipped us about Earl Bogen’s visit home for Christmas, all next year, without getting into trouble. There was a real rat in my book, a guy who would stool on something like that. I was going to give him a bad time if it broke me.
Then I thought about what Lieutenant Mortell had told me an hour ago. “Tim,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re not a very good cop. You’re too sentimental. You ought to know by now a cop can’t be sentimental. Was Bogen sentimental when he crippled for life that manager of the finance company he stuck up on his last hit? Did he worry about that guy’s wife and kids? Stop being a damned fool, will you, Tim?”
That was the answer I got to my suggestion that we let Earl Bogen get in and see his family and have his Christmas and catch him on the way out. What was there to lose, I’d said. Give the guy a break, I’d said. I’d known, of course, that Mortell wouldn’t have any part of that, but I’d had to try anyhow. Even though I knew the lieutenant would think of the same thing I had—that when it came time to go, Bogen might be twice as hard to take.
McKee’s bored young voice cut into my thoughts: “You think he’ll really be armed? Bogen, I mean.”
“I think so.”
“I’m glad Mortell told us not to take any chances with him, that if he even makes a move that looks like he’s going for a piece, we give it to him. He’s a smart old cop, Mortell.”
“That’s what they say. But did you ever look at his eyes?”
“What’s the matter with his eyes?” McKee said.
“Skip it,” I said. “A bus has stopped.”
We knew Earl Bogen had no car; we doubted he’d rent one or take a cab. He was supposed to be short of dough. A city bus from town stopped up at the corner. When he came he’d be on that, most likely. But he wasn’t on this one. A lone woman got off and turned up the avenue. I let out a slight sigh and looked at the radium dial of my watch. Ten fifty. Another hour and ten minutes and we’d be relieved; it wouldn’t happen on our tour. I hoped that was the way it would be. It was possible. The stoolie could have been wrong about the whole thing. Or something could have happened to change Bogen’s plans, or at least to postpone his visit to the next day. I settled back to wait for the next bus.
McKee said: “Have you ever killed a guy. sarge?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve never had to. But I’ve been there when someone else did.”
“Yeah? What’s it like
?” McKee’s voice took on an edge of excitement. “I mean for the guy who did the shooting? How’d he feel about it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. But I’ll tell you how he looked. He looked as though he was going to be sick to his stomach, as though he should’ve been but couldn’t be.”
“Oh,” McKee said. He sounded disappointed. “How about the guy that was shot? What’d he do? I’ve never seen a guy shot.”
“Him?” I said. “Oh. he screamed.”
“Screamed?”
“Yeah. Did you ever hear a child scream when it’s had a door slammed on its fingers? That’s how he screamed. He got shot in the groin.”
“Oh, I see,” McKee said, but he didn’t sound as though he really did. I thought that McKee was going to be what they called a good cop—a nice, sane, completely insensitive type guy. For the millionth time I told myself that I ought to get out. Not after tonight’s tour, not next month, next week, tomorrow, but right now. It would be the best Christmas present in the world I could give myself and my family. And at the same time I knew I never would do that. I didn’t know exactly why. Fear of not being able to make a living outside: fear of winding up a burden to everybody in my old age the way my father was— those were some reasons but not the whole thing. If I talk about how after being a cop so long it gets in your blood no matter how you hate it, that sounds phony. And it would sound even worse if I said one reason I stuck was in hopes that I could make up for some of the others, that I could do some good sometimes.
“If I get to shoot Bogen,” McKee said, “he won’t scream.”
“Why not?”
“You know how I shoot. At close range like that, I’ll put one right through his eyes.”
“Sure, you will,” I told him. “Except that you won’t have the chance. We’ll get him, quietly. We don’t want any shooting in a neighborhood like this on Christmas Eve.”
Then we saw the lights of the next bus stop up at the corner. A man and a woman got off. The woman turned up the avenue. The man. medium height but very thin, and his arms loaded with packages, started up the street.
“Here he comes,” I said. “Get out of the car, McKee.”
We both got out, one on each side. The man walking toward us from the corner couldn’t see us. The street was heavily shaded by strings of Australian pine planted along the walk.
“McKee.” I said. “You know what the orders are. When we get up to him. Thrasher will reach him first and shove his gun into Bogen’s back. Then you grab his hands and get the cuffs on him fast. I’ll be back a few steps covering you. Mortell will be behind Thrasher, covering him. You got it?”
“Right.” McKee said.
We kept walking, first hurrying a little, then slowing down some, so that we’d come up to Bogen, who was walking toward us, just right, before he reached the house where his family were but not before he’d passed Mortell and Thrasher’s car.
When we were only a few yards from Bogen, he passed through an open space, where the thin slice of moon filtered down through tree branches. Bogen wore no hat, just a sport jacket and shirt and slacks. He was carrying about six packages, none of them very large but all of them wrapped with gaudily colored paper, foil, and ribbon. Bogen’s hair was crew cut instead of long the way it was in police pictures and he’d grown a mustache: but none of that was much of a disguise.
Just then he saw us and hesitated in his stride. Then he stopped. Thrasher, right behind him, almost bumped into him. I heard Thrasher’s bull-froggy voice say: “Drop those packages and put your hands up. Bogen. Right now!”
He dropped the packages. They tumbled about his feet on the sidewalk and two of them split open. A toy racing car was in one of them. It must have been still slightly wound up because when it broke out of the package, the little motor whirred and the tiny toy car spurted across the sidewalk two or three feet. From the other package, a small doll fell and lay on its back on the sidewalk, its big. painted eyes staring upward. It was what they call a picture doll, I think: anyhow, it was dressed like a bride. From one of the other packages a liquid began to trickle out onto the sidewalk and I figured that had been a bottle of Christmas wine for Bogen and his wife.
But when Bogen dropped the packages he didn’t raise his hands. He spun around and the sound of his elbow hitting Thrasher s face was a sickening one. Then I heard Thrasher’s gun go off as he squeezed the trigger in a reflex action, but the flash from his gun was pointed at the sky.
I raised my own gun just as Bogen reached inside his jacket but I never got to use it. McKee used his. Bogen’s head went back as though somebody had jolted him under the chin with the heel of a hand. He staggered backward, twisted, and fell.
I went up to Bogen with my flash. The bullet from McKee’s gun had entered Bogen’s right eye and there was nothing there now but a horrible hole. I moved the flash beam just for a moment, I couldn’t resist it, to McKee’s face. The kid looked very white but his eyes were bright with excitement and he didn’t look sick at all. He kept licking his lips, nervously. He kept saying: “He’s dead. You don’t have to be worrying about him, now. He’s dead.”
Front door lights began to go on then in nearby houses and people began coming out of them. Mortell shouted to them: “Go on back inside. There’s nothing to see. Police business. Go on back inside.”
Of course, most of them didn’t do that. They came and looked, although we didn’t let them get near the body. Thrasher radioed back to headquarters. Mortell told me: “Tim, go tell his wife. And tell her she’ll have to come down and make final identification for us.”
“Me?” I said. “Why don’t you send McKee? He’s not the sensitive type. Or why don’t you go? This whole cute little bit was your idea, anyhow, lieutenant, remember?”
“Are you disobeying an order?”
Then I thought of something. “No,” I told him. “It’s all right. I’ll go.”
I left them and went to the house where Bogen’s wife and kids lived. When she opened the door, I could see past her into the cheaply, plainly furnished living room that somehow didn’t look that way now, in the glow from the decorated tree. I could see the presents placed neatly around the tree. And peering around a corner of a bedroom, I saw the eyes, big with awe, of a little girl about six and a boy about two years older.
Mrs. Bogen saw me standing there and looked a little frightened. “Yes?” she said. “What is it?”
I thought about the newspapers, then. I thought: “What’s the use? It’ll be in the newspapers tomorrow, anyhow.” Then I remembered that it would be Christmas Day; there wouldn’t be any newspapers published tomorrow, and few people would bother about turning on radios or television sets.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I told her, then. “I’m just letting the people in the neighborhood know what happened. We surprised a burglar at work, ma’am, and he ran down this street. We caught up with him here and had to shoot him. But it’s all over now. We don’t want anyone coming out, creating any more disturbance, so just go back to bed, will you please?”
Her mouth and eyes opened very wide. “Who—who was it?” she said in a small, hollow voice.
“Nobody important.” I said. “Some young hood.”
“Oh.” she said then and I could see the relief come over her face and I knew then that my hunch had been right and Bogen hadn’t let her know he was coming; he’d wanted to surprise her. Otherwise she would have put two and two together.
I told her good night and turned away and heard her shut the door softly behind me.
When I went back to Mortell I said: “Poor Bogen. He walked into the trap for nothing. His folks aren’t even home. I asked one of the neighbors and she said they’d gone to Mrs. Bogen’s mother’s and wouldn’t be back until the day after Christmas.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mortell said, watching the men from the morgue wagon loading Bogen onto a basket.
“Yes.” I said. I wondered what Mortell would do to me when he learned what I’
d done and he undoubtedly would, eventually. Right then I didn’t much care. The big thing was that Mrs. Bogen and those kids were going to have their Christmas as scheduled. Even when I came back and told her what had happened, the day after tomorrow, it wouldn’t take away the other.
Maybe it wasn’t very much that I’d given them but it was something and I felt a little better. Not much, but a little.
SANTA’S WAY – James Powell
Lieutenant Field parked behind the Animal Protective League van. The night was cold, the stars so bright he could almost taste them. Warmer constellations of tree lights decorated the dark living rooms on both sides of the street. Field turned up his coat collar. Then he followed the footprints in the snow across the lawn and up to the front door of the house where a uniformed officer stood shuffling his feet against the weather.
Captain Fountain was on the telephone in the front hallway and listening so hard he didn’t notice Field come in. “Yes, Commissioner,” he said. “Yes, sir, Commissioner.” Then he laid a hand over the mouthpiece, looked up at a light fixture on the ceiling, and demanded, “Why me, Lord? Why me?” (The department took a dim view of men talking to themselves on duty. So Fountain always addressed furniture or fixtures. He confided much to urinals. They all knew how hard-done-by Fountain was.) Turning to repeat his question to the hatrack he saw Field. “Sorry to bring you out on this of all nights, Roy,” he said. He pointed into the living room and added cryptically, “Check out the fireplace, why don’t you?” Then he went back to listening.
Field crossed to the cold hearth. There were runs of blood down the sides of the flue. Large, red, star-shaped spatters decorated the ashes.
A woman’s muffled voice said, “I heard somebody coming down the chimney.” A blonde in her late thirties sitting in a wing chair in the corner, her face buried in a handkerchief. She looked up at Field with red-rimmed eyes. “After I called you people I even shouted up and told him you were on your way. But he kept on coming.”
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