Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “First,” I said, pointing to the body, “I’ve got to have pictures and prints and measurements.” I nodded to three lab technicians and a photographer standing close by, each carrying the tools of his trade. “And also,” I said, “we’ve got to see if we can find that driver.”

  Beneath the visor of his helmet, Ferguson was scowling at me. I turned to Canelli. “Where’s the suspect? Which building?”

  Canelli pointed north on Columbus, toward Broadway’s pornographic neon glare. Half a block away, two patrol cars were parked in front of a brownstone building. Three patrolmen stood in front of an alleyway that opened on the north side of the brownstone. A six-foot ornamental iron gate secured the alleyway. Since the building was attached to its neighbor on both sides, the gate offered the only outside access to the rear of the building. The gate was standing open. As I watched, a technician was setting up a floodlight in front of the open gate. A long electrical line snaked across Columbus to a portable generator placed on the opposite sidewalk. I saw the technician attach the line to the floodlight and throw a switch. The empty alleyway was bathed in bright white light.

  “One of those patrolmen from the black-and-white unit knows the terrain, Lieutenant,” Canelli was saying. “His name’s Hunsinger. Or Hunsicker. Something like that. Anyhow, he’s the one I told you about—the one that chased the driver. You want me to come with you?”

  Instead of replying, I took a moment to survey the scene. In the glare of the floodlight, amid the confusion of electrical cables and cordoned-off spectators and the impersonal metallic blare of police radios, we might have been on a Hollywood set. “Is anyone else here from Homicide?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you stay here. Make sure the technicians don’t screw up when they go over the Buick. Especially be careful of that compress wrapping. It’ll take good prints. Be sure it’s photographed. Then you—personally—put it in a plastic bag, and take it downtown for printing. Don’t let them print it here. It looks like the handle of the pick’s been wiped. And maybe the door’s been wiped, too. But he might’ve forgotten that wrapping. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Canelli nodded. “That’s clear.”

  I turned to Ferguson, at the same time glancing pointedly down at the nonregulation Magnum slung low on his hip. Ferguson was a tough-talking, tough-acting cop—at least in the squad room.

  “Let’s go take a look, Ferguson,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find him.”

  As I turned toward the building, I thought I saw Ferguson’s habitual scowl give way to a blink of uncertainty.

  “Are you Hunsinger” I asked a tall, loose-limbed officer with a narrow, unformed face and a fierce-looking gun-fighter’s mustache. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old.

  “That’s, ah, ‘Hunsicker,’ sir,” he said. “With a ‘k.’” His Adam’s apple bobbed apologetically.

  “What’s the situation?” I asked, turning to stare into the alleyway. “Fill me in.”

  “Well, ah—” Hunsicker edged toward the alleyway, at the same time awkwardly gesturing for me to precede him. “Well, we were coming south on Columbus, and we saw the accident. I was driving. So I pulled over to the curb. Just about then, the driver jumped out of the Buick and started running. I told my partner to check out the accident, for injuries.” He paused, tentatively looking at me.

  I nodded approval. “You did right. What happened next?”

  Hunsicker pointed back toward the scene of the accident. “The driver crossed in front of that bookstore—” His long, bony forefinger traced the route of flight. “Then he turned in this direction. I called for him to halt, but he just ran faster. This gate was half open. When he came to it, he dodged inside. I know these buildings along here. I know how they’re laid out, and I figured he was trapped. So I laid back, waiting for my partner.” Again he looked hesitantly at me; again I nodded approval.

  “But when my partner got here,” Hunsicker continued, “he told me about the body. So we agreed that, first of all, we had to secure the accident scene. For evidence.”

  “Good. I’m glad you did. Can you describe the suspect?” As I spoke, I studied the alleyway. On the right, a sheer concrete wall rose three stories high. On the left, I saw a doorway and three windows, all unbarred. Fragments of broken glass sparkled on the pavement beneath the third window.

  “He’s medium height, medium build,” Hunsicker answered. “He ran like a young man. Dark hair, no hat. He was wearing dark pants and a light-colored jacket. It was short, like a windbreaker.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, sir,” he answered regretfully. “Sorry, but I didn’t.”

  “Did he show a weapon?”

  “No. He just ran. He only looked over his shoulder once, when I first challenged him.”

  I stepped back for a better view of the building. The ground floor was a lighted storefront displaying leather clothing, boots and accessories. Above the display windows I saw two floors of dark, empty loft windows under a sign that read “Anderson’s Theatricals.”

  “They make theater props,” Hunsicker offered. “Scenery, things like that.”

  “Is the back covered?”

  “Yes, sir. But I don’t think he got out that way. I don’t think he had time. He had to’ve gone inside the building, through that window. From there—from inside the building—the only way out is by a fire escape. I knew that, so as soon as I got here and saw that broken window, I climbed up on that fence, there—” He pointed to an eight-foot fence blocking the end of the alleyway. For the first time I saw a uniformed man sitting on top of the fence. He was idly swinging his feet, like a boy dangling his legs over a riverbank. In his arms he cradled a shotgun. “That way, I could see both the fire escape and the side door,” Hunsicker said. “Except for the front door, through the store, there’s no other way out.”

  “So you think he’s still in there.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered firmly. “Yes, sir, I think he’s still in there.”

  “Where does that side door lead?”

  “To the storeroom in back of The Latigo. That’s the name of the store. But there’s also an inside stairway that leads up to Anderson’s.”

  “Have you ever been inside this building?”

  “Yes, sir, I have. Several times. Until a few months ago, this was my beat on foot patrol. And, ah—He cleared his throat and shifted to a stiffer stance. “I, ah, knew a girl who worked at Anderson’s.”

  While we’d been talking, two other uniformed men had arrived, both carrying shotguns. Counting the man on top of the fence, I had seven men on the scene.

  I turned to the two new arrivals. “You two men cover the front, here—the door of The Latigo. You two—” I gestured to another pair of patrolmen, strangers to me. “You stay in the alleyway here for backup. The three of us will go inside.” I took a moment to coordinate walkie-talkie channels, and ordered Hunsicker to take one of the shotguns. Then I waved the four men to their posts.

  As they dispersed I turned to face Ferguson and Hunsicker. “I’ll go in first,” I said. “Hunsicker, you come next. Then you, Ferguson.” I turned away and walked into the alleyway, stopping before the broken window. On the pavement beneath the window, among the shards of broken glass, I saw a length of splintered broomstick. He’d used the broomstick to break out the glass.

  I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted through the gaping window: “All right, this is the police. The building’s surrounded. I want you to come out of there. Come out through the window, the way you went in. But before you do it, sing out. Tell us you’re coming. Otherwise, we’ll blow your head off.”

  No response.

  “You’ve got ten seconds,” I called. “Ten seconds, starting right now.”

  Methodically, I counted off the seconds while I fruitlessly strained to hear some sound of movement from inside. With the time counted out, I whispered over my shoulder, “Have you both got flashlights?”

/>   Yes, they did.

  “Okay, here we go,” I said, still whispering. “Take it slow and easy. When you’re inside, get out of line with the window.”

  As I pulled myself up on the window sill and dropped to the floor inside the darkened storeroom, I was thankful that I’d worn casual clothes, eating dinner at Ann’s. Over the years I’d torn too many suits in too many dark, unfamiliar rooms.

  Drawing my revolver, I stepped cautiously to my left, away from the window. Holding the shotgun in one hand, Hunsicker followed immediately, landing light on his feet. Ferguson was next, awkward and noisy, dropping to the floor with a board-rattling crash.

  “Stay here,” I ordered. “I’ll find a light switch.” With my eyes growing accustomed to the dim light from the window, I made my way between rows of stacked packing cases to an inside door. I found the switch, alerted the two officers, and turned on the overhead lights. While I stood motionless, Ferguson and Hunsicker searched the storeroom, unsuccessfully. I checked the door to The Latigo’s showroom. It was securely locked from the inside.

  “Here, Lieutenant.” It was Hunsicker’s voice. “Here’s where he went.”

  I found Hunsicker standing before a short flight of stairs that led to an old-fashioned glass-paned door marked “Anderson’s Theatricals.” The door was closed, but the small pane closest to the doorknob had been broken out.

  “I’ll go up first,” I said, eyeing the two patrolmen. “Don’t bunch up behind me on the stairs, in case something happens. When we get up there, let’s spread out. Clear?”

  In unison, the two men nodded. Hunsicker’s eyes were steady, meeting mine squarely. But second by second Ferguson was looking less ferocious. He was unable to meet my eyes—unable to keep himself from repeatedly swallowing.

  I pointed to Hunsicker’s shotgun. “Have you got a round in the chamber?” I asked.

  “No, sir.” Properly, he’d waited for orders.

  “Do it.”

  He jacked a shell into the chamber, then eased down the hammer. I nodded. I didn’t want him behind me with the gun’s hammer raised. At close range, a round of twelve-gauge buckshot would take off my leg. I would take a chance on the extra second it would take him to cock the gun and fire.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s do it.” I shifted my revolver to my left hand and used my right hand to reach cautiously through the broken-out pane and turn the doorknob from the inside. Then, standing aside, I pushed the door slowly open. Backlight from the storeroom illuminated the first few stairs of a longer flight that ended in darkness on the floor above. I saw a light switch just inside the door. Motioning for the two patrolmen to stand back, I flicked on the light at the top of the stairs.

  Instantly, a shot crashed.

  Then another.

  The light exploded, showering incandescent fragments down on the stairs before us.

  In a sudden, desperate confusion of guns and awkward limbs and incoherent obscenities, each of us found cover.

  “God—damn.” It was Ferguson, blustering. “Goddamn son of a bitch.” Looking at him, I saw the six-inch barrel of the Magnum trembling. The gun’s hammer was drawn back, ready to fire.

  “Lower that hammer,” I breathed.

  Momentarily, he blinked at the fury in my voice before he looked down at the gun. Then, with the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, he lowered the hammer.

  As I reached for Hunsicker’s walkie-talkie, I looked again into the young patrolman’s eyes. His answering gaze was still steady and calm.

  “Bring some tear gas and a launcher to the alleyway window,” I ordered, speaking softly into the walkie-talkie. “And three gas masks. Now.”

  On the walkie-talkie, a disembodied voice acknowledged the order.

  “You take them through the window, Ferguson,” I ordered, “and holster your goddamn weapon.”

  Muttering, he rose from his crouched position and wheeled away, angrily thrusting the Magnum into his hog-leg holster as he stalked toward the open window. I was standing close beside the open door, protected by a narrow angle of the wall. Hunsicker was in a similar position on the other side of the doorway. I watched him take off his hat and put it carefully on a packing case. Without the hat, Hunsicker looked even younger, more vulnerable. His sandy hair grew in cowlicks, like a boy’s.

  “Give me the shotgun,” I whispered, holstering my revolver. “You shoot the gas.”

  Silently, he handed over the shotgun. At the same time he stole a quick glance up the darkened stairs. From above, I thought I caught the sound of floorboards creaking. At the same moment I heard a familiar voice from behind me: “Psst. Lieutenant. Want me to come inside?” Holding a grenade launcher, Canelli stood in the open window. Seeing the familiar face, I was conscious of an irrational, knee-weakened rush of relief.

  “Come in,” I whispered. “Bring the equipment. Leave Ferguson outside.” Then, as Canelli began clambering through the window, I stopped him.

  “Tell Ferguson to put two men directly under the fire escape.”

  Relaying the order, Canelli finally managed to struggle through the window with the tear-gas paraphernalia. Moments later, with the gas masks covering our faces, we were ready.

  “Here goes the gas,” I said, speaking softly into the radio. “Is that fire escape double-covered?”

  “It’s covered.” I recognized the rasp of Ferguson’s voice.

  I put the walkie-talkie carefully on a lower step, then looked at Canelli. “Ready?” My voice was a stranger’s, muffled by the gas mask.

  Pressing his outsized body against a sidewall, Canelli stood with his revolver crossed over his chest. Behind the goggle-round lenses of the gas mask, his soft brown eyes evoked the irrational image of a benevolent space visitor. Slowly he nodded. I turned to Hunsicker, asking the same question. He cocked the grenade launcher, released the safety catch and nodded. Beneath the gas mask his Adam’s apple moved convulsively.

  “All right,” I said. “Do it.”

  Quickly, Hunsicker ducked around the door frame, fired the grenade, than ducked back to safety. On the floor above, the grenade popped. A moment later I heard the angry hiss of C.S. gas.

  “Again.”

  Quickly, Hunsicker reloaded the launcher and fired. His movements were quick and sure.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s—”

  From upstairs I heard the sudden sound of violent coughing.

  “We got him.” As I spoke, I stepped into the open doorway, holding the shotgun ready. Yellowish clouds of gas were billowing out of the darkness at the top of the stairs. The coughing was sharper now—but seemed to come from farther away. Footsteps rattled on bare wooden floors; something crashed to the floor, toppled by the blinded man above. The sounds came from my right, toward the back of the building. I realized that I was perspiring heavily. Inside my gas mask, the plastic eyepieces were fogging over. Beneath my mask, the gas combined with perspiration, stinging my neck. Belatedly, I realized that I should have buttoned my collar.

  “Throw the gun down,” I shouted. “I want to hear it hit the floor. Then we’ll take you out.”

  Two shots roared, followed in a few seconds by a crash of glass. A moment later Ferguson’s voice came from the walkie-talkie: “He’s thrown something through the window, back here. A chair. The window’s on the fire escape.”

  I picked up the walkie-talkie. “You’d better take cover, Ferguson. Don’t take any chances.”

  “Don’t worry.” Even through the soft sizzle of the walkie-talkie’s static, I could hear the fervor in his voice. Suddenly I realized that in all his years on the force, Ferguson had never faced a gun.

  I replaced the radio and turned again to the stairway. “I’m going up. Canelli, you come behind me. Hunsicker, you come next. When we get to the top of the stairs, I want you on my right, Canelli. You’re on my left, Hunsicker. Clear?”

  Silently, impassively, the two masked figures nodded in unison.

  Slowly, cautiously, I began climbing
the stairs. As I came closer to the top, the eddying gas swirled around me like deadly yellow fog. The pain at my neck became almost unbearable. Through the sweat-fogged lenses of my gas mask, only a small circle in the center was clear. My hands and wrists began to sting.

  At the top of the stairs, bending double, I turned toward a row of windows at the rear of the building: five tall rectangles, pale in the yellow-misted darkness.

  In front of the center window I saw a ghostly silhouette: a man’s head and shoulders.

  “I see him,” I whispered over my shoulder. “Hold it. Stay back.” I drew back the shotgun’s hammer, fitted its stock to my shoulder and fired at the window above the shadowy head. Through the musical tinkle of falling glass, I heard a scream.

  “Jesus. Don’t. I quit.” I heard a heavy metallic thud. “There’s the gun. Take the goddamn gun.”

  I jacked another shell into the chamber and left the hammer cocked. Through the fogged-over lenses of my mask, I could hardly make him out. “Walk toward me. Walk toward the sound of my voice. Put your hands on your head.”

  “Christ—” He was snuffling, beginning to blubber: “Christ, I’m cut by the glass. I’m hurt.”

  “If you don’t come toward me with your hands on your head, right now—right this second—you’ll be dead.”

  Stumbling, sniffling, coughing, he was finally obeying.

  Three

  WITH A SUSPECT IN custody, my next concern was concluding the on-site investigation, assuring the vital chain of evidence that must hold from the moment the crime is discovered until the jury brings in a verdict. I ordered Canelli to take the suspect downtown while I supervised the investigation’s final phase: a witnessed, signed-and-countersigned confiscation of the victim’s personal effects, followed by the authorized removal of the body.

  By one-thirty in the morning, traffic on Columbus Avenue had returned to normal.

  I was tempted to call Canelli at headquarters, telling him that I’d interrogate the suspect in the morning. Finally, though, curiosity overcame fatigue. From an examination of the victim’s effects, I’d learned that his name had probably been Eliot Murdock. He’d probably lived in Los Angeles. He’d probably been staying at the Beresford Hotel, in San Francisco. Judging by his clothing and general grooming, he’d probably been a respected citizen.