Police Blotter
Page 17
And the wash of crime across the police blotter flows and ebbs, its clear effluent seeping quietly away in the silent sands of the past; the dregs are retained, recorded, studied, compared, and then buried with the other detritus of our current civilization. Cells fill and are emptied; pages of painfully penned names and addresses drift like idle seed-pods into numberless filing cabinets and disappear forever in shadowed archives. Ranks, names, and assignments change on duty rosters; squad car models advance from year to year, glistening with all the latest gadgets. The price for living in communal harmony is promptly charged and promptly paid each day of each year …
Thursday–8:30 P.M.
Mary Kelly was waiting for Clancy when he emerged from the precinct. The street was heavy with slush; a slight fog was springing up. The overhead street lamps glowed faintly down on pavements damp with melting snow. Clancy came down the worn stone steps, his coat collar raised, his hat pulled tightly over his brow. Mary Kelly met him at the bottom step, putting her arm protectively through his. For a moment something in him resented the intimacy; then the firm body touching him seemed, instead, a sudden source of strength.
They crossed the darkened street to his car. He held the door open for her, closed it behind her, and walked around the front to get in at his side. He closed the door behind him; his fingers found the keys to the ignition and he reached forward towards the lock. Her fingers came forward to grasp his hand; he turned, facing her in the shadows of the darkened car.
“Did you have a hard day?” she asked softly. Her warm eyes were studying him with sympathy.
He turned from her, staring through the streaked windshield at the deserted street beyond. A hard day? The picture of a small body spread-eagled on the bloody chair in the apartment on Eighty-fifth Street came to him, and then the photograph of the old man caught in a compromising position in the rear seat of a blackmailer’s cab. Warnicki’s sneering, hard young face crossed his mind. And then, dominating all else, the pallid freckled face of Timmons, leaning forward earnestly, explaining so easily, so logically, so reasonably—and so falsely!—why he had murdered an innocent, harmless old man. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.
And then, suddenly, the pictures were all replaced by a small mahogany face with huge black eyes looking at him earnestly, asking him a question, honestly wanting to know. Would five hundred dollars be enough to buy a shoe-shine stand—with chairs—big enough for him and his grandfather to work together?
He turned back to her, suddenly noticing the beauty of her fine face, the loveliness of her dark eyes, the very warmness of her body and her sympathy across from him. He felt the harshness drain away in him. His fingers tightened against hers.
“No,” he said gently, honestly. His eyes surveyed her, alive and calm once again. “No; it was a good day …”
About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1965 by Robert L. Fish
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1268-3
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ROBERT L. FISH
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