Smoked Out (Digger)

by Warren Murphy

" ’Cause you’re a slob," Breslin said.

  "Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. Do I owe you anything for the consultation?"

  "I’ll send you a bill."

  It took Jim McArdle twenty-six minutes. He came back into the room and handed Digger both vials. "The lieutenant’s had aspirins in it. But there were traces of trimethadione in both of them."

  "Thank you. Please write a formal report for me. My company will pay your bill, Mr. McArdle, and don’t skimp. You’ve done us a big favor coming in on Sunday."

  "Ah never skimp. There’s one other thing."

  "What’s that?"

  "Those trimethadione tablets I tested for you yesterday?"

  "Yes?"

  "It doesn’t generally come in white tablets like that. It usually comes in capsules."

  "What does that mean?"

  McArdle shrugged. "I guess it means that if someone wanted white trimethadione tablets, he’d have to order them special."

  Digger grinned. "Add something extra to your bill." He turned to Breslin. "I’ll buy."

  "I’ll buy. You explain."

  They drove in separate cars to the Sportsland Lodge. Digger was there first and waited in the cocktail lounge for the young policeman to arrive. He had the drinks waiting.

  Breslin nodded to him when he arrived, sat down, punished his drink and said, "So?"

  "So Welles killed his wife."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  "I guess it’s time I started acting like a cop. How’d he do it and can you prove it?"

  "His wife had epilepsy. He killed her by triggering an attack that made her drive off the cliff. I know how he did it. I don’t know if I can prove it to your satisfaction. It’s good enough for my company because the Welleses lied on their insurance application. We don’t have to pay. You want the truth?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don’t think you have enough to go before a grand jury with. I don’t think they’d indict Welles."

  "Shit, Digger. What good are you to me?"

  "Our deal’s still our deal," Digger said. "My company will be grateful."

  "Grateful, my ass. I don’t want grateful. If that bastard killed his wife, I want him."

  "I didn’t think you cared that much."

  "Don’t make wrong judgments," Breslin snapped. "I’m a cop because I want to be a cop. I’m a good cop. And I want to put all the bad asses away."

  "Let’s have another drink and think about it," Digger said. He waved to the bartender for another round. The desk clerk walked into the bar.

  "I thought I saw you, Mr. Burroughs."

  "Yes?"

  "You have had a lot of calls. You didn’t pick up your messages." There was a hint of scold in the voice.

  He handed Digger five pink message notes.

  "Thank you."

  Digger looked at them. Four were from Walter Brackler; the fifth was from Frank Stevens. He had called last night, while Digger was out to dinner with Lorelei.

  Digger drained his drink and rose. "Have to make a call," he said. "I’ll be right back."

  Digger dialed from a pay phone in the lobby. He whistled under his breath while waiting for his call to go through.

  "Hello, Frank, this is Digger. How goes it?"

  "I’m afraid there’s been a little hitch in your plan to send Dr. Welles to the gas chamber," Stevens said. His voice, unlike the previous day, was crisp and factual. Digger felt his stomach clench up.

  "What happened?" he said.

  "Langfill met yesterday afternoon with Welles’s attorney."

  "And?"

  "He listened like I told him to. Welles had a polygraph examination given to him by an expert."

  "What did it show?"

  "That he was out of town when his wife died. That he did not kill his wife. Repeat. Did not kill his wife."

  "Shit," Digger said. He purged his lungs of air in a long sigh.

  "My feelings exactly."

  "He killed her."

  "Unfortunately, that’s just a hunch. It doesn’t have much weight against a lie-detector examination."

  "Well, we still don’t have to pay. I can prove fraud on the application."

  "That’s kind of academic now, Digger. Even if we don’t pay the claim, I think your antics out there probably have given Welles enough ammunition to sue us for our testicles. It will probably be cheaper to pay. Cheaper and a lot less destructive than the publicity of a lawsuit. Digger?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to know that I’ll insist that Welles file no charges against you."

  "Thank you, Frank."

  "Of course, I can’t guarantee that Walter Brackler won’t make your life interesting."

  "Of course."

  "You will probably want to think about another line of work."

  "Are you firing me?" Digger asked.

  "No. Not now. Not ever. Not if I live to be a hundred."

  "Thank you, Frank. We’ll talk later."

  When he went back into the cocktail lounge, Digger slugged down his glass of vodka in one gulp.

  Breslin said, "You look like you were just told you had the clap."

  "Worse. Welles took a lie-detector test. It said he didn’t have anything to do with his wife’s death."

  "Oh," Breslin said in disgust. "Why do I get involved in things like this?"

  "He killed her."

  "Give up, Digger. Give it up. Pay the money. Give it up. Forget about it. Get out with your ass."

  Digger thumped his fist on the table. "No, god-damnit, not so fucking fast, not just fucking yet."

  He went back to the lobby telephone and dialed another number.

  "Koko, this is Digger."

  "I’m really tired, Digger. I just got in."

  "Koko. I need you."

  "I’ll be right there."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Koko had lucked her way onto a flight as soon as she reached the Las Vegas airport, and she was at the Sportsland Lodge less than two hours after Digger had called her.

  She had gone right to Digger’s room, where he showed her the tapes, his summaries and the tape recorder. She nodded, pushed him out of the door and told him to go back to the bar and not to bother her.

  "Who is that chiclet?" Breslin had asked.

  "Her name is Tamiko."

  "What does she do?"

  "She thinks," Digger said.

  "She doesn’t have much competition around here," Breslin said.

  "She doesn’t have any competition anywhere," Digger said.

  They waited three hours, drinking sullenly. Then Tamiko was pulling out a chair at the table.

  "Buy me a drink," she told Digger.

  "You can’t drink," he said.

  "Will you buy me a drink?" she asked Breslin.

  "I’ll buy you a pony for Christmas, if you want."

  "Lay off," Digger said. "She’s bespoken."

  Koko had a glass of white wine. She sipped it, then said to Digger, "You’re an asshole."

  "Besides that," he said.

  "Tell us something we don’t know," Breslin said, his voice a mumble.

  "But sometimes your instincts are good," she said.

  "He killed his wife, didn’t he?"

  Koko nodded. Breslin, whose head had slipped lower on its support hand with each passing hour, sat up straight in his chair.

  "He passed a lie-detector test," Breslin said.

  "Yeah, but he killed his wife," Koko said stubbornly.

  From Lieutenant Breslin’s office, Digger dialed a telephone number.

  "Hello."

  "Dr. Welles, this is Julian Burroughs."

  "I’m surprised you remember that, among so many names. I think you should talk to my lawyer."

  "Do you have a defense attorney already?"

  "You never stop, do you, Burroughs?"

  "Not until I’m done. It’s worth your while to talk to me. Perhaps we can do each other some good."

  "About what, Burroughs?"
/>   "About accidents that aren’t accidents, Doctor."

  "Eight o’clock," Welles said after a short pause. Then he hung up.

  Digger turned to Breslin. "Eight o’clock."

  "Good luck," Breslin said.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  "Dr. Welles, I presume."

  "You showed up. For some reason, I didn’t think you would. Come in."

  "Thank you. In the last week, I feel I’ve gotten to know you. So I thought I should really get to know you."

  "We can go into my study. That’s here, in the back. But of course you know that."

  "How would I know that?"

  "Yes. How indeed?"

  "Nice dogs."

  "I believe you’ve met them before. Both of them. Scylla. Charybdis. Sit. Have a seat, Mr. Burroughs."

  "Do they always growl like that?"

  "That’s their way of saying hello."

  "What’s their way of saying goodbye?"

  "They do tricks. Charybdis there has a rather unique way of closing doors behind himself and locking himself in my office."

  "Smart dog."

  "He needs help to do it. He’s not that smart. Now, what’s on your mind, Mr. Burroughs?"

  "Mind if I smoke, Doctor?"

  "No. Go ahead. They’re awful, aren’t they?"

  "Yeah, but I smoke four packs a day. If I smoked anything stronger, I wouldn’t be able to talk in the morning. Only problem is not many places carry this brand. I had to go all the way to San Francisco to buy these."

  "Nice city."

  "Everyone’s favorite city," Digger said.

  "You were saying what brought you here?"

  "Yes. I’ve been given to understand that you are considering suing my company."

  "That’s right. For harassment and character assassination and whatever else. I haven’t decided yet whether to bring criminal charges against you. I guess that’ll depend on what your company does."

  "My company’s not paying."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "We don’t pay off in murder."

  "You mean somebody killed my wife?"

  "I mean you killed your wife."

  "Interesting theory."

  "Isn’t it?"

  "I killed her while I was four hundred miles away?"

  "Yes."

  "I killed her even though the police didn’t think so and made Jessie’s death an accident?"

  "Yes."

  "I killed her even though the lie-detector test says otherwise?"

  "Yes."

  "Burroughs, I don’t think we have anything more to talk about. Maybe we should let our lawyers chat."

  "That’s a bluff. You don’t mean that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you want to know what I know. And you want to know where you slipped up."

  "All right. If this gives you pleasure, go ahead."

  "I take no pleasure in it. Considering the uses of iniquity is never pleasurable."

  "That’s very good. You mind if I write it down?"

  "No, go ahead. You can use it when you throw yourself on the mercy of the court."

  "You know, Burroughs, I almost feel like I know you."

  "Not much to know."

  "I wouldn’t say that. I mean, how many people can go hit on boatyard groupies under one name and dime-store clerks under another and go audition for Camelot under another? Is there a reason for all that or is it just a puckish sense of humor?"

  "No, actually, it just buys time. By the time everybody’s finished comparing names and notes, I’m usually done."

  "That fast?"

  "Yeah, generally. This job took a whole week."

  "I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you."

  "No problem, Doctor. Sometimes if the puzzle is good enough, I don’t begrudge my company the time."

  "This puzzle was good?"

  "Very good, until you got a little antsy."

  "Antsy? What’s that?"

  "Ants in your pants. You got nervous. So you had your bookie’s two goons work me over at my motel."

  "Of course, I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "Right, Doctor. Why don’t we just enter that as your automatic response to everything, so we can move this right along?"

  "Suit yourself."

  "It was a mistake to have them lean on me. You see, up until then I was just going on a hunch. I thought you might have killed your wife, but I didn’t have anything to prove it. I might have lost faith in that theory if you had left me alone. When I got mugged, it told me that I was right, that I was getting too close and was starting to annoy you."

  "You can be annoying."

  "Just a matter of style. So then I knew I was going in the right direction. Once that was confirmed, it was just a matter of time before I figured it out."

  "Just a matter of time. Are you always that cocksure?"

  "Yes. I’m very good, Doctor."

  "Why don’t you tell me about this rich fantasy life of yours."

  "Sure. In all these cases, it’s money or women. I know that’s true because a woman told me. But murder over a woman sounds a little ridiculous in this town, so it had to be money. You, for example. Boats. Expensive habits. Girlfriends stashed all over town. Running up big bills with your bookie. Stiffing Vegas casinos. Then you went belly-up on that housing deal. You expected your wife’s inheritance to bail you out, but there wasn’t any. What money the old man left went to the mother. Nice doggie."

  "You raised your voice. That’s why he growled. He’s worried that you’re going to attack. Just talk softly and he won’t do anything. Sit there, Charybdis. Behave."

  "Thank you, Doctor. The old man had been dying a long time and you figured that would bail you out. But it didn’t, and suddenly you had a lot of due bills. Plus your wife’s store was a drain on the family finances. How to pay them. Your partner, Dr. Walker, was dead. Without him, nobody would come to you for treatment. You were stuck taking that hospital job."

  "I really don’t have to listen to this."

  "No, but it’s probably worth your while to hear it. It’ll help your lawyer prepare your defense. Of course, you liquidated what you could. The boat went. You started bitching at your wife about the money she was spending in the store. Poor woman, she probably didn’t know how bad things were."

  "Do women ever?"

  "I think they do most times. I think they just don’t want to get into it. It messes up their heads. Then you had your brainstorm. Your wife’s epilepsy."

  "My wife’s what?"

  "Yes, Doctor. Mrs. Welles’s epilepsy. I’ve checked it out. Her mother admitted it to me over the telephone last night. Don’t look disbelieving. If you want, call your mother-in-law. I’ve got the number in my jacket. Ask her what she and the Contesa Julienne DeBoroes talked about last night. I do a very good French accent. Don’t bother, save yourself the time and take my word for it. Actually, your marriage had been rocky for a long time. You were catting around. Your wife, well, she had at least one friend…."

  "That’s obscene, Burroughs."

  "So’s murder. So there you were with nightmares about a divorce and losing half of what little you had left. So you beefed up the insurance on your wife to half a million dollars. A million, if she died accidentally. You were lucky. Like a lot of rich people, your wife had never carried an insurance policy, so there were no medical records in the central information register on her. You had your friend, Dr. Etienne, do a physical on her and give her a clean bill of health. He knew about the epilepsy, of course, but he conveniently, at your request, forgot to put it on the application."

  "You’re marvelously imaginative."

  "I get better as the evening wears on. Try this. You started hypnotizing your wife. Mrs. Beckwith used to hear your voice in here, talking to her. Soft and dreamy-like, she called it. Your hypnotism voice. I don’t know exactly why you were hypnotizing her. I guess it was primarily to establish control—total co
ntrol—over her for when you needed it."

  "You really do get better than this, Burroughs?"

  "Hold on. The good part’s coming up. Your wife had been an epileptic since childhood. She controlled it with medication. I’m sure when my company gets working on it, they’ll find some school records or some college records or some private physicians someplace who prescribed for your wife years ago. But once you had her where you could hypnotize her just by some kind of trigger, you started working on setting off the epileptic storms. That was the point of the strobe lights in the bedroom. Mrs. Beckwith thought they were some kind of sex thing, but they weren’t. The idea was to start epileptic seizures. The television set, too."

  "Oh, even the television set?"

  "That’s right. It’s just another trigger, and you were Sixteen-Gun Welles. You were going to pull every trigger you could just to make sure you hit."

  "Burroughs, you’re marvelous."

  "I’d appreciate it, Doctor, if you wouldn’t interrupt. If I lose my place I’ll have to start all over again."

  "Please. Proceed. I’m terribly sorry."

  "Then there was the 5:00 A.M. call. You called Mrs. Welles every morning at 5 o’clock. You were in San Francisco and it was supposed to be the act of a loving husband, but I never knew anybody who loved me who would call me routinely at five in the morning."

  "Did you ever know anyone who loved you at all?"

  "My mother always said she did, but I don’t believe her. That morning phone call puzzled me for a while. I couldn’t figure it out. I knew what happened next, though. You called, Mrs. Welles got up and turned on the television and the disco lights and then she dressed and left the house to go to work. Mrs. Beckwith turned the lights off later. Where is Mary, by the way?"

  "I let her go to the movies. We’re quite alone."

  "Oh. Anyway, she turned the lights off. Mrs. Welles probably never even knew she had turned them on. That’s when I figured it was hypnosis. You called her in the morning, did whatever you California swamis do, and you had her in a trance in which she did what you wanted. But I couldn’t understand why it had to be 5:00 A.M. Why not 7:00 A.M.? What difference did it make to you? That one really puzzled me for a while."

  "But, of course, with your usual tenacity and intelligence, you solved that problem."

  "Yeah. It was that stupid little fence you built with your own two little soft hands. I wondered about that. Wondered why you built it so close to the edge of the drop. Wondered why you made it so flimsy, when a good cinder-block retaining wall might have made some sense. It was interesting."