Dirty Harry 11 - Death in the Air

by Dane Hartman

  DIRTY HARRY IS GUNNING

  FOR BLOOD—STALKING A KILLER

  PROTECTED BY THE POWER

  OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT!

  The Magnum-powered action doesn’t stop for Dirty Harry—not even on Christmas Eve. Now Harry’s after a killer who celebrates the holiday season by shoving women beneath the wheels of speeding subway trains. But when he unmasks the killer as a hit-man for a renegade government scientist, Harry himself is marked for death. With the most powerful handgun ever made in his hands, Harry must blow that scientist to kingdom come or never live to see the New Year himself.

  RUSHING TOWARD DEATH

  The killer came up right behind Denise Patterson just as the train rushed into the mouth of the BART station. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other hand around her neck, he started walking purposefully to the edge of the subway platform.

  Harry pulled out his Magnum, pointed it at the ceiling like a starter’s pistol, and pulled the trigger.

  Like a thunderclap, the explosion of the .44 drowned out the din in the station. The killer turned and saw Harry. But that didn’t stop him. With all of his strength, the killer threw Patterson onto the tracks.

  Harry had no choice. He jumped off the platform, onto the tracks, and raced toward the woman—and right at the on-rushing train.

  Books by Dane Hartman

  Dirty Harry #1: Duel For Cannons

  Dirty Harry #2: Death on the Docks

  Dirty Harry #3: The Long Death

  Dirty Harry #4: The Mexico Kill

  Dirty Harry #5: Family Skeletons

  Dirty Harry #6: City of Blood

  Dirty Harry #7: Massacre at Russian River

  Dirty Harry #8: Hatchet Men

  Dirty Harry #9: The Killing Connection

  Dirty Harry #10: The Blood of Strangers

  Dirty Harry #11: Death in the Air

  Dirty Harry #12: The Dealer of Death

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1983 by Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc., 75 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, N.Y. 10019

  A Warner Communications Company

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 0-446-90853-3

  First Printing: February, 1983

  DIRTY HARRY #11

  DEATH

  IN THE

  AIR

  C H A P T E R

  O n e

  The girl’s body was torn apart as if she were a goldfish whirling in a blender. Her flaxen hair had fluttered in the air as she fell screaming onto the tracks. Her arms looked as if she were trying to fly, as the BART car bore down on her.

  There was no screeching of brakes and clatter of ancient metal machinery, as there would have been in almost any other major city’s subway. San Francisco’s BAY AREA RAPID TRANSIT system was sleek, efficient, brand new, and, in Martha Murray’s case, deadly.

  As the train swept into the Fulton Street Station at over forty miles an hour, the high school girl didn’t have a chance. Despite waving her arms, she couldn’t keep her feet from hitting the ground, and the monstrous train from coming on.

  At first, it seemed as if she were trying to keep her balance for a last-ditch attempt at hurling herself away from the speeding vehicle. But then her knees buckled, putting her into a crouched position, as if she were praying to the looming transport.

  Her arms continued to flutter, as if she were weakly motioning for the BART train to stop or float above her, somehow. And it wasn’t as if the trainmen didn’t try. The fact was, there were no trainmen to try. BART was fully automated, which didn’t help the girl one whit. The braking process was already in effect, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop the process.

  All eyes were on the horror-frozen girl as the train’s lights spread across her, outlining her in a white blaze before her form slipped between the glowing orbs a split second before they connected.

  Her screams were cut off by the sickening, swatting crunch of the car smashing into her. Her classmates cried out in shock and horror as her broken body was hurled forward by the blow, only to tumble in front of the moving train once again, farther down the line.

  Almost all of the bystanders turned their heads from the sight, but there was enough time for one man to see the once-pretty girl’s body collapse in a flattened, torn, bloody heap in front of the braking vehicle—her eyes still horribly open. He watched with a certain perverted satisfaction as the train then went on to hit her a second time.

  This time its speed had been reduced enough so that she wasn’t catapulted forward, but dragged beneath the spinning wheels. The bottom of the head BART car slammed into her chest, bending her back at an unnatural angle, and then her form was beneath the bullet-shaped transport. The sight of her ultimate fate was cut off from her friends and the innocent bystanders.

  All they heard was the sound. No amount of sobbing could cover the sound of her body being shredded by the spinning technology. It was a wet, cracking, tearing noise that sent several of her classmates reeling back, their half-digested lunches splattering on the clean, slick platform walls and floor.

  Along the edge of the platform were several people who fainted from shock, others who couldn’t take their eyes off the blood-flecked base of the BART, and one who surveyed the scene with a warped enjoyment.

  It had started off badly. He hadn’t meant to push the pretty blond girl at all. He had initially targeted a plain, mousey, brown-haired student who clutched her books and flute case to her chest as if they would have run away if she had loosened her grip. But, in the ever-undulating throng of chattering students, the girl had been jostled aside just as he moved in. His hand had pushed soundly into Murray’s back as he timed the train’s entrance perfectly.

  It was definitely a mistake, but not one they couldn’t use to their advantage. At least, that’s the reasoning he’d use with his masters when he made his report. After all, his instructions had been to choose an uninteresting victim. But the prevailing order had been even more pressing. Another had to die today.

  The man made his way to one of several Fulton Street exits just as one door on the stalled train slipped open and another man in a beaten leather coat and scuffed, brown jeans stepped out. He was a tall man, his face lined, and his brown hair swept back. He had been stretched out on one of the BART’s seats, his long legs protruding into the aisle, his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes closed.

  When the tall man heard the computerized train grinding the innocent girl beneath its unfeeling wheels, he had reacted as if he had been shaken out of a fitful sleep, as if he had been expecting something like this all along.

  But that wasn’t because, like the first man, he had some hand in the murder. It was because he was familiar with tragedy, horror, and death. He had long ago come to accept the fact that he was a natural magnet for trouble. When he was stirred from his rest by the sodden thumping beneath the car, he merely opened his eyes, struggled to a full sitting position, leaned forward, and said succinctly, “Shit.”

  He got up, made his way across the carpeted floor to the panel beside the sliding door, opened it with a quarter from his pocket, and pulled the lever. One of the two connecting doors opened a crack, allowing him to slip his fingers in and push the obstruction aside.

  What he couldn’t see completely through the car’s tinted windows was all too clear to him now. He started to move toward the front of the train when a transportation official cut him off.

  “Stay on the train, please,” the official said hurriedly, not looking the man in the eye. “Please remain seated o
n the train.” The transport man put his hand on the tall man’s chest, feeling the greasy consistency of his jacket and the strength of the chest beyond. Then the official noticed that no matter how hard he pushed, the man didn’t budge.

  Looking up, the official saw an open billfold. On one side was a badge numbered 2211. On the other was an ID labeling the pushee as Inspector 71 of the San Francisco Homicide Department: Harry Callahan.

  After Dirty Harry had moved purposefully through the throng to where the stationmaster kneeled, and had seen what looked like a cut-rate dissection, his laconic expression hardened into stony determination that bordered on hate.

  He looked down the length of the sleek metal BART snake to see if it could have been possible for the victim to have accidentally danced across the platform and onto the sunken tracks. From where he stood, it appeared that, with all the safety devices the Transportation Board had installed, the victim would have had to impersonate Peter Pan to fly that far.

  The stationmaster looked away from the shredded corpse, his skin ashen, with tinges of green around his eyes, nose, and mouth. Martha Murray had been torn open like a package of Poppin’ Fresh dough. Her guts were splashed around like spilled taco filling, and spread around beneath the car.

  The stationmaster was surprised to see the inspector, but there was recognition in his eyes as Harry stared unflinchingly at the girl’s remains.

  “Callahan,” the stationmaster croaked, “don’t you ever sleep?”

  The man’s attempt at levity fell, bruised, to the crimson-streaked tracks. Harry finally removed his eyes from the rent body and clamped them on the nauseated trainman.

  “Not on the subway,” he said. “Not when things like this are happening.”

  C H A P T E R

  T w o

  Harry didn’t like the new San Francisco subway. He didn’t like any subways. Where there were subways, he figured, there would be crime. Even if those subways were well appointed, sumptuously carpeted, and slickly designed. When you put a hole in the ground, and stuck people in it where no one could see them, it wouldn’t be long before the rats came out.

  And it wasn’t. BART had opened in the early seventies, and, as the decade crept toward its middle, the usual problems arose: graffiti, at best, and mugging murders, at worst.

  Graffiti the TB could handle. That wasn’t a disease—that was a problem for the Transportation Board. The mugging problem was Callahan’s job. As a cop, even when he was in disguise, undercover, Harry still carried his badge. And one or two other things that made this assignment easier.

  No, Harry didn’t like the subway, but he was used to it. He had to be, since that was where he had spent most of his evenings for the last week and a half. Originally, the BART system had closed at midnight, but the pressure from club patrons and theatergoers pushed closing time first to one and then to two in the morning.

  If the Transportation Board had its way, that closing time would be pushed back as soon as possible, but the workings of city government were laborious. The state representatives argued that the needs of the people must be met, while the Board contended that the few people out at two in the morning could take a taxi.

  Sandy Richards learned the truth of the Board’s argument the hard way. In the middle of November, she had stayed late at a downtown office finishing up some transcriptions for a well-paying, high-powered client. The temperature was brisk, and rain was coming down in cold, slicing sheets. The second-to-last BART run was practically empty except for Sandy, a town drunk, and five fairly well-dressed young men.

  The secretary had cast a leery eye at the inebriated man who sat slumped in the train seat, but she remained in the car because of the other group. She felt safe with the five reputable-looking, college-age kids. After all, she knew she was a young, attractive woman dressed in a smart suit, riding alone at night. She was aware of the possibility that she might be robbed, accosted, or even worse.

  She was. Her body was found at the base of Telegraph Hill, in the shadow of the Coit Memorial Tower. Her pocketbook and most of her smart suit were missing. She lay among some overturned garbage cans, where two curious kids had found her. She had been raped and beaten to death.

  At her place of business, her boss had spoken glowingly of her to Harry. According to the boss, she had been the model of efficiency. Why, she had even completed some very important paper work the night of her death. The man had been so impressed, he held up the stack of transcriptions for Harry to see.

  On the basis of his own experience in putting together a report, Callahan figured she couldn’t have gotten all of that done on a nine-to-five shift. As far as he was concerned, that placed her at large in the city after working hours. And, since he knew her office was in Garfield Square, across the city from where she had been found, Harry traced the various ways she could have gotten from one place to another.

  The bus and cab driver interviews turned up nothing, so Callahan turned his attention to the BART workers. It was just this kind of tedious, futile investigation that turned police officers into jaded, pessimistic people. Callahan had had his share of dangerous thrills during his career, but most of his time was occupied with just this sort of garbage collecting.

  Only this time, the bull-shitting paid off. One BART driver remembered a woman matching Sandy Richards’s description riding the train on the day in question. From there, Harry decided to find that run’s regular riders for further elaboration. With Ted Huxley, the BART drunk, he hit pay dirt.

  Ted was a good old boy who came west to find his fortune. But so did a lot of good old boys, and while some of them had the right stuff to make a success of it, Huxley wasn’t able to make the grade. The drop was steep and long, and Ted ended up right where Harry found him.

  He was tall and gaunt, but extremely observant for a souse. He remembered the girl, he remembered the five young men, and he remembered that the half-dozen people got off together at the Washington Square stop. Unfortunately, the drunk’s words wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, so Harry made the man a deal.

  Callahan gave him enough stool-pigeon money for booze and a decent place to hole up in, so Huxley wouldn’t have to hang out in the subway. Then Harry took over his spot. The inspector visited the Salvation Army, selected the worst-looking and worst-smelling clothes he could handle, and, for the next ten days, became a sloshed fixture on the last BART morning runs.

  His timing was impeccable. For, while Huxley remembered the five youths well, the five youths remembered him only vaguely. It wasn’t surprising that the young men mistook the staked-out Harry for the bombed-out Ted, given their similarities.

  In mid-December, Harry was slumped in a seat on the late-night BART train, his worn leather collar covering most of his face, and a ratty slouch hat covering his head. Through the crack between the top of the collar and the bottom of the hat rim, he saw five well-dressed young men get on the nearly empty train at the Market Street stop.

  As the smoothly running transport picked up speed on its way to Oakland, the bunch of guys checked out the surrounding cars with a few furtive glances, and then came over to where Harry was sitting. Callahan saw that they were the only ones in the section.

  “Say, old man,” said the first youth, a slender, brown-haired fellow in designer jeans and a V-necked sweater. “How you doing tonight, huh?”

  From the way he stood, right in front of the supposed drunk, and the way his friends spread out to block the entry and exit doors on either end of the car, Harry figured his well-being was not their first concern—contrary to the lead’s words.

  One kid, a short, broad guy with dirty blond hair, leaned against the door to the next car, which was on Harry’s right. Another—a guy who looked like a front end for a college football team, complete with a crew cut—went to the other end of the car and stood before the opposite door, which led to the next section.

  With those portals covered, another pair of young men sandwiched Harry between them. One stood to his l
eft, and the other sat next to him on his right. The standee was a handsome, rugged sort, who looked incomplete without an ascot and pipe. He wore a casual, fashionable suit with thin lapels, a thin collar, and a tie. His black hair was cut and styled short, and he had the sultry, pouty look of an overgrown preppie. The sittee was a thin, nervous, ferret-eyed type in a baseball jacket and sneakers, who had patches of acne scars across both cheeks.

  Harry heard the swooping sound of the train dipping into the entrance to the tunnel which linked San Francisco with Oakland across the Bay. It was the longest underwater transit tube in the world, which made this part of the ride lengthy, and uninterrupted by stops.

  It was what the five had been waiting for. With no more pedestrians coming on or getting off, they had the drunk all to themselves. The various stationmasters had been informed by the SFPD about Harry’s assignment, so they wouldn’t roust him, but the trainmen wouldn’t be able to help Harry now. As usual, the cop was on his own.

  With the city lights cut off by the BART’s entry into the submerged tunnel, the train’s recessed lighting cast an eerie, pale, blue and beige glow over everything. The five young men shifted about in the weird illumination like skittish fish.

  “Hey, you remember us, old man?” the lead, brown-haired youth asked, trying to peer through Harry’s sartorial obstructions.

  “It makes no difference,” the nervous one next to Harry said abruptly. “You know that.”

  “We can’t take the chance,” the good-looking one said slowly. “I thought we all decided that before we came back here.”

  That was enough for Callahan. His hunch had been correct. Worried that the drunk might remember and finger them, they had returned to check it out. But, also worried that the drunk knew, but was playing dumb, they had decided to play it safe and get rid of him. They figured that no one would think twice about the murder of an old drunk.