Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  “Somebody will be in to see you soon,” the policeman told them.

  “The chief, right?” Temple asked.

  “I don’t know,” the man said, and left.

  Temple looked at Clint.

  “He must have someone, a detective, working on this,” Clint commented. “Maybe that’s who we’re waiting for.”

  “Well, that’ll suit me,” Temple said. “He didn’t strike me as the easiest man to work with.”

  “No, me neither.”

  Clint walked over to the one window in the room and glanced out. He found himself looking down at the roof of the building next door, which had only one floor.

  “They could have offered us some coffee,” Temple said.

  “Hey,” Clint said, turning away from the window, “they let us in the building. Let’s start with that.”

  “You’re right.”

  They heard footsteps coming down the hall outside the room. It sounded like a herd of buffalo, but only one man entered the room. However, he was so large that he seemed to fill the room. He was at least six and a half feet tall, seemed almost as wide, in his late thirties. He was in white shirtsleeves, and was wearing a gun in a shoulder harness beneath his left arm.

  “I’m Detective Stokes,” the man said. “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’d be me,” Clint said.

  “Then you’re Temple,” Stokes said, “the newspaperman from Boston.”

  “That’s right,” Temple said, “or rather, ex-newsman.”

  “It’s my understanding that once you’re a newspaperman, you’re always a newspaperman. I mean, it’s like the ink gets in your blood, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Stokes made a point of shaking hands with both of them. His hand was huge.

  “Why don’t we sit down,” Stokes suggested. “We have a lot to go through.”

  “Sure,” Clint said, pulling out a chair. Temple sat across from him.

  * * *

  They sat and discussed the situation for half an hour.

  “What you’re saying is true, so far,” Stokes said to Temple. “He took this girl off a busy street.”

  “That’s the way he works,” Temple said. “You’d think he’d want to take them off quiet, deserted streets, but that’s not the case.”

  “He’s got a lot of nerve, then,” Clint said. “Maybe he’s trying to get caught.”

  “Why would a man want to get caught?” Stokes asked. “What’s the point of breaking the law, then?”

  “I don’t think he wants to be caught,” Temple said.

  “What do you think, then?” Stokes asked.

  “I think he feels there’s nobody who can catch him,” Temple said. “He’s done it enough times now.”

  “What’s the significance of the orange neckerchief?” Stokes asked. “Do you know?”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot,” Temple said. “All I can think of is it must be something personal to him.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a clue?” the detective asked.

  “It might be,” Temple said, “but a clue to what? Who he is? Or why he’s doing what he’s doing?”

  “Maybe both,” Clint said.

  “Where do you think he’ll strike next?” Stokes asked.

  “I don’t know Abilene well,” Temple said, “but I’d say you better watch the busy streets, and the young women.”

  “A lot of streets and even more women in Abilene,” Stokes said. “We don’t have enough men to cover them all.”

  “Then you’ll just have to do the best you can,” Clint said.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Temple said.

  “What’s that?” Stokes asked.

  “Somebody took a shot at us last night, out on the street.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Was he shooting at both of you?”

  “We don’t know that either,” Clint said.

  Stokes sat back in his chair.

  “Seems more likely to me that they’d be shooting at you, Mr. Adams.”

  “That’s what I said,” Temple commented.

  “Well, that’s something we’ll probably have to find out for ourselves,” Clint said. “You’ve got your own problems.”

  “I’ll have somebody look into it,” Stokes said.

  “What about witnesses?”

  “To the shooting?” Stokes asked.

  “To the murder of the girl,” Clint said.

  “We talked to people on that whole block,” Stokes said, “and for another block each way. Nobody saw anything.”

  “Or they did and they don’t know it,” Clint said.

  “Or they did,” Temple agreed, “and they don’t know it.”

  TWELVE

  “I don’t think we’ve helped you much, Detective Stokes,” Clint said.

  “That’s not quite true,” Stokes said as they all stood up. “Mr. Temple here has given me a little insight into the killer that I didn’t have before.”

  “I hope it helps,” Temple said.

  “I’ll let you know,” Stokes said. “I’ll have a man walk you out.”

  “I think we can find the way,” Clint said.

  “All right.” Stokes shook their hands. “If I need anything, where will you be?”

  “The Oak Tree Hotel,” Clint said. “We each have a room.”

  “Likewise if you fellas think of anything else, you’ll find me right here, unless I’m out on the street. Then you can leave me a message.”

  “We’ll do it, Detective,” Clint said.

  “Oh, Mr. Adams,” Stokes said, “the chief would like to see you in his office before you go.”

  “We’ll stop in there. Just tell us where it is.”

  “Not him,” Stokes said, “just you. He was real specific about that.”

  Clint looked at Temple.

  “I can find my way out,” the ex-reporter said. “I’ll wait for you out front.”

  Clint looked at Stokes.

  “Okay, then, lead the way.”

  * * *

  Stokes took Clint to a large office where Chief Landry was sitting behind a big desk. Behind him the window looked out over the main street.

  “Here’s Mr. Adams, Chief,” he said.

  “You finished with him and Temple?” the chief asked without looking up from the papers he was perusing.

  “I am for now.”

  “Okay, then,” the chief said. When Stokes didn’t move, the chief raised his eyes. “That’s all, Stokes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stokes withdrew.

  “Have a seat Mr. Adams,” Landry said. “I wanted to talk to you alone, without your friend Temple, and without the politicians.”

  “I don’t much like politicians myself,” Clint said, sitting down.

  “Then we have that much in common.”

  From their earlier meeting, Clint couldn’t think of anything else they had in common.

  “So why did you want to speak in private?”

  “I’m not in favor of this partnership,” Landry said, “and by that, I mean my department working with you and Mr. Temple—but the fact is, you are a legend.”

  He stopped there, when Clint thought there would be more.

  “Chief,” he said, “is this some kind of . . . apology?”

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” the man said. “Actually, I kinda put my foot in my mouth. I’m just . . . real anxious to catch this killer.”

  “I don’t blame you for that.”

  “Good,” Landry said. “But I have to tell you, I don’t like that kid.”

  “Temple?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  �
��Well, I’ve got to tell you, I do. He’s given up a lot to go after this killer.”

  “Yes, after he helped him get out of Boston and basically put him on this trail.”

  “He made a bad decision in Boston,” Clint said. “He’s trying to make up for it.”

  “I just don’t want him making any bad decisions here.”

  “I’m sure he’s going to do his best not to.”

  “I’d appreciate if you kept a tight rein on him.”

  “Look,” Clint said, “he’s not writing for any newspaper.”

  “Good,” Landry said, “let’s see if we can keep it that way. Did you two get along with Stokes?”

  “We did,” Clint said. “He seems like a good man.”

  “He is. In fact, he’s my best man,” Landry said. “You and he should work real well together.”

  Clint stood up.

  “We’ll do our best to help him,” he promised.

  “That’s all I can ask. Thank you for coming to see me.”

  Clint nodded, left the office, and made his way to the front of the building. Temple was waiting outside.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Believe it or not,” Clint said, “he apologized . . . sort of.”

  “To you . . . or to us?”

  “To me basically,” Clint said. “He doesn’t like you.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Listen,” Clint said, “you’re trying to make a difference now. That’s all that matters.”

  “I hope so.”

  * * *

  After Clint Adams left his office, Chief Landry sent for Detective Stokes.

  “Have a seat, Detective.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about your meeting with Adams and Temple.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stokes relayed the meeting as word for word as he could to his boss. Landry listened without saying anything, then remained silent for a few more moments when the man was done. Stokes waited patiently. Patience was a big part of his game.

  “All right,” Landry said, “I want to have someone watching them at all times.”

  “I think we got everything from them that they know, sir,” Stokes said.

  “That may be so, Detective,” Landry said, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t learn more from here on out. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I want you to use only your best men,” the chief said. “I do not want them to know they are being watched.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See to it.”

  Stokes nodded, stood up, and left the office.

  Landry turned his chair so he could look out the window.

  * * *

  As Temple left the building, he wondered what was on the chief’s mind. Was he just trying to separate them? Making Clint some kind of offer? In the short time that he had known Clint Adams, he had come to trust him. If Chief Landry thought he was going to say something to change that, he was going to be disappointed.

  Temple didn’t like or trust the man, and he figured Clint felt the same way.

  * * *

  The killer, once known as “Mulligan,” recognized Harry Temple as soon as he saw him. He didn’t know the other man, but he found out soon enough who he was.

  He watched as Temple left the building alone and stopped right outside. He watched him, but Temple just stood there, probably waiting for Adams to come out. The best course of action would probably have been to kill him, but that was hard to do in front of the police department building.

  Killing Harry Temple would have to wait until another time.

  THIRTEEN

  Detective Stokes chose two men for the job, Police Officers Benson and Dillon. Both were young—late twenties for Benson, early thirties for Dillon—but good at their jobs.

  Temple and Clint Adams were still in front of the building, and he pointed them out.

  “Follow those two,” he instructed. “I want to know everything they do, everywhere they go, and everyone they talk to.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dillon said.

  “The older one is Clint Adams. Do you know that name?”

  “The Gunsmith, sir,” Benson said.

  “Right. Be especially careful with him. He won’t be easy to follow without being seen.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Dillon said, “we’re not out on the prairie right now.”

  “Besides, sir,” Benson said, “isn’t he a little past his prime?”

  Maybe, Stokes thought, he’d chosen the wrong two men.

  “If you go into this with that attitude,” Stokes said, “he might just hand you your heads. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Benson said. Dillon nodded.

  “Report back to me at the end of each day,” he instructed. “Dismissed.”

  * * *

  Clint and Temple stopped in the nearest saloon, a small, empty place across the street from the police department. Clint figured it was that nearness to the police that kept the customers away. That, and the early hour.

  “A little early for beer, isn’t it?” Temple asked as they entered.

  “I thought newspapermen drank hard.”

  “Some do.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “it’s never too early for beer. It’s the perfect breakfast.”

  They stopped at the bar and ordered a beer each. The bartender served them up, made no comment on the early hour, and went back to preparing his place for the day.

  “So what do you want to do now?” Clint asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You gave the detective what you had,” Clint said. “He’s going to go out and do his job. What are you going to do?”

  “I thought maybe you’d have some ideas.”

  “This is your game,” Clint said. “You’re dealing, I’m just playing.”

  “Dealer’s choice, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  Temple played with his beer mug for a few moments.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally admitted.

  “Let me ask you something,” Clint said. “Do you think this killer will remember you?”

  “Remember me?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “by name. Will he remember you as the one who wrote the story that warned him?”

  “I don’t know,” Temple said. “Probably.”

  “Didn’t you say the editor of the paper here offered you a job?”

  “Yes . . . so?”

  They had both been leaning with their elbows on the bar. Now Clint turned to face Temple.

  “I think you should take it.”

  “What?”

  “Take the job.”

  “But . . . wha—you want him to know I’m here?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “But . . . he won’t think that’s a coincidence. He can’t think that.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?” Clint asked. “Run? Or come after you?”

  Temple thought a moment, and then his eyes widened.

  “You want me to be bait?”

  “You said you wanted to catch him.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’ll have me watching your back the whole time.”

  “What if seeing my name in the newspaper makes him run again?”

  Clint shrugged. “Seems to me that’s a chance worth taking.”

  “What about the police?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do we tell them what we’re planning?”

  “No,” Clint said. “They wouldn’t like it at all.”

  “B-But . . . I told them I wasn’t taking the job.”

  Clint shrugged again.

  “Everybody’s entitled to change their mind sometime,
aren’t they?”

  Temple gave it some more thought, then picked up his beer mug.

  “I don’t know, Clint.”

  “Well,” Clint said, waving to the bartender for two more, “give it some thought. If you can come up with some other plan, I’m all for it.”

  FOURTEEN

  But he didn’t.

  Temple could not think of any other way to go, so in the end he said, “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

  Clint accompanied him to the newspaper office to talk to the editor.

  * * *

  “What changed your mind?” Pete Tanner asked.

  “I’m going to be here a little longer than I thought,” Temple said. “I’ll need money to live.”

  “Do his reasons really matter?” Clint asked.

  “No, not really,” Tanner said. “I’m happy to have a man of his experience on board.” He looked at Temple. “Okay, you’re hired.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you?” Tanner asked, looking at Clint.

  “I’m not looking for a job, thanks,” Clint said. “Besides, I’m not a reporter.”

  “How about an interview?”

  “I don’t do interviews.”

  “Not even for a friend?” Tanner asked, indicating Temple.

  “Never,” Clint said.

  “I hope it’s not my first assignment to convince him,” Temple said.

  “No,” Tanner said. “Your first assignment is to write whatever you want.”

  “I’d like to write about the murder of that girl,” Temple said, “and why the police have not solved it yet.”

  “That won’t make you any friends with the law,” Tanner told him.

  “If I was worried about making friends with the law, I never would have written anything wherever I worked,” Temple said.

  Clint wondered, if Temple had worried about that, would he not be here right now, hunting for a killer? Would the killer not be here, but rather in a prison back East, or even dead?

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Clint said.

  Temple turned to face him.

  “You said you’d watch my back.”

  “And I will,” Clint said, “but he doesn’t even know you’re here yet. Not until your first article comes out.”