The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Let’s spread out,” Friedman said, grunting as he bent double to duck under a low branch. “He must be close now.”

  Nodding, I motioned for my two men to move to the left; Friedman was crouched, watching the two detectives move to his right. We were all in the underbrush now. I walked ahead, very slowly. Rifkin was too close to me, but I decided to let it go. We’d do better to—

  A small movement flicked in the high grass close beside a huge oak tree. Was it an animal—or Harper’s brown leather jacket?

  I caught Friedman’s attention, pointing to the oak. He nodded, then placed a fat forefinger to his lips. Now he signalled for me to circle the tree on the left, while he went to the right side. Nodding in return, I motioned for Rifkin and Williams to move with me, around and behind the tree. The ’copter was moving away, maybe fifty feet. In another moment we’d—

  He burst running from the underbrush surrounding the oak tree, dragging his limping leg. Now, whirling, he fired. Four quick shots. I dropped to the dirt. “Down,” I shouted. “Get down. He’s re-loaded. Get down.”

  But Rifkin, standing straight, had the shotgun to his shoulder, firing.

  “Hold it,” Friedman was calling. “Wait.”

  Three shots, then three more. At the last shot Harper screamed, spun, and fell heavily. Rifkin, running forward, had dropped the shotgun, drawing his revolver. Harper was struggling to his knees. His gun lay on the ground, out of reach. His left side and thigh were bloody. He raised his head, dazed, looking at Rifkin.

  I was on my feet, running.

  “Rifkin. Stop. Don’t.”

  But the revolver was raised. Harper was raising a trembling hand, mutely begging. I left my feet, sweeping Rifkin’s legs in an arm tackle. Williams was beside me, grabbing for the gun. Rifkin struggled. He was cursing me. Harper was sobbing—alive. I sat up, then rose to my feet, brushing off my clothing. Rifkin was still swearing, demanding his gun. Williams looked at me. I nodded.

  “Put it in the holster, Rifkin,” I said. “The war’s over.”

  He was on his feet, facing me. Bewildered. Babbling.

  “But he was shooting at us. Trying to kill us. You saw him. Why’d you—”

  “You’re paid to get shot at, Rifkin. It goes with the job. Now put it away.”

  Shaking his head, rapidly blinking, he slowly returned the gun to its holster, fastening down the strap. His face was pale, his eyes large and staring. Harper was stretched full length on his back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. His hands were twitching; he was in shock. Friedman had torn the shirt and trousers away, revealing a shotgun wound low on the left abdomen, touching the point of the upper thigh.

  “He should make it,” I said.

  FIFTEEN

  I WATCHED THE DOCTOR straighten, dropping the stethoscope down around his neck. He turned to me.

  “He’s all yours, Sergeant. I wouldn’t talk too long, though.”

  “Thanks. No problems?”

  “No problems. Nothing vital hit, except for a little nick in the lower intestine. But we’ve sewed that up and he should stay here for, say, two days, because there’s always a chance of infection. But it’s just routine.” He nodded briskly, and left the room, closing the door softly.

  I sat down on the bedside chair, and opened my newspaper. I’d covered the entire first section, story by story, in the last hour—all except the society section. Now I had a choice: sit staring at nothing, or read the society news.

  I turned the page, studying a studio photograph of a blonde girl with a long nose and narrow-set eyes. She was being married in October, and after a Bermuda honeymoon she and her new husband would move to Chicago, where her prospective father-in-law owned a savings and loan company.

  Slowly lowering the paper, I stared off across the room, my eyes unfocused.

  I could still see her picture in the paper, and mine. It was our wedding picture. I’d been smiling, holding the huge silver knife over the cake—posing for the photographers. She’d been saying something about my being accustomed to posing, but only for sports pictures. Now, she’d said, it was her turn.

  And she’d been right. I’d often thought about it, how very right she’d been.

  The next day, reading the society news, I’d been secretly disappointed that my football career was hardly mentioned, while my new in-laws’ wealth and status were discreetly featured in every story. And my wife’s sorority. To society editors, sororities were more important than—

  He was moaning, stirring. I blinked my eyes into focus. He was staring at me. He was trying to smile—a bitter, twisted smile.

  “I was aiming for you, Sergeant.” His voice was clear and fairly strong.

  “Why?”

  “Oh—” He raised his hand a few inches, then let it fall back. “Just because it was a familiar face, I suppose.”

  “It might seem funny to you, Harper. But to the judge it’s going to sound like attempted murder.”

  “That’s all? Just attempted murder?”

  I didn’t like his embittered self-possession. Because, really, we still hadn’t developed a single piece of evidence connecting Harper to the murders. We’d spent four hours dismantling his apartment, unsuccessfully. We’d searched the boat, and a room he’d sometimes occupied at his uncle’s house. We’d been looking for Karen Forest’s money, plus perhaps some possession of Robertson’s—anything incriminating. All we found was a box of .38 shells and several marijuana cigarettes.

  “Is my uncle getting me a lawyer?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And I don’t have to say anything until he arrives. Is that right?”

  I nodded. “That’s right, Harper. But what you should remember, is that the more information you volunteer, the easier time you’ll have. Of course, your lawyer might try and plead you not guilty, so that he can stick your uncle with a nice, fat fee. But if he advises a not guilty plea, Harper, he’ll be conning you. On the other hand, if you confess to murdering Robertson and Karen Forest and Maxine Summers right now, there’s probably no question that you’d never get anything worse than life. Which, translated, means twenty years, maybe less. You’d be forty-four years old, when you get out. I’m forty-three.”

  He smiled—lips curling derisively, pale blue eyes unnaturally calm and appraising. He seemed to be enjoying himself—playing some strange, mad game.

  “What I get from all that, Sergeant, is that you don’t have much of a case against me.”

  “The case for murder, we certainly aren’t going to tell you about, Harper. But I can tell you this: you took several shots at several police officers yesterday. That’s attempted murder right there, not to mention a half dozen other charges. If the D.A. wants to, he can ask for indictments on charges, that running consecutively, would probably come to forty years. Then there’s still murder—for which, if you’re found guilty—the sentence would probably be the gas chamber. So—” I spread my hands, hopefully in a gesture of reasonableness. “One way it’s twenty years. The other way it’s forty years at least, and maybe the gas chamber, too.”

  His reaction was the sneering smile of a small, spoiled boy. “It wouldn’t be so bad confessing,” he was saying, “except for the fact that I’d be ruining the perfect crime. Assuming I did it, of course. Which, naturally, you’re assuming.”

  I smiled back at him. “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, Harper. If there were, then what’re you doing here?”

  “I got panicked, and ran. It was a mistake. But you’ve already admitted that you don’t have any proof against me—not proof of murder.”

  “I said we weren’t about to tell you what proof we had. I didn’t say that—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Sergeant—” He tried to raise himself higher on the pillows, then winced with sudden pain.

  I rose, gently took his shoulders, and raised him higher. His eyes, closely seen, were shadowed by the same scared, lost, bewildered uncertainty I’d seen deep in the eyes of every hoo
d, or grafter, or pimp, or murderer I’d ever questioned. They were all the same—all of them lost and scared, yet desperate to conceal it.

  I poured a glass of water, extending the glass. Silently he took it, staring at me as he drank.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he repeated.

  “What’ll you do, Harper?” I replaced the glass, then resumed my seat.

  “If you can figure out how the murder was committed, then I’ll confess. That’s how sure I am that you’re simply clutching at straws, without any proof.”

  “You’re talking about the Forest murder.”

  He nodded. “This is strictly between us, of course—a private deal. No witnesses. In front of witnesses, I’ll deny everything. I’ll say that you were coming after me yesterday evening at the Marina, and I—I got scared, and ran.”

  “Shooting.”

  He shrugged.

  “You think of yourself as quite a little superman, don’t you, Harper? I’ve decided that you committed the Forest murder just like Leopold and Loeb did—just for kicks. Am I right?”

  Mockingly he seemed to consider it. “Not a bad guess, Sergeant. At least, you’ve got me interested.” He waved a hand. “Continue. Pray continue.”

  “You got the money, of course. Maybe that was the motive, originally. But when the time came, you knew that you’d really come to murder her.”

  Listening, his eyes were changed—guarded now. I was coming close.

  “You say I murdered her,” he was saying, his voice very soft, his eyes very bright with a fixed fascination. “But you don’t say how. Don’t forget, Sergeant—” He was almost crooning. “Don’t forget, I was questioned about her murder. I was—”

  “That was before you tried to shoot it out with us, Harper. An innocent man doesn’t do that.”

  “You’re forgetting our little agreement, Sergeant. You were going to tell me how I murdered Karen Forest, not why. And if you guess correctly, I might—”

  A knock sounded. Impatiently I rose and opened the door. It was Williams, posted in the corridor.

  “The Lieutenant wants to see you.” He pointed to a small waiting room at the end of the hall.

  I walked impatiently to the waiting room, lighting a cigarette as I went.

  “You look a little miffed,” Friedman said.

  “If I do, it’s because I think I was getting somewhere with Harper.” And, as concisely as possible, I told him the whole conversation.

  Listening, sometimes nodding, Friedman reflectively smoked his cigar, occasionally making small sounds of agreement.

  Finally, when I’d finished, he announced, “Between the hours of three-thirty A.M. and five A.M. this morning, I think I figured out something that would make Harper the Forest murderer and also account for his alibi. In theory, anyhow.”

  “Good. Let’s hear it.”

  “Of course,” he said, waving a magnanimous hand, “what you’ve just told me has put a lot of the finishing touches on my theory. So, when they’re interviewing me for the newspapers and T.V., I’m going to be sure and give you credit. You probably won’t have a speaking part, though.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Anyhow,” he continued, “here’s what I think happened: First, I think Harper decided to hit the Forest place, probably for the loot—plus the opportunity to do someone a bad turn, therefore relieving a few of his aggressions. Then, when she gave him a little trouble, he killed her. Now you’re wondering, I presume, how he could’ve been simultaneously at both the Crushed Chrysanthemum and Karen Forest’s. Right?”

  I shook my head. “Wrong.”

  He frowned, speculatively looking me over.

  “Does that mean,” he said, “that you’ve developed a so-called theory of your own?”

  “Right.”

  “All right—” He waved a magnanimous hand. “Give it to me, Sergeant. It’s the duty of lieutenants to encourage underlings. Let’s see how close you came.”

  “Well, this morning I happened to hear that when Carruthers went back to Maxine’s apartment, he found a blond wig, plus a couple of newspapers with words and phrases apparently cut out with a razor blade. Indicating, obviously, blackmail. But Carruthers didn’t connect the two. He figured the wig belonged to Maxine. Of course, Carruthers didn’t have the advantage of knowing Cecile Franks, who told me that Maxine didn’t wear wigs. So, adding up Harper as Karen Forest’s murderer, plus the mysterious wig, plus blackmail, I decided that the wig belonged to Harper, who gave it to Robertson, who impersonated Harper at the revival meeting. Then, somehow, Maxine got hold of the wig. Maybe Robertson ditched it outside the Crushed Chrysanthemum. Maxine might not’ve made the connection until after Robertson came back, and got murdered. Or maybe she was biding her time. Anyhow, it’s the only way it could’ve worked. As you said yourself, it’s a long hike.”

  Friedman sighed. “First he’s a radio personality. Now he’s a super sleuth.” Mock-morosely, he puffed at his cigar.

  Then, suddenly, he rose to his feet. “Come on,” he said, already striding away. “I’ll try it on Harper. You just nod and look mean. Besides, his lawyer’s due any minute.”

  And, a moment later, Friedman and I were standing it the foot of Harper’s bed, silently staring at the suspect. Finally, Friedman began speaking in a slow, solemn voice. “I only got a couple of hours sleep since we brought you here last night, John. But we finally got it all tied up. We have all the witnesses we need in the Forest murder, and we’re making good progress on the other murders. Fibres from your clothing, for instance, were found in the car you stole for the Summers murder.”

  Harper didn’t do more than blink. He didn’t say anything; he just looked at us, his eyes moving ceaselessly between Friedman and myself.

  Friedman raised his eyes to stare at Harper. “You told Sergeant Hastings that if he came up with a solution to the Forest murder, you’d do the sporting thing and confess. Are you willing to make the same offer to me, Harper? Because, if you are, I’ll send for the steno right now.”

  Harper’s face was certainly paler. Briefly I wondered whether he might slip back into shock—just about the time his lawyer arrived, perhaps with a doctor in tow.

  “Of course,” Friedman was saying, “I should have checked you closer in the Forest murder, with your lousy juvenile record. Except of course, that you had an airtight alibi. Cut and dried. Right?”

  Harper was staring at Friedman, mutely.

  “Right?” Friedman asked, his voice suddenly sharp. “I’m talking to you, Harper. We’re talking about what you were doing the night Karen Forest was murdered. And, according to the statement you gave me, you spent the entire evening at the Crushed Chrysanthemum. Now, is that right, or isn’t it?”

  “Y—yes. That’s right.”

  “All right. Now, let’s get the statement you gave Sergeant Hastings, night before last. You said—again—that you remained at the Crushed Chrysanthemum during the entire evening, from approximately eight P.M. until approximately two A.M. You didn’t leave the premises. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Good.” Friedman nodded, smiling now, as if in encouragement. “You further stated, to Sergeant Hastings, that in fact, you only left the hall once. To go to the men’s room. Is that correct?”

  This time, Harper only nodded. His eyes were wary; he licked at his lips, glanced down quickly towards me, then returned his gaze to Friedman.

  “Well, then,” the Lieutenant was saying, “if you don’t want to change your testimony, stating that during the whole evening you only left the hall once, then I wonder if you’d tell me how it happened that—”

  “No,” Harper broke in sharply. “No, the—that’s not right. I—I made a mistake. I left the big room twice. I—I just remembered.” He bobbed his head. “I—I didn’t think it was important, how many times I left. B—but just when you were talking, I—I was thinking. And I remember that I left twice, to go to the men’s room.”

  Regretfully
smiling, Freidman shook his head.

  “No, Harper. I believed you the first time. Or, at least, I believed what you told Sergeant Hastings. I believe, see, that you did leave the room once. You went to the men’s room, and you let Donny Robertson inside—he looked enough like you, with identical clothes, and the wig, and all. Then you walked over to Karen Forest’s house, murdered her, robbed her, stashed the loot, and returned to wait outside the men’s room of the Crushed Chrysanthemum for Robertson to let you in. So, really, you were telling the truth; you did leave just once. However, several witnesses—we’ve turned up four, so far—all say that you actually left the room several times. So, the way I figure, Robertson got bugged, sweating out your return. He probably checked the men’s room every few minutes, instead of waiting the required number of minutes. Like, say, twenty minutes. Is that how long it took you to do it, Harper? About twenty minutes? Because that’s what we get from our witnesses, Harper. They all agree, of course, that the switch would certainly have been convincing, if they hadn’t stopped to think about it—or if you hadn’t turned up on Bay Area radio yesterday evening, playing Billy the Kid. And they all agree that you did a masterful job, picking the Friday night session at the Crushed Chrysanthemum, for your little masquerade—when almost no one was paying attention to anything but his own private little visions of dwarfs and elves. And, also, everyone agrees that—”

  The door opened behind us. It was the doctor, followed by a bald man carrying a brief case. Friedman managed to say cheerfully, “Here’s your lawyer, Harper. You’d better talk this over with him. And remember what Sergeant Hastings said about the difference between serving twenty years and maybe going to the gas chamber.” He nodded briskly to the lawyer, and together we left the room.

  “Do you really have all those witnesses?” I asked quietly as we walked towards the waiting room.

  He smiled sidelong at me. “You must think I’m some kind of a demon for work, Sergeant. I spend an hour and a half, from three-thirty A.M. to five A.M., tossing and turning while I wrap up a vicious triple murder, and you expect me to jump out of bed a couple of hours later and get right at pounding the pavements. I need rest. Relaxation. I—Oh, oh. Here’s Vannuchi. I’ll leave you two to talk, while I phone the D.A.”