…A Dangerous Thing

by Crider, Bill

  Dirty Harry laughed. The laugh had a phlegmy sound. "Not me, son. If you was to break in one of the buildin's, or park illegally, I'd squeal. But not about smokin'."

  "Then maybe she won't find out," Burns said.

  "You wish," Dirty Harry said.

  Elaine thought it was time to call Napier, but Burns didn't agree.

  "We don't have any proof," he said. "We've got to get the evidence."

  "What evidence?"

  Burns pulled the shift lever and put the Plymouth in drive. "You'll see," he said.

  It was a little past mid-afternoon when they arrived at Samantha Henderson's house in the Heights. Burns rang the doorbell.

  This time it took even longer for Samantha to answer the ring than it had the first time they'd visited her. And she looked, if anything, worse than she had then. She had fixed her hair for the funeral, but it hadn't been touched since. And she didn't look as if she'd slept.

  Burns thought he knew why.

  Just as before, Samantha stood inside the house looking out at them, not inviting them to enter.

  This time it was Elaine who said, "Can we come in?"

  "Why not?" Samantha stepped back, opening the door wide enough for them to come inside.

  Burns looked at the living room. It wasn't much dirtier than it had been, but the odor of decay seemed a little stronger. The overstuffed chair was still tipped to one side.

  Samantha stood listlessly in the middle of the room and looked at them, but she had nothing to say.

  Burns didn't know exactly where to begin, either. He looked at Elaine.

  "Why don't you sit down, Samantha," Elaine said.

  Samantha shook her head. Her hair fell around her face. "Don't want to."

  "We have to talk to you," Burns said. "It's about Tom."

  "What about him? He's dead."

  "We know that." Burns decided to try the shock treatment. It had gotten an admission out of Melling. "And we know that you killed him."

  He didn't know what kind of reaction he expected. Maybe he thought Samantha would break down and cry. Or maybe he thought she would confess.

  He certainly didn't think she would attack him.

  But she did. She flew across the room, her fingers shaped into talons, her wild hair flying.

  "Liar! Liar!" she yelled, and then she smashed into Burns, throwing him to the floor and scratching at his face with both hands, yelling "Liar!" all the while.

  Burns tried to throw her off, but she was stronger than he was. He tried to grab her wrists, but she was too fast for him. All he could do was fend her off from his eyes, though she succeeded in inflicting several scratches on his face.

  He heard Elaine saying, "Stop it! Stop it!" and he was pretty sure that she was trying to drag Samantha off him, but it wasn't working.

  He was giving himself up for a goner when Elaine pulled Samantha's head back and cracked her on the chin with a credible right cross.

  Samantha was stunned, but she wasn't out. She jumped off Burns, twisted around, and launched herself at Elaine, wrestling her to the floor and grabbing her hair. She pounded Elaine's head into the rug three times before Burns could get to her.

  He grabbed her arms and pulled her away from Elaine. She writhed in his hands like a snake, twisting her head back to spit at him.

  Burns didn't know what to do with her. He was like the man who didn't know what to do with the tiger now that he had caught it.

  She kicked backward and hit his shin. He let go of her arms.

  She dropped on top of Elaine, grabbed her hair again, and started banging her head on the rug.

  Every time her head hit the floor, Elaine said something that sounded like "Uhh."

  Burns didn't want to hit Samantha. It didn't seem politically correct. But he couldn't think of anything else to do. He grabbed a cushion off the couch and slammed it into the side of her head as hard as he could.

  She slid off Elaine and whirled on him like a catamount. He whacked her in the face with the cushion. He hit her again and again, until she collapsed to the rug, crying.

  It was probably a sad picture, but right at the moment, Burns had no sympathy for her. He put the cushion back on the couch and helped Elaine to her feet.

  "I tried to stop her," Elaine said. "But I couldn't."

  "It's not your fault," Burns said. "I shouldn't have provoked her."

  "Your face is bleeding," Elaine told him. She opened her purse and took out a tissue. "Hold still."

  Burns tried to be brave while she blotted his face. Samantha huddled on the floor, crying.

  "We should look for some alcohol to put on these scratches," Elaine said.

  "Later," Burns said.

  He walked over to the recliner and tipped it up. There was a canvas book bag under it. Burns pulled the bag out and let the chair back down to the floor. The bag was turned inside out, and it was quite heavy.

  That was because it was holding a notebook, a keyboarding text, and a bust of Sigmund Freud. The inside of the bag was stained dark with blood, and the odor of decay was a lot stronger.

  "She put the bust in the bag, then swung it and hit him," Burns said.

  "But R. M. didn't notice any marks like that," Elaine said.

  "She hit him in the back of the head. Then the back of his head hit the sidewalk."

  "Oh."

  Burns walked over to Samantha, who was sitting up now.

  "Isn't that about right, Samantha?" he said.

  She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yes. I'd gone by to speak to him about his behavior with Dawn Melling. He blamed me because Walt Melling had hit him. He yelled at me, and then he turned his back on me and told me to get out of his office. I wanted to hurt him, so I put that awful bust in my bag and hit him with it." She started crying again. "I didn't know he'd go out the window."

  Maybe she was telling the truth, Burns thought.

  Maybe not.

  "So it was all Elaine's idea." Boss Napier said. "She gets the credit."

  "That's right," Burns told him.

  They were sitting in Samantha Henderson's living room, but Samantha wasn't there. She was on her way to the city jail.

  "Tell me how I solved it," Elaine said.

  Burns was glad to. "You reminded me of misquotations and Hamlet. And there was something you said about sexual harassment."

  "I understand the misquotations part. But not the Hamlet."

  "'The lady doth protest too much.'"

  "I get it," Napier said. "She was the one who was jealous. All those women, they didn't come on to her husband at all. She was, what do you call it? In denial?"

  "Close enough," Burns said, though he wasn't a psychology major. "She was jealous, and she knew what he was doing, but she couldn't admit to anyone that her husband was a philanderer. She tried to pretend that it was someone else's fault. If anyone asked her about what was going on, she blamed the women."

  "That's a real English teacher word," Napier said. "Philanderer."

  "I mean he played around."

  "I know what you mean. I was just talking about the word."

  "Right. But it's probably the wrong word. I don't think he really played around. I think he just talked. And touched."

  "That's the sexual harassment part," Elaine said. " What did I say about harassment that gave Samantha away?"

  "That was the most important thing," Burns said. "Not that I agree with it."

  "Agree with what?"

  "That it's always the woman who suffers. You said that after we talked to Kristi Albert."

  "And you don't agree with that?" Elaine said.

  "I don't," Napier said. "Look at Henderson."

  Elaine gave Napier a look. "I didn't mean that kind of suffering."

  "Tom suffered in other ways," Burns said. "He had a real problem. He should have gotten help. Maybe I should have said something to him about it. I knew what was going on, and I kept my mouth shut."

  "That's the trouble with men," Elaine said
. "You never think of talking about something. But that's beside the point now. I can see why my saying that made you think of Samantha."

  "Yes. She'd controlled herself pretty well for a long time, but somehow she heard about Dawn Melling. Maybe Tom even told her."

  "I wouldn't put it past someone like that," Elaine said.

  "Me neither. She didn't know what to do about it any more than I did, though. So she told Walt. She thought maybe he'd take care of it."

  "Maybe he did," Napier said. "Maybe a little thrashing was what Henderson needed."

  Elaine was disdainful. "You men think that's the answer to everything."

  "Hey," Napier said. "I said maybe."

  Elaine didn't respond, so Napier turned to Burns. "I have to hand it to you, Burns. You did it again."

  "I guess I did," Burns said, wondering why he didn't feel better about it. "But that's not all."

  "There's more?" Napier said. "Don't tell me your buddies are guilty too."

  "It's not that. It's something entirely different."

  Napier frowned. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

  "You'll love it," Burns said. "How would you like to be famous? Maybe even get yourself on television?"

  "How am I going to do that?"

  "You're going to accept the surrender of Henry Mitchum."

  "Hot damn," Napier said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Burns could see that Franklin Miller was torn.

  On the one hand, the surrender of Henry Mitchum/Eric Holt to Boss Napier was going to bring the school national publicity, but it wasn't exactly the kind of publicity that Miller coveted.

  On the other hand, the news about Holt completely overshadowed the scandalous murder of Tom Henderson by his own wife, which would otherwise have dominated the Pecan City news and quite possibly have spread to Texas' larger cities.

  The news about Holt also overshadowed the student court's hearing on the matter of George (the Ghost) Kasper's guilt or innocence on charges of lookism, and Miller had to be grateful for that. No one was going to worry about a minor case of political incorrectness when one of the nation's most sought-after fugitives was being booked in the local cop shop.

  "What do you think will happen to him?" Miller asked Burns.

  They were meeting in Miller's office prior to Burns's representing George at the hearing.

  "I think he'll get off," Burns said. "It's been a long time, he's led an exemplary life, and he still says he didn't have a thing to do with the bank robbery. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "I hope you're right," Miller said. "It won't look good for HGC if he's convicted."

  "The school won't be hurt even if that happens," Burns said. "No one here knew who he was, except for Dean Partridge, and she's the one who convinced him to come here and turn himself in."

  That was the story they had decided on, at any rate. It was true enough as such stories went.

  "He was at another school for a long time," Miller said. "He didn't turn himself in while he was there."

  Burns nodded. "Right. It took HGC to persuade him to do that. If anything, we'll come out of this looking like the good guys."

  "Excellent," Miller said, rubbing his hands together. "You've done a fine job, Burns, solving the murder and getting Holt to give himself up all at the same time. By the way, who's going to be teaching Holt's classes?"

  "The judge may let him finish the semester," Burns said. "Let's wait and see."

  Miller beamed. "Excellent. Now. What are you going to do about George Kaspar?"

  "That one could be tricky," Burns admitted.

  The Student Government met and held court in a small room that had once been HGC's faculty lounge. The room wasn't big enough to hold all the spectators at the hearing, and Burns had to shove his way through a knot of students to get inside.

  The five students on the court were sitting at a small rectangular table in the center of the room. George (the Ghost) Kaspar, looking as pale as his cartoon counterpart, was there, too, as was Bunni. Elaine was sitting in a chair on one side of the room, and there were several other faculty members in attendance as well. Mal and Earl were sitting near Elaine, and the Mellings were beside them. The room buzzed with conversation.

  Burns wondered if this scene was a preview of many like it to come, not at HGC but all around the country. He knew that one college was adopting a sort of Miranda Warning for sex on dates and that every single step in the relationship had to be agreed to in advance. He imagined solemn students with laminated cards in their hands checking off every move: "May I touch this strap? You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to remain silent, I will take that to mean that I may not touch that strap."

  And so it would go for every strap, buckle, and zipper. God knows whose passion could survive the undressing for the even more intimate moments. Or moments that had once been intimate. Being sure to follow the checklist would probably cool even the most ardent passions. Burns didn't like to think about it.

  George saw Burns come in and appeared glad to see him. It was almost as if he thought Burns was the only friend he had in the room.

  Burns walked over to stand behind George's chair. He leaned forward and slipped a piece of paper in George's hand. He didn't think anyone saw him.

  "What's this?" George asked. He sounded as if he had been hoping for Al Pacino and the flame thrower, for which a piece of paper was a poor substitute.

  Burns said, "It's another poem. Ask if you can have a word with Bunni. If she'll talk to you, tell her you have something for her. Then give her the poem."

  George looked around the room. All the chairs were full, and students were standing wherever they could get a view of the table.

  He looked back at Burns. "It was a poem that got me into all this," he said.

  Burns said he knew that. "But this is different. It's worth a shot."

  George wasn't the picture of confidence, but he said, "All right."

  He leaned over to Rodney Black, the student who was to preside at the meeting, and whispered something to him. Rodney nodded and bent across the table to speak to Bunni.

  Burns couldn't hear what they were saying over the buzz, but he saw Bunni nod. Rodney motioned for George to go ahead and talk to her.

  "Tell her you read the poem, and it reminded you of her," Burns said in George's ear.

  George nodded and got up. He walked around to Bunni's chair and handed her the piece of paper. Bunni unfolded it and looked at the poem. George whispered something, and she blushed.

  It's up to you now, George, Burns thought, hoping George would know what to say. Apparently he did. He continued to talk, and Bunni continued to listen. After a minute or so, the conversation ended and George returned to his seat.

  "How'd it go?" Burns asked.

  "We'll see," George said, and they did.

  Bunni stood up and said she wasn't interested in pursuing the charge of lookism. "It was all a big mistake. I misunderstood George, and I'd like to apologize to him right now, in front of everyone. He never based his opinion of me on my appearance. I know that now. I'd also like to apologize to the student court for wasting their time."

  Then she walked through the crowd and out of the room. George got up and followed her. Burns thought they'd be just fine.

  "What was that you gave George?" Elaine asked as they were leaving the building. "I saw you slip him that paper."

  "It was a poem," Burns said. "It reminded him of Bunni. And it reminded me of you. I just happen to have another copy."

  He took a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Elaine.

  "'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,'" he said. "Shelley."

  Elaine smiled. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

  "One of the Younger Romantics started all this," Burns said. "I thought it would be appropriate if another of them finished it. And it looks as if it might have worked."

  Elaine took his arm. "Yes, I guess it did, even if Shelley wasn'
t talking about a particular person's intellectual beauty."

  "Who said he was?" Burns asked.

  "Never mind. By the way, Mal Tomlin said something about forming a faculty baseball team."

  "That's right," Burns said. "I'm going to play second base. I hope you'll watch some of the games." He thought how that must sound. "Unless you want to play, of course. I'm sure there are a few openings on the team."

  "I think I'll just watch," she said, and Burns hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself on an infield fly.

  They neared Burns's car, and Burns saw someone standing by the Plymouth.

  Boss Napier.

  "What a pleasant surprise," Burns said when they got to the car. "Don't tell me there's been another murder that I'm going to have to solve for you."

  "You know what I'm here for, Burns," Napier said.

  "That's where you're wrong. I don't have any idea."

  "And I'm Little Orphan Annie."

  "Well, I don't know what you're here for," Elaine said. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

  "Lincoln Logs," Napier said, and Burns grinned.

  Napier saw the grin. "And lead soldiers. Damn you, Burns, that's why you had Holt give himself up at Cartilage's house, isn't it."

  "Partridge," Burns said. "You might want to get used to it."

  "She wears hippie glasses," Napier said. "She doesn't even wear lipstick."

  "True," Burns said. "But she collects Lincoln Logs. It's a relationship made in heaven."

  "I'll get you for this, Burns," Napier said.

  "Maybe," Burns said.

  And maybe not, he thought.