The next intersection was Larkin and McAllister. A half block remained. The dirty gray granite of the state office building blocked our view of the plaza. The sidewalk was crowded with excited citizens, bustling to the scene of violence, their eyes bright, their mouths pursed, their heads straining eagerly forward. The rubberneckers. God, how I hated them.
A black-and-white car, doors open, radio turned up, was parked so as to partially block McAllister, following my instructions. The library loomed on our left. To our right was the plaza; a dozen steps and we’d have the plaza in sight
As I shouldered my way rudely through the last scurrying knot of thrill-seekers, I pointed to the black-and-white squad car. “We’ll use that one. That’s the C.P. I want you to check with Friedman. Then get everyone here tuned to channel two—fast.”
“Yessir.”
As I reached the McAllister Street sidewalk, I got my first full view of the Civic Center plaza. A temporary speaker’s platform stood at the plaza’s center. Hundreds—thousands—were milling around the platform, moving with the characteristic surge of a mob: wild and wanton, yet churning with an ominous, implacable purpose. I could clearly hear the unmistakably low-pitched chittering of the rabble, muttering as it pressed against the platform, seemingly intent on toppling it in their midst, then crushing the survivors. Perhaps twenty persons were packed on the platform, four of them uniformed men. One officer gripped the speaker’s microphone. He was slanting the chrome shaft toward him, striking a pop vocalist’s foot-braced stance as he harangued the mob, fruitlessly ordering them to make way for the ambulance crews. His voice shook with urgency and anger. I caught a glimpse of two victims, both lying motionless on the platform, both bleeding heavily. One was a woman, the other a man.
Canelli slid into the passenger’s seat of the black-and-white, reaching for the mike. The nearest officers were two uniformed men bending over someone stretched out on the sidewalk—the cardiac case, probably. One of the patrolmen carried a walkie-talkie.
Four steps, and I was gripping his shoulder. “What channel are you on?”
Glancing at my badge, he straightened, half saluting. “Channel four, sir.” He was a young man with blond hair and a thick reddish mustache.
“Get on channel two. Pass the word: channel two. Is that your car?”
“Yessir.”
“I need it.”
“Yessir.” He turned away, holding his walkie-talkie high in the air with one hand, using the other hand to signal a V for the channel.
“Are there any sergeants here?” I called to the blond patrolman.
“There’s one over there.” He pointed. “Sergeant Hanley. He’s trying to clear a way through the crowd for the ambulance stewards.”
“Get him over here. And keep working on channel two.”
“Yessir.” He was already trotting off, flashing the incongruous V-for-peace sign. Out of the car now, Canelli was doing the same. I put one foot on the squad car’s bumper, another on the hood. I stepped up onto the roof of the car.
To my left, a half-dozen patrolmen stood in a haphazard line on the broad steps of the Corinthian-style library. Two of them carried shotguns, one a rifle. Two had walkie-talkies. I could sense their irresolution. A few men had probably gone inside the library. The rest were awaiting developments while they prevented anyone from leaving the building.
To my right, four ambulances were pulled up on the plaza, bordering the edges of the crowd. Another ambulance was arriving, its siren winding down to a guttural mutter. A wedge of officers flailed at the fringe of the crowd closest to me, slowly opening a corridor for the stretchers. One patrolman circled the mob on his motorcycle, urgently motioning the stewards toward the corridor. They were making progress. I glanced at the four streets bordering the plaza. Traffic was stopped, as I had ordered. The casualties would soon be cleared.
It was time to go to work.
I looked down into the seamed, ruddy face of Sergeant Dwight Hanley. I’d known him for nine years, ever since I’d joined the force. Glancing at the circle of upturned civilian faces clustered around my car, I slid off the car’s roof to the ground, drawing Hanley aside. “Hello, Dwight. What the hell’s happening? Is the governor dead?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get through the crowd. Plus I’m in charge of traffic control. I was standing about fifty yards south of the speakers’ platform. There must’ve been eight or ten shots. High-powered rifle, I’d say. Rapid-fire, too, so it was a semiautomatic. Had to be.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. His voice had slipped into a high, unprofessional falsetto. “I saw one of the victims go down,” he continued more deliberately. “She bucked back three feet. She was really hit, you know? So like I say, it’s a powerful gun.”
“Is anyone in custody?”
“Not that I know of.” He pointed to the library. “The way it looked, the suspect had to’ve been firing from that direction. I mean, the way the victims fell, it’s got to be.”
“Is he in the library, you mean?”
He shrugged his beefy shoulders, snapping and unsnapping his holster strap as his gaze balefully traversed the plaza. “Christ, I don’t know. The communications are piss-poor. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to be in charge.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m in charge now. Stand by, will you?” I turned toward Canelli. He stood only a step from my elbow, so that I brushed against him. He extended the walkie-talkie toward me with an oddly tentative gesture, as if he were afraid to antagonize me. “They’re coming in on channel two, Lieutenant.”
“Good.” I got back on the roof of the car, then reached down for the radio. “This is Lieutenant Hastings. I want the men who are assisting the stewards to stay with them until the ambulances clear the area.” I paused long enough to hear a few scattered acknowledgments of the order. “I’m in charge,” I continued. “I’m at the corner of Larkin and McAllister, standing on top of a black-and-white. Has anyone seen a suspect?”
Scattered replies, all negative.
“Where did the shots come from? Which direction? Which building? Sound off.”
The haphazard consensus was plain: the library. It had to be the library.
“Are all the exits from the building covered?”
Yes. Double-covered. Triple-covered. And men were inside. Four, five inspectors, at least.
I next asked for a precise time on the shooting. It averaged out to 1:22 P.M. Glancing at my watch, I made it seven minutes ago. “Is there anyone inside the library on this net?” I asked.
Silence.
“All right. I’m proceeding to the front steps of the library.” As I said it, the knot of officers standing on the library steps stood a little straighter. Two or three of them looked toward me. I slid to the ground again and handed the radio to Canelli, at the same time brushing off my suit. “You stay here,” I ordered. “Keep Lieutenant Friedman informed. Tell him we’ve got all the personnel we need—for now, at least. Except for maybe a couple of sharpshooters.”
“Yessir.”
“Can you come with me, Dwight?”
Hanley nodded. “There’re about four traffic sergeants here, at least,” he said sourly. “Everyone’s in everyone else’s way.”
“Let’s go, then.”
As we walked to the library steps, the first of the ambulances was getting under way, escorted by a pair of motorcycle officers. That would be the governor, I thought as I walked. I wondered whether he was dead, or dying. I’d never liked either him or his politics. Oddly, I realized that I felt resentful of the publicity he was getting.
As I mounted the library steps, I saw Sergeant Jerry Markham, from my own squad, emerging from one pair of the library’s carved bronze doors. He was flanked by Dave Pass, from Bunco, and a new inspector on the vice squad. Markham, I knew, was off duty for three days. He was dressed casually in a poplin jacket and corduroy slacks. At age thirty, slim and handsome, he looked like a graduate student.
The three inspectors were clos
ely followed by two women, one in her twenties, the other middle-aged. The women walked as though they were seeking safety in the officer’s wake, staying close behind. The older woman’s eyes darted uneasily toward the plaza; she was frightened.
Markham angled down to meet us, descending the broad stairs with an easy, graceful stride. As he approached, I could see the shadow of displeasure plain on Markham’s handsome, arrogant face. Until that moment, he’d probably been the ranking officer on the scene.
The five of us formed a loose circle. The two women stopped a few steps away, whispering together. The original group of uniformed officers remained as before, awaiting orders. I glanced at the two women. The younger was frowning at her timid companion, speaking to her in a low, exasperated voice.
“What’s the story?” I asked Markham.
He turned deliberately toward the library, squinting in the pale winter sunshine. He moved as if he were posing for a publicity picture. Raising his right arm, he pointed to a pair of small ornamental windows placed just above the building’s massive Grecian lintel.
“The shots came from up there. There’re shell cases all over the place. Thirty caliber, M-l. It’s a dead-storage area—a kind of a loft. It’s dusty, so you can see where he walked.”
“Did you post someone up there to secure the area for the lab?”
“Certainly,” he answered brusquely. Markham resented obvious questions, however necessary. He gestured toward the two women, speaking in a lowered voice. “The younger woman saw someone who looked Mexican go up the stairs leading to the loft. It was about twenty minutes ago—about ten minutes before the shooting. He was bareheaded, with a dark complexion. His hair is kind of scraggly, she says, and grows down to his collar. He’s in his early twenties. And she’s a pretty good witness, so I believe her. She’s cool. The subject was wearing a blue gabardine topcoat that she thinks was dirty and ripped in spots. And—” He paused momentarily, for emphasis. “And she says he was climbing the stairs like he had a bad leg. Which could’ve been the rifle, under his coat.”
“What about the other woman?”
“She saw him come down, right after the shooting. And he was in a hurry, she said—and still walking awkwardly, hopping down the stairs. So I figure we got at least a tentative make.”
“Did anyone inside see him leave the building?”
“So far, no.”
“Where does the stairway lead?”
“It goes from the top of the building to the basement. Five stories, altogether. It’s used mostly by employees, but customers can use it, too—except that most of them don’t. They either use the elevators or the main staircase.”
“So if he’s still in the building,” I said, “he could be anywhere.”
“Yes. And that building’ll be a bitch to search, believe me.”
I called for a walkie-talkie, and gestured for the uniformed men to join us. Using the radio, I described the suspect, asking if anyone had seen him leaving the library. For a few moments I got no response.
Then: “This is Bartham, Lieutenant. Traffic. I’m at the back of the library building, covering the tradesmen’s entrance. And a bystander says that he saw the man you describe entering a blue two-door sedan. The witness didn’t say anything about a limp, but the rest fits. And the time is about right.”
“Is the witness there?”
“Yessir. He’s with my partner.”
“All right. Hold on to him. And see if you can get any more information on the subject’s car, plus the direction it took.”
“Yessir. I’m trying.”
“Stay in the net.”
“Yessir.”
“Did you get that, Canelli?” I asked.
“I sure did, Lieutenant,” came Canelli’s voice.
“All right. Relay it to Lieutenant Friedman. He’ll put it on the air. Tell him we’re trying for supplemental information.”
“Right.”
I lowered the radio and turned toward the plaza. The last of the ambulances was leaving; the crowd was beginning to disperse. When the bloodied bodies disappeared, so did the rubberneckers.
I turned to Dave Pass and the vice inspector, whose name I still couldn’t remember. “You men had better secure the speakers’ platform for the lab crew. They should be here in ten minutes or so. Keep the four patrolmen with you, on the platform. But don’t let them screw up the evidence.”
Nodding, they moved off together.
I switched on the walkie-talkie, ordering that traffic be allowed to move. Next I instructed the officers clearing the plaza to finish their job, then stand by for further orders. Finally I turned to Markham. “We’re going to have to search the library,” I said, eying the Grecian monolith. “We can’t assume that he escaped. Not yet.”
Markham nodded, also surveying the library with a calm, coldly calculating stare. “What about the people inside?” he asked.
“How many customers would you say there are?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a hundred. I don’t know. I wasn’t counting.” The tone of his voice deprecated the question’s relevance. He was regarding me with a kind of amused, insolent tolerance.
“And probably thirty or forty staff.” As I said it, I glanced thoughtfully around. We had at least sixty men on the scene, many of them merely awaiting orders. With that much manpower, we could do the screening job in a half-hour, no problem.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that we’re going to take everyone’s name as we let them through. You set it up. We’ll—”
“Lieutenant Hastings.” Someone held out a walkie-talkie. “It’s Bartham again. From the service entrance.”
As I took the radio, I heard Bartham’s voice saying, “… three witnesses who all say that it was a six- or seven-year-old American compact car, either a Nova or a Valiant. They can’t agree on the make. But the car was beat up, they say, with a dented right front fender, except that some say it was the left. The body was rusted. And the driver was acting suspiciously, too—driving erratically, and in a hurry to leave the area.”
“Have you got that, Canelli?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Get it to Friedman. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Yessir.”
I handed the walkie-talkie to a uniformed man, and turned to Markham. Ignoring his sardonic, elaborately resigned sigh, I ordered Markham to begin systematically clearing the building, screening everyone as they came out, holding only those who either acted suspiciously or couldn’t identify themselves. There was, after all, always the possibility of an accomplice. Then, cutting off Markham’s protest, I turned away, announcing that I wanted to speak with Friedman.
As I approached the black-and-white car, I saw Canelli beckoning urgently. I ran the last hundred feet. Canelli was standing beside the car.
“They might have him spotted, Lieutenant. There’s a six-year-old Valiant proceeding south on Guerrero. Everything checks out.”
I grabbed his walkie-talkie, telling Canelli to get our car, fast, and pick me up. Then, speaking into the radio, I ordered Markham to take over at the scene, proceeding as I’d ordered, and reporting to Friedman, on Tach Seven.
Four
I SLAMMED THE DOOR, motioning for Canelli to turn west on McAllister. I decided to proceed code two: red light, no siren.
“Anything?” I asked.
Canelli nodded, blinking as he concentrated on the road ahead. “He’s still on Guerrero. He—”
“Inspectors Eleven.” It was Friedman’s voice.
I grabbed the mike, acknowledging the call.
“What’s your position, Frank?”
“We’re on McAllister, proceeding—Hey,” I said sharply to Canelli, “don’t turn here. There’s construction on Market Street, for God’s sake.”
Canelli’s sidelong look was reproachful as he straightened the car.
“We’ll be on Guerrero in a minute or so,” I said into the mike. “We—”
“Blue Valiant sedan is ac
celerating, Lieutenant Friedman,” a strange voice cut in. “He’s starting to run, I think.”
“What’s his position?” Friedman asked curtly.
“Guerrero and Nineteenth, still traveling south. But he’s accelerating, like I said.” I thought I could recognize the voice as Jack Drager’s, from the General Works Detail. Good, I thought. The pursuing car would be unmarked.
“Have we got anyone paralleling the suspect?” Friedman asked urgently. “He’s heading toward the freeway. We’ve only got fifteen blocks to stop him.”
“This is Unit 607,” someone said. “We’re at Dolores and Sixteenth, paralleling him.”
“Speed up,” Friedman ordered. “But handle code two. No sirens.”
We were crossing Market Street, against the light. As Canelli swung close behind a streetcar, a Porsche bore down on us fast from the right. With brakes locked, the Porsche was swinging broadside. I caught a momentary glimpse of a wide-eyed, bearded driver. His mouth was open wide, as if he were shouting. He would hit us on my side. I braced my knees, ducking my head between my shoulders, hands pressed to the instrument panel, elbows locked. I felt our car lurch sharply to the left; I could hear the Porsche’s tire-shriek, close beside me. We were headed directly for a traffic island. As we struck the island’s curb, Canelli wrenched the wheel to the right. With our engine roaring, we were clear, swinging into Guerrero.
“… on Valencia and Twenty-second.” It was a new voice. Automatically, I was visualizing the pursuit pattern: Drager was on Guerrero, two blocks behind the suspect. Black-and-white cars were in good position on both Valencia and Dolores, running even with the suspect. My car was bringing up the rear, closing fast. When Friedman got the two black-and-whites far enough ahead, he’d order an intersection blocked. We’d …
“Where are you, Drager?” Friedman was asking.
“We’re at Twenty-first,” came Drager’s tight voice.
“Is he still accelerating?”
“He’s going about forty. I don’t know whether he’s spooked, or just picking up speed. I can’t decide.”
Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 2
