“Were there any bruises?”
“None that are visible. Aside from the multiple stab wounds concentrated in the abdomen, the only other injuries I can see are lacerations of the palms.”
“As if he fought for the knife, you mean.”
“Or was fending it off.”
I nodded, and turned inquiringly to Culligan. “Anything else?”
Culligan shook his head. He was a tall, gaunt, thin-chested man with hollow cheeks and haggard, fatigue-smudged eyes. Culligan had a slatternly, abusive wife, a delinquent daughter and a duodenal ulcer. He was prematurely bald and prematurely stooped. Culligan said very little, but he was a shrewd, skillful detective, however taciturn. He knew that my question was perfunctory—that I was about to dismiss Tharp so that we could get down to business. Therefore, Culligan merely shook his head.
“Okay,” I said to Tharp. “But get the autopsy to us as soon as possible, huh?” I glanced at the time. It was 2:45 P.M. “How about, say, ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
Tharp shrugged peevishly. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned toward the door. “Shall I send in the gurney?”
“Yes.”
I followed the ambulance stewards into the bedroom, and watched them load the body on the gurney.
“I didn’t check the right-hand pockets,” Culligan said, “because of the way he was lying.”
“Do it now. Go through everything. I’m your witness.”
Culligan stepped forward impassively and began methodically going through the pockets, deftly turning the body from side to side. The feel of a corpse didn’t seem to disturb him. Wryly, I wondered whether others thought the same of me.
When Culligan had finished, he took two Polaroid pictures of the victim’s face, one picture for each of us. I stepped to the body, silently staring down into the dead face. Imagining the lolling mouth closed and the lusterless eyes animated, I figured he must have been good-looking. His face was lean and handsome—the face of a lady’s man. His medium-brown hair was modishly razor-cut, his sideburns carefully trimmed to complement the with-it hair style. He was clean-shaven. His clothes were expensive. He wore an elaborately saddle-stitched leather jacket, flared slacks and eighty-dollar Wellington boots. His turtleneck shirt was rib-knit. Culligan was right He didn’t belong where he’d died.
“Got everything?” I asked Culligan.
Again he nodded. From the pinched look on Culligan’s face, I knew that his ulcer was bothering him.
“Okay, take it away,” I told the stewards. They deftly covered the body, securing the white plastic sheet with bands of black elastic. A moment later they were gone.
I turned to Culligan. “What’d you find in his pockets?”
He’d slipped everything into a large, clear-plastic evidence bag, which he silently handed to me. I saw a small stag-handled pocketknife, a handful of silver coins and a neatly folded handkerchief.
“That’s all?” I asked.
“That’s all. No billfold or keys or correspondence.”
“A goddamn John Doe.”
“Looks like it.”
“Anything else?”
He reached into his outside jacket pocket, carefully withdrawing a smaller bag. It contained an open switchblade knife. The handle and blade were caked with dried blood.
“Is that the murder weapon?”
He shrugged. “It could be.”
I suppressed a smile. If Friedman was the garrulous one, and Canelli was the innocent and Markham the heavy, then Culligan was the silent one.
“Where’d you find it?” I asked.
“In a trash can about four doors down the block. Sigler found it.”
“What’s Sigler doing now?”
“He’s checking out the neighbors. We still can’t find anyone who heard anything last night.”
“What else? Who discovered the body?”
“Nobody discovered the body,” Culligan replied. “At least, no civilian. An anonymous phone tip came in at eleven fifteen A.M. today. The voice was disguised, according to Communications. It could have been either a man or a woman. It just said, ‘Take a look inside the big apartment at 436 Hoffman.’ So a radio car responded. The front door was latched, but unlocked. They just walked in. I got the call about noon. We were up in Miraloma Park, on that Thompson thing. So we came over.”
“How about physical evidence?” As I asked the question, I began walking slowly through the apartment, to get a feel of the place. The layout was simply a living room, a small bedroom and an even smaller kitchen. The tiny bath was dark and dingy, just a toilet and a sheet-metal shower. A small door connected the kitchen to the rear service porch. The door was bolted and chained.
“There really isn’t much physical evidence,” Culligan was saying. “The back door is bolted, as you can see. There’s no way anyone could get in through the windows. The front ones are solid plate glass. That leaves the windows in the bedroom and kitchen. And they’re too small and too high. Plus they were latched, anyhow.”
“So the murderer came in through the front door.” We were back in the living room now. “Any jimmy marks?”
“No. But the murderer could already have been here, you know.”
I nodded. “Either way, though, he must’ve left by the front door.”
“Right.”
“Who’s the apartment belong to?”
“According to a girl who lives upstairs—her name is Judy Blake—the tenant is Diane Farley. Which might be a lead, because the vice squad’s got a yellow sheet on her. I haven’t seen it yet, though.”
“Did you put out an A.P.B. on her?”
“I sure did.”
“Is Diane Farley a hooker?” As I asked the question, I glanced around the apartment once more. It didn’t look like a hooker’s place.
Culligan shrugged. “I figured I’d wait till I got down to the Hall to pull her jacket, Lieutenant. The vice squad, you know, doesn’t like to give that stuff out over the phone. They’re getting harder to do business with all the time.”
“What about this Judy Blake? What’s her story?”
“She’s pretty straight, I’d say. She says she’s a graduate student at State College, and I believe her. She’s a walking encyclopedia.”
“Is she still here?”
“Yeah. I, ah, persuaded her to cut a class and stick around in case you wanted to talk to her.”
I checked the time. “I’d better not. I have to get back to the Hall. Did you hear about the governor?”
“No.”
“He got shot. A Chicano kid did it. With an M-l, if you can believe that.”
“Did he kill the governor?”
“No. In fact, no one was killed.” As I said it, I turned absently away, strolling through the apartment for a last look. In the kitchen, I noted the untidy stack of dirty dishes, the old, cheap stove and refrigerator, the stained and cracked linoleum on the floor.
The bedroom furnishings consisted only of a decrepit old-fashioned bureau with a clouded mirror, a double mattress covered with a peony-printed spread, and a rickety chair. The bed-springs were supported by four concrete blocks. The chair was laden with a woman’s clothing. A small white shag rug, soaked with blood, was spread on the floor near the bed. The bedroom walls were covered with posters, most of them either erotic or hip—or both. A cork bulletin board was nailed to the wall beside the bureau. The cork was entirely covered with photographs, most of them eight-by-ten glossies. The subject was the same in each picture: a dark-haired girl in her twenties, with a good figure and a narrow, closed face. The photos were obviously the work of a professional photographer. In about half of them, the girl was nude. All of the poses, nude or not, were provocative.
“That,” Culligan said, “is Diane Farley. Not bad, huh?”
I smiled. “If any of these pictures are missing, Culligan, I’ll know where to look.” I strode into the living room. An old-fashioned wind-up phonograph stood on a cut-down oak dining table. Two wicker chair
s had been painted a gleaming white. A huge mound of pillows was piled on the mattress-cum-couch. In this room, the poster art was more restrained. In one corner a large rubber plant grew in a tarnished brass spittoon. The place had a with-it feeling, furnished for a far-out young person. I wondered whether she could be working her way through college by turning tricks. It happens.
“It looks like she’s lived here for a while,” I said thoughtfully.
“Yeah, she has.”
“How many apartments are there in the building?”
“Four, besides this one. They’re all small—just studios. There’s one on this floor, and three upstairs.”
“Where’s Judy Blake’s apartment?”
“Upstairs.”
I glanced again at my watch. “It’s after three. I’d better get downtown. You and Sigler keep at it, here. You don’t have anything else that’s hot, do you?”
He shrugged. “Not really. That Thompson thing isn’t going anywhere.”
“All right. If I have time, I’ll check Diane Farley’s rap sheet when I get to the hall. If it’s anything heavy, I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay. See you, Lieutenant.”
“Right. Good luck.”
Seven
I’D JUST FINISHED LOCKING up the cruiser when I heard the first reporter’s voice: “Hey, Lieutenant. Got a minute?” And the raucous, jostling pack was quickly on me, crowding me against the garage’s concrete wall. Blinking against the flash bulbs, I looked down to see a microphone. To myself, I smiled. I was used to nothing more than a single bored reporter, yawning as he scribbled in a dog-eared notebook.
By tacit consent the TV reporter had the first crack at me. Waving the small directional mike closer to my face, he asked, “Is it true, Lieutenant Hastings, that you captured the suspect in the assassination attempt single-handed?”
“No, that’s not true. There were three of us inside the building, and probably fifty men outside.”
“Why were there only three of you inside, Lieutenant?”
“It was very crowded—very cramped quarters. In a situation like that, too many men can be worse than too few.”
“But it was you that actually took him—actually struck the, ah, decisive blow.”
“Yes,” I answered shortly. “However, I—”
“Were you assigned to guard the governor, Lieutenant?”
As I considered the question, I saw Markham emerging from the elevator. Seeing me, he stood holding the elevator’s door open. Frowning, he raised his chin toward the ceiling. I was wanted upstairs. I was conscious of a small flicker of irritation. Sergeants didn’t frown at lieutenants.
“I was going out on another case,” I answered automatically. “We were already rolling, in fact, when we got the call about the assassination attempt. Since I was close to the Civic Center, Lieutenant Friedman asked me to take field command. But”—I began to push my way free—“but I’m afraid I’ll have to go. Excuse me.” As I said it, I glanced apologetically at the camera, as if I were asking its permission to leave.
Markham left me in the hallway outside the police chief’s conference room. As a uniformed patrolman opened the door for me, I saw Markham turning toward the trailing gaggle of reporters. Markham was smiling now, anticipating their questions.
Inside the richly furnished conference room, many of the men were already standing. The meeting was breaking up.
“Ah, here he is.” Chief Reynolds turned toward me with hand outstretched. “Good work, Lieutenant. Fine work.” His deep, resonant voice rumbled with good fellowship. The lines around the chief’s eyes were personably crinkled.
“Thank you, sir.” I allowed him a small victory in our brief handshaking contest.
His expression became unctuous. “The governor,” he said solemnly, “will live. The bullet passed through his upper lung. No problem. Barring complications, he could be back to work in a month or so.”
“Good.”
That duty discharged, he clapped me lightly on the shoulder as he turned me toward the others. “You know everyone, I think.”
I looked around the circle, nodding in turn to the district attorney; two assistant D.A.’s; the U.S. attorney; the FBI’s local bureau chief; Captain Kreiger, my superior officer; and Friedman. All of them greeted me with murmured congratulations. Then I saw Canelli, still seated. Canelli’s face was sweat-sheened. His dark eyes were sheepish. In that company, Canelli wasn’t enjoying his role as an essential link in the chain of evidence.
“We’re just finishing up,” the chief was saying to me, “deciding on jurisdiction and prosecution safeguards and so forth. Captain Kreiger or Lieutenant Friedman can fill you in on the particulars. But we all want you to know how pleased we are that everything went so, ah, smoothly.” As he spoke, Reynolds’ voice fell to a deeper, more melodious note. I’d always suspected that he practiced his little speeches before a bathroom mirror.
“I’ll let Friedman fill him in,” Kreiger countered. “I promised to meet with some reporters.” Kreiger’s squared-off face was stolidly resigned. As captain of Homicide, he’d gone as far up the chain of command as he cared to go. So to Kreiger, the press represented a problem, not a promise.
The meeting broke up quickly, each of the dignitaries collecting a cluster of aides and hangers-on as he bustled toward a waiting elevator. As Friedman and I waited for another elevator, I heard him exhale slowly.
“To think,” Friedman said, “that one mentally defective Latino could create all this unseemly scrambling for the spotlight. It’s incredible. The governor’ll probably end up in the White House, with all this publicity going for him. The mayor will run for governor, naturally. And Chief Reynolds will be mayor. All courtesy of Carlos Ramirez.” He pushed me into the empty elevator and punched the fourth-floor button. As we rode down in silence, I was remembering the feel of the shotgun butt as it crashed into the suspect’s skull.
“How’s Ramirez?” I asked.
Friedman unlocked his office door and gestured me to a chair inside. “He’s got a concussion, but no skull fracture. He’ll probably be all right.”
“How about his mother?”
Friedman shook his head as he lowered himself gratefully into his outsize swivel chair. “She’s suffering from muscle spasms of the lower back, shock and heart palpitations. In other words, she isn’t so good. And, in fact, his mother’s problems seem to have been on Ramirez’ mind. He is all steamed up because his mother couldn’t get either help for her aching back or welfare. So naturally Ramirez decided to go out and shoot the governor.” Friedman paused thoughtfully, then said, “Come to think about it, there’s a certain rough justice in all this. His Honor was attacking welfare malingerers. And Ramirez, apparently, was making it a dialogue.”
“Have you seen Ramirez yet?”
“No.” Friedman sighed ruefully. “I’ve had my hands full, believe me, just talking to all the reporters and all the publicity-hungry, vote-grabbing politicians, by which term I mean to include Chief Reynolds. Not Kreiger. But Reynolds.” Friedman turned to study me reflectively. “You know,” he said slowly, “this little exploit of yours could mean a lot to your career. You know that, don’t you? Today you’re a bona-fide hero, with all the benefits of full TV coverage. Nationwide TV coverage, even. It’s an ambitious cop’s dream of a lifetime.”
I decided to shrug.
Friedman held my eye for a last long, speculative moment. Then he also shrugged, at the same time taking a cigar from his desk drawer.
“Those FBI guys,” he said, “could give everyone lessons on the gentle art of finessing publicity for themselves. Do you know what that meeting was about—really about?”
“I imagine that the FBI’s claiming the governor’s civil rights were violated.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Friedman nodded deeply. “Literally, they want to make it a federal case. And the mayor and the D.A. and Chief Reynolds, if they went along with the gag, could save the city of San Francisco a bundl
e in court costs alone. But, naturally, Mister Mayor won’t go along with any—”
His phone rang. As Friedman lifted the receiver, he applied a match to his cigar. He listened briefly, then gestured me to the phone as he puffed diligently on the cigar.
“This is Culligan, Lieutenant Hastings. Am I disturbing you?”
“No, it’s all right. What’ve you got?”
“Well, Judy Blake—the girl upstairs from Diane Farley—she had some information, and I thought I should get it to you.”
“Fine.” I reached for a scratch pad. Friedman supplied a pencil.
“First off,” Culligan said, “she thought she recognized the Polaroid shot of the victim. She couldn’t give me a name, but she thinks she’s seen him around—that is, hanging around Diane Farley’s apartment during the past six months. So—” Culligan paused for breath, then continued in his dry, laconic voice. “So after I got her talking a little bit, it develops that this Judy’s seen lots of men hanging around. So it’ll probably turn out that Farley’s some kind of a free-lance hooker, or something. And if that’s true, then this Judy Blake might’ve supplied a name for Farley’s pimp. She said that.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Let’s finish with the victim. If we assume that Farley is a hooker—a call girl, probably—then the victim was a regular customer. Is that it?”
“Well,” Culligan said cautiously, “that’s what Judy Blake said. And she seems pretty sharp. But we haven’t been able to turn up a corroborating witness.”
I checked the time. “It’s almost five. Pretty soon people’ll be coming home from work.”
“Yeah.” Typically, Culligan’s voice registered no enthusiasm.
“So is that all you’ve got on the victim?”
“Well,” Culligan hesitated. “When I pressed Judy Blake a little—she’s real cagey about committing herself—it turns out that she thinks she saw the victim driving a white Mercedes sports car. A 280SL, she said. And it was parked outside Farley’s apartment last night.”
“Is she sure about the make and model?”
Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 5
