Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 by Angel in Black (v5.0) Page A

that.
    “Brownie,” the Hat said, “go see to it that police guards are posted at the ambulance entrance of this fine facility, would you?” To us, the Hat added, “That is how you got in?”
    We nodded.
    “Do that, Brownie, please, and then get right back here, to take Mr. Fowley’s statement.”
    “Sure, Harry,” Brown said, flashing us a couple of dirty looks that would have seemed silly if the fat S.O.B. hadn’t been such a nasty piece of work.
    Once Brown had bounded off, the Hat looked from Fowley to me and back again, clapping his hands together. “First, do you boys have any questions? We’re going to cooperate, after all—the Examiner and the LAPD, that is. Two fine institutions with the public’s welfare at heart.” This son of a bitch was so dry, you could never tell when he was pulling your chain.
    “Any surprises in there, Harry?” Fowley said, nodding toward the closed door to room number four. He got out his notepad and a pencil and waited for an answer.
    It finally came.
    The Hat’s tiny mouth puckered a smile. “Of course there are . . . ‘surprises.’ I’m sure your source in the coroner’s office has already told you that . . . and I presume he’s also refused to share those surprises with you, or you wouldn’t still be standing here.”
    Fowley grinned, tapping his notepad with the pencil. “Fair enough, Harry. What can you give me?”
    “Let’s back up a little. Your extra edition has been on the street, what, two hours?”
    “Something like that.”
    The Hat lifted an eyebrow and the blue fedora rose a tad. “We’ve already had six confessions.”

    Fowley smirked. “I guess that’s no surprise—something this splashy . . . and this friggin’ weird . . . it’s gonna bring ’em out of the woodwork.”
    Nodding, the Hat said, “I anticipate more Confessin’ Sams than you could shake a stick at, making all kinds of work for us, pointless work that can get in the way of actually solving this thing.”
    I asked, “What can be done about that?”
    Harry held up three fingers. “Let the public know that Detective Hansen is withholding three pieces of information—three things that only that poor dead girl and her killer could know. That may help minimize the false confession problem.”
    “Or,” I said, as Fowley jotted that down, “present your ‘Confessin’ Sams’ with a challenge, a guessing game.”
    “It will also tell the real killer that we are already breathing down his neck. That we have three pieces of evidence just waiting to put him in the gas chamber.”
    I said, “Is this a sex crime, Harry?”
    Irritation flashed through the sleepy eyes. “She was mutilated and tortured and left naked, and cut in half. If we’re not dealing with a sex crime, what are we dealing with?”
    “I told you at the scene, Harry—her mouth is cut the way mobsters send a warning to squealers.”
    “It’s a sex crime. Half the department is interviewing known sex offenders, and our dragnet’s going to be spread statewide by tomorrow morning. Within twenty-four hours, hundreds of sex degenerates and suspected sadists will have been thoroughly interrogated.”
    Fowley wrote that down.
    I asked, “Was there semen in her vagina?”
    Hansen frowned. “Let’s just say it’s a sex crime and leave it at that.”
    “I knew it!” Fowley said, slapping the pad with the pencil. “He fucked her in the ass, didn’t he?”
    Hansen looked at Fowley a long time; buried in the blank grooves of the cop’s face were ribbons of contempt.
    “What?” Fowley asked, wide eyed.

    Echoing footsteps announced Sergeant Brown’s return.
    “It’s took care of, Harry,” Brown said. “I got a couple sheriff’s deputies to help out.”
    “There, you see, gentlemen?” the Hat said to us. “Cooperation.”
    “I may advise Richardson to put out another extra,” Fowley said, smirking. “That’s a first for the sheriff’s department and the LAPD.”
    With a small,