you want to go to all that trouble.” He rummaged in an overflowing drawer, and came up with a cleaner’s invoice blank on which he had written in pencil:
J. Thomas Richards
8 Juncal Place
Westwood
.
“Better warn them you’re coming,” Sam said. “It’s a long way to drive for nothing, and they’re gallivanters.”
“I’ll do that. There’s one more thing.”
“Aren’t we even yet?” He bared his teeth in a shrewd smile. “Want me to throw in the shirt off my back?”
I pretended not to notice the needle. The old man had been having a hard day. “The Sheriff will sit up and beg when you show him that card. You’ll give it to him right away?”
“As soon as I get the heck rid of you, Howie.”
“That won’t be hard. All I want is the pictures you took of Miner’s victim.”
“They’re not supposed to go out of here, you know that.”
“I promise to bring them back.”
“You think you can establish identification?”
“I’m going to try. If I do, you get first crack at it.”
“I’ll take your word on that, Howie. I don’t think you can do it, though, unless you got a tip I don’t know about.” His wrinkled smile was like an old scar that still hurt sometimes. There was a time when Sam had hoped to be sheriff.
“Set your mind at rest. I haven’t. Let’s have the pictures, Sam.”
He unlocked a green metal cabinet against the wall, and pawed the dark shelves. A shaft of sunlight, almost horizontal, thrust through the tall barred window behind his desk. In the faint and broken sunlight, his searching profile was dark and poignant. It was like an old stone face roughed and eroded by too many rainy seasons.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” I said in a low voice that he could choose not to hear. “You’ll make your pension.”
He found the folder he was looking for, and opened it on the desk. I had my first look at the face of the first anonymous man. He had probably been younger and better-looking than the second, the one in the mortuary, but that was before Miner’s car had smashed his features. They were badly damaged: jaw dislocated, nose flattened, cheeks and brow abraded, one eye gone. The one good identifying feature was the light wavy hair growing low and thick on the cut forehead.
“The impact bust the fog lamp,” Sam was saying. “Both the wheels passed over him. Caved his chest in, cracked his skull like a pecan, drove the glass into his face.”
“Blond hair?”
“That’s right. Gray-blue eyes. Five nine, about one sixty, twenty-nine or thirty. The way I reconstruct him, he was a nice-looking boy.”
“Special characteristics?”
“Just this.” He turned over to a closeup of an arm, captioned “Left Forearm.” It was tattooed with a hula girlwearing a lei, and the word
Aloha
. “I figure he was in the Navy, probably. Too bad he didn’t have his serial number tattooed on him.”
He closed the manila folder and tied it with tape. It took him quite a long time, because his hands were shaking.
“Feeling all right, Sam?”
“I’m all right. It’s just these bodies get me down, lately even the pictures get me down. I know darn well I fluffed this print job last February. It was terrible, Howie. I couldn’t hardly bring myself to handle him. It’s a rough experience for an old guy like me to see any young fellow cut off. It makes you think dark thoughts, boy, it does me anyway.” His large bony hand clutched my arm and held on desperately. “Am I losing my grip, Howie?’
“We’re all afraid of death,” I said. “It’s normal to be afraid.”
“Don’t say that word, Howie. I can’t stand to hear that word. I seen so many of them. I only realized the last couple of years that any day now it’s going to be me.”
“Morbid thoughts,” I said cheerfully as I went out. But they trailed my car like black crepe all the way to Los Angeles. I drove as if death were behind me on a motorcycle.
CHAPTER 14 :
The Acme Investigative
J. Thomas Richards
8 Juncal Place
Westwood
.
“Better warn them you’re coming,” Sam said. “It’s a long way to drive for nothing, and they’re gallivanters.”
“I’ll do that. There’s one more thing.”
“Aren’t we even yet?” He bared his teeth in a shrewd smile. “Want me to throw in the shirt off my back?”
I pretended not to notice the needle. The old man had been having a hard day. “The Sheriff will sit up and beg when you show him that card. You’ll give it to him right away?”
“As soon as I get the heck rid of you, Howie.”
“That won’t be hard. All I want is the pictures you took of Miner’s victim.”
“They’re not supposed to go out of here, you know that.”
“I promise to bring them back.”
“You think you can establish identification?”
“I’m going to try. If I do, you get first crack at it.”
“I’ll take your word on that, Howie. I don’t think you can do it, though, unless you got a tip I don’t know about.” His wrinkled smile was like an old scar that still hurt sometimes. There was a time when Sam had hoped to be sheriff.
“Set your mind at rest. I haven’t. Let’s have the pictures, Sam.”
He unlocked a green metal cabinet against the wall, and pawed the dark shelves. A shaft of sunlight, almost horizontal, thrust through the tall barred window behind his desk. In the faint and broken sunlight, his searching profile was dark and poignant. It was like an old stone face roughed and eroded by too many rainy seasons.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” I said in a low voice that he could choose not to hear. “You’ll make your pension.”
He found the folder he was looking for, and opened it on the desk. I had my first look at the face of the first anonymous man. He had probably been younger and better-looking than the second, the one in the mortuary, but that was before Miner’s car had smashed his features. They were badly damaged: jaw dislocated, nose flattened, cheeks and brow abraded, one eye gone. The one good identifying feature was the light wavy hair growing low and thick on the cut forehead.
“The impact bust the fog lamp,” Sam was saying. “Both the wheels passed over him. Caved his chest in, cracked his skull like a pecan, drove the glass into his face.”
“Blond hair?”
“That’s right. Gray-blue eyes. Five nine, about one sixty, twenty-nine or thirty. The way I reconstruct him, he was a nice-looking boy.”
“Special characteristics?”
“Just this.” He turned over to a closeup of an arm, captioned “Left Forearm.” It was tattooed with a hula girlwearing a lei, and the word
Aloha
. “I figure he was in the Navy, probably. Too bad he didn’t have his serial number tattooed on him.”
He closed the manila folder and tied it with tape. It took him quite a long time, because his hands were shaking.
“Feeling all right, Sam?”
“I’m all right. It’s just these bodies get me down, lately even the pictures get me down. I know darn well I fluffed this print job last February. It was terrible, Howie. I couldn’t hardly bring myself to handle him. It’s a rough experience for an old guy like me to see any young fellow cut off. It makes you think dark thoughts, boy, it does me anyway.” His large bony hand clutched my arm and held on desperately. “Am I losing my grip, Howie?’
“We’re all afraid of death,” I said. “It’s normal to be afraid.”
“Don’t say that word, Howie. I can’t stand to hear that word. I seen so many of them. I only realized the last couple of years that any day now it’s going to be me.”
“Morbid thoughts,” I said cheerfully as I went out. But they trailed my car like black crepe all the way to Los Angeles. I drove as if death were behind me on a motorcycle.
CHAPTER 14 :
The Acme Investigative
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