out of bed. Now, the chief don’t like anyone else sleeping when he can’t any more than the mayor, so he calls me, only he don’t get me out of bed, he catches me opening a package with a necktie in it from my daughter-in-law. This one here.” He waved the end of his red-and-gray tie. I’d thought it was a little quiet for him. He left it hanging outside his jacket. “I send Zorn and Bloodworth down to the Royce place and someone else over to talk to the boy’s father, who just happens to be Sandy Broderick, the guy on the news. He don’t shed a tear. He talks about the job you did for him and what happened at the Royce place a week ago. Then Zorn and Bloodworth get back and tell me they found this at the scene of the murder.” He got one of my cards out of a pocket and showed it to me.
I shook a Winston out of my pack. “I might have given it to her. I give a lot of them out. I can’t be responsible for where they end up. What makes it murder? Gunshot wounds to the head are usually suicide.”
He leaned forward suddenly. His tie hung straight down like a tongue. “Who told you it was a gunshot wound? He could have had his head bashed in with a skillet. I didn’t say anything about a gun.”
I pointed the cigarette at Zorn. “Your boy does a nice pantomime. Graphic.”
The sergeant shuffled under his superior’s murderous scrutiny.
“You ought to tie a bell on your hounds if you don’t know what they’re doing,” I told Proust.
“It’s the entry,” Bloodworth said.
Everyone stared at the black detective. Since I knew him they were the first words out of his mouth. He was playing with a loose thread on the seam of his leather coat sleeve and didn’t catch his partner’s warning signal.
He said, “Bullet entered under his chin and came out the top of his head. If they’re going to do it that way they usually stick the gun in their mouth. Also there were no powder burns, so it wasn’t even a contact wound. It reads like he was struggling with someone when it went off. Twice. Another bullet grazed his face, same angle. That could be just reflex, but like I said it doesn’t read suicide on account of the entry and no powder burns. Oh, and did I mention the gun was missing? The gun was missing.”
Proust blew out his cheeks and pursed his lips, resembling a freshly landed carp. Zorn looked embarrassed, as if his partner had just spat on the rug. Cops have a thing about volunteering information, especially to a suspect. Bloodworth looked a little worried about the loose thread on his coat. Telling tales out of school wouldn’t bother him, standing as he was on the solid gold of Affirmative Action. I was busy wondering if it was safe to start liking him.
The assistant chief jingled his keys in one pocket. For a space that was the only sound in the room. By the time he spoke he had scraped together enough poise to get by.
“Here’s how we make it.” He stopped jingling. “We know you had words with young Broderick last week from what his old man told us. He was a scrappy drunk. From what his mother told us before her doctor stuck her under sedation we also know the Royce broad’s a doper. We found enough empty pill bottles on the premises to confirm that. Any pills she had on hand went with her when she smoked last night or early this morning. Lansing says she had a registered thirty-two revolver, and Bud was killed with a thirty-two. We’re still looking for that. Bud got in an argument with her at the wrong time, when she was half gone on reds and Black Beauties and the rest of the rainbow. He was drunk; his body smells like the alley behind a ginmill and it’s a sure bet his blood will test ninety proof at the lab. She got out the gun. They scuffled over it and it made noise, like Bloodworth said.”
“Sounds plausible.” I let smoke curl out from under my upper lip. “For something built on a piece of legal tissue in Lansing and a couple of empty bottles.”
“There’s a kid
I shook a Winston out of my pack. “I might have given it to her. I give a lot of them out. I can’t be responsible for where they end up. What makes it murder? Gunshot wounds to the head are usually suicide.”
He leaned forward suddenly. His tie hung straight down like a tongue. “Who told you it was a gunshot wound? He could have had his head bashed in with a skillet. I didn’t say anything about a gun.”
I pointed the cigarette at Zorn. “Your boy does a nice pantomime. Graphic.”
The sergeant shuffled under his superior’s murderous scrutiny.
“You ought to tie a bell on your hounds if you don’t know what they’re doing,” I told Proust.
“It’s the entry,” Bloodworth said.
Everyone stared at the black detective. Since I knew him they were the first words out of his mouth. He was playing with a loose thread on the seam of his leather coat sleeve and didn’t catch his partner’s warning signal.
He said, “Bullet entered under his chin and came out the top of his head. If they’re going to do it that way they usually stick the gun in their mouth. Also there were no powder burns, so it wasn’t even a contact wound. It reads like he was struggling with someone when it went off. Twice. Another bullet grazed his face, same angle. That could be just reflex, but like I said it doesn’t read suicide on account of the entry and no powder burns. Oh, and did I mention the gun was missing? The gun was missing.”
Proust blew out his cheeks and pursed his lips, resembling a freshly landed carp. Zorn looked embarrassed, as if his partner had just spat on the rug. Cops have a thing about volunteering information, especially to a suspect. Bloodworth looked a little worried about the loose thread on his coat. Telling tales out of school wouldn’t bother him, standing as he was on the solid gold of Affirmative Action. I was busy wondering if it was safe to start liking him.
The assistant chief jingled his keys in one pocket. For a space that was the only sound in the room. By the time he spoke he had scraped together enough poise to get by.
“Here’s how we make it.” He stopped jingling. “We know you had words with young Broderick last week from what his old man told us. He was a scrappy drunk. From what his mother told us before her doctor stuck her under sedation we also know the Royce broad’s a doper. We found enough empty pill bottles on the premises to confirm that. Any pills she had on hand went with her when she smoked last night or early this morning. Lansing says she had a registered thirty-two revolver, and Bud was killed with a thirty-two. We’re still looking for that. Bud got in an argument with her at the wrong time, when she was half gone on reds and Black Beauties and the rest of the rainbow. He was drunk; his body smells like the alley behind a ginmill and it’s a sure bet his blood will test ninety proof at the lab. She got out the gun. They scuffled over it and it made noise, like Bloodworth said.”
“Sounds plausible.” I let smoke curl out from under my upper lip. “For something built on a piece of legal tissue in Lansing and a couple of empty bottles.”
“There’s a kid
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