Read Online Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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finger onto the intercom button resting on the interrogation room table. “Sergeant, you can collect the suspect now.”
Heald was yelling all the way out into the hall and down to the detention cells. After the stoolie was dragged out, Shannon sat down in the vacated chair.
“Cops come and cops go,” he sighed, “but one thing that never changes is our sadistic sense of humor.”
“Could you pin this on him?” Harry asked.
“In this fucked-up town, anything is possible,” Shannon answered. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s good at what he does.”
Shannon snorted.
“There’s no way a pro is going to hire a renowned stoolie unless he wants something spilled,” Harry continued with disgust. “And there’s no way you can forget a line like ‘John Wayne’s graveyard.’ ”
Shannon clasped his hands on the table and leaned in. “What the hell is going on, Callahan? What the hell have you gotten me into?”
The San Francisco cop’s mind clamped onto the truth like a vise chomping onto a gun barrel. This guy was a pro. But he was a pro with a purpose. He had been leaving dead bodies around like letters of a marquee. He wanted attention for a particular reason. And the reason was enough to make Harry’s mouth fill with the flavor of ash.
“It’s not your problem anymore,” he told Shannon.
“Come on, you heard Heald’s brilliantly executed declaration. John Wayne’s graveyard is right here. Every cop in California will be after this guy.”
“He’s not in California anymore,” Harry said with certainty.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re the Hollywood detective,” Callahan sighed. “You ought to know.” Shannon shrugged. Harry lectured. “John Wayne only died in a few of his films . . .”
“He died in his last one, The Shootist, and he died in that war one.” Shannon remembered, trying to make up for whatever Harry thought he should have known.
“And he died in The Alamo,” Harry said, aware of how outlandish it was all getting.
“He directed that one,” Shannon related, proud and defensive of his film knowledge. “That and The Green Berets.”
“Oh. yeah?” said Harry, feigning interest. “Really? Well, the Alamo is in San Antonio . . . the same place Boris Tucker came from.”
Lester Shannon suddenly became subdued. He looked at the interrogation tabletop with his lips pursed. Then he smacked his lips, shook his head, and leaned back expansively.
“Man, it’s crazy,” he said. “What’s he doing it all for?”
“Advertising,” Harry mumbled.
“What?”
“I said he’s advertising.”
“What for?” Shannon wanted to know.
“For me,” Harry said.
C H A P T E R
F o u r
A lot of Southerners talk about San Antonio, but Harry Callahan thought Davy Crockett put it best. “You kin all go to hell, I’m a-goin’ to Texas.”
The way the modern-day inspector was feeling, those sentiments could be the other way around. Nicely put, his reception back at San Francisco headquarters was not enthusiastic. Trying to explain the hitman’s rationale to Lieutenant Bressler was like explaining calculus to a coal miner.
But Harry remained decisive. In order for the assassin to kill Tucker, he had to follow the sheriff from San Antonio to Fullerton. Once arriving in California, the hitman must have known that Tucker arranged a dinner with Harry the day of his death. And once Tucker and Garris were dead, he must’ve discovered Garris’ date was from San Francisco.
It all added up to one thing; the hitman wanted Harry to come after him. Killing a friend, kidnapping a residential girl, leaving behind a stoolie-related clue, it was all part of his warped way to offend Callahan’s sensibilities. That sort of personalized logic fell on deaf ears. Neither Bressler nor his superiors could be convinced that Harry had a case.
Instead, Bressler was convinced Harry was working too hard that he was having paranoid delusions. He suggested Harry take a little
Heald was yelling all the way out into the hall and down to the detention cells. After the stoolie was dragged out, Shannon sat down in the vacated chair.
“Cops come and cops go,” he sighed, “but one thing that never changes is our sadistic sense of humor.”
“Could you pin this on him?” Harry asked.
“In this fucked-up town, anything is possible,” Shannon answered. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s good at what he does.”
Shannon snorted.
“There’s no way a pro is going to hire a renowned stoolie unless he wants something spilled,” Harry continued with disgust. “And there’s no way you can forget a line like ‘John Wayne’s graveyard.’ ”
Shannon clasped his hands on the table and leaned in. “What the hell is going on, Callahan? What the hell have you gotten me into?”
The San Francisco cop’s mind clamped onto the truth like a vise chomping onto a gun barrel. This guy was a pro. But he was a pro with a purpose. He had been leaving dead bodies around like letters of a marquee. He wanted attention for a particular reason. And the reason was enough to make Harry’s mouth fill with the flavor of ash.
“It’s not your problem anymore,” he told Shannon.
“Come on, you heard Heald’s brilliantly executed declaration. John Wayne’s graveyard is right here. Every cop in California will be after this guy.”
“He’s not in California anymore,” Harry said with certainty.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re the Hollywood detective,” Callahan sighed. “You ought to know.” Shannon shrugged. Harry lectured. “John Wayne only died in a few of his films . . .”
“He died in his last one, The Shootist, and he died in that war one.” Shannon remembered, trying to make up for whatever Harry thought he should have known.
“And he died in The Alamo,” Harry said, aware of how outlandish it was all getting.
“He directed that one,” Shannon related, proud and defensive of his film knowledge. “That and The Green Berets.”
“Oh. yeah?” said Harry, feigning interest. “Really? Well, the Alamo is in San Antonio . . . the same place Boris Tucker came from.”
Lester Shannon suddenly became subdued. He looked at the interrogation tabletop with his lips pursed. Then he smacked his lips, shook his head, and leaned back expansively.
“Man, it’s crazy,” he said. “What’s he doing it all for?”
“Advertising,” Harry mumbled.
“What?”
“I said he’s advertising.”
“What for?” Shannon wanted to know.
“For me,” Harry said.
C H A P T E R
F o u r
A lot of Southerners talk about San Antonio, but Harry Callahan thought Davy Crockett put it best. “You kin all go to hell, I’m a-goin’ to Texas.”
The way the modern-day inspector was feeling, those sentiments could be the other way around. Nicely put, his reception back at San Francisco headquarters was not enthusiastic. Trying to explain the hitman’s rationale to Lieutenant Bressler was like explaining calculus to a coal miner.
But Harry remained decisive. In order for the assassin to kill Tucker, he had to follow the sheriff from San Antonio to Fullerton. Once arriving in California, the hitman must have known that Tucker arranged a dinner with Harry the day of his death. And once Tucker and Garris were dead, he must’ve discovered Garris’ date was from San Francisco.
It all added up to one thing; the hitman wanted Harry to come after him. Killing a friend, kidnapping a residential girl, leaving behind a stoolie-related clue, it was all part of his warped way to offend Callahan’s sensibilities. That sort of personalized logic fell on deaf ears. Neither Bressler nor his superiors could be convinced that Harry had a case.
Instead, Bressler was convinced Harry was working too hard that he was having paranoid delusions. He suggested Harry take a little
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