Read Online Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dane Hartman
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questioning silence and Collins’ suspicious glance. He saw no reason to bring his relatives into it at this point, especially since the “alleged perpetrator” was in custody. “Where are we going now?” Harry inquired easily.
“Your wish is my command,” said Collins. “We’re going to pay Tom Morrisson a little visit.”
The interrogation-detention room was remarkably like all the others Harry had visited in his career. Then again, you could take any room and line every inch of wall space with cork and get the same look. White corkboard was everywhere. Within its pristine confines was a table, a tape recorder, and four chairs. In one of the chairs was an angry Tom Morrisson.
“You can’t keep me here!” he shouted when they first walked in. “I didn’t do anything.”
Collins stopped in the doorway and turned to Harry. “They all say that,” he told him with a smile. “They learned it from Dragnet.” The black detective looked back at Morrisson while still standing in the doorway, the reports under his arm. “Well, you’re absolutely right, Mister Morrisson,” Collins answered cheerily. “So we’re just going to have a little chat before we can decide what to do with you.”
“I want my lawyer,” Tom said.
“That’s the second line they learn,” Collins cracked to Harry, then fully entered the room. “Do you have a lawyer?” the black man asked.
Morrisson thought a little bit. “Not by name,” he said.
Callahan was going to warn Collins about the kid’s lack of eating and sharp temper when he remembered he hadn’t mentioned overhearing their office conversation. But since he was leaning toward the other detective as if to mention something, he spoke up anyway. “He doesn’t have one.”
“Hmmph,” Collins said as he put down the reports and sat in the chair opposite Morrisson. “Well, of course if you don’t have a lawyer, the court will assign you one, but first we have to get to court. You understand?”
“I have a lawyer, I have a lawyer!” Tom yelled.
“Give us his name or number so we can call him,” Collins suggested.
“Uh . . . uh,” Morrisson answered. “Uh . . . give me a phone book. I’ll look it up.”
“Sorry,” said Collins, knowing it to be a ploy by which Tom would call up the most appetizing lawyer he could find, then promise him any amount of money to take on his case. It was a time-wasting routine. “No phone books. They were all ripped off.”
Morrisson fell silent. “I guess we’ll just have to have a talk without a lawyer,” Collins went on. “Now you know all your rights, don’t you, Thomas?”
“Tell them to me again.”
“Oh you know them,” Collins countered affably. “I bet you watch Barney Miller every night. Let’s get down to cases, shall we?” The black detective looked over at Harry, who was standing off to the side behind him. “You know who Inspector Callahan is, don’t you?” Collins inquired.
Harry realized his whole subterfuge could blow up in his face with one wrong word out of Morrisson’s mouth. He looked at the kid with no expression, not wanting to tip his hand. If Tom knew that Harry didn’t want him to say anything about Shanna, he had no doubt she’d be the primary topic of conversation.
“Yeah,” Morrisson snarled. “He’s a fucking cop.” For one of the few times in his career, Harry didn’t mind being called that. To him, it was better than being called “Shanna’s uncle.”
“Yes,” Collins agreed with the kid. “He’s a fucking cop who has brought you in on charges of assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, and disturbing the peace. Do you have anything to say to these charges?”
“Do I have anything to say?” Morrisson responded incredulously. “Do I have anything to say? You bet I have something to say!”
“Remember,” Collins said quickly. “Anything you say can be used against you.”
Morrisson fell silent again.
“Oh good,” Collins said. “Now we can
“Your wish is my command,” said Collins. “We’re going to pay Tom Morrisson a little visit.”
The interrogation-detention room was remarkably like all the others Harry had visited in his career. Then again, you could take any room and line every inch of wall space with cork and get the same look. White corkboard was everywhere. Within its pristine confines was a table, a tape recorder, and four chairs. In one of the chairs was an angry Tom Morrisson.
“You can’t keep me here!” he shouted when they first walked in. “I didn’t do anything.”
Collins stopped in the doorway and turned to Harry. “They all say that,” he told him with a smile. “They learned it from Dragnet.” The black detective looked back at Morrisson while still standing in the doorway, the reports under his arm. “Well, you’re absolutely right, Mister Morrisson,” Collins answered cheerily. “So we’re just going to have a little chat before we can decide what to do with you.”
“I want my lawyer,” Tom said.
“That’s the second line they learn,” Collins cracked to Harry, then fully entered the room. “Do you have a lawyer?” the black man asked.
Morrisson thought a little bit. “Not by name,” he said.
Callahan was going to warn Collins about the kid’s lack of eating and sharp temper when he remembered he hadn’t mentioned overhearing their office conversation. But since he was leaning toward the other detective as if to mention something, he spoke up anyway. “He doesn’t have one.”
“Hmmph,” Collins said as he put down the reports and sat in the chair opposite Morrisson. “Well, of course if you don’t have a lawyer, the court will assign you one, but first we have to get to court. You understand?”
“I have a lawyer, I have a lawyer!” Tom yelled.
“Give us his name or number so we can call him,” Collins suggested.
“Uh . . . uh,” Morrisson answered. “Uh . . . give me a phone book. I’ll look it up.”
“Sorry,” said Collins, knowing it to be a ploy by which Tom would call up the most appetizing lawyer he could find, then promise him any amount of money to take on his case. It was a time-wasting routine. “No phone books. They were all ripped off.”
Morrisson fell silent. “I guess we’ll just have to have a talk without a lawyer,” Collins went on. “Now you know all your rights, don’t you, Thomas?”
“Tell them to me again.”
“Oh you know them,” Collins countered affably. “I bet you watch Barney Miller every night. Let’s get down to cases, shall we?” The black detective looked over at Harry, who was standing off to the side behind him. “You know who Inspector Callahan is, don’t you?” Collins inquired.
Harry realized his whole subterfuge could blow up in his face with one wrong word out of Morrisson’s mouth. He looked at the kid with no expression, not wanting to tip his hand. If Tom knew that Harry didn’t want him to say anything about Shanna, he had no doubt she’d be the primary topic of conversation.
“Yeah,” Morrisson snarled. “He’s a fucking cop.” For one of the few times in his career, Harry didn’t mind being called that. To him, it was better than being called “Shanna’s uncle.”
“Yes,” Collins agreed with the kid. “He’s a fucking cop who has brought you in on charges of assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, and disturbing the peace. Do you have anything to say to these charges?”
“Do I have anything to say?” Morrisson responded incredulously. “Do I have anything to say? You bet I have something to say!”
“Remember,” Collins said quickly. “Anything you say can be used against you.”
Morrisson fell silent again.
“Oh good,” Collins said. “Now we can
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