Read Online Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dane Hartman
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get on with the really neat stuff. First, let’s see if we have the right Tom Morrisson. You are Tom Morrisson of 365 Commonwealth Avenue, apartment 4D?”
“Yeah,” Morrisson answered miserably.
“The Tom Morrisson who is an undergraduate theater major at Emerson College?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Morrisson nodded.
“The Tom Morrisson who is a chairman of the organization called The Order of the Orenda?”
The young man had leaped out of his seat. “How do you know about that?” he shouted, coming around the table. Collins sat unaffected as Harry met Morrisson halfway. Tom looked up into Harry’s lined face and thought better of moving anymore. He slowly returned to his seat while Collins laughed.
“Oh, we know a lot about all sorts of different cults that pop up in Boston, Thomas. We make it a practise to find out all we can about all these perverted sects.”
Callahan had to admit to himself that Collins knew what he was doing. He had pegged Morrisson as a hopped-up hothead as soon as he entered the room, then degraded Tom’s most cherished beliefs in the most callous way he knew. All his words were designed to get a rise out of the kid.
It worked quickly. “It is not a cult!” Morrisson shouted, standing next to his seat. “And it is not perverted! It’s the original belief! The belief of the true Americans.”
“Yes, we know,” Collins responded knowledgeably. “The American Indian beliefs. But there are so many different tribes with so many different beliefs.”
“We take the best of all of them,” Morrisson cried with pride.
“What?” Collins queried. “Like the Iroquois who believed there was more than one soul which traveled to different places depending on how the body died? Like the Algonquians who believed evil spirits must be driven out of the body for a happier life? Like the Plains Indians, who cut off joints of fingers as a sacrifice?
“Or do you go further?” Collins leaned in, his voice rising in pitch and speed. “Are you like the Pawnee, who murdered young squaws in the name of the morning star? Or are you like the Inca and Maya who didn’t need an excuse to raid a neighboring tribe for a virgin sacrifice? Or the Aztec who made special raids to acquire their victims and slaughtered them by the hundreds?”
“No!” Morrisson screamed, clawing across the table for Collins’ throat. He gripped the black man’s neck just as Callahan swiped him across the room with the back of his hand.
Morrisson flew bodily off the table, traveled three feet through the air, and slid in a crumbled mass against the wall. Collins merely straightened his coat and tie.
“No,” Morrisson said feebly from the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I am a shaman. We believe in purity and the Great Spirit. We believe in Brotherhood . . .”
The boy’s words reduced to incoherent babble. Collins rose, looking at the huddled mass in the corner.
“That’s about all we can do here,” Collins grimaced.
“It’s enough,” said Harry.
“Yeah,” Collins agreed, calling in the uniformed men to take the boy away. “Feel like a little ride?” the black detective asked Callahan when they got out into the hall.
“Sure,” said Harry, knowing an order when he heard one. “Why not?” Harry may have outranked Collins, but Boston was the black man’s town. He’d have an easier time making things stick than Callahan.
They went downstairs, out the back, and into Collins’ unmarked El Dorado. “What’s going to happen to the kid?” Harry asked, settling into the plush red passenger seat.
“Probably going to have to send him to the hospital now,” Collins mused. “Find out what’s making him crazy. Hold him a couple of days for observation.”
For the second time, Harry wanted to mention the kid’s lack of food, but he had purposely omitted the information before, so he stuck with his little white lie. “What then?” he asked.
“Then,” Collins retorted, starting the
“Yeah,” Morrisson answered miserably.
“The Tom Morrisson who is an undergraduate theater major at Emerson College?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Morrisson nodded.
“The Tom Morrisson who is a chairman of the organization called The Order of the Orenda?”
The young man had leaped out of his seat. “How do you know about that?” he shouted, coming around the table. Collins sat unaffected as Harry met Morrisson halfway. Tom looked up into Harry’s lined face and thought better of moving anymore. He slowly returned to his seat while Collins laughed.
“Oh, we know a lot about all sorts of different cults that pop up in Boston, Thomas. We make it a practise to find out all we can about all these perverted sects.”
Callahan had to admit to himself that Collins knew what he was doing. He had pegged Morrisson as a hopped-up hothead as soon as he entered the room, then degraded Tom’s most cherished beliefs in the most callous way he knew. All his words were designed to get a rise out of the kid.
It worked quickly. “It is not a cult!” Morrisson shouted, standing next to his seat. “And it is not perverted! It’s the original belief! The belief of the true Americans.”
“Yes, we know,” Collins responded knowledgeably. “The American Indian beliefs. But there are so many different tribes with so many different beliefs.”
“We take the best of all of them,” Morrisson cried with pride.
“What?” Collins queried. “Like the Iroquois who believed there was more than one soul which traveled to different places depending on how the body died? Like the Algonquians who believed evil spirits must be driven out of the body for a happier life? Like the Plains Indians, who cut off joints of fingers as a sacrifice?
“Or do you go further?” Collins leaned in, his voice rising in pitch and speed. “Are you like the Pawnee, who murdered young squaws in the name of the morning star? Or are you like the Inca and Maya who didn’t need an excuse to raid a neighboring tribe for a virgin sacrifice? Or the Aztec who made special raids to acquire their victims and slaughtered them by the hundreds?”
“No!” Morrisson screamed, clawing across the table for Collins’ throat. He gripped the black man’s neck just as Callahan swiped him across the room with the back of his hand.
Morrisson flew bodily off the table, traveled three feet through the air, and slid in a crumbled mass against the wall. Collins merely straightened his coat and tie.
“No,” Morrisson said feebly from the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I am a shaman. We believe in purity and the Great Spirit. We believe in Brotherhood . . .”
The boy’s words reduced to incoherent babble. Collins rose, looking at the huddled mass in the corner.
“That’s about all we can do here,” Collins grimaced.
“It’s enough,” said Harry.
“Yeah,” Collins agreed, calling in the uniformed men to take the boy away. “Feel like a little ride?” the black detective asked Callahan when they got out into the hall.
“Sure,” said Harry, knowing an order when he heard one. “Why not?” Harry may have outranked Collins, but Boston was the black man’s town. He’d have an easier time making things stick than Callahan.
They went downstairs, out the back, and into Collins’ unmarked El Dorado. “What’s going to happen to the kid?” Harry asked, settling into the plush red passenger seat.
“Probably going to have to send him to the hospital now,” Collins mused. “Find out what’s making him crazy. Hold him a couple of days for observation.”
For the second time, Harry wanted to mention the kid’s lack of food, but he had purposely omitted the information before, so he stuck with his little white lie. “What then?” he asked.
“Then,” Collins retorted, starting the
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