Read Online Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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car’s engine, “then we’ll probably release him.”
Harry sat up. “What?”
“We have a little problem with your charges, Inspector,” Collins said pulling out into the sparse night traffic.
“Such as?” Harry inquired, ignoring the many sights along the wide avenues.
“First and foremost,” Collins said, watching the road, “the assault with a deadly weapon.”
“He attacked a girl with a hunting knife!” Harry said incredulously, his hackles rising. “You mean they don’t have a law against that here?”
Rather than responding to Callahan’s obvious sarcasm, Collins went curtly to the heart of the matter. “Where’s the girl? Where’s the knife?”
That caught Harry unawares. Finding Christine should be no problem, but he had assumed that Tom had the knife on him when he ran. “Find the girl and you’ll probably find the knife,” was what Harry concluded aloud.
“Probably, probably,” Collins echoed, turning right onto a wide, two-way street. Harry saw the Boston Gardens, the companion park to the Common to the left at the end of the block. “But until then, we have another deadly weapon to worry about.”
Harry didn’t like the sound of that. Collins didn’t wait for a response. “I mean, after all, it’s only your word that Morrisson attacked the girl with a knife. I mean, he didn’t attack you with the knife, now did he?” Collins still didn’t pause for an answer. “No, from what I hear, he nearly attacked you with a gun until you took it away from him, A big gun. A cannon, Morrisson called it.”
Collins looked out the corner of his eye at Callahan again as they stopped for a red light. Harry just stared at the detective. “That’s what took me so long,” Collins explained. “I had a couple of brothers in the hospital talking real loud about a big white dude who beat up on them with a cannon and, of all things, a ghetto blaster. They wanted to press charges until I talked them out of it. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that deadly weapon, would you?”
Harry picked up the cue. Collins did him a favor by not pushing through the music man’s charge of assault, so now Harry was supposed to make it easy on him. Thankfully, it was not just the politest thing to do, it was the wisest. Harry reached into his brown tweed coat and pulled out his Magnum .44. He opened the cylinder, dropped the rounds into his hand, and passed it over to Collins.
“Whooee,” the detective whistled softly. “They were right. That is a cannon. What is that, a .44 with a . . . how long barrel?”
“Six and a half inch barrel,” Harry said tiredly.
“A dude your size I would’ve pegged as hauling a nickel-plated eight and three-eights incher for sure.”
“What it makes up in velocity and sight radius it loses in portability,” Harry said flatly.
Collins didn’t want to leave it at that, however. He seemed intent on picturing Harry as the laconic, conservative, right-wing cowboy from the West. “Hey, this is the same sort of gun Son of Sam used, isn’t it?”
“A misconception. The .44 is a widely used caliber. Berkowitz used a Charter Arms .44. The gun you’re holding is a Smith and Wesson Model 29. A Charter Arms gun was also used to shoot George Wallace. A Charter Arms .38 killed John Lennon.”
“That company gets around, doesn’t it?”
“Makes a lot of police weapons as well,” Harry commented.
Collins slipped in the next question casually but quickly. “You got a license to carry this thing in Massachusetts?”
Harry’s silence was the best answer. Collins clucked in sympathy, “I wouldn’t worry about it, Inspector. I’ll put an application through for you as soon as I get to my office. You can pick up your gun when it comes in or when you’re about to leave the state, whichever comes first.”
“How long does the license take?”
“Oh, about five or six weeks,” Collins said as the light went green and he moved the car forward. “A month
Harry sat up. “What?”
“We have a little problem with your charges, Inspector,” Collins said pulling out into the sparse night traffic.
“Such as?” Harry inquired, ignoring the many sights along the wide avenues.
“First and foremost,” Collins said, watching the road, “the assault with a deadly weapon.”
“He attacked a girl with a hunting knife!” Harry said incredulously, his hackles rising. “You mean they don’t have a law against that here?”
Rather than responding to Callahan’s obvious sarcasm, Collins went curtly to the heart of the matter. “Where’s the girl? Where’s the knife?”
That caught Harry unawares. Finding Christine should be no problem, but he had assumed that Tom had the knife on him when he ran. “Find the girl and you’ll probably find the knife,” was what Harry concluded aloud.
“Probably, probably,” Collins echoed, turning right onto a wide, two-way street. Harry saw the Boston Gardens, the companion park to the Common to the left at the end of the block. “But until then, we have another deadly weapon to worry about.”
Harry didn’t like the sound of that. Collins didn’t wait for a response. “I mean, after all, it’s only your word that Morrisson attacked the girl with a knife. I mean, he didn’t attack you with the knife, now did he?” Collins still didn’t pause for an answer. “No, from what I hear, he nearly attacked you with a gun until you took it away from him, A big gun. A cannon, Morrisson called it.”
Collins looked out the corner of his eye at Callahan again as they stopped for a red light. Harry just stared at the detective. “That’s what took me so long,” Collins explained. “I had a couple of brothers in the hospital talking real loud about a big white dude who beat up on them with a cannon and, of all things, a ghetto blaster. They wanted to press charges until I talked them out of it. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that deadly weapon, would you?”
Harry picked up the cue. Collins did him a favor by not pushing through the music man’s charge of assault, so now Harry was supposed to make it easy on him. Thankfully, it was not just the politest thing to do, it was the wisest. Harry reached into his brown tweed coat and pulled out his Magnum .44. He opened the cylinder, dropped the rounds into his hand, and passed it over to Collins.
“Whooee,” the detective whistled softly. “They were right. That is a cannon. What is that, a .44 with a . . . how long barrel?”
“Six and a half inch barrel,” Harry said tiredly.
“A dude your size I would’ve pegged as hauling a nickel-plated eight and three-eights incher for sure.”
“What it makes up in velocity and sight radius it loses in portability,” Harry said flatly.
Collins didn’t want to leave it at that, however. He seemed intent on picturing Harry as the laconic, conservative, right-wing cowboy from the West. “Hey, this is the same sort of gun Son of Sam used, isn’t it?”
“A misconception. The .44 is a widely used caliber. Berkowitz used a Charter Arms .44. The gun you’re holding is a Smith and Wesson Model 29. A Charter Arms gun was also used to shoot George Wallace. A Charter Arms .38 killed John Lennon.”
“That company gets around, doesn’t it?”
“Makes a lot of police weapons as well,” Harry commented.
Collins slipped in the next question casually but quickly. “You got a license to carry this thing in Massachusetts?”
Harry’s silence was the best answer. Collins clucked in sympathy, “I wouldn’t worry about it, Inspector. I’ll put an application through for you as soon as I get to my office. You can pick up your gun when it comes in or when you’re about to leave the state, whichever comes first.”
“How long does the license take?”
“Oh, about five or six weeks,” Collins said as the light went green and he moved the car forward. “A month
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