Read Online Dirty Harry 09 - The Killing Connection by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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did, Harry would be happy to show you, as he did the youngster—care of the chopped-up bodies in the morgue.
As he had put it at the time—“It isn’t always halves. Sometimes it’s thirds, or quarters; occasionally it’s even in fourteenths.” The rookie vomited as punctuation.
So Harry went to his plastic cubicle, flanked on three sides by other cubicles, thinking about how easily the men and the public became familiar with murderer’s adorable little nicknames. Albert DeSalvo was called the Boston Strangler. Then there was his buddy the Hillside Strangler. Then good old Son of Sam. Now there was the Mortician Murderer who not only killed his victims, but buried them as well. There was nothing new in terms of cute, quick monikers; the press had been coming up with nicknames for decades and the public had gone right along with it.
Just as Harry was lowering himself onto his well-worn seat behind his chipped wooden desk, Lieutenant Al Bressler came bustling into his office with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up.
“About time you got here, Harry,” he said without rancor. “The mayor is breathing down the commissioner’s neck, the commissioner is putting the heat on the chief, and the chief is chewing up the desk in my office.”
“So what do you want from me, Lieutenant?” Callahan inquired, leaning back behind his own desk, “I’ve run out of Tums.”
“Jesus, Harry, didn’t you know? The chief himself put you on this case. He’s been waiting for some kind of action since early this morning.”
The inspector dropped his fists to his blotter. So that explained it, he thought. That was why McKay was so hot on getting in touch. He wanted to make it seem as if the decision to assign Callahan came from his office, not higher upstairs.
“So why is the captain trying to lead me by the nose?” Harry wanted to know.
“It’s McKay’s case,” Bressler explained, “but the chief wanted you on it personally.”
Callahan frowned. “I thought he didn’t like my style.”
“Nobody likes your style, Harry,” Bressler said flatly. “But you get results, and that’s why the boss wanted you. So what have you got so far?”
“Very little sleep,” Harry reported. “Lieutenant, I’ve been up for almost two days.”
“Oh yeah,” Bressler remembered. “That Bender thing.”
“I got results,” Callahan said sarcastically.
“It was an open and shut case, Harry,” the lieutenant assured him. “The money was embezzled and all the information on the hit was found at Tuccio’s office. He was going to frak an associate so a real estate deal would go through. And you didn’t kill him. All your actions were clearly self-defense. You just saved the taxpayers a lot of money.”
“I’ll bet McKay feels the same way,” Harry answered with a touch of sardonicism.
Bressler leaned forward conspiratorily. “Between you and me,” he said with soft haste, “I don’t think McKay will be happy until you lick his shoes when you want a case, drop your pants when you want a warrant, and kiss his ass when you make an arrest.”
Harry leaned back, mock shock in his eyes. “Lieutenant, I do believe you’re learning.”
Bressler threw his hands up, turning away from the desk and pacing the floor. “You wouldn’t believe the garbage that’s been going down around here this morning,” he said as a way of explanation. “The mouths upstairs are getting as tight as their assholes. They’re really constipated about something, Harry, so if the shit hits the fan, it’s all going to drop on you. Now tell me what the hell you’ve got.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” said Bressler in pained amazement. “You’ve got nothing?”
“No,” Harry disagreed. “We’ve got a corpse less than twenty-four hours old.”
“So what?”
“So this,” Harry ticked off on the fingers of one hand. “The face is all but gone, but the skin hasn’t deteriorated yet. And where there’s flesh,
As he had put it at the time—“It isn’t always halves. Sometimes it’s thirds, or quarters; occasionally it’s even in fourteenths.” The rookie vomited as punctuation.
So Harry went to his plastic cubicle, flanked on three sides by other cubicles, thinking about how easily the men and the public became familiar with murderer’s adorable little nicknames. Albert DeSalvo was called the Boston Strangler. Then there was his buddy the Hillside Strangler. Then good old Son of Sam. Now there was the Mortician Murderer who not only killed his victims, but buried them as well. There was nothing new in terms of cute, quick monikers; the press had been coming up with nicknames for decades and the public had gone right along with it.
Just as Harry was lowering himself onto his well-worn seat behind his chipped wooden desk, Lieutenant Al Bressler came bustling into his office with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up.
“About time you got here, Harry,” he said without rancor. “The mayor is breathing down the commissioner’s neck, the commissioner is putting the heat on the chief, and the chief is chewing up the desk in my office.”
“So what do you want from me, Lieutenant?” Callahan inquired, leaning back behind his own desk, “I’ve run out of Tums.”
“Jesus, Harry, didn’t you know? The chief himself put you on this case. He’s been waiting for some kind of action since early this morning.”
The inspector dropped his fists to his blotter. So that explained it, he thought. That was why McKay was so hot on getting in touch. He wanted to make it seem as if the decision to assign Callahan came from his office, not higher upstairs.
“So why is the captain trying to lead me by the nose?” Harry wanted to know.
“It’s McKay’s case,” Bressler explained, “but the chief wanted you on it personally.”
Callahan frowned. “I thought he didn’t like my style.”
“Nobody likes your style, Harry,” Bressler said flatly. “But you get results, and that’s why the boss wanted you. So what have you got so far?”
“Very little sleep,” Harry reported. “Lieutenant, I’ve been up for almost two days.”
“Oh yeah,” Bressler remembered. “That Bender thing.”
“I got results,” Callahan said sarcastically.
“It was an open and shut case, Harry,” the lieutenant assured him. “The money was embezzled and all the information on the hit was found at Tuccio’s office. He was going to frak an associate so a real estate deal would go through. And you didn’t kill him. All your actions were clearly self-defense. You just saved the taxpayers a lot of money.”
“I’ll bet McKay feels the same way,” Harry answered with a touch of sardonicism.
Bressler leaned forward conspiratorily. “Between you and me,” he said with soft haste, “I don’t think McKay will be happy until you lick his shoes when you want a case, drop your pants when you want a warrant, and kiss his ass when you make an arrest.”
Harry leaned back, mock shock in his eyes. “Lieutenant, I do believe you’re learning.”
Bressler threw his hands up, turning away from the desk and pacing the floor. “You wouldn’t believe the garbage that’s been going down around here this morning,” he said as a way of explanation. “The mouths upstairs are getting as tight as their assholes. They’re really constipated about something, Harry, so if the shit hits the fan, it’s all going to drop on you. Now tell me what the hell you’ve got.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” said Bressler in pained amazement. “You’ve got nothing?”
“No,” Harry disagreed. “We’ve got a corpse less than twenty-four hours old.”
“So what?”
“So this,” Harry ticked off on the fingers of one hand. “The face is all but gone, but the skin hasn’t deteriorated yet. And where there’s flesh,
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