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Authors: Dane Hartman
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level of the chain and shouted, “This one’s for Harry Callahan,” he fired at the sleeping figure.
The woman screamed. The man jerked out of bed, and for a second Gallant was certain he’d missed. But then he saw all the blood spilling from the man. He’d been thrown partways out of the bed and it appeared he was attempting to get himself erect. Gallant fired a second time, though his hand trembled uncontrollably. His shot struck the man in the chest and travelled through his body, hitting the woman in the ankle. Rather than continue shooting, he shut the door and ran for the elevator. It was unlikely the woman—the single witness he’d left alive this night—had gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of him. He wanted someone left alive to remember hearing the name Harry Callahan.
C H A P T E R
S i x
“Y ou’ve seen the papers this morning?” Bressler was walking back and forth across the length of his office, his hands behind his back. Harry wouldn’t say he looked angry so much as apoplectic. People about to collapse of a stroke might resemble his superior officer at this particular moment.
“I’ve seen the papers.”
“And that’s all you have to say?”
Harry nodded.
“In the space of six or seven hours, eight people were killed and one wounded, all with the same weapon. A .44 Magnum we fished out of Lake Merritt. One of the victims lived in Oakland, the rest were here in San Francisco, even so they lived in different parts of town which leads one to believe that our killer was doing a lot of travelling last night.”
Harry allowed that this was the conclusion one could draw.
Bressler wasn’t at all pleased by the lack of response from Harry. He expected a reasonable explanation. Frustrated, he went on, “Now, what connects all these victims, including a distinguished judge and his wife? Well, it turns out that at least a few of them were acquainted with you. I mean Marc Torio. I mean Judge Gallagher. I mean Morris Page. Do you deny that?”
Harry couldn’t, and didn’t.
“Now I am not for a moment suggesting that you are in any way responsible for these murders.”
“That’s good of you.”
“No sarcasm. If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s sarcasm from you.”
“I sympathize.”
Bressler gave him a malevolent look, but decided it best to continue. “All right, what we seem to have is a set-up. We even have a victim who says the murderer shouted your name. That’s as obvious a set-up as I’ve ever encountered. It’s a goddamn embarrassment. Especially with this asshole running around using a .44 just like yours.”
“It isn’t just like mine.”
“What do you mean, it’s a .44 Magnum, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But it isn’t like mine. It is mine.” Harry figured he might as well admit it, because once the lab tests were run, they’d know soon enough in any case. “It was stolen from me last night while I was asleep.”
“Shit.”
“That was what I said exactly.”
“You’re certain it’s your gun?”
“Pretty certain, yes. You run a ballistics check, but I’m sure it’ll match up.”
“Christ.”
“He’s not going to intervene in this one I’ve got a feeling.”
“What did I say about sarcasm from you? I could have you suspended.”
“And you’re not going to?”
“Fuck.”
“I could agree with that.”
Bressler wearied of pacing back and forth. He sat down. He stared dolefully at Harry. “Who is so clever that he could get hold of your gun while you’re asleep and then go out and kill people you are known, publicly, to detest? Who hates you that much they’d do that?”
“Lots of people.”
This gave Bressler pause. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Let me rephrase the question. Who the hell would have the ability to pull off a stunt like this?”
The truth was Harry had been attempting to determine this for several hours. As soon as he’d woken to discover his gun missing, he realized he, Sheila and her
The woman screamed. The man jerked out of bed, and for a second Gallant was certain he’d missed. But then he saw all the blood spilling from the man. He’d been thrown partways out of the bed and it appeared he was attempting to get himself erect. Gallant fired a second time, though his hand trembled uncontrollably. His shot struck the man in the chest and travelled through his body, hitting the woman in the ankle. Rather than continue shooting, he shut the door and ran for the elevator. It was unlikely the woman—the single witness he’d left alive this night—had gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of him. He wanted someone left alive to remember hearing the name Harry Callahan.
C H A P T E R
S i x
“Y ou’ve seen the papers this morning?” Bressler was walking back and forth across the length of his office, his hands behind his back. Harry wouldn’t say he looked angry so much as apoplectic. People about to collapse of a stroke might resemble his superior officer at this particular moment.
“I’ve seen the papers.”
“And that’s all you have to say?”
Harry nodded.
“In the space of six or seven hours, eight people were killed and one wounded, all with the same weapon. A .44 Magnum we fished out of Lake Merritt. One of the victims lived in Oakland, the rest were here in San Francisco, even so they lived in different parts of town which leads one to believe that our killer was doing a lot of travelling last night.”
Harry allowed that this was the conclusion one could draw.
Bressler wasn’t at all pleased by the lack of response from Harry. He expected a reasonable explanation. Frustrated, he went on, “Now, what connects all these victims, including a distinguished judge and his wife? Well, it turns out that at least a few of them were acquainted with you. I mean Marc Torio. I mean Judge Gallagher. I mean Morris Page. Do you deny that?”
Harry couldn’t, and didn’t.
“Now I am not for a moment suggesting that you are in any way responsible for these murders.”
“That’s good of you.”
“No sarcasm. If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s sarcasm from you.”
“I sympathize.”
Bressler gave him a malevolent look, but decided it best to continue. “All right, what we seem to have is a set-up. We even have a victim who says the murderer shouted your name. That’s as obvious a set-up as I’ve ever encountered. It’s a goddamn embarrassment. Especially with this asshole running around using a .44 just like yours.”
“It isn’t just like mine.”
“What do you mean, it’s a .44 Magnum, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But it isn’t like mine. It is mine.” Harry figured he might as well admit it, because once the lab tests were run, they’d know soon enough in any case. “It was stolen from me last night while I was asleep.”
“Shit.”
“That was what I said exactly.”
“You’re certain it’s your gun?”
“Pretty certain, yes. You run a ballistics check, but I’m sure it’ll match up.”
“Christ.”
“He’s not going to intervene in this one I’ve got a feeling.”
“What did I say about sarcasm from you? I could have you suspended.”
“And you’re not going to?”
“Fuck.”
“I could agree with that.”
Bressler wearied of pacing back and forth. He sat down. He stared dolefully at Harry. “Who is so clever that he could get hold of your gun while you’re asleep and then go out and kill people you are known, publicly, to detest? Who hates you that much they’d do that?”
“Lots of people.”
This gave Bressler pause. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Let me rephrase the question. Who the hell would have the ability to pull off a stunt like this?”
The truth was Harry had been attempting to determine this for several hours. As soon as he’d woken to discover his gun missing, he realized he, Sheila and her
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