Read Online Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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daughter could all have been killed as they slept. In spite of the air of indifference he affected for Bressler’s sake, he was deeply concerned, even afraid. Afraid not just for himself, but also for the woman and child whose lives had, for better or worse, become entangled with his.
Yet he had no intention of displaying any sign of weakness or guilt to Bressler. Better to act impassive and see not whether the shit hit the fan, because that was preordained, but just how much shit there would be.
“Well?” Bressler was waiting for a reply. “Have you a candidate for our evil genius?”
“Did the lone survivor get a look at the man?”
“Nan Raphael? She saw an eye, a nose and a pair of lips in the crack of a door. The man was white, that’s about all we could get from her. She couldn’t so much as tell us the color of his hair.”
“There was one man who could’ve done something like this.”
“Yes?” Bressler’s voice clearly betrayed his expectation.
“But he’s dead.”
“That’s right.”
Harry was thinking of Gallant, his memory freshened by the murderer’s escape and subsequent demise just two nights before. Gallant had the stamina and creativity to engineer the massacre of eight people and get away with it. But, as he was a charred corpse in the morgue, he had an incontrovertible alibi.
“And there’s no one else you can think of?”
“No one,” Harry answered resignedly.
“That’s a problem.”
“Damn right that’s a problem.”
“I’ve given this some thought, Callahan, and though the temptation is mighty, I’ve decided not to place you on suspension. We’ve got some nut out there who has this hard-on for you. I’m gambling we can bust him before it gets out of hand. But I don’t want you near this thing, understand? This is not your case.”
“Who’ve you given it to?”
“Black and Towers.”
Harry didn’t think much of detectives Black and Towers, but he knew there was nothing he could say to change Bressler’s mind.
“You got something to keep me occupied?”
“I think I do, I think we got something right up your alley.”
The way he said this gave Harry the feeling he might want to start looking for another alley.
It wasn’t an assignment so much as a punishment, Harry decided once Bressler had briefed him. There were two jokers circulating about town, picking up women, apparently at random, then blindfolding them and taking them way out into the country somewhere for the amusement of themselves and their assorted friends. Once they were through with them, they’d abandon them on a roadside far from any habitation.
Generally, the women were found wandering along the shoulder of the road, with glazed eyes and an unsteady step. They appeared to have been sedated and their accounts of what happened to them tended to be rambling and incoherent. Even after recuperating, they were generally unhelpful, either because they did not recall the experience they’d undergone with any clarity or because they preferred to say nothing. It seemed most of the victims had willingly accepted invitations to accompany these two men and they might have believed that it was their fault they’d gotten involved in the first place.
Homicide wouldn’t have been called into this sordid business were it not for the fact that one of the women turned up dead. An autopsy showed that she had been raped repeatedly and that she’d suffered the tearing of vaginal tissue as a consequence. But what had killed her was all the seconal in her system. She’d probably been alive when she was deposited on Route 12, midway between Sebastapol and Santa Rosa, but she didn’t stay that way for very long. A truck driver spotted her at two A.M. , staggering half-naked, toward the highway divider. He’d stopped, hauled her into the cabin of his truck, and asked her where she lived. She did not comprehend the question. She stammered some sort of response, then toppled over. The truck driver
Yet he had no intention of displaying any sign of weakness or guilt to Bressler. Better to act impassive and see not whether the shit hit the fan, because that was preordained, but just how much shit there would be.
“Well?” Bressler was waiting for a reply. “Have you a candidate for our evil genius?”
“Did the lone survivor get a look at the man?”
“Nan Raphael? She saw an eye, a nose and a pair of lips in the crack of a door. The man was white, that’s about all we could get from her. She couldn’t so much as tell us the color of his hair.”
“There was one man who could’ve done something like this.”
“Yes?” Bressler’s voice clearly betrayed his expectation.
“But he’s dead.”
“That’s right.”
Harry was thinking of Gallant, his memory freshened by the murderer’s escape and subsequent demise just two nights before. Gallant had the stamina and creativity to engineer the massacre of eight people and get away with it. But, as he was a charred corpse in the morgue, he had an incontrovertible alibi.
“And there’s no one else you can think of?”
“No one,” Harry answered resignedly.
“That’s a problem.”
“Damn right that’s a problem.”
“I’ve given this some thought, Callahan, and though the temptation is mighty, I’ve decided not to place you on suspension. We’ve got some nut out there who has this hard-on for you. I’m gambling we can bust him before it gets out of hand. But I don’t want you near this thing, understand? This is not your case.”
“Who’ve you given it to?”
“Black and Towers.”
Harry didn’t think much of detectives Black and Towers, but he knew there was nothing he could say to change Bressler’s mind.
“You got something to keep me occupied?”
“I think I do, I think we got something right up your alley.”
The way he said this gave Harry the feeling he might want to start looking for another alley.
It wasn’t an assignment so much as a punishment, Harry decided once Bressler had briefed him. There were two jokers circulating about town, picking up women, apparently at random, then blindfolding them and taking them way out into the country somewhere for the amusement of themselves and their assorted friends. Once they were through with them, they’d abandon them on a roadside far from any habitation.
Generally, the women were found wandering along the shoulder of the road, with glazed eyes and an unsteady step. They appeared to have been sedated and their accounts of what happened to them tended to be rambling and incoherent. Even after recuperating, they were generally unhelpful, either because they did not recall the experience they’d undergone with any clarity or because they preferred to say nothing. It seemed most of the victims had willingly accepted invitations to accompany these two men and they might have believed that it was their fault they’d gotten involved in the first place.
Homicide wouldn’t have been called into this sordid business were it not for the fact that one of the women turned up dead. An autopsy showed that she had been raped repeatedly and that she’d suffered the tearing of vaginal tissue as a consequence. But what had killed her was all the seconal in her system. She’d probably been alive when she was deposited on Route 12, midway between Sebastapol and Santa Rosa, but she didn’t stay that way for very long. A truck driver spotted her at two A.M. , staggering half-naked, toward the highway divider. He’d stopped, hauled her into the cabin of his truck, and asked her where she lived. She did not comprehend the question. She stammered some sort of response, then toppled over. The truck driver
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