wasn’t much evidence beyond his threat against Charlie Little Spotted Horse. I mean, this isn’t some cheap mystery where a clever killer outwits the cops. That never happens in real life. Ninety-nine out of a hundred guys who get busted are guilty — and that’s from the best defense lawyer in Chicago. Who else could have done it — and why? Could there have been anything else I didn’t see?”
Old Bell looked offended.
“If there was, I’d have goddam well printed it,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Morgan apologized. “I just wonder if there was evidence to the contrary that got swept under the rug? Did Gilmartin get railroaded?”
“Railroaded? Shit, kid, let me tell you a story. I got a call in the middle of the night, maybe a week after they arrested him. Somebody on the line said they were going to give him the ‘long drop’ from the Iron Mountain Bridge, just like he did to that little girl. By the time I got to town, there was a helluva ruckus on the courthouse lawn, looked like hundreds of drunkards with ball bats and deer rifles. Only one man stood between those hooligans and Gilmartin.”
“Deuce Kerrigan?”
“Damn straight. If Deuce had a mind to railroad anybody, he’d have let ‘em walk right in and stretch that boy’s neck longer than a horse pecker. But he wasn’t that kind of man.”
“Did he ever suspect the parents?”
Old Bell waved him off.
“You’re pissin’ up a rope, kid. I never saw the sheriff’s file, but Deuce Kerrigan was as honest as he was tough. Sure, he knew the father belted the kid a few times, whole damn town did, but he told me later their story checked out. He wouldn’t have put a noose around a man’s neck if he wasn’t sure. That bastard had a damned good head on his shoulders, but he had an even better gut for solving crimes, and his gut told him it wasn’t the parents. It was Neeley Gilmartin.”
“How ‘bout your gut, Bell? Were you sure?”
“Right after they busted him, a deputy let me in to take a picture for the paper. Gilmartin just flipped me off and turned his face away. I asked him a few questions, but he just told me to fuck off.”
“So how’d you get his picture?”
“I stuck one flashbulb in my old Speed-Graphic four-by-five and one in my mouth. I kept the shutter closed, but popped the flash into his cell. Faster’n hell, I stuck that new bulb in the camera and hollered for the deputy to let me out. The dumb fucker Gilmartin turned toward me, ‘cause he was sure he’d snookered the newspaperman. And that’s how I got my picture.”
The jeering face of Neeley Gilmartin, cocked wickedly over his bare, muscular shoulder, was printed three columns wide in the next week’s edition of The Bullet . Old Bell had cropped the photo so the word TERROR, tattooed on his arm, could be seen clearly.
“He must have been pissed,” Morgan said.
“He had that look, you know? His eyes were dead. He had this evil air about him. You’ve sensed it, a kind of evil electricity. Like bolts of anger. That tattoo has stuck with me all these years. He chose terror more than it chose him. My gut? Yeah, he did it.”
Disappointment nudged Morgan. Maybe he’d hoped to hear that Old Bell had doubted the case against Gilmartin. Or that some vital piece of evidence had turned up in the intervening years that proved his guilt. But if even a feeble flame of his old passionate idealism still burned in Morgan’s heart, it now flickered as if a cold draft had blown through his chest.
The two newspapermen sat without talking, watching the sun go down all around them. Morgan swirled the wine in his glass, absorbed in thought.
Old Bell interrupted the silence.
“Some nights, a red-tailed hawk circles around the place and you can watch him while he watches you, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as he swings around this little perch. The Crows say the hawk
Old Bell looked offended.
“If there was, I’d have goddam well printed it,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Morgan apologized. “I just wonder if there was evidence to the contrary that got swept under the rug? Did Gilmartin get railroaded?”
“Railroaded? Shit, kid, let me tell you a story. I got a call in the middle of the night, maybe a week after they arrested him. Somebody on the line said they were going to give him the ‘long drop’ from the Iron Mountain Bridge, just like he did to that little girl. By the time I got to town, there was a helluva ruckus on the courthouse lawn, looked like hundreds of drunkards with ball bats and deer rifles. Only one man stood between those hooligans and Gilmartin.”
“Deuce Kerrigan?”
“Damn straight. If Deuce had a mind to railroad anybody, he’d have let ‘em walk right in and stretch that boy’s neck longer than a horse pecker. But he wasn’t that kind of man.”
“Did he ever suspect the parents?”
Old Bell waved him off.
“You’re pissin’ up a rope, kid. I never saw the sheriff’s file, but Deuce Kerrigan was as honest as he was tough. Sure, he knew the father belted the kid a few times, whole damn town did, but he told me later their story checked out. He wouldn’t have put a noose around a man’s neck if he wasn’t sure. That bastard had a damned good head on his shoulders, but he had an even better gut for solving crimes, and his gut told him it wasn’t the parents. It was Neeley Gilmartin.”
“How ‘bout your gut, Bell? Were you sure?”
“Right after they busted him, a deputy let me in to take a picture for the paper. Gilmartin just flipped me off and turned his face away. I asked him a few questions, but he just told me to fuck off.”
“So how’d you get his picture?”
“I stuck one flashbulb in my old Speed-Graphic four-by-five and one in my mouth. I kept the shutter closed, but popped the flash into his cell. Faster’n hell, I stuck that new bulb in the camera and hollered for the deputy to let me out. The dumb fucker Gilmartin turned toward me, ‘cause he was sure he’d snookered the newspaperman. And that’s how I got my picture.”
The jeering face of Neeley Gilmartin, cocked wickedly over his bare, muscular shoulder, was printed three columns wide in the next week’s edition of The Bullet . Old Bell had cropped the photo so the word TERROR, tattooed on his arm, could be seen clearly.
“He must have been pissed,” Morgan said.
“He had that look, you know? His eyes were dead. He had this evil air about him. You’ve sensed it, a kind of evil electricity. Like bolts of anger. That tattoo has stuck with me all these years. He chose terror more than it chose him. My gut? Yeah, he did it.”
Disappointment nudged Morgan. Maybe he’d hoped to hear that Old Bell had doubted the case against Gilmartin. Or that some vital piece of evidence had turned up in the intervening years that proved his guilt. But if even a feeble flame of his old passionate idealism still burned in Morgan’s heart, it now flickered as if a cold draft had blown through his chest.
The two newspapermen sat without talking, watching the sun go down all around them. Morgan swirled the wine in his glass, absorbed in thought.
Old Bell interrupted the silence.
“Some nights, a red-tailed hawk circles around the place and you can watch him while he watches you, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as he swings around this little perch. The Crows say the hawk
Similar Books
