Read Online The Prettiest Girl I Ever Killed by Charles Runyon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Runyon
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with the law, not to mention becoming a target for the real killer. Thinking about it … I was scared, but I was exhilarated too. I was shoving in all I had. I was taking the big jump and at the bottom I’d find either life … or death. Everything was simple.”
I looked at him and saw the excitement shining in his eyes. I understood the look I’d seen earlier, of not caring. He’d taken his fate out of his hands and now he was free. And in a way I envied him….
Walking down to the car I said: “You came all the way back here just because Bernice Struble fell in a well?”
“Yes.” He looked at me and laughed abruptly. “You think that’s crazy?”
“Well, I … Yes. Damn right I do. Especially when you say it’s murder and you don’t have a single measly crumb of evidence—!”
“I have a theory, Velda. To test a theory you have to act as though it’s true. Then you start stacking up the facts and if your theory doesn’t hold them all you throw it out. When Frankie got sent up, I was sure of one thing; there was a killer loose in Sherman. I expected him to strike again, sooner or later, but there were no more murders. That didn’t fit what I’d learned about killers … until it occurred to me that he was clever enough to make them all look like accidents. I started checking, but it wasn’t until Bernice’s death that I had something to work on. It could have been an accident, I’ll admit. But I have to assume it’s murder in order to test the theory. You understand?”
“No.” I stopped at the car and turned. “The trouble is you start with the assumption that Frankie didn’t kill … my sister. I don’t have that faith, you know. He wasn’t my brother.”
Curt pulled out his billfold and gave me a folded square of paper. It was a penciled note faded and smeared from much handling. It began
Dear Angelface:
that was the nickname Curt’s brothers had used when they teased him.
Yr. idea sounds crazy, just between us kids. A good honest cop is worth ten smart lawyers; once the law gets an armlock on a man they quit looking. I got convicted and that’s it; I’d bet my tobacco ration that every speck of evidence that didn’t agree with the verdict has been shoved under the rug. But okay, I’ll answer your questions and shoot this out past the censors. She was dead when I got there.
You know how they feel. I couldn’t have been wrong. I must have got home by instinct after I got hit on the head. I don’t remember. I didn’t black out from booze; Gil Sisk can tell you I wasn’t drunk, and you know how I always remembered everything, even when I was totally paralyzed from drinking. So what happened to the knife the killer used? The sheriff never found it, and it’s rusted away by now. So damn much of this evidence is cold, cold. One thing to look into: Anne was playing some guy for money. I told her once that I’d go back north if I laid my hands on a bundle, and she asked if I’d take her with me. Half shot, I said sure. Maybe I would’ve too. Anyway, she visited me in the can while I was sweating out my thirty days and asked me when I could leave, because she thought she could raise about five thou. I said, anytime baby. Could be she had it the night she got killed; did the sheriff find any money on her? Strap that fat-assed son-of-a-bitch down and apply a pair of wire stretchers to his you-know-what. I don’t think he knows who killed her, but he knows damn well I didn’t. Sandy Matthews might give you something. She said once that Anne should be satisfied with the man she had and not bother me. She wasn’t talking about Johnny Drew, since who’d be satisfied with him? If I think of anything else I’ll shoot it out to you, but I’m not holding my breath, buddy-o. Some birds here plan on sprouting wings and they want me in the covey. They’ll wait six months, so that’s how long you’ve got. After that I’m out of the game, win or lose.
Buena Suerte,
Angelface.
I gave
I looked at him and saw the excitement shining in his eyes. I understood the look I’d seen earlier, of not caring. He’d taken his fate out of his hands and now he was free. And in a way I envied him….
Walking down to the car I said: “You came all the way back here just because Bernice Struble fell in a well?”
“Yes.” He looked at me and laughed abruptly. “You think that’s crazy?”
“Well, I … Yes. Damn right I do. Especially when you say it’s murder and you don’t have a single measly crumb of evidence—!”
“I have a theory, Velda. To test a theory you have to act as though it’s true. Then you start stacking up the facts and if your theory doesn’t hold them all you throw it out. When Frankie got sent up, I was sure of one thing; there was a killer loose in Sherman. I expected him to strike again, sooner or later, but there were no more murders. That didn’t fit what I’d learned about killers … until it occurred to me that he was clever enough to make them all look like accidents. I started checking, but it wasn’t until Bernice’s death that I had something to work on. It could have been an accident, I’ll admit. But I have to assume it’s murder in order to test the theory. You understand?”
“No.” I stopped at the car and turned. “The trouble is you start with the assumption that Frankie didn’t kill … my sister. I don’t have that faith, you know. He wasn’t my brother.”
Curt pulled out his billfold and gave me a folded square of paper. It was a penciled note faded and smeared from much handling. It began
Dear Angelface:
that was the nickname Curt’s brothers had used when they teased him.
Yr. idea sounds crazy, just between us kids. A good honest cop is worth ten smart lawyers; once the law gets an armlock on a man they quit looking. I got convicted and that’s it; I’d bet my tobacco ration that every speck of evidence that didn’t agree with the verdict has been shoved under the rug. But okay, I’ll answer your questions and shoot this out past the censors. She was dead when I got there.
You know how they feel. I couldn’t have been wrong. I must have got home by instinct after I got hit on the head. I don’t remember. I didn’t black out from booze; Gil Sisk can tell you I wasn’t drunk, and you know how I always remembered everything, even when I was totally paralyzed from drinking. So what happened to the knife the killer used? The sheriff never found it, and it’s rusted away by now. So damn much of this evidence is cold, cold. One thing to look into: Anne was playing some guy for money. I told her once that I’d go back north if I laid my hands on a bundle, and she asked if I’d take her with me. Half shot, I said sure. Maybe I would’ve too. Anyway, she visited me in the can while I was sweating out my thirty days and asked me when I could leave, because she thought she could raise about five thou. I said, anytime baby. Could be she had it the night she got killed; did the sheriff find any money on her? Strap that fat-assed son-of-a-bitch down and apply a pair of wire stretchers to his you-know-what. I don’t think he knows who killed her, but he knows damn well I didn’t. Sandy Matthews might give you something. She said once that Anne should be satisfied with the man she had and not bother me. She wasn’t talking about Johnny Drew, since who’d be satisfied with him? If I think of anything else I’ll shoot it out to you, but I’m not holding my breath, buddy-o. Some birds here plan on sprouting wings and they want me in the covey. They’ll wait six months, so that’s how long you’ve got. After that I’m out of the game, win or lose.
Buena Suerte,
Angelface.
I gave
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