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Authors: Gary K. Wolf
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be here, gumshoe? You a witness, a suspect, or what?”
“He was employed by the rabbit,” explained Cleaver. “I was just taking his statement when you arrived.”
Hudson nodded to show he understood that police work often forced officers to associate against their wills with guys like me. He expanded his narrative, but for Cleaver’s benefit, not mine. “About one this morning we got a call from a hysterical woman who turned out to be this rabbit’s wife. Seems she lives with a guy named Rocco DeGreasy, a big wheel in the comic industry. She was out late. When she came home, she saw a light on in DeGreasy’s study. She went in to check and found DeGreasy slumped across his desk, dead.”
“You got an estimated time of death?” I asked, but Hudson ignored me.
“I did some quick checking around,” he continued, “and found out that this rabbit had previously threatened DeGreasy’s life, in front of witnesses during a photo session at his photographer’s studio. I also discovered that this rabbit bears a grudge because DeGreasy failed to honor a promise to give him his own strip. As if I needed more, DeGreasy has also grabbed the rabbit’s girl. Put that all together, it spells murder. I’ll give odds that the bullet we found in DeGreasy turns out to have come from the rabbit’s gun.”
“Were you able to pinpoint an exact time of death?” asked Cleaver, repeating my earlier question.
Since this time it had come through channels, Hudson answered. “We figure about midnight.”
“Judging from the hardness of the rabbit’s final balloon, he got it about an hour later. You check Jessica Rabbit’s alibi for then?” Cleaver asked.
“No, why should I? What’s she got to do with anything? The rabbit plugged DeGreasy. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Great. That takes care of your murder. What about mine?” Cleaver’s word balloon came out so frosty you almost needed a squeegee to read it. “These two deaths are too closely related to be a coincidence. Suppose Jessica Rabbit saw Roger kill Rocco, followed the rabbit back here, and executed him for his crime. A perfect motive. The rabbit shot her lover, so Jessica shot the rabbit.”
“I’ll let you solve that part of it,” said Hudson, buffing his fingernails on his lapel with such intense concentration that a casual onlooker might suspect it was the most important thing he had to do for the entire rest of the day. “When the report comes back from ballistics, I’ll stamp my case closed. What do I care about who blew away some bunny.” With that he left the house, got into his car, and roared off, siren on and lights flashing, a showboat to the end.
Cleaver took a peek through a telescope set up in the front window, but it was way too early to see any stars. “Did that rabbit have what it takes to kill a man?” Cleaver asked me.
“I don’t know. On the one hand, he really hated Rocco DeGreasy. But on the other hand, who can picture a killer rabbit?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Cleaver. He drifted off into the mental never-never land where ‘toons seem to spend three-quarters of their time.
“You finished with me, Captain?”
“What?” A series of tiny balloons, each containing an itsy-bitsy question mark, bubbled out of his head. The balloons popped, letting the question marks parachute to the floor. I was tempted to scoop them up and pocket them, since I knew a book publisher who bought them to cut type-setting costs in his line of whodunits.
“Sure,” Cleaver said, “you can go. Just don’t leave town without checking with me first. And one other thing. I don’t know how you felt about this rabbit, or if you took his case seriously, but from here on out this affair belongs to me. Official police investigation. You want to keep your license, you stay out. Understand?”
“One hundred percent,” I said. “I won’t interfere.” I jammed my hand into my pocket and crossed my fingers. “I
“He was employed by the rabbit,” explained Cleaver. “I was just taking his statement when you arrived.”
Hudson nodded to show he understood that police work often forced officers to associate against their wills with guys like me. He expanded his narrative, but for Cleaver’s benefit, not mine. “About one this morning we got a call from a hysterical woman who turned out to be this rabbit’s wife. Seems she lives with a guy named Rocco DeGreasy, a big wheel in the comic industry. She was out late. When she came home, she saw a light on in DeGreasy’s study. She went in to check and found DeGreasy slumped across his desk, dead.”
“You got an estimated time of death?” I asked, but Hudson ignored me.
“I did some quick checking around,” he continued, “and found out that this rabbit had previously threatened DeGreasy’s life, in front of witnesses during a photo session at his photographer’s studio. I also discovered that this rabbit bears a grudge because DeGreasy failed to honor a promise to give him his own strip. As if I needed more, DeGreasy has also grabbed the rabbit’s girl. Put that all together, it spells murder. I’ll give odds that the bullet we found in DeGreasy turns out to have come from the rabbit’s gun.”
“Were you able to pinpoint an exact time of death?” asked Cleaver, repeating my earlier question.
Since this time it had come through channels, Hudson answered. “We figure about midnight.”
“Judging from the hardness of the rabbit’s final balloon, he got it about an hour later. You check Jessica Rabbit’s alibi for then?” Cleaver asked.
“No, why should I? What’s she got to do with anything? The rabbit plugged DeGreasy. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Great. That takes care of your murder. What about mine?” Cleaver’s word balloon came out so frosty you almost needed a squeegee to read it. “These two deaths are too closely related to be a coincidence. Suppose Jessica Rabbit saw Roger kill Rocco, followed the rabbit back here, and executed him for his crime. A perfect motive. The rabbit shot her lover, so Jessica shot the rabbit.”
“I’ll let you solve that part of it,” said Hudson, buffing his fingernails on his lapel with such intense concentration that a casual onlooker might suspect it was the most important thing he had to do for the entire rest of the day. “When the report comes back from ballistics, I’ll stamp my case closed. What do I care about who blew away some bunny.” With that he left the house, got into his car, and roared off, siren on and lights flashing, a showboat to the end.
Cleaver took a peek through a telescope set up in the front window, but it was way too early to see any stars. “Did that rabbit have what it takes to kill a man?” Cleaver asked me.
“I don’t know. On the one hand, he really hated Rocco DeGreasy. But on the other hand, who can picture a killer rabbit?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Cleaver. He drifted off into the mental never-never land where ‘toons seem to spend three-quarters of their time.
“You finished with me, Captain?”
“What?” A series of tiny balloons, each containing an itsy-bitsy question mark, bubbled out of his head. The balloons popped, letting the question marks parachute to the floor. I was tempted to scoop them up and pocket them, since I knew a book publisher who bought them to cut type-setting costs in his line of whodunits.
“Sure,” Cleaver said, “you can go. Just don’t leave town without checking with me first. And one other thing. I don’t know how you felt about this rabbit, or if you took his case seriously, but from here on out this affair belongs to me. Official police investigation. You want to keep your license, you stay out. Understand?”
“One hundred percent,” I said. “I won’t interfere.” I jammed my hand into my pocket and crossed my fingers. “I
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