herringbone jacket with elbow patches. Clean-shaven, he looked like the sort who slapped Aqua Velva onto his cheeks in the morning mirror.
Hagan said, “Anybody on Boston I can call about you?”
“Try Robert Murphy, lieutenant in Homicide.”
“Don’t know him. Anybody else?”
“Yeah, but they’d hang up on you.”
Hagan sat back, tenting his hands at belt level. “So what’s your interest in Jane Rust?”
“She came to see me on Monday afternoon. She didn’t strike me as close enough to the edge to kill herself Monday night.”
“She goes to a private investigator, she must have had something bothering her.”
“Look, Captain, we can dance around a while longer if you’d like, but we both know why she came to see me. She thought your department was involved in the death of Charlie Coyne.”
“You ever meet Coyne?”
“No.”
“If he graduated high school, they would’ve captioned his photo ‘Most Likely to Die in an Alley.’ Which is exactly what happened to him.”
“Suspects?”
Hagan snorted a laugh. “No more than a hundred. When Coyne got drunk, he got sentimental, wanted to share things with his brothers on the street. As in homeless and on the street.”
“And you figure one of them did him?”
“One of them saw it. Or at least the end of it. Or at least he thinks he saw the end of it.”
“What did he see?”
“Biggish bum, hobbling away after stabbing Coyne. The witness says Coyne managed to knife the killer in the leg.”
“The big guy show up at a hospital?”
“Not that we can tell. If he tried to patch himself up, he’ll lose the leg within a month. If he crawled off somewhere to die, a pair of uniforms will get a call to investigate a godawful smell coming from some abandoned building.”
“You seem pretty casual about all this. You have that many homicides down here?”
“You mean murders, no. You mean deaths by unnatural causes, hell yes. The leading killer of the homeless is frostbite. Right behind is guys beaten to death or stabbed in the heat of passion over cigarettes or a couple of returnable empties, net the guy a quarter maybe.”
“I wasn’t aware that Coyne was homeless.”
“Next thing to. He was shacked up with a girl and a kid she claims is his. You saw the place, you wouldn’t let your dog run loose in it.”
“Mind giving me her name and address?”
Hagan came forward again, all business. “Look, Cuddy, I can see the position you’re in. This girl Rust comes to see you, ends up dead that night. You maybe feel a little responsible, or that you owe her something. Fine. I’d feel that way myself if I were in your shoes. That’s why I’ve been so open talking with you about things. But everybody—me, the medical examiner, the statie attached to the DA—everybody has Coyne down as a simple death by stabbing.”
“And Jane Rust?”
“Autopsy and lab report came in by hand an hour ago. She swallowed enough sleeping pills to drop an elephant.”
“Except she couldn’t.”
“Swallow them you mean.”
“Yes.”
“We found a mug and a tablespoon on her kitchen table. One of the latents on each matched her index finger. The girl ground up a handful of the pills like an old-fashioned pharmacist with the mortar and pestle things.”
I thought about it. “Seems a hell of a complicated way to take your own life.”
“Rust was a complicated girl under a lot of stress, ; most of it self-inflicted. Besides, maybe she didn’t have a razor handy.”
“Any note?”
“No.”
“Strike you as odd a reporter didn’t leave one?”
“No.”
“Aside from the paper, was she under any stress you know of?”
Hagan shook his head. “She’s dead now. Whether it was intentional or accidental, it was by her own hand. Whatever problems she had won’t get helped by me airing them to a guy I met ten minutes ago.”
“I talked to her landlady. She says Rust had two visitors the night she died.”
“I spoke to Mrs. O’Day.
Hagan said, “Anybody on Boston I can call about you?”
“Try Robert Murphy, lieutenant in Homicide.”
“Don’t know him. Anybody else?”
“Yeah, but they’d hang up on you.”
Hagan sat back, tenting his hands at belt level. “So what’s your interest in Jane Rust?”
“She came to see me on Monday afternoon. She didn’t strike me as close enough to the edge to kill herself Monday night.”
“She goes to a private investigator, she must have had something bothering her.”
“Look, Captain, we can dance around a while longer if you’d like, but we both know why she came to see me. She thought your department was involved in the death of Charlie Coyne.”
“You ever meet Coyne?”
“No.”
“If he graduated high school, they would’ve captioned his photo ‘Most Likely to Die in an Alley.’ Which is exactly what happened to him.”
“Suspects?”
Hagan snorted a laugh. “No more than a hundred. When Coyne got drunk, he got sentimental, wanted to share things with his brothers on the street. As in homeless and on the street.”
“And you figure one of them did him?”
“One of them saw it. Or at least the end of it. Or at least he thinks he saw the end of it.”
“What did he see?”
“Biggish bum, hobbling away after stabbing Coyne. The witness says Coyne managed to knife the killer in the leg.”
“The big guy show up at a hospital?”
“Not that we can tell. If he tried to patch himself up, he’ll lose the leg within a month. If he crawled off somewhere to die, a pair of uniforms will get a call to investigate a godawful smell coming from some abandoned building.”
“You seem pretty casual about all this. You have that many homicides down here?”
“You mean murders, no. You mean deaths by unnatural causes, hell yes. The leading killer of the homeless is frostbite. Right behind is guys beaten to death or stabbed in the heat of passion over cigarettes or a couple of returnable empties, net the guy a quarter maybe.”
“I wasn’t aware that Coyne was homeless.”
“Next thing to. He was shacked up with a girl and a kid she claims is his. You saw the place, you wouldn’t let your dog run loose in it.”
“Mind giving me her name and address?”
Hagan came forward again, all business. “Look, Cuddy, I can see the position you’re in. This girl Rust comes to see you, ends up dead that night. You maybe feel a little responsible, or that you owe her something. Fine. I’d feel that way myself if I were in your shoes. That’s why I’ve been so open talking with you about things. But everybody—me, the medical examiner, the statie attached to the DA—everybody has Coyne down as a simple death by stabbing.”
“And Jane Rust?”
“Autopsy and lab report came in by hand an hour ago. She swallowed enough sleeping pills to drop an elephant.”
“Except she couldn’t.”
“Swallow them you mean.”
“Yes.”
“We found a mug and a tablespoon on her kitchen table. One of the latents on each matched her index finger. The girl ground up a handful of the pills like an old-fashioned pharmacist with the mortar and pestle things.”
I thought about it. “Seems a hell of a complicated way to take your own life.”
“Rust was a complicated girl under a lot of stress, ; most of it self-inflicted. Besides, maybe she didn’t have a razor handy.”
“Any note?”
“No.”
“Strike you as odd a reporter didn’t leave one?”
“No.”
“Aside from the paper, was she under any stress you know of?”
Hagan shook his head. “She’s dead now. Whether it was intentional or accidental, it was by her own hand. Whatever problems she had won’t get helped by me airing them to a guy I met ten minutes ago.”
“I talked to her landlady. She says Rust had two visitors the night she died.”
“I spoke to Mrs. O’Day.
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