The Lenient Beast Read online

  In my mind, more to pass the time than because I am worried, I again run over the things I did Tuesday night.

  I made no error, left no trail to myself. Except, of course leaving the body in my own yard. And that in itself, in the complete absence of any other clue pointing toward me, cannot but make me look innocent instead of guilty. Why, they must have asked themselves, would a murderer leave the body of his victim on his own property when he could easily have moved it elsewhere, having had the whole night to do so? Indeed, why did I leave it there? Was that my reasoning when I changed my original plan to put him in the car and leave him near the railroad tracks? It is odd, but my mind clouds just a bit on that one point and I cannot now be certain. Yet it must have been that way. Every other point is clear as crystal in my memory.

  No one saw me enter that shabby building where he lived; at least, no one noticed me. I met no one in the hallway or on the stairs, no one saw me when I knocked on His door. No one but Stiffler saw me enter or heard us talk, no one saw us leave together” a few minutes later. And in that sordid little place, so tiny for five people to have lived in, I left no sign that I had been there. Not even a fingerprint. I touched nothing there but Stiffler's hand when he offered it as I introduced myself. No one saw us on our way out and I feel certain that we, or at least I, made the short distance to where I had parked my car without being observed. If someone had recognized Stiffler from a distance they would not be able to describe or identify me.

  Nor were we observed at the other end of the drive. When I neared my own place my first thought was to look at the Armstrong house and it was still dark, as it had been when I had left. Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter — a quite pretty girl, a redhead — had gone to a drive-in theater. And they are the only neighbors near enough to have been likely to notice or remember my leaving or my returning. If another neighbor had noticed he would not have been able to see, in the darkness, that I brought another person with me, for I drove the car into the carport and we debarked there and entered the house through the door that leads directly into the house from the carport. True if even my car had been seen leaving or returning, then I had taken a risk in telling the detectives that I had not left the house at all. But it would be easy to remember that I had run out of cigarettes and had driven up to the drugstore on Broadway to get some. I had actually made such a stop, on my way to get Stiffler, and the druggist would bear me out if he remembered.

  And inside my house I had been careful, so careful, to notice everything that he touched or handled. Just as there were no prints of mine at his place, I wanted none of his at mine.

  I waited half an hour or a little longer before I killed him. I thought of waiting longer, for a plane or a truck to pass and to muffle the sound of the shot. But a look from the side window a moment before showed me that the Armstrongs were still away, and my other neighbors are so relatively remote that I could overlook the slight possibility of their hearing, or at least of their identifying the sound and the direction from which it came.

  One piece of Kleenex caught the few drops of blood that might otherwise have fallen. I took him out into the yard at once. It was while I was placing him there that the Armstrongs returned home, but I was in the deep shadow of the elm and simply waited there until they were safely inside their house before I returned to mine.

  The rest was simple. I wiped every surface he had touched or might have touched, then rubbed those surfaces with my own hands so they would not be suspiciously clean and blank. I made a very small fire in my fireplace and in the fire I burned Stiffler's wallet and its small contents and the piece of Kleenex that had caught the blood. Then I cleaned out the fireplace and flushed the ashes down the toilet, leaving no sign that I'd had a recent fire.

  The other two things had to be done outdoors and I did them much later. I turned out my light at midnight, partly to have it go off at the usual time and partly to sit in darkness for a while to let my eyes accustom themselves to it so I could see outdoors. I sat there until the clock chimed the half hour and then I went into the carport and took care of possible fingerprints on the car.

  From there to the alley and half a block down it before I put the pistol in someone else's garbage can. A perfectly safe way of disposing of it for the garbage from our alley is picked up early on Wednesday mornings and it would be gone before I would discover and report the body. And even if it were found — by the garbage collector when he emptied the can or later on the dump — there was no possible way the police could connect it to me. Anyone could have put it in the garbage can.

  Coming back from the alley, I took what was probably my greatest single risk, slight though it was. It had to be done. I used a flashlight briefly to make sure that the body lay in a natural position and that there was no possible indication that it had been dragged there, especially from the direction of the house. His feet had dragged; I had managed to carry the rest of him. But the ground was very hard and no mark had been made.

  Back in the house I got into bed in darkness and lay there going over every detail in my mind, making sure I'd left nothing undone and deciding that I hadn't.

  As tonight, twenty-four hours later, I lay awake again thinking the same things and with the same results. I was completely safe now, even safer than I had been then. None of the few small things which remotely could have gone wrong had gone wrong.

  And that in itself was proof that I had correctly interpreted God's will even though the Sign he had given me this time was a less direct and obvious one than the others.

  The clock chimed again, and a second time. Two o clock. I knew now and I could go back to sleep.

  But I didn't sleep at once. I heard it chime the half hour and then three times before I slept again.

  FIVE

  WALTER PETTIJOHN

  I always get to headquarters early but this morning, Thursday morning, I came even earlier than usual. The Stiffler case looked bad; the boys hadn't turned up anything that looked even remotely like a lead. And I wanted to check over their reports and everything else on the case so I could get them off to a good start.

  When I passed the switchboard Carmody said, “Good morning, Captain,” as always — unless he's too busy handling calls — and I stopped a moment.

  “Anything new, Sergeant?” I asked him.

  “Knifing on the South Side just after midnight. Under control; we've got the guy who did it. Two burglaries way out east on Speedway. Looks like the same boys who've been working Stone. They didn't get much. That's all except a couple of A. & B.'s on Meyer Street.”

  Assault and battery cases on Meyer Street are a dime a dozen; a few short blocks in that section constitute the nearest thing Tucson has to a Skid Row, frequented mostly by Mexicans and Negroes.

  “Nothing new turned up on the Stiffler case?”

  Carmody shook his head and then, as the switchboard buzzed, started talking into the mouthpiece.

  I hadn't expected there to be anything, of course. Except under special circumstances an investigation doesn't continue through the night. But there was always the possibility that something that happened might tie in.

  Top thing in the basket on my desk was a brief note from Lieutenant Schroeder saying that Car Eight, the one which patrolled that district, had checked the Medley house at intervals throughout the evening and night, that the house had been dark and the car gone at nine twenty, that the car had been in the carport and the house lighted at eleven ten, that on all later checks, at twelve forty and three times later in the night, the car had still been there and the house had been dark. That fitted; Medley had explained to Frank and Red that he'd expected to attend a chess club. In fact, I wondered why I'd given in to Frank's suggestion that I have the squad car boys keep tab on the place. Certainly, from everything I'd heard, John Medley seemed to be above suspicion. But Frank gets funny ideas sometimes.

  Frank's report was next; he'd been typing on it yesterday evening when I left. I'd had it all verbally, but now I gave it a thorough reading. Nothing there; they hadn't uncovered a thing. Jay's report on John Medley was there, but I'd already studied it.

  It was only a few minutes before the boys would be coming in and, although there were other things in my basket, none of them concerned Stiffler and I glanced at them quickly and put them back again. The Stiffler case came first today. I picked up the phone and told Carmody to send Frank and Red in to see me as soon as they came in. I'd get them started before I gave out any more assignments. I did some thinking and made some notes.

  Red Cahan came in first. He's a good boy, not brilliant but hard working, down to earth. I'd rather have one more like him than three more fancy boys like Ramos. I just can't like Frank. It isn't that I've got any prejudice against Mexicans, and it's good to have a few of them on the force because Tucson has a fair percentage of Spanish-speaking people and they can be handled better by their own kind. And it isn't that I object to a detective having more education than he needs for the job. Maybe it's the combination of the two things, being Mexican and being fancily educated — and showing it.

  I nodded to Red and told him to sit down. I made a few more notes and then looked at him. I said, “Well, Red, before Frank gets here, what's your slant on this?”

  “Just how do you mean, Cap?”

  “I've just read Frank's report. For both of you, sure, but he wrote it up. You agree with all of it?”

  “Well — all the facts in it. I think Frank's a little overboard in worrying so much about this Medley guy.”

  “I agree with you,” I told him. “What was your impression of Medley, personally?”

  “Nice enough old duck. A little on the prissy side. But hell, there's no connection between him and Stiffler. Way I figure it whoever killed Stiffler — well, say
he was killed in a car. They had to put him somewhere and picked Medley's yard by accident. I figure they carried him in from the alley.”

  I nodded. “Possible. Any reason, though, why they carried him so far inside the yard?”

  “So he wouldn't be found as soon, maybe. If they'd left him in the alley, or even just over the hedge, he'd probably have been seen a lot sooner.”

  I tapped the report. “There's nothing in here to indicate a motive. Any ideas?”

  Red struck a match with his thumb nail and lighted the cigarette he'd just put in his mouth. “That I can't figure, Cap. From what we got so far there hardly could have been one. I think it must have been just ordinary robbery. By someone who didn't even know who he was. Say, like he went out for a walk. Maybe stops in a tavern and—”

  I interrupted. “This Father Trent says he hadn't taken a drink since the accident. And that he wasn't much of a drinker even before that.”

  “So would his priest know if he changed his mind and decided to have a beer while he was out walking? But the killer could have picked him up somewhere else, or just followed him. Or maybe offered him a lift. True, he must not have had much money on him, but he was dressed well enough that he could have had. Anyway, I can't figure it any way but robbery. And we've had plenty of robbery killings before. Why look for something fancy in this one?”

  “Shooting in the back of the head's a little unusual for that, Red.”

  “Could happen. Say I want to hold up a guy. I put the gun on him and then tell him to turn around so I can reach around and frisk him from in back. I put the gun against the back of his head or neck where hell feel it, and reach around. Maybe he grabs at my hand for a judo throw and I pull the trigger. Or maybe if I've got the gun cocked I squeeze a little harder than I mean to, while I'm frisking, and bang.”

  I said, “I like the last one better. From what you've dug on Stiffler, he wasn't very strong. I can't see him resisting.”

  “Except for one thing. The way he was feeling, he didn't give a damn. He wanted to die, I guess. Because he was a Catholic he couldn't commit suicide. They wouldn't let him into Heaven or something.”

  I frowned. Red isn't outright irreligious like Ramos, but he's sometimes a bit too flippant about sacred things. I hold no brief for Catholicism; I'm a Presbyterian myself and an elder in our church, but on the important issue of suicide Catholic doctrine is as sound as ours. God's gift of life is not to be thrown away by a man on his own impulse.

  Red must have guessed what I was thinking for he said, “Sorry, Cap,” and changed the subject He looked at his watch. “Say, it's ten after. Frank didn't phone he'd be late or anything, did he?”

  I was giving him a negative answer to that when Frank walked in. He said, “'Morning, Cap. Sorry I'm a little late.”

  I looked at him. Obviously he hadn't had much sleep; his eyes looked dull and tired and his face was drawn. At least I thought so; it's hard to tell with Mexican faces. But I felt sure there were definite signs of dissipation, as though he'd done some pretty heavy drinking and had stayed up pretty late.

  I saw Red look at him too, and I wondered if he'd known that Frank had gone drinking after they'd quit work.

  Probably I should have reprimanded him, but I said nothing.

  I simply said, “We've been discussing the Stiffler case. We both agree that you're wasting time suspecting Medley of being involved. I think you're wrong there.”

  Frank shrugged. “I can be wrong. I have been. We haven't really got a lead yet, toward Medley or anyone, else. How's about the post mortem? Raeburn kept giving us the run-around on that yesterday and we're stymied on some angles till we have it.”

  “Yesterday evening he said he'd get at it first thing today. I'll call him now and see if he's going to.” I picked up the phone and made the call. I put the phone down and said, “He's working on Stiffler now, his secretary said. So well get something soon.”

  “Well, good for Doc Raeburn,” Frank said.

  “No call for sarcasm,” I said coldly. “Dr. Raeburn is a busy man. Well, I've got some notes here but first, what are your ideas for today?”

  Frank said, “Before we get to that, let me ask if we're doing anything about the possibility that this started in-Mexico, over four months ago? That he might have had enemies, or an enemy, there who might have come here, for that purpose or otherwise, and finished him off?”

  I nodded toward the notes I had been making. “I'm taking care of that. It's unlikely, but possible. We won't overlook it.”

  “And how about Medley? I guess he's been here the six and a half years he claims, but aren't we going to check him back any farther? He may have a record, for all we know.”

  “Ridiculous, Frank,” I said. “Even if he should have a record, what would it indicate? He had no possible motive for killing Stiffler.”

  Frank shrugged. “Neither has anyone else we've come across so far. But all right, maybe it would be going far afield to investigate him that far back.”

  I said, “It certainly would be, unless we get something that ties him in with Stiffler, something that proves he even knew him. Do you plan to see him again today?”

  “We want to see him again, sure. When we go up against him next we. want to know everything Raeburn can tell us.”

  I nodded. “We should have something by noon, I'd say. If you're not coming in then, phone in and I'll give you the p.m. report. You plan on going out to the construction project this morning?”

  “Right,” Frank said. “That should be our first stop. Last evening I talked to Hoffmann, his boss, on the phone. He said he'd be down at that particular project — he runs several of them — today until ten o'clock or so and after that he'd be elsewhere. So we want to catch him.”

  Frank was doing, as usual, a little too much of the talking and I didn't want him to get the idea that he's head man on the team, so I looked over to Red Cahan to ask, “How long do you think it should take you out there?”

  Red said, “I'd say it depends on how many of the guys he worked with knew him, and how well. If enough of them did know him, it might take us all morning — or all day. Frank, how many men did you say this Hoffmann said worked out there?”

  “He said between forty and fifty currently. But most of them are workmen and he wouldn't have had much contact with them, if any. Stiffler worked in the office and wouldn't have had much contact with them, unless he made a friend or two during lunch hour.”

  “Wouldn't he have picked up time slips from them?” I asked.

  “No, Hoffmann had a boy do that. No doubt to make the work as easy as possible on Kurt, physically. Either because he was a fellow-countryman in a bad spot or because Father Trent had sold him on the idea, he was giving the guy as much of a break as possible. Anyway, most of Kurt's contact would be with the few people who worked in the office. I'd say we should finish out there this morning easily.”

  “And then?” I asked, thinking I might as well set them up for all day if possible.

  “If we get any leads that look worth following up right away we'll phone and check with you. Come to think of it, well be phoning anyway, about the post mortem. If we don't get any leads out at the project, I guess we might as well go back to canvassing the building he lived in and the neighborhood here. We didn't have time to do more than hit the high spots there yesterday, and a lot of people weren't home when we tried them.”

  I frowned a little, realizing that Frank had taken the play away from Red again. I've often wondered if I should try teaming Frank with someone else, someone not as easygoing as Red, to let him get his ears pinned back a little. Maybe he was pushing a little harder than usual this morning to try to hide the shape he was obviously in.