Parnell Hall: The Baxter Trust

Okay. Was that everything? Yes. Shit! No. The gram in her purse. She grabbed the purse, fumbled in it, pulled out the small envelope with the small plastic bag.

She started to throw it in the paper bag, but stopped. Damn.

She couldn’t throw it away. It wasn’t fair. She’d gone through too much to get it. Sucking up to Uncle Max. And she’d need it to get through this crisis, what with Johnny being gone, and all.

But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare leave it in the apartment, and she didn’t dare carry it on her. Not the way things stood. Because, much as she hated to admit it, she realized, there was a damn good chance she was going to be arrested.

Sheila had a moment of near hysteria. She was trapped. Everything was coming down on her.

Then she had a flash of inspiration. She ran to her desk, jerked open the drawer, and pulled out an envelope. She took a pen and addressed the envelope to herself. She put the gram of coke inside, sealed the envelope, found a stamp and put it on.

Sheila grabbed up the envelope and the bag. She grabbed her purse and went out the door, locking it behind her.

Her mind was racing as she hurried down the street: “I called from the corner because I didn’t want to use the phone in the apartment. I knew you weren’t supposed to touch anything, and-”

She reached the corner. There was a phone booth, a mail box and a garbage can.

Sheila dropped the letter in the mail box. She was about to throw the paper bag in the garbage, when she realized she was going to tell the cops where she called from. Suppose they searched the garbage?

She realized she was being paranoid, but she also realized she had good reason to be paranoid.

Sheila hurried up the block to the next corner. There was a trash can there. She dropped the paper bag in it.

She hurried back to the corner on her street.

She picked up the phone. It worked. She dropped in a quarter and dialed.

Lieutenant Farron pulled his car to a stop behind the other police cars double-parked in front of the apartment. He got out, slammed the door and checked the address, since everyone else seemed to be already inside.

Farron was in a foul mood, and had been ever since he got the call. He hoped the information was wrong, that somehow, someway, someone had gotten it wrong. Though in his heart of hearts he knew that wasn’t true. Sheila Benton. That was the name. That was the girl. That was Maxwell Baxter’s niece.

As Farron walked up to the building he noticed that one of the police cars parked on the block was, indeed, occupied. Through the rear window, the backs of two heads could be seen. One wore the cap of a uniform cop. The other had blond hair.

Farron angled his body to avert his face from the car as he went into the building.

Flashbulbs were going off as he entered the apartment. Farron stood back, to let the detective finish photographing the body. He snapped off a few more shots and stood up.

“Okay, doc, he’s all yours,” he said.

The medical examiner, who’d been standing with the other cops, moved in and bent over the body.

Sergeant Stams spotted Farron, and moved over to him.

“Okay, what have we got here?” Farron asked.

“A dead man.”

“I can see that. Who is he?”

“Can’t tell. He had no identification on him.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing in his pockets except this.”

Stams held up a key. Farron started to take it, then stopped.

“Oh, you can take it,” Stams told him. “There’s no prints on it.”

Farron took it and looked it over. It appeared to be a simple door key, and fairly new.

“Okay,” he said. “Trace the key and find out who he is.”

“I traced the key,” Stams said, somewhat smugly.

Farron stared at him. “How the hell did you do that?”

Stams pointed to the front door to the apartment “It fits that door there.”

Farron whistled. “What does the girl say?”

“Says she’s never seen him before. According to her, she just came home and found him lying there.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Isn’t it.”

Farron frowned, rubbed his forehead. “Tell me…”

“Yes?”

“Is she… I mean, it’s her, isn’t it?”

“Her?”

“Sheila Benton.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s her.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

The medical examiner stood up.

“What have you got, Doc?” Farron asked.

“Offhand, I’d say he was killed within the last two hours. I can pin it down better when I get him to the morgue.”

“Pin it down, Doc. It’s gonna be important.”

Stams looked at Farron. “Your three bodyguards didn’t do too well, did they?”

Farron sighed. “What a mess. Wrap things up here, will you?”

“Where you going?”

“I’m going to take the girl downtown, hunt up the D.A. and see if I can get us out of the shithouse.”

District Attorney Harry Dirkson, like many elected officials, had two faces, the genial, harmonious one he showed his constituents, and the other one. Dirkson’s other one was something else. Police officers walked softly around him, and for good reason. This plump, bespectacled, balding man was a tiger when aroused. His sarcasm could put Lieutenant Farron to shame, and Farron was no slouch in that department himself. But under Dirkson’s gaze, the usually unflappable Farron actually found himself beginning to squirm.

“Now,” Dirkson said, ominously. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Yesterday the girl came to you with a blackmail note. You sent her away. You made no investigation whatsoever. And today she winds up with a corpse in her living room.”

Farron sighed. “That’s right.”

“She asked for help. You didn’t give it. Result-a corpse.”

“Sounds like hell when you put it that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, how do you want me to put it? It’s as if the girl, having failed to interest you in her blackmail letter, decides to see if she can attract your attention with a corpse.”

“Come off it, Harry,” Farron said somewhat irritably, in spite of himself. “You’re not arguing in front of a jury.”

“No, but I will be, won’t I?” Dirkson shot back. “How’s it gonna sound then? You tell me. How’s it gonna sound?”

Farron shrugged and shook his head. “It’s gonna sound like hell.”

“It’s gonna sound like shit,” Dirkson corrected. He took a deep breath, blew it out again, and shook his head. He collected himself, and went on in a quiet tone of voice that somehow managed to seem more intense than if he’d shouted. “I don’t know if that means anything to you, Lieutenant. You are a hired official. If you go on the witness stand and make an ass out of yourself, people may laugh at you, but you’ll still have your job. I’m an elected official. I’m responsible to the people. I’ve gotten a million fucking morons out there watching me who have the power to kick me out of office if they don’t like what they see.”

Farron nodded. All this was true, and more direct than he would have expected Dirkson to put it. It was no secret that Dirkson had political aspirations, though no one was sure just how high those aspirations were. But Dirkson had made a point of seeing that the district attorney’s office piled up an impressive percentage of convictions, particularly in cases he handled personally. And if there was anything in the world he didn’t want, it was to be made to look foolish.

“I know how you feel,” Farron said.

Dirkson raised his eyebrows. “Do you, Lieutenant? All right, then, let me ask you one thing. If you had followed this up yesterday, do you think the murder might have been prevented?”