Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

The detective nodded, his head bowed in shame.

“You found John Gideon, didn’t you?” Siderman said. “Somehow, some way — through luck or sheer happenstance — your paths crossed after the rape. You may even have discovered he went to visit his parents every Thursday night. But in any event, there he was, the almost perfect stand-in for your son, whose guilt you had been suppressing for weeks when the movement in the case was at a dead-stop. It was likely an incredibility you could scarcely believe. A young man who was roughly the same age, height and weight as your son. With the same dark brown beard. And wonder of wonders, he owned an automobile that was the same make, style and year as the one owned by your son, Victor.”

Vince DiBiasi had the look of a drained man. His face was the color of pastry dough and his eyes mirrored a mind that was fatigued and beaten.

“From that point on,” Siderman continued, “it was nothing more than a matter of leading the victim towards the end you wanted served: the arrest of John Gideon and thereby the absolution you wished for your son. Time was on your side of the fence. The rape was far into history and the victim’s memory no longer crystal clear. And you had a suspect who could virtually pass for your son. And you doctored the photo montage, just to make doubly certain John Gideon’s photo was the one the victim picked out.”

“I love my son,” the detective said weakly now. “I don’t love what he did. But I love my son.”

Siderman didn’t much like the notion of dropping bombshells upon already beleaguered cities; but a mission was a mission and there were objectives to be reached.

“Lieutenant, were you aware your son came close to being a suspect in a previous rape?”

The detective twitched with a sudden shock. For a moment the eyes came alive, but they were confused, as though they were searching in a confused way for something they had lost but could not find.

“Of course , you weren’t aware of that. The rape happened in October of last year. And you weren’t with this division then, were you?”

DiBiasi was still in a state of confusion. To bring him up out of it, Siderman opened the file folder and centered it on the desk beneath his eyes.

“How do I know you weren’t with this division last October? Because the Offense Report on that rape was still in your files, the one you’re reading now. It puzzled me why the report should still be there, until it dawned on me that possibly you didn’t know it was there. Because it involved an investigation which took place before you arrived. You might have turned it up if you’d checked the prior arrest files, or these active Offense Reports. But you didn’t. Because you already had your suspect. John Gideon. And since his arrest and conviction were being orchestrated, the last thing you wanted was another qualified suspect.”

It had been a major blunder and DiBiasi’s face showed it as he read the Offense Report he never found. Shame and relief began to fill his face.

“Lieutenant DiBiasi,” said Siderman now, moving to fill in the final puzzle piece, “what is your wife’s maiden name?”

“You put two-and-two together there, too, didn’t you, Siderman?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did. It’s Wintermute, isn’t it?”

DiBiasi nodded slowly once again.

“Your wife is Ed Wintermute’s sister. Which makes your son his nephew. It’s no wonder Ed Wintermute gave John Gideon less than a stalwart defense. The continued freedom of his nephew and your son depended upon it.”

DiBiasi stubbed out his cigar in an ash tray. He wiped the build of perspiration from his face and then coughed once to regain his composure.

“All right, Siderman. So what’s next?”

“You’ll make me a copy of the Offense Report,” Siderman told him. “Just in case it actually does become misplaced or lost. Then, you’ll take it to the chief criminal prosecutor, or one of his deputies. It will be their decision whether to appeal Judge McCombe’s ruling of a fair trial, dismiss the charge against John Gideon, or to take Gideon to trial a second time.”

“My son will have to be arrested, of course,” said the detective, his quiet tone indicating he was resigned to that course now.

“You’ll do what you have to do. And I’ll do what I have to do. We both know John Gideon is innocent. And sooner or later, the public deserves to know it, too.”

DiBiasi nodded and rose. “I’ll get you a copy of this,” he told Siderman. “Shouldn’t take but a few minutes.”

In the detective’s absence, Siderman reflected upon all these developments for a purely selfish, professional standpoint. Had he leapt into the John Gideon arrest from the very outset, he might now have placed himself into the running for a Pulitzer. But he hadn’t and so he wouldn’t be losing much sleep over being visited by the Pulitzer nominating committee. But then again, John Gideon would not be headed for prison, either. And that was a trade-off he could live with very easily.

It was not long before Vince DiBiasi returned with Siderman’s copy of the Offense Report. Siderman folded it and slipped it into a pocket and as he did, his fingertips brushed the final puzzle piece.

He brought out the shell casing and handed it to the detective. “I think this belongs to you. I got the license number of your private car from the Department of Motor Vehicles. You drove down Dulanney Street last night, which meant you had to fire across the passenger seat through an open window.”

“I didn’t get all the casings,” said DiBiasi, needlessly.

“It was wedged between the seats.”

DiBiasi jiggled the shell casing in his palm. “You plan to make anything out of this?”

“I don’t think so,” Siderman told him. “You’ll have to arrest your own son, explain why this Offense Report wasn’t located and perhaps even face charges of an improper investigation. That strikes me as enough trouble for any single human being to face. But I am going to bill you for a pane of glass, plus labor.”

“Where will you be when the deputy prosecutor reaches a decision?” DiBiasi asked the reporter.

“Where am I always? ” Siderman told him. “In the reporters’ room downstairs. I’ll wait until ten p.m., then I’ll have to go with what I know and what I suspect. Is that fair?”

“Fair,” the detective told him. “I suppose you’ll want to be the one to tell John Gideon. And his parents.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Siderman said. “I’ve blown a Pulitzer through neglect and deadened instincts and just plain laziness. So this appears to be the next best satisfaction.”

Neither man could argue that.

Major Clifford Lansing of the CID was going back to America — but it was a sad homecoming for him. This time he was going to investigate the murder of his father!

Why didn’t I come home sooner? Major Clifford Lansing thought solemnly as the 747 touched down on the runway of the Detroit International Airport.

Lansing knew the answer. He’d been too involved with his job as a homicide investigator in the Criminal Investigation Department of USAEUR. Lansing hadn’t left West Germany since 1978, and he hadn’t had a vacation or an extended leave during that time. Once he’d taken a three day pass to Bonn to visit an old jump buddy from the days when Lansing was an Airborne Ranger in Vietnam. Even then, he’d encountered another homicide and another investigation.

Now, for the first time in four years, he had returned to America — on an emergency leave for personal reasons. Once again, a murder was involved.