Росс Макдональд - Find a Victim

“You made these accusations to his face?”

I nodded.

“I’d hardly blame him for wanting to kill you. Where is he now, do you know?”

“In the post-mortem room, with his sister-in-law.”

Westmore turned on his heel and walked away from me, the full length of the corridor. The metal door at the end brought him up short. He stood and looked at it for a while, and finally rapped with his fist.

The door sprang open. Church came out. Westmore said something to him which I missed. Church brushed him aside with a wide sweep of his arm and moved toward me along the corridor. His eyes were fixed on something beyond its walls, and he was grinning fiercely. He pushed out through the exit door. The roar of his engine split the morning and faded into the distance.

Westmore followed him slowly, walking with his head down as if he was butting his way through invisible obstacles. His mouth was distorted by internal pressure.

“If you could question Church, what questions would you ask him?”

“Who shot Aquista and Kerrigan and Anne Meyer.”

“You’re not suggesting he did?”

“I say he has guilty knowledge of those murders. He let Bozey get away with Meyer’s truck last night.”

“Is that what Bozey says?”

“Practically. He was afraid to come right out with it.”

“Whatever he said, you can’t use him to damage a man like Church.”

“I saw Church on the pass road about one o’clock in the morning. He relieved the roadblock and took the post himself, which is highly unusual–”

He raised a stiff hand in a forensic gesture. “You’re contradicting yourself. Church couldn’t have been in two places at once. If he was on the pass road at one, he didn’t shoot Kerrigan. And do you know for certain that Bozey took that route?”

“I don’t know anything for certain.”

“I suspected that. Bozey’s obviously trying to fake some kind of an alibi.”

I said: “You’ve got your hooks on one young professional criminal, so you’re tying everything up in one heavy bundle and hanging it around his neck. I know it’s standard procedure, but I don’t like it. This isn’t simply professional crime we’re dealing with. It’s a complicated case, involving a number of people, pro and amateur both.”

“It’s not as complicated as you’re trying to make out.”

“Maybe not, when we know the answers. We don’t know them yet.”

“I thought you regarded Church as the answer.”

“Church puzzles me,” I said. “I think he puzzles you, if you’d admit it. You wouldn’t be defending him unless you had a reason.”

“I’m not defending him. He doesn’t need defense.”

“Aren’t you a little suspicious of him yourself? You saw his reaction to Anne Meyer’s death.”

“She’s his sister-in-law, after all. And he’s an emotional man.”

“A passionate man, would you say?”

“Just what are you getting at?”

“She was more than his sister-in-law. They were lovers . Weren’t they?”

He drew his fingers wearily across his forehead. “I’ve heard they were having an affair. But that doesn’t prove anything. In fact, it makes it even less likely that he had anything to do with her death.”

“It doesn’t rule out passional crime. He may have shot her out of jealousy.”

“You saw the grief on his face.”

“I saw it. Murderers feel grief like anyone else.”

“Who could he be jealous of?”

“I can think of several people. Aquista is one. He was an old follower of hers, and he was up at the lake Saturday night. It could account for what happened to Aquista. And Kerrigan’s hold over Church, and Kerrigan’s death.”

“Church didn’t kill Kerrigan, you know that.”

“He may have had it done for him. There are plenty of ready guns under his orders.”

Westmore said: “No,” in a voice as sharp and high as a cry of pain. “I can’t believe Brand would harm a living soul.”

“Ask him. If he’s an honest cop, or has any vestiges of honesty left, he’ll tell you the truth. You might even be doing him a favor. He’s carrying hell around with him now. Give him a chance to let it out before it burns him down.”

“You’re very sure of his guilt,” Westmore said softly. “I’m not.”

But he seemed to be deeply divided against himself. The artificial light reflected from the pale green hospital walls lent his face a ghostly pallor.

The light in the corridor altered suddenly. I turned to face the doctor who had failed to save Aquista. He had quietly opened the door of the emergency room.

“You can take him now, Mr. Westmore. The leaks are caulked, at any rate. You want to query him in here?”

“No. Send him out.” Westmore sounded angry with the world.

Bozey came through the doorway. Between the bandages that swathed his head, his one visible eye swung wildly to the exit. The guard behind him put his hand on his holster. Bozey caught the movement and slumped into resignation.

Westmore led the procession to the morgue, and I brought up the rear.

Treloar wheeled the bodies out of their glass-doored compartments, one by one, and uncovered their faces. Aquista’s was pale and gaunt, Kerrigan’s flashy and imperturbable. Anne Meyer was already old in death.

“Handsome cadavers,” the doctor said. “Their organs were in beautiful shape, every one of them. It’s a pity they had to die.” He gave Bozey a mildly chiding look.

“What you bring me in here for?”

Westmore answered him. “To assist your memory. What’s your name and age?”

Leonard Bozey. Age twenty-one. No address. No occupation. No hope.

“When did you last see this man, Donald Kerrigan?”

“Thursday night. About midnight, I guess it was.”

“You guess?”

“I know. It wasn’t any later.”

“Where did you see him? At his motor court?”

“No. At a drive-in near there. I don’t remember the name.”

“The Steakburger,” I said. “I witnessed the meeting.”

“We’ll hear from you later.” Westmore turned back to Bozey: “What occurred at that meeting?”

“I don’t have to answer. It’s self-incineration.”

Westmore smiled grimly. “Did a package of money change hands?”

“I guess so.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went away.”

“What were you running away from?”

“Nothing. I just went for a drive. I like night driving.”

“Before you went for your joy-ride, did you take a .38-caliber revolver and shoot Kerrigan through the head with it?”

“I did not.”

“Where is your gun?”

“I got no gun. It’s against the law to carry one.”

“And you never do anything against the law?”

“Not if I can help it. Sometimes I can’t help it.”

Westmore breathed deeply. “What about the truck you stole? What about the bank you robbed in Portland? Couldn’t you help doing those things?”

“I never been to Portland. You mean Portland, Maine?”

“I mean Portland, Oregon.”

“Is there a Portland in Oregon?”

Westmore leaned forward. In the flat bright light his profile was sharpedged and thin, like something cut from sheet metal. “You’re talking pretty flip for an ex-con with the blood of three citizens on his hands.”

“I didn’t kill any of them.”

“Didn’t you? Take a good look at them, Leonard, refresh your recollection.” Westmore said to the guard: “Move him up closer.”

The guard pushed Bozey forward to the head of Aquista’s stretcher. The closed Latin face seemed to be haunted by its lifelong yearnings, persisting into death.

“I never saw him before.”