Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death (11 page)

Harry didn’t care to listen to any more. He hung up without letting Brevoort say goodbye.

But there was more to come. The following morning another officer attached to the Santa Rosa police force left a message for Harry to call him. The note said that it was urgent.

Urgent or not, Harry was not permitted the opportunity to phone him. An emergency call had just been received by the dispatcher to the effect that a gunman was stalking the exclusive Golden Gateway apartment complex. The description of the suspect came close to matching the man Harry had arrested the night before—Sandy Lyman.

Harry couldn’t believe Sandy would be so stupid as to risk a second confrontation with the police just hours after being released from jail on a technicality. But it was possible Sandy was acting from desperation, impelled to madness by the slaying of his good buddy, the Samoan.

Maybe it was just chance, maybe it was fate, but when Harry arrived at the Golden Gateway complex, he found the same trio of officers that had greeted him on Pier 43½.

“What we’ve got here, Inspector, is a lot of confusion,” one of them said.

“That has a familiar ring to it. Could you do a bit better than that?”

“A woman name of Kaye Sissler lives up there, you see, where that window is?” He pointed to one of the apartments visible from the mall where they were standing. Behind them, a crowd was assembling, peering up at the same wide picture window, hoping to get a glimpse of the drama taking place. The only problem was there was nothing to see. The beige curtains were parted to allow a look into the room, but there was no one to be seen in the room. Several people in the crowd were debating what had happened. While everyone had their definite opinions, the fact was that no one knew for sure, and that included the police.

“Is she still in the apartment?” Harry asked.

“No, before anyone could stop him, some guy seizes her and hauls ass out of there. We’ve got men scouring the whole complex searching for them, but so far no luck. They could be anywhere.”

“Thanks, you’ve been a great help.”

Where in this maze of townhouses, restaurants, shops, and offices was the most likely place for a kidnapper to drag his victim? In his deranged state, Sandy, if Sandy it was, might not give a damn. But Harry had a feeling he would choose a part of the complex through which a great many people circulated. Rather than display his gun openly, he might prefer to keep it hidden, but still trained on the woman. Naturally, she would do as he instructed, pretend to be a friend, maybe a lover.

Harry decided to let the other officers carry out their hunt in the nooks and crannies of the Golden Gateway complex. He, on the other hand, crossed a pedestrian bridge and made his way through the throngs of morning shoppers. He had a good memory for people’s faces and the capacity for rapidly scanning a large number of them at one time.

Even a short distance away from the site of the Sissler apartment, no one seemed aware of the kidnapping and the atmosphere was one of complete normalcy. By plunging through the crowd with so little regard for those he jostled, he caused something of a stir. A few of those who got in his way shouted curses after him.

Harry mumbled his apologies, not that it did any good, and kept going, staring into faces like a madman, always looking for a mop of blond hair, but never failing to ignore those who wore hats or caps that might serve to cover over their hair.

It appeared to be a futile endeavor. It was possible the suspect and his captive had already left the premises and were well on their way out of the city, though presumably not in a pink MG.

Nonetheless, he kept on looking until his eyes began to throb. He thought he would soon start hallucinating. More than once, he believed he had Sandy in view, but it always turned out to be some other man with a woman who did not in the least resemble a kidnap victim.

He was about to give up when he casually glanced behind him and saw a man in a checkered short-sleeved shirt accompanied by a dark-haired rather pretty woman. The man had blond hair though he wore a visored cap angled sharply down over his brow. He maintained a firm grip on the woman, his arm circling her waist. His eyes darted from side to side in anticipation of impending danger. He was speaking to the woman whose face was pale and drawn. No wonder, an experience like this, Harry thought, could age one years in a matter of hours. He could see she was trembling, that while she was valiantly straggling to maintain her composure, the effort was exhausting her. It looked entirely possible she’d simply collapse in a faint.

Sandy—for Harry was certain now that it was the man he’d arrested the night before—had not yet spotted him. He was no doubt looking for uniformed police officers, not those in plain clothes.

Harry noted he was holding his jacket slung over his arm, and he guessed this was where his gun was, within easy access, and pointed right on the woman. He was guiding her down a set of stairs and onto a plaza that was filling with more and more shoppers. To risk a shootout here might well endanger a great many innocent people. Sandy, being as desperate as he was, would very likely show no hesitation about sacrificing other lives if he believed he was likely to forfeit his too.

All at once Sandy saw him. He paused for a fraction of a second, uncertain what he should do next. He wheeled about, forcing the woman to do the same, and began climbing back upstairs, brushing aside anyone who happened to be in his way.

Harry pursued them. He managed to close the distance between them with little difficulty. The woman with Sandy couldn’t run as quickly as he wanted her to. She stumbled at one point, a black pump went flying off her left foot. She might very well have twisted her ankle for she shrieked with sudden pain, causing those around her to ask her if she were all right. Sandy meanwhile hadn’t the leisure to be solicitous and he started to drag her, heedless of her missing footwear and injured ankle.

There were too many people in the way and still no one knew what was happening. In any case there wasn’t all that much space on this walkway to maneuver. Harry called out to Sandy, addressing him by name, demanding he surrender.

Instead, he did what Harry feared he would. Tossing away the jacket dangling off his arm, he brandished his weapon and pressed it close to the woman’s breast. Those in the vicinity screamed and tried to back off.

Harry had his .44 out, but it didn’t seem it would be of any use to him.

“I’ll kill her, I swear I’ll kill her if you don’t put that down and get out of here!” Sandy shouted, his voice hoarse and venemous.

Just then, before Harry had a chance to react, there was a loud blast. Blood coursed over the front of Sandy’s checkered short-sleeved shirt and he pitched over the railing of the walkway and plummeted to the mall below. The woman was shaken but unhurt.

Predictably, the chaos that ensued in the wake of the killing made it impossible for Harry to determine who had shot Sandy. Wherever he looked, people were scrambling for shelter, understandably convinced further shots would follow though none did. There was a great uproar. Some were screaming in panic, others from horror, others from plain fear. But collectively, in this public atrium, their screams made it seem as though the Golden Gateway complex had become the temporary home of a tribe of aborigines conducting strange nocturnal rites.

By the time the uniformed officers arrived on the scene and began their investigation, no less than twenty possible witnesses were prepared to say what they’d seen. And virtually all of them declared that while they might not be aware of the context of the situation they had no doubt that Harry had been the one to fire on the kidnapper.

Harry thought it of little significance that he was believed to be Sandy’s killer. When, later that day, Bressler called him in to discuss this latest incident, Harry pointed out that his gun had not been discharged and he was certain the ballistics tests would bear him out. Not that he felt any remorse over Sandy’s death, but he wanted it made emphatically clear that he would never risk opening fire when doing so would imperil the life of an innocent victim.

Bressler, however, was not so easily convinced. “We’ve already run a ballistics test,” he said. “That’s why I called you in here. Sandy Lyman was shot by a .44 Light.”

Harry knew what was coming. But he protested that further ballistics tests would clearly show that it was not his .44 that had been responsible.

“I don’t doubt you, Callahan. But that’s not the point. It’s common knowledge you busted Lyman yesterday and because you failed to take into account certain legal niceties, he was released only hours after you arrested him. Now he’s dead. Just like Judge Gallagher, Marc Torio, and Morris Page. And now add to the list Lyman. You know what kind of publicity we’re bound to get? No matter what our tests finally show, you’ve got fifteen, twenty people out there willing to testify it was you who fired the gun. They may think you’re a hero, they’re undoubtedly as unreliable as most witnesses are, but imagine the field day the papers are going to have with it?”

Harry said nothing. Not much imagination was required.

Bressler said, “Whoever wants your ass, wants it bad. And it’s damned embarrassing for the department. You’re being depicted as some kind of freak, a mad vengeful cop taking the law into his own hands. The heat’s getting to us all. I am afraid I’ll have to suspend you pending the outcome of our investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“The one the commissioner has just ordered. Things happen quickly around here, you’ve got to keep up.”

Harry decided to ask how long this investigation might take. Bressler, as he’d suspected, said he had no idea. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“I never doubted it for a moment.”

Harry had never seen such a look of satisfaction on the face of his superior. It was apparent he suffered no remorse over Harry’s departure from the force, however temporary.

It was only when he got back to his desk to clean it out, that he remembered the message from Santa Rosa. Though it might no longer matter to him, curiosity led him to return the call.

He was put through to an Officer Carl Mansfield.

“How are you, Inspector?”

Harry admitted he’d been better.

“Oh yes, I heard about what happened last night. It’s a fucking frustrating business. As a matter of fact, that’s why I am calling you. We sent off the fingerprints of your three suspects to Washington. That was before we were told to release them.”

“And?”

“The FBI ran them through their computer. We got nothing back on Sandy Lyman. Jonas Pine was a different story. He was once a licensed practitioner, but no longer. He was busted for a couple of felonies, nothing violent though, involved trafficking in drugs. He was fond of filling out false prescriptions. Not to mention conducting surgery in states where his license had either been revoked or never issued in the first place. Not the man you’d want to take out your appendix.”

“Or your tonsils.”

“I don’t think it would surprise you if I told you he’s been hit with some major malpractice suits.”

“Not at all.”

“Of course, he always splits town before he can be hauled into court. But it isn’t Pine I wanted to talk to you about. It’s the third twerp you brought in here.”

“Andrew Dardis?”

“That’s what he called himself, that’s what his Social Security card said he was, but his fingerprints say differently. According to the FBI, Andrew Dardis is James William Gallant.”

“Gallant? It can’t be him. He’s dead.”

“Not anymore he isn’t,” said Carl Mansfield.

C H A P T E R
N i n e

U
pon the receipt of this information regarding the death and astonishing rebirth of James William Gallant, a court order was obtained and the body of the man thought to be Gallant was exhumed.

There was very little of the body left. What hadn’t been incinerated in the fire had been cut out, weighed, and analyzed by city coroners. No one had thought it necessary to take any fingerprints, moreover, fingerprinting would have been something of a problem since nearly all the fingers were either burned away or so charred that obtaining a clear impression was virtually impossible. Even so, two of the fingers belonging to the left hand were intact enough to undertake a microscopic analysis with some hope of success. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was sufficient for the sake of comparison.

Early in the evening, some five days after his suspension, Harry was sitting gloomily at home when the phone rang. He grabbed at it like a drowning man would a life preserver.

“Harry? This is Walter White.”

White worked in the lab, quarantined from the controversies that made life in other departments, like Homicide and Vice, the grueling business it was sometimes. He’d heard about Harry’s suspension, he said he was sorry about it. But it was not something he wanted to talk about, not when the papers were speculating on the presence of a “mad vigilante cop” in the city’s midst and calling on the commissioner and the mayor to rein in officers who took the law into their own hands. That the facts were at odds with what the press said then so much worse for the facts. Facts were not always what boosted circulation figures or accounted for high Arbitron ratings. Nonetheless, for White and for many of his colleagues, this affair with Harry was a terrible embarrassment This despite the fact that most of them would not have been unhappy should he suddenly vanish from the face of the earth. That would free them from the burden of having to consider his plight and adopt some kind of public position regarding it.

Harry understood White’s predicament, he could hear the catch in his voice over the line. He sounded like someone calling to express his condolences over the death of a loved one.

“What can I do for you, Walter?”

“The results came back from the coroner’s office and I thought you’d like to be informed of them.”

At first, Harry wasn’t sure to what he was referring, then remembered: the fingerprints.

“I’m listening.”