recorder.
Smokey fearfully stretched his thick lips over his rotten teeth, said, "I fucked up, didn't I?"
Hanson nodded his head slowly. "You fucked up. Just answer the questions when I ask them. Make it short and sweet like. Like you're telling somebody that hasn't ever heard it before. You got that?"
Smokey nodded.
"I said, have you got that?"
"I've got it."
"I don't want to have to cut off the recorder again and explain it over."
"No sir."
"If I have to cut off the recorder again, I send Joe out for the rubber hoses and a pair of wire pliers."
"Wire pliers. What for? What's the pliers for?"
"You don't want to know. Gonna do it right?"
Smokey nodded.
"What?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah what?"
"I'm gonna do it right."
"Turn it on, Joe."
Clark clicked the recorder into service again. Smokey gave his story, straight this time, brief and without interrupting the flow of the tape. When he was finished they let him go. They could have held him, but saw no reason to. Smokey had been little help, other than turning in the body in the first place, and Hanson admitted to Clark that that surprised him.
"Why do you think he turned it in?" Clark asked.
Hanson shook his head. "Don't really know, but I got this feeling."
"Alright, Sherlock. What's the feeling?" Joe shook out a Kool and lit it with a Bic lighter.
"It's just a feeling."
"Yeah."
"No evidence for it."
"Tell me. You and I have talked about cop feelings before. We put some stock in them, right?"
Hanson blew out some smoke. "Yeah right."
"Right now, tell me quick, gut reaction. Why did he do it? Why did he come in when normally he wouldn't have?"
Hanson put his hip into the long table that the tape recorder was perched on, puffed his cigar until his head was swarmed in grey smoke.
"I think he turned it in," Hanson said, "because he senses something. Something that you get from living on the street. You heard how he described the body. He was almost ill. I know for a fact that Smokey's seen quite a few stabbings and cuttings. Even done one or two minor surgeries himself. He was scared because it wasn't, in his mind, or mine either, for that matter,the work of a spontaneous killer."
"I'll agree with that," Joe said.
"It was premeditated and done for pleasure. Smokey said Bella looked like a butchered hog, only messy. It was deliberate mutilation, if his description was accurate."
"Lot of folks in The Ward are like that. Hell, Gorilla, you of all people know that."
"Mean, yes. I'll buy that. But this is something else. If Smokey's right, if it's as he says, I'm afraid we just might have something nasty on our hands."
"Something like a black Skidrow Slasher?"
"Maybe. Not many of you honkeys are going to cruise around The Ward after midnight, not unless you're selling a little white powder that some of the folks down there think they have to have to get up in the morning."
"Maybe it's a pusher that done it, disguised the killing to make it look like a nut murder. That's an angle. Bella could've been pushing drugs on the side, I mean her record shows that she's been picked up as a user before, nothing concrete in the eyes of the law, but you and I know. That's an angle, too. A pusher could have done it and covered his tracks. Or Bella could have been pushin' and someone decided they didn't need to pay for it, so they took it and did Bella in. Whataya think?"
"Maybe."
"But you don't think so, do you?"
"Not really."
"What do you think?"
"Don't know yet."
"Come on, Gorilla. What do you think?"
"I think it might be a good idea to start by seeing the body."
"Oh cheery," Clark said. "Let's go."
*
The morgue is open twenty-four hours a day.
There is always someone on duty. It doesn't close for holidays. Not Christmas, not good ole George Washington's Birthday. It is the palace of death and examination. It is more constant than the city. It always has customers. They drop by at all hours of the night, most often arriving in white wagons with blue and red
Smokey fearfully stretched his thick lips over his rotten teeth, said, "I fucked up, didn't I?"
Hanson nodded his head slowly. "You fucked up. Just answer the questions when I ask them. Make it short and sweet like. Like you're telling somebody that hasn't ever heard it before. You got that?"
Smokey nodded.
"I said, have you got that?"
"I've got it."
"I don't want to have to cut off the recorder again and explain it over."
"No sir."
"If I have to cut off the recorder again, I send Joe out for the rubber hoses and a pair of wire pliers."
"Wire pliers. What for? What's the pliers for?"
"You don't want to know. Gonna do it right?"
Smokey nodded.
"What?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah what?"
"I'm gonna do it right."
"Turn it on, Joe."
Clark clicked the recorder into service again. Smokey gave his story, straight this time, brief and without interrupting the flow of the tape. When he was finished they let him go. They could have held him, but saw no reason to. Smokey had been little help, other than turning in the body in the first place, and Hanson admitted to Clark that that surprised him.
"Why do you think he turned it in?" Clark asked.
Hanson shook his head. "Don't really know, but I got this feeling."
"Alright, Sherlock. What's the feeling?" Joe shook out a Kool and lit it with a Bic lighter.
"It's just a feeling."
"Yeah."
"No evidence for it."
"Tell me. You and I have talked about cop feelings before. We put some stock in them, right?"
Hanson blew out some smoke. "Yeah right."
"Right now, tell me quick, gut reaction. Why did he do it? Why did he come in when normally he wouldn't have?"
Hanson put his hip into the long table that the tape recorder was perched on, puffed his cigar until his head was swarmed in grey smoke.
"I think he turned it in," Hanson said, "because he senses something. Something that you get from living on the street. You heard how he described the body. He was almost ill. I know for a fact that Smokey's seen quite a few stabbings and cuttings. Even done one or two minor surgeries himself. He was scared because it wasn't, in his mind, or mine either, for that matter,the work of a spontaneous killer."
"I'll agree with that," Joe said.
"It was premeditated and done for pleasure. Smokey said Bella looked like a butchered hog, only messy. It was deliberate mutilation, if his description was accurate."
"Lot of folks in The Ward are like that. Hell, Gorilla, you of all people know that."
"Mean, yes. I'll buy that. But this is something else. If Smokey's right, if it's as he says, I'm afraid we just might have something nasty on our hands."
"Something like a black Skidrow Slasher?"
"Maybe. Not many of you honkeys are going to cruise around The Ward after midnight, not unless you're selling a little white powder that some of the folks down there think they have to have to get up in the morning."
"Maybe it's a pusher that done it, disguised the killing to make it look like a nut murder. That's an angle. Bella could've been pushing drugs on the side, I mean her record shows that she's been picked up as a user before, nothing concrete in the eyes of the law, but you and I know. That's an angle, too. A pusher could have done it and covered his tracks. Or Bella could have been pushin' and someone decided they didn't need to pay for it, so they took it and did Bella in. Whataya think?"
"Maybe."
"But you don't think so, do you?"
"Not really."
"What do you think?"
"Don't know yet."
"Come on, Gorilla. What do you think?"
"I think it might be a good idea to start by seeing the body."
"Oh cheery," Clark said. "Let's go."
*
The morgue is open twenty-four hours a day.
There is always someone on duty. It doesn't close for holidays. Not Christmas, not good ole George Washington's Birthday. It is the palace of death and examination. It is more constant than the city. It always has customers. They drop by at all hours of the night, most often arriving in white wagons with blue and red
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