Victims Read Free Page A

go up and see him.”
    “Over the phone, he seemed pretty sure of his facts, pretty convinced he had everything figured out. Is that the way he seemed to you?”
    “Well—” Canelli frowned as he pressed a forefinger to his pursed lips. “He kind of comes on strong, I guess you’d say. I mean, he’s a dynamic personality, no question. But the way it looked to me, he sort of—you know—sized me up, and decided that I wasn’t—you know—an officer, or anything. So then he made it pretty plain, see, that he didn’t intend to waste his time talking to just anyone.”
    “Did he accuse Gordon Kramer of the crime when he first talked to you—when you first arrived?”
    Canelli shook his head. “No, sir. Not right at first. He said that he knew who did it, though. Then he said that he’d make his statement at the proper time, to the proper person. That’s when I decided to call you.” As he said it, he looked at me with his soft, anxious brown eyes, obviously still wondering whether he’d done the right thing, calling me. Canelli was the only cop I’d ever known who could constantly get his feelings hurt.
    “You were right to phone me, Canelli. No question.”
    “Oh, Jeez, Lieutenant. I’m sure glad you’re not—”
    “Come on. Let’s take a look at the body. Where is it?”
    “Here—back here.” He led the way down a wood-paneled hallway and opened an elegantly carved oak door. I was prepared for the smell of violent death: excrement and the sickly sweet stench of drying blood mingling in an odor a policeman never forgets, an odor that constantly lingers in the senses, is never completely purged.
    I was facing another hallway, this one narrower, less elaborate, leading straight to the back of the house. Two interior doors were on my left, both of them ajar. To my right, another shorter hallway led to an outside door, also ajar. Through the window of the outside door, bathed in the glare of police floodlights, I saw the coroner’s van parked on a large concrete apron that served a three-car garage.
    “It’s ahead,” Canelli said. “There’s another hallway that goes off to your right, back there. That’s where he is.”
    “You stay here. I’ll just take a quick look. You didn’t touch him, did you?”
    “No. I don’t think Guest did, either. But I’m not real sure.”
    Nodding, I walked slowly forward. The first room to my left was a small bedroom, darkened. The second room on the left was larger, also a bedroom. The hallway light was enough to reveal a clutter of children’s toys through the half-opened door. Ahead, the hallway made a right angle turn to the right. As I approached the corner, I saw a hand, clenched in death’s final agony. Another slow, reluctant step revealed a bare forearm. Then I could see it all: Charlie Quade, sprawled facedown on the parquet wood floor. He’d gotten balder since I’d last seen him, and fatter. He was barefooted, and wore only his undershorts and a tee shirt. He’d bled a lot. Squatting for a closer look, I saw why: One bullet had gone through his neck just below the ear, probably rupturing the jugular vein. The other bullet appeared to have struck him in the shoulder or high on the chest. His eyes were open, staring at my foot. His mouth was open, too. His white, pudgy legs were drawn up close to his body; his torso was twisted. He’d probably suffered before he died. A lot.
    I saw a Colt .45 automatic lying about a foot from his hand. I remembered that gun. For their off-duty weapons, most officers choose the smallest, least conspicuous gun possible, usually a short-barreled revolver, easily concealed. Not Charlie. Off duty, he carried the big Colt .45 thrust in his belt, on display. He’d always been a show-off: a blustering, bad-tempered braggart. Guns, money, cars, women—Charlie flashed them all.
    Straightening, I looked down the short hallway that led to what seemed to be an outside door, half open. But no light from the driveway came