Leopold's Way (27 page)

“Why didn't he report the body himself?” Fletcher asked.

“He finally did, around one this morning. I just learned that a short time ago. A call came in about a body on the expressway, but no car was mentioned and the investigating officer didn't find Rossiter. By two o'clock you must have been really desperate, Roger. There was nobody around to alibi you at that time of the morning, and even the bars were closing. You had no place to go for an alibi. In fact, there was a good chance now that the body wouldn't be discovered till morning, and your original alibi would be useless.

“You couldn't pretend to stumble on it yourself, since you were the chief suspect. So you decided on a bizarre and bold plan. You drove out to the stolen car on the expressway, waited till some cars were passing, and fired two shots into Rossiter's dead body. From your police experience you knew it could be shown later that Rossiter was already dead. Rather than place yourself in danger, you actually made sure that the real time of death could be established to clear you.”

“Couldn't he just break the guy's wrist watch?” Fletcher asked.

“Would something like that have convinced you? Or the Medical Examiner?”

“No,” Fletcher admitted, “but this way he ruined his whole police career.”

“At two o'clock this morning the choice was between his career and his life. It wasn't a difficult choice to make, was it, Roger? It wasn't even difficult to shift the blame onto Iris. After all, she'd betrayed you with Rossiter.”

Fleming's lips were dry. “How'd you get onto it?”

“You knew where the car was. Rossiter didn't tell you—he was already dead for two hours. If Iris told you, you'd have tried to hide the body, not take the blame on yourself. And if she didn't tell you, the only way you could have known was if
you
drove it there, if
you
killed him.”

“You'll have a tough time proving it,” Fleming said.

“Not with this bloody knife.”

“Maybe Rossiter and Mr. Croft both had the same blood type.”

Leopold smiled. “Feel like gambling your life on it, Roger?”

He didn't feel like gambling. On the way back to his cell he grabbed the gun from the holster of a friendly guard and shot himself in the head.

(1970)

“G
OING TO THE CHRISTMAS
party, Captain?” Fletcher asked from the doorway. Captain Leopold glanced up from his eternally cluttered desk. Fletcher was now a lieutenant in the newly reorganized Violent Crimes Division, and they did not work together as closely as they once had. “I'll be there,” Leopold said. “In fact, I've been invited to speak.”

This news brought a grin to Fletcher's face. “Nobody speaks at the Christmas party, Captain. They just drink.”

“Well, this year you're going to hear a speech, and I'm going to give it.”

“Lots of luck.”

“Is your wife helping with the decorations again this year?”

“I suppose she'll be around,” Fletcher chuckled. “She doesn't trust me at any Christmas party without her.”

The annual Detective Bureau party was, by tradition, a stag affair. But in recent years Carol Fletcher and some of the other wives had come down to Eagles Hall in the afternoon to trim the tree and hang the holly. Somehow these members of the unofficial Decorations Committee usually managed to stay on for the evening's festivities.

The party was the following evening, and Captain Leopold was looking forward to it. But he had one unpleasant task to perform first. That afternoon, feeling he could delay it no longer, he summoned Sergeant Tommy Gibson to his office and closed the door.

Gibson was a tough cop of the old school, a bleak and burly man who'd campaigned actively for the lieutenancy which had finally been given to Fletcher. Leopold had never liked Gibson, but until now he'd managed to overlook the petty graft with which Gibson's name was occasionally linked.

“What seems to be the trouble, Captain?” Gibson asked, taking a seat. “You look unhappy.”

“I am unhappy, Gibson. Damned unhappy! While you were working the assault and robbery detail I had no direct command over your activities. But now that I'm in charge of a combined Violent Crimes Division, I feel I should take a greater interest in them.” He reached across his desk to pick up a folder. “I have a report here from the District Attorney's office. The report mentions you, Gibson, and makes some very grave charges.”

“What kind of charges?” The sergeant's tongue forked out to lick his dry lips.

“That you've been accepting regular payments from a man named Freese.”

Gibson went pale. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Carl Freese, the man who runs the numbers racket in every factory in this city. You know who he is, and you know what he's done. Men who've opposed him, or tried to report his operations to the police, have been beaten and nearly killed. I have a report here of a foreman at Lecko Industries. When some of his men started losing a whole week's pay in the numbers and other gambling controlled by Freese, he went to his supervisor and reported it. That night on the way home his car was forced off the road and he was badly beaten, so badly that he spent three weeks in the hospital. You should be familiar with that case, Gibson, because you investigated it just last summer.”

“I guess I remember it.”

“Remember your report, too? You wrote it off as a routine robbery attempt, despite the fact that no money was taken from the victim. The victim reported it to the District Attorney's office, and they've been investigating the whole matter of gambling in local industrial plants. I have their report here.”

“I investigate a lot of cases, Captain. I try to do the best job I can.”

“Nuts!” Leopold was on his feet, angry now. There was nothing that angered him more than a crooked cop. “Look, Gibson, the D.A.'s office has all of Freese's records. They show payments of $100 a week to you. What in hell were you doing for $100 a week, unless you were covering up for them when they beat some poor guy senseless?”

“Those records are wrong,” Gibson said. “I didn't get any hundred bucks a week.”

“Then how much did you get?”

Leopold towered over him in the chair, and Gibson's burly frame seemed to shrivel. “I think I want a lawyer,” he mumbled.

“I'm suspending you from the force without pay, effective at once. Thank God you don't have a wife and family to suffer through this.”

Tommy Gibson sat silently for a moment, staring at the floor. Then at last he looked up, seeking Leopold's eyes. “Give me a chance, Captain. I wasn't in this alone.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I didn't get the whole hundred myself. I had to split it with one of the other men—and he's the one who introduced me to Freese in the first place.”

“There's someone else involved in this? One of the detectives?”

“Yes.”

“Give me his name.”

“Not yet,” Gibson hesitated. “Because you wouldn't believe it. Let me give you evidence.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“He and Freese came to me at my apartment and told me the type of protection they needed. That was the night we agreed on the amount of money to be paid each week. I wasn't taking any chances, Captain, so I dug out an old recording machine I'd bought after the war, and rigged up a hidden microphone behind my sofa. I got down every word they said.”

“When was this?” Leopold asked.

“More than a year ago, and I've kept the recording of the conversation ever since. What's it worth to me if I bring it in?”

“I'm not in a position to make deals, Gibson.”

“Would the D.A. make one?”

“I could talk to him,” Leopold replied cautiously. “Let's hear what you've got first.”

Gibson nodded. “I'll take the reel off my machine and bring it in to you tomorrow.”

“If you're kidding me, Gibson, or stalling—”

“I'm not, Captain! I swear! I just don't want to take the whole rap myself.”

“I'll give you twenty-four hours. Then the suspension goes into effect regardless.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Get the hell out of here now.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he said again. “And Merry Christmas.”

On the day of the Christmas party, activities around the Detective Bureau slacked off very little. It was always pretty much business as usual until around four o'clock, when some of the men started drifting out, exchanging friendly seasonal comments. The party would really commence around five, when the men on the day shift arrived at Eagles Hall, and it continued until well past midnight, enabling the evening men to join in after their tours of duty.

Then there would be a buffet supper, and lots of beer, and even some group singing around the big Christmas tree. Without the family attachments of Fletcher and the other men, Leopold tended to look forward to the party. In many years it was the main event of his otherwise lonely holiday season.

By four o'clock he had heard nothing from Sergeant Tommy Gibson. With growing irritation he called Fletcher into his office. “Gibson's under your command now, isn't he, Fletcher?”

“That's right, Captain.”

“What's he working on today?”

Fletcher's face flushed unexpectedly. “Well, Captain, it seems—”

“Where is he?”

“Things were a bit slower than usual, so I told him he could go over to Eagles Hall and help put up the tree for the party.”

“What!”

Fletcher shifted his feet uneasily. “I know, Captain. But usually I help Carol and the other wives get it up. Now that I'm a lieutenant I didn't feel I could take the time off, so I sent Gibson in my place.”

Leopold sighed and stood up. “All right, Fletcher. Let's get over there right away.”

“Why? What's up?”

“I'll tell you on the way.”

Eagles Hall was a large reasonably modern building that was rented out for wedding receptions and private parties by a local fraternal group. The Detective Bureau, through its Benevolent Association, had held a Christmas party there for the past five seasons, and its central location had helped make it a popular choice. It was close enough to attract some of the uniformed force as well as the detective squad. All were invited, and most came at some time during the long evening.

Now, before five o'clock, a handful of plainclothesmen from various divisions had already arrived. Leopold waved to Sergeant Riker of the Vice Squad, who was helping Carol Fletcher light her cigarette with a balky lighter. Then he stopped to exchange a few words with Lieutenant Williams, a bony young man who headed up the Narcotics Squad. Williams had made his reputation during a single year on the force, masquerading as a hippie musician to penetrate a group selling drugs to high school students. Leopold liked him, liked his honesty and friendliness.

“I hear you're giving a little speech tonight,” Williams said, pouring him a glass of beer.

“Herb Clarke roped me into it,” Leopold answered with a chuckle. “I'd better do it early, before you guys get too beered up to listen.” He glanced around the big hall, taking in the twenty-foot Christmas tree with its lights and tinsel. Three guy wires held it firmly in place next to an old upright piano. “See Tommy Gibson around?”

Williams stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of some newly arrived uniformed men. “I think he's helping Carol finish up the decorations.”

“Thanks.” Leopold took his beer and drifted over to the far end of the room. Carol had put down her cigarette long enough to tug at one of the wires holding the tree in place. Leopold helped her tighten it and then stepped back. She was a charming, intelligent woman, and this was not the first time he'd envied Fletcher. As wife and mother she'd given him a fine home life.

“I'm surprised to see you here so early, Captain.”

He helped her secure another of the wires and said, “I'm always on time to help charming wives with Christmas trees.”

“And thank you for Sergeant Gibson too! He was a great help with the tree.”

“I'll bet. Where is he now?”

“He took the hammer and things into the kitchen. I think he's pouring beer now.” She produced another cigarette and searched her purse. Finally she asked, “Do you have a light?”

He lit it for her. “You smoke too much.”

“Nervous energy. Do you like our tree?”

“Fine. Just like Christmas.”

“Do you know, somewhere in Chesterton there's mention of a tree that devours birds nesting in its branches, and when spring comes the tree grows feathers instead of leaves!”

“You read too much, Carol.”

She smiled up at him. “The nights are lonely being a detective's wife.” The smile was just a bit forced. She didn't always approve of her husband's work.

He left her by the tree and went in search of Gibson. The burly sergeant was in the kitchen, filling pitchers of beer. He looked up, surprised, as Leopold entered. “Hello, Captain.”

“I thought we had an appointment for today.”

“I didn't forget. Fletcher wanted me over here.”

“Where's the evidence you mentioned?”

“What?”

Leopold was growing impatient. “Come on, damn it!”

Tommy Gibson glanced out at the growing crowd. “I've got it, but I had to hide it. He's here.”

“Who? The man who's in this with you?”

“Yes. I'm afraid Freese might have tipped him off about the D.A.'s investigation.”

Leopold had never seen this side of Gibson—a lonely, trapped man who was actually afraid. Or else was an awfully good actor. “I've given you your twenty-four hours, Gibson. Either produce this recording you've got or—”

“Captain!” a voice interrupted. “We're ready for your speech.”