The Corporal Works of Murder (27 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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It was the Lieutenant all right. Wong listened. He sounded funny—strained, at first, almost frenetic. Something that Wong couldn't put his finger on …
“I hear your girlfriend, Susie Chang, told you about our little joke,” Donaldson said.
Wong bristled. He didn't like the mocking tone in Donaldson's
voice when he said “girlfriend.” It was almost as if he was accusing their relationship of being dirty.
“She got it all wrong,” Donaldson laughed coarsely, “just like a dumb broad, huh?”
Wong could feel his muscles contract. Susie was no broad. And if she was, she surely wasn't a dumb one. Why was Donaldson so upset? Why was he being so insulting? Susie had only wondered what the joke was. Actually, he had, too. Neither of them had been able to see anything funny in sending a fellow cop on a wild goose chase. But everyone can't be expected to have the same sense of humor.
If Wong didn't know that Donaldson was a good cop and his boss, after all, he might have suspected that there were other motives—that Donaldson wanted Moran out of that tattoo parlor for some reason.
By any chance, he wondered, was that around the same time that Moran's office was ransacked? He'd heard about it from the other guys in the unit. Donaldson couldn't be involved in that.
He is a good cop
, Wong reminded himself again. Everybody said so. Not the most popular guy in the department, but a good cop.
“Call me when you get in, Wong. When you get in,” Donaldson said, “and don't forget.”
Wong turned the ringer on his telephone to off. Climbing into bed, he took several deep breaths trying to clear his mind. But the encounter Dineen and he had had with Alice tonight bothered him. Who did she think was after her? She indicated that it was a police officer, but the woman was crazy. What had Dineen said?
“One flew over the cuckoo's nest.
” He was probably right. At least, Wong hoped so.
Carefully he placed a sleep mask over his eyes to keep out the light. He tried not to think. He didn't like what he was thinking—not at all. Maybe after a few hours sleep, this whole mess would look better. If not, at least he'd have the energy to face it.
His insides burned. He got up and popped a couple of Turns in his mouth. With luck, he'd doze off soon. As far as he was concerned, it couldn't be soon enough.
Sarah's eyes haunted him the most—always those eyes. He should be at work by now but he couldn't seem to rid himself of her eyes. They followed him everywhere—watching him, accusing him, refusing to understand.
Now her eyes were somehow set in Moran's face. Moran, who had actually laughed when he pulled the gun from his windbreaker pocket. Moran's beard twitched when he laughed. That dry, mocking laugh echoed off the wall in his silent bedroom keeping him from sleeping. Even in the dark he saw her eyes and heard that laugh ringing in his ears.
Twisting and turning in his bed he couldn't get away from the staring eyes with their dreadful accusation and that derisive laugh. The sweat broke out on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. His hand trembled as he wiped his face.
They should thank him for killing Junior Johnson. He had rid the city of one more scumbag. They should give him a medal—hold a ceremony at City Hall. He was a hero. Moran's mocking laugh split through his thoughts. He covered his ears so he wouldn't hear it.
It wasn't fair. He was a good cop but he needed the money. That was what it was all about—the money. What with the alimony and the kids in college. And the pols paid well for their pleasures. All he had to do was to keep a lid on the thing. He had planned well, made sure no one stumbled on the brothel or blew the whistle on its patrons. No one had been the wiser. No one had been hurt until that stupid young broad had stumbled onto the truth.
Why didn't she know enough to leave it alone? He had done what he had to do to protect himself. Anyone could see that.
Now all his careful planning was tumbling like a house of cards. That big-name pol calling almost every day—worried about his damn reputation. Giving orders, taking no risks. What about me? he thought. And what about Spencer, Johnson, Moran? Now, Susie Chang was on to it. How stupid of him to trust another chick. And she had told her boyfriend Mark Wong. And that crazy woman he had seen interviewed on television. How much did she know?
His chest heaved and he was afraid his head would split. Too many to kill. Homicide was getting too close. He fought to catch his breath. His heart pounded. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't take a chance that he'd be caught. He couldn't let them put him in jail. Life in jail would be a living hell for a cop. And what would he tell his kids, his mother?
He couldn't go on like this. He could not take any more. He needed a rest. There was only one way he knew of to get it.
Suddenly calm, he pulled open his dresser drawer, cursing its squeak. He took out his revolver, the silencer still attached. The metal felt cool in his sweaty hand. Numbly he gripped it. Like a man in a stupor, he put the revolver into his mouth.
He tasted the bitter metal and felt the cold muzzle against the roof of his mouth. His knees begin to tremble.
Dear God, he
prayed, overwhelmed with his own agony,
dear God, take away my pain.
Closing his eyes for the final time, he squeezed the trigger.
When Inspectors Kate Murphy and Dennis Gallagher arrived at the Hall of Justice, they discovered that Lieutenant Donaldson wasn't in nor had he called in sick.
“Maybe he's still at home,” Kate said.
“We'd better check with Sweeney before we go any further,” Gallagher suggested.
Kate agreed. No matter how they played this one, it was
bound to end up a sensitive case. You couldn't very well accuse a respected police lieutenant of murdering two of his fellow officers and maybe a known criminal on such flimsy evidence. All they had to go on really was Sister Mary Helen's discovery that both officers had chosen the word “pity,” as their dying message. Plus the hunch that both victims were referring to the lieutenant.
As far as Kate and Gallagher were concerned, it made perfect sense—more sense than anything else so far.
Lieutenant Sweeney listened attentively as they told him about Sarah Spencer whispering “pity,” and Moran scribbling the same word in his own blood.
“Too much of a coincidence,” Sweeney agreed.
“The only thing that makes any sense,” Kate said, nervously twisting a lock of her hair, “is that they both were trying to tell us who their killer was.”
Sweeney nodded. “So far, I'm with you.”
“And who do we know that both of them would refer to as ‘pity'?” Gallagher asked. Obviously still angry, he stared at the lieutenant almost daring him to disagree.
Sweeney winced, his face turning the color of tomato soup. “You can't mean Donaldson!” he shouted. “You can't think that Donaldson killed those officers.”
“I think it's worth investigating,” Kate said softly.
“Again, how did you come to this conclusion?” Sweeney wasn't convinced.
“Actually, we didn't. Someone else pointed it out to us,” Kate said, giving away as little as possible. She was afraid he might dismiss the whole thing if he knew who that someone was.
Sweeney's eyes bored into her, but he didn't ask for any more details. “Jeez, I don't know,” he said, running his finger around his shirt collar as though he were being strangled. “We have no more evidence, really, than a hunch that it wasn't a coincidence.”
“But if the hunch is correct?” Gallagher wasn't going to back down.
Kate knew he'd had a bad feeling about where this case would lead. At the moment, it couldn't get much worse. She watched him struggle to keep himself in control as Sweeney mulled over the facts, trying to make a decision.
“It can't hurt to talk to him,” Kate said, afraid that Gallagher wouldn't last much longer.
Sweeney's eyes bounced nervously from Kate to Gallagher and back again. “Maybe I should go over to his office and sound him out.”
“He's not in his office,” Gallagher said, “we already checked. And he didn't call in sick.”
Sweeney looked worried. He sat down behind his desk and tented his fingers, obviously trying to decide what was the best thing to do. Kate and Gallagher both knew better than to push. “You don't suppose something has happened to him, too?” he said at last.
“That's another possibility,” Kate said, hoping it would get him to move.
“Maybe you better go to his house,” Sweeney said as if it were his idea. Looking through his file, he wrote down Donaldson's home address. “Good luck,” he said, handing them a slip of paper, “and keep me posted.”
Within minutes, Kate and Gallagher were passing Mission Dolores, the oldest structure in the city. In its small cemetery were buried some of San Francisco's most noteworthy early settlers. Beside it the ornate basilica rose in striking contrast. Going south on Dolores, Kate kept a look out for Jersey Street. The neighborhood was made of a motley group of homes—Victorians, wood-shingled, stucco flats, and Edwardians. The fire of 1906 had destroyed the houses on one side of Dolores Street. As ever, Kate was fascinated by the pre-fire houses on the right and the post-fire houses on the left.
“Here it is,” she said finally spotting Jersey. Turning right, they followed it. Turning right again they found Donaldson's address, a small flat on a short street on the shoulder of Twin Peaks. The sun bounced off the windows of the buildings as Gallagher parked the car. The neighborhood was so quiet that the slam of their car door echoed. No one was on the street. No dog barked. Kate didn't even see a window curtain flick. Where was everyone?
Mounting the steps, Gallagher rang the doorbell. The sound filled the silent house. “No answer,” he said when he had rung it for the third time.
“What now?” Kate asked, knowing full well that Gallagher intended to get in. She just wondered how.
As he was preparing to put his shoulder to the problem, the front door of the downstairs flat swung open. A small, round woman clutching her sweater to her neck peeked out at them. “I didn't hear him leave,” she whispered. “I haven't heard any noise since he dropped something. I hope he's all right.”
“We hope so too, ma'am,” Gallagher flashed his badge. “Have you any idea who might have an extra key?”
“I do, of course,” she said crisply, “I'm his landlady.”
As soon as Kate pushed the front door open, she smelled the unmistakable stench of death. Covering their noses and their mouths with clean handkerchiefs, the two inspectors moved down the hall following the odor. Kate stopped at the door of the bedroom. Gallagher pushed around her. Crumpled on the floor was a body. Bending down, Gallagher touched the shoulder then gently rolled it over.
“Jeez, Kate,” he said when he had seen the face. “It's Donaldson, all right. And he's blown off the whole top of his head.”
Sister Mary Helen was very surprised to hear Inspector Kate Murphy's voice on the telephone. As a matter of fact, at first
she didn't recognize it. Kate sounded almost as though she'd been sick or crying.
“What's wrong?” Mary Helen asked, concerned.
“I just wanted to let you know that your clue about the word was right on. ‘Pity' led us to our perp.”
“Imagine that,” Mary Helen said, both amazed and delighted. “Can you tell me who it was, or is that confidential?”
Kate hesitated. “By tonight it will be on all the news stations,” she said. “You might as well know. Our perp was one of our own, Lieutenant Don Donaldson.”
Mary Helen's stomach fell. “Oh, no,” she said. “I'm sorry.” And she truly was. “Are you sure?”
“His nickname was ‘Pity'—why is a long story. We went to his flat. He was the one. We're sure.”
“Did he confess?” Mary Helen asked.
“In a way,” Kate said gently. “He shot himself.”
“Is he dead?” Mary Helen couldn't believe the turn of events.
“Very,” Kate said. “But he left some surveillance logs in his flat. Ones he had lifted from Vice. And they indicated his motive.”
Mary Helen listened anxiously while Kate explained. “He was taking money to cover up a brothel in your neighborhood. Lots of big names in town were patrons. Sarah Spencer stumbled on it. After her death, Tim Moran was suspicious and apparently, he uncovered the same things that Sarah had.”
Mary Helen felt as if her breath had been knocked out. “And Junior Johnson? Did he kill Junior too?”
“Poor old Junior must have thought he could get in on the action.” Kate said. “Our guess is that he realized that Donaldson was in on the cover-up and pressed him for a little money. A fatal mistake.”
Kate paused. “Again, thanks,” she said, “and we'll try to keep your name out of the paper.”

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