The Price of Murder

Chapter Nine Ben Wixler

Sergeant Ben Wixler had worked from eight-thirty to five on Tuesday, the sixteenth of October, and had been driven home by one of the beat cars on the four to twelve which had brought in an early and, for Ben, an opportune D and D they had netted out in his usually circumspect neighborhood. Though he knew that as the acting head of a section he could order up a department sedan and driver, it always made him feel too much as though he was swinging his weight around. It might be different when he made lieutenant, a boost that Matthews had told him was coming up any day now.

The boys let him off in front of his house and as Ben got out he saw Beth looking out the picture window in front. It was a smallish house on a generous lot — a lot that matched the size of the mortgage. Even on such a dismal day the house looked inviting. He’d been very dubious about Beth’s idea of painting it barn red with white trim. He had favored white with green trim. But she had won and he had to admit it looked fine. The outside finish was board and batten, and the stubby chimney was painted white.

She opened the front door for him, her pretty face a mock mask of woe, and said, “And there’s the police bringing your poor father home again, children.”

He kissed her and touched the front of her smock very lightly and said, “Children, indeed! And have you no restraint, woman? If I haven’t lost count, and some days I’m not sure if I haven’t, that will be number four you’re a-carrying. Where are the other monsters?”

“Captivated by television. The same old western. The one they show over and over again.”

“Then there’s no use trying to say hello to them yet.” He hung his coat and hat in the hallway closet and went into the living room. By parental decree the television set had been relegated to the play room in the cellar. Sounds of six-shooters drifted up through the floor.

“I must say,” Beth said, “I could get to like these banker’s hours.”

“Don’t get too used to them. Things are too quiet. Everything will happen at once. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

“Are you in a good mood? A wonderful mood?”

He scowled at her. “Bash a fender? No. We going out? No.” He looked around the living room. “Hmmm. Somebody’s coming. Oh, my God! That brother of yours!”

Beth perched on the arm of the chair and ran her fingertips through his hair. It was very short black hair, stiff as wire, fitted like a dense black cap to the round hard skull. “Mmmm,” she said. “All scratchy.”

“Don’t try to soothe me, woman.”

“Hank is my brother.”

“I grant that.”

“Hank is a noisy oaf. Hank patronizes you. Hank asks you questions and doesn’t listen to the answer. His darling wife, Eleanor, has all the elfin charm of a coal chute. But, beloved, Hank is my brother.”

“A highly implausible relationship. Hi ho. I can endure it. My face will grow stiff from wearing a horrid grin. I will applaud his triumphs in the lumber business. And I shall keep one pointed ear canted in the direction of the telephone.” He swiveled around to look up at her. “But I swear to God, honey, if he gets off again on that business about maybe I ought to grow up and stop playing cops and robbers and he has a nice opening for me, I’m going to run him right out into the street.”

“I don’t think he’ll try that again. Not after the last time,” she said, and giggled. “Anyway, it isn’t for dinner this time. They’re coming about eight-thirty, and they’ll be gone by midnight. Three and a half hours. Now go make like a water buffalo, darling.”

He went into the bedroom and undressed for a shower. He had treated Hank’s attitude lightly while talking to Beth, but he knew that she guessed how much it disturbed him. Hank’s attitude was far too symptomatic to be comfortable. To too many people the job of a cop was without honor, particularly in the city of Hancock where, over the years, too much publicity had been given to the corrupt police officer — and where the police force had had to make a continual compromise with a strong underworld organization.

Hank would never know what it was like.

Ben Wixler had left college in 1942 at the end of his junior year to enlist in the army. At the end of basic training he had almost inevitably been selected to go to O.C.S., and he had elected the infantry school. At twenty-one he had been much the same sort of man he was at thirty-five. Big, solid, impassive and reliable, a man who in ways unknown to himself could generate loyalty and respect. He could, when faced with incompetence or lethargy, became frighteningly cold and ominous, face expressionless, only the gray eyes alive, shining like broken metal. To those close to him he was able to show a wonderful warmth, an understanding generosity. He was often afraid, but he could control it. By ’44 he was a captain and had his own company. Company B was the one selected for the nasty jobs, such as the clearing of snipers from small shattered towns, the jobs requiring a high order of discipline, a professional regard for risk. Every man in B Company bitched heartily about the assignments given them, but had a high secret pride in the company and in the steady competence and unrelenting fairness of Wixler. Replacements quickly absorbed this special feeling, and the mortality rate of replacements was the lowest in the division.

Ben Wixler turned down a chance to remain in the army after VJ day, and was discharged with appropriate medals and recognition and a separation promotion to Major. He went back to Hancock in November of 1945, intending to re-enter college for his final year at mid-semester. His father was an officer and director of the Hancock Bank and Trust Company, and it had been Ben’s previous plan to finish his Business Administration course, get his degree, and go into the bank. He had not been awfully enthused by that program, even before the war. The years of command and responsibility made the prospect quite tasteless. He was very restless during his terminal leave, moody, drinking too much, dissatisfied with himself, and wondering if he would have done better to stay in.

His father, a man of much perception, introduced him at that critical juncture to Hank Striker, the Chief of Police. Ben’s father was one of the few men of prominence in the city who understood the dimensions of Striker’s problem, and respected his approach to it. They were close friends. Striker was impressed by Ben Wixler. Striker felt that one day, somehow, the strength of the Bouchards and the Kennedys would be smashed in Hancock. One day they would be stripped of the political power that made it necessary for the police force to embrace expediency rather than efficiency. If that day were to be hastened, and if the force were to be able to handle it when it did arrive, it was necessary to attract to the force now those young men of high purpose and intelligence exemplified by Ben Wixler.

Striker talked to Ben. He talked to him privately and at length and with utter frankness. He told him of the social disapproval he could expect, of the disappointments that would be his. And he lit a fire that did not go out. Wixler changed his major and finished in two years at North-western, and did clerical work at Hancock Police Headquarters during the summers. After graduation he was taken on as a rookie, received one citation during that period, and became a patrolman at the end of his probationary period. For the excellence of his work he was made detective after eleven months as a patrolman, and was reassigned to the Homicide Section, headed by Captain Roeber. He knew the extent of his good fortune in the assignment to Homicide. Of all the operating sections, that was the one least subject to outside influence. All other crimes and violations were subject to the fix. Not murder.

In 1950, six months after the death of Striker, and one month before the birth of their first child, Ben Wixler made sergeant. Beth was exactly right for him. It was the best of marriages. He was twenty-nine when they married, and she was twenty-one, a small girl with dark auburn hair and the complexion of a brunette. Her father, a prosperous building supply merchant, deplored the marriage. In addition to their happiness, there was one other factor which, though Ben resented it slightly at first, he later came to realize was most fortunate. Beth, by the terms of her grandfather’s will, came into a small inheritance when she was twenty-one. It provided an income of just under eleven hundred dollars a year. Once he was adjusted to that, he told her there should be an unlimited supply of lovely redheads with eleven hundred a year. And they should be reserved for the cops. It provided just enough cushion to make the meager wage palatable.

Soon the promotion to lieutenant would come along. It was inevitable that it should. At the time he had been assigned to Homicide, Captain Roeber had been tough, alert and competent, fully capable of running his section. But during the past two years there had been an unfortunate disintegration of the man, an early and progressive hardening of the arteries of the brain resulting in premature senility. Roeber had become erratic, confused, subject to curious emotional fixations and delusions of persecution.

As that had progressed, the burden of the section had fallen more heavily on the shoulders of the assistant section head, Lieutenant Gabby Grey, and on Ben Wixler. Gabby Grey was a frail reed indeed. He was nearly sixty, a political appointee of forty years ago, nephew of a mayor dead a quarter of a century. When Roeber had been his competent self, there was no burden on Gabby Grey. But with Roeber incapacitated, Gabby could not handle the section. He fluttered, jittered, perspired, and passed the buck to Wixler on nearly every decision.

The new chief was, fortunately, a man from the same mold as Striker. His name was James Purvis, a small, cold, brilliant, dictatorial man. When the confusion in the Homicide Section was pointed out to him, his investigation was quick and thorough. There were many ways it could have been handled, other men who could have been transferred in. But one of Purvis’s most valued possessions was the small private notebook kept by Striker, with his personal evaluation of all officers on the force. After checking the notebook, Purvis moved swiftly. He put Roeber on sick leave for the four months remaining before his retirement. He reassigned Gabby Grey to Central Records where it seemed that he could do the least harm. He made Ben Wixler acting head of the Homicide Section, and released Inspector Wendell Matthews from some of his other duties so that he could keep closer check on the performance of the section. All this had happened six months ago, and Ben had been assured that when his promotion came through he would be made head of the section. Until that time he had to move very gingerly insofar as personnel changes were concerned. He knew the ones he wanted to get rid of, and he also knew the young ones he wanted to bring in.

By twenty minutes of twelve that evening Ben had stifled so many yawns his jaw ached. Hank was in the middle of telling, in excruciating detail, the big addition he had made to his yard for the do-it-yourself addicts when the phone rang. Ben reached the hallway phone in five long strides and caught it at the end of the second ring.

“Wixler.”

“Cullin, Ben. We got one. Housewife in Brookton. Means is on the way. He ought to be there in three, four minutes.”

“Thanks, Shorty.”

He went back into the living room. “Sorry, people. I’ve got to go to work.” Beth gave a familiar sigh of resignation.

Eleanor said, “We should be going now anyway. I’m certainly grateful Hank keeps regular hours.”

“It’s so nice for you, dear,” Beth said.

Ben went to the bedroom, picked up gun and badge, then scooped coat and hat from the front hall closet, said good night, kissed Beth, and, as he went down the front steps, saw the sedan glide to a stop at the end of his walk. He ran the rest of the way, and the sedan started up again as he pulled the rear door shut. Detective Dan Means was in the back seat. Detective Al Spence was in the front beside the driver.

There was no time wasted in greetings. “Ten twenty-four Arcadia. Mrs. Lee Bronson. The husband phoned it in. Car 18 checked and confirmed. Looks like she was beaten to death in the kitchen.”

“Nice,” Ben said dryly. “How are we on schedule?”

“Got the original call at eleven twenty-eight, confirmed at eleven thirty-four. We ought to hit there about the same time as the lab truck.”

Ben leaned back in his seat. He knew the most probable pattern. Some heavy drinking, a family quarrel, a drunken blow that hit too hard. He hoped there weren’t any kids. That always made it worse. There would be a repentant slob, suddenly sober, too-late sober, tearing his hair and bellowing of his great sorrow, his terrible loss. How could he have done such a thing. And with luck Ben thought he could be in bed by one o’clock.

“Party at your house?” Dan asked.

“Just my brother-in-law.”

“He offer you a job again?”

“Not this time.”

“Maybe you ought to take it, Ben.”

Al Spence turned around, arm hooked over the back of the seat. “Ask him for one for me too, Sarge. Something interesting. Like counting boards or driving a lumber truck.”

“Looks like it up there in the next block on the right,” Ben said. There were four vehicles parked in front of the house, two of them prowls. The porch lights were on. Curious neighbors had gathered, some of them in bath robes. A uniformed officer was moving them back, clearing the sidewalk in front of the house. Just as Ben got out, the lab truck, a converted panel delivery, pulled up. He waited to check the crew, and Catelli came up to him and he saw Roamer opening the back door of the truck. “Who else you got, Catelli?”

“Frenchie’s coming in his own car. He ought to be here.”

“Get your stuff up on the porch and hold it while I take a look.”

More than half the front porch was screened. Ben recognized the short, wide officer standing beside a tall, fit, good-looking young man who wore a topcoat and carried a hat in his hand.

“Hello, Tormey.”

“Hi, Ben. This here is Bronson. It’s his wife. She’s in the kitchen.” Ben looked at Bronson. He looked sober and shocked.

“My name is Wixler,” he said. “I’m in charge. You reported this?”

“Yes, sir. I came home and came through the back way, and...”

“Drive home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long ago?”

Bronson looked at his watch. “I must have got here pretty close to eleven-thirty.”

Ben nodded at Al Spence and Spence went around the side of the house. There was no need for a specific order. Spence would check the automobile, feel the heat of block, radiator, and tail pipe and make a very accurate estimate of the time of Bronson’s arrival.

“Where were you?”

“With the head of the English Department at Brookton Junior College. I’m an instructor there. I was with Dr. Haughton at his home.”

“What time did you leave here?”

“At about seven-thirty, maybe a couple of minutes earlier or later. It takes about a half hour to drive over there. I left him at just about eleven, maybe a couple of minutes before eleven.”

“Your wife was alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did she expect anybody?”

“She didn’t say anything about anybody coming here.”

Wixler had managed, imperceptibly, to move close enough to Bronson to be assured the man had not been drinking. There was something about Bronson that puzzled him — something he could not quite put his finger on. The man seemed authentically dazed by what had happened. It was a reaction almost impossible to fake. Wixler, in all his investigations, placed considerable credence on his own hunches. He respected the acuity of the workings of the subconscious mind, and his own reactions had been refined by long experience. Until other factors could be added to the mixture, he was content to proceed on the basis that this was a decent man, troubled and hurt.

A man came part way up the steps and said, “How’s chance of a shot of the body, Benjamin?”

Wixler turned and looked at Billy Sullivan, at the young-old handsomeness and innocence of the choirboy face, at the unlikely dapperness of this enormously capable crime reporter for the Hancock Ledger, the largest of the city’s three morning papers.

“You know better than that, Billy,” Ben said sadly.

Al came back up the steps and said in an undertone to Ben, “Okay.” And Ben knew the car had backed up Bronson’s statement. The lab men brought their equipment up onto the porch. Ben looked warily at Sullivan and said to Tormey, “You and Mr. Bronson wait in the hall.”

Wixler, Spence, and Means walked into the house. Wixler moved slowly, hands in the slash pockets of his tweed topcoat. Spence and Means stayed a half step behind. Wixler judged the flavor of the living room. A rental, with rented furniture supplemented by Bronson belongings. Many more books than customary. Two good framed reproductions. Indifferent housekeeping, with dust coils under the couch, litter in the small fireplace. They walked on out into the kitchen. He looked at the spilled staples for a long time. He could see the shadow pattern of footprints where someone had stood as the items had spilled.

“Make that, Dan?” he asked.

“A man stood there, wouldn’t you say? Looking for something. Those were dumped on purpose.”

“No sign of any search in the living room,” Al said.

“So,” Ben said, “he either found it where he was looking, or he got scared and took off.”

“He’ll have flour and stuff on his shoes and his clothes,” Dan said.

They started to move toward the body. Ben pointed at the flour on the floor and they stayed back. Ben sat on his heels, bent low to see as much as he could of her face. He grunted with distaste and stood up.

“She was a dish,” Al said reverently.

“Go get Catelli and his people. I want pictures, and I want to see if they can get any kind of molds of those footprints before the doctor gets near her.”

Wixler, Spence, and Means stood aside while Catelli, Roamer, and Duchesne worked. No mold could be taken. Detailed pictures of the footprints were taken, with a ruler laid beside them. The doctor from the Coroner’s Office arrived, a sallow young man who looked bored and overworked. After the position of the body had been chalked out, it was lifted gently at Ben’s direction to see if there was any flour under it. There was enough to help him in his reconstruction. The doctor studied the woman’s face, tested the armpit temperature, gently flexed the joints of elbow and wrist. Squatting, he looked up at Ben and said, “Roughly about four hours. Quarter after twelve now. So I’ll say between quarter of eight and quarter of nine. I don’t think we’ll pin it down much closer when we take a better look unless you can give me the exact time of the last intake of food. Cause of death I would say so far is due to repeated heavy blows in the facial area resulting in multiple skull fractures. I can see at least three that would have killed her.” He stood up.

“Could she have been slammed against the edge of the sink?”

The doctor looked at the sink. “Yes. The shape of the wounds would fit. There would be enough... inertia, so that it would have to be a pretty powerful man. After the first blow she would have been unconscious. Her weight would have had to be supported.”

“Can you work on her tonight?”

The doctor nodded. “It can be arranged.”

The body was strapped into the wire basket and taken away. Ben had given up any hope of being home by one. Dan Means was covering the house with Catelli’s people. Ben said to Spence, “For a start, how about this. She lets him in. He’s looking for something.”

“How about she comes back and finds him. She goes out and comes back and finds him?”

“Dressed that way?”

“Oh! Sure. Okay. She lets him in.”

“He only looks in one place, in those cans. After that he kills her. Maybe she tried to get a knife out of that open drawer. The flour under her means he killed her after he looked. It was on his clothes and his shoes. It came off while he was banging her against the sink.”

They found Catelli in the bedroom taking prints. It was a requirement Catelli despised. In his fifteen years of lab work he had yet to lift a print that had anything to do with the solution of a crime.

“You get to Bronson?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. Frenchie vaccumed his clothes and his shoes. We got him another pair out of his closet and took his.”

Ben turned to Dan Means. “You stay on here and see what you can dig up. Al and I’ll take Bronson down. Seal it when you’re through.”

Lee Bronson was put in a small interview room on the second floor and left there. Wixler had made certain long ago that it was a very barren room. A bare room. No view from the window. Nothing on the walls. The only objects in the room were a small gilt radiator under the single window, a square oak table, three chairs and an ash tray made from a peanut can.

Wixler left Lee Bronson alone in that room for fifty minutes. At the end of that time he had the verification from Dr. Haughton, and he knew a great deal more about Lee Bronson. He knew his brother’s record, and he knew Lee’s record of a single arrest and dismissal. Five minutes before he went in to talk to Bronson, Dan Means came back with an envelope he had taken from the locked drawer of the living room desk. Catelli had gone over it for prints. Wixler was puzzled by the twenty fifty-dollar bills. It did not fit the picture of Bronson. He put the envelope in his pocket.

When he went in abruptly, Lee Bronson jumped.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Bronson,” he said politely. He shut the door, sat down opposite Bronson, lighted a cigarette.

“I can’t seem to believe it happened,” Bronson said. “I saw her, but I can’t believe it. I’ve got to let her folks know. My God, I hate to make that call.”

“Do you have any idea about who did it?”

When Bronson made no immediate answer, Wixler felt the old and familiar flicker of excitement deep inside him, an excitement that did not change the expression on his face. He had good success, a good record, with his method of interrogation. No notes, no threats, no bullying. Just quiet conversation, politeness, the kind of reassurance that kept the other man’s guard down.

“Did you talk to Dr. Haughton?”

“I didn’t. But we got a statement from him. He verified the time you spent with him. He kept trying to act as a character witness.”

“I’d like to have you talk to him. I want him to tell you what I told him tonight. I went to him for advice. He told me to go to the police. I was going to come here tomorrow. I had decided to do that. It will... sound better if you get it from him.”

Wixler looked at the smoke rising from his cigarette. “Is it about Danny?”

Bronson stared at him. “Yes! But how...”

“Pretend I’m Dr. Haughton, Lee. Forget what happened tonight. Tell me just what you told him. Tell me in the same way you told him.”

Bronson told the story of Keefler, of sensing that Lucille had lied, of the money she said Danny had left with her on September twenty-eighth. He told of Keefler’s threats and his own vulnerable position. Under questioning he told the complete story of his single arrest, the story that did not appear in the records. He also told of his relationship with Nick Bouchard, and his relationship with Danny, and the help they both had given him.

At that moment Al Spence, in accordance with standard procedure, opened the door and asked Ben if he’d like coffee. If Ben was not receiving co-operation he would say, “A little later.” If he was, he would say yes. Al brought in the battered steaming pot, the heavy white mugs, sugar, and milk.

Wixler said in a tone that made Al glance at him in surprise, “I want Johnny Keefler. Get him and bring him in and hold him for me. Don’t tell him a damn thing. When I talk to him, I want him to be sweaty.”

When Al closed the door Wixler took the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Danny left this?”

Bronson examined it and gave Wixler a rueful look. “Good thing I brought it up, eh?”

“It helped. We’re both thinking of something, Lee. For you, it’s a hell of a thing to have to think about. But we better get it out in the open. Since the world began, a lot of people have been in the same spot. Your wife is dead, and you know who we’re thinking about.”

“Danny,” Lee said in a small voice. He knotted his fist and hit it very lightly against the edge of the table, three times. His face was contorted, a white patch around his mouth.

“Let’s kick it around a little. He came to see her over two weeks ago when you were out and left the money. You took it. So he came tonight to get it back and lost his head when he couldn’t find it and killed her. Go for that?”

Lee shook his head slowly. “No. Danny isn’t that... violent. If he came after it, she’d tell him I had it. And she’d have a pretty good idea it was in that locked drawer of my desk. If he had to have it, he’d have broken the lock and taken it.”

“A wanted man can lose his nerve and his head.”

“Danny’s been wanted before.”

“But not for that long a time. And if he could be clipped for something else when he was picked up, it would be the fourth fall, the big one. Life as an habitual.”

“I still can’t see it that way, Sergeant. I can’t see him killing Seel. I know that you can think I’m being sentimental because he’s my brother, but I can’t see it. And I don’t know why he’d be opening those canisters and dumping the stuff out. That wasn’t where she hid the money. She hid it in a brown shoulder bag on a back hook in her closet.”

“Maybe something else was hidden in your house. Try that for size. She lied to you once about what he left. Maybe he left more money, a big amount.”

Wixler watched Bronson’s face, saw the faraway look of deep thought, saw the look of speculation and conviction. “She acted strange lately. It could be that. Danny is into something. He could be tied in with somebody. And they came after the money. If Danny knew where it was hidden, he wouldn’t have opened all three canisters, would he?”

“Unless there was something hidden in each.”

“Oh! I didn’t think of that. But if he hid it and then came after it, wouldn’t Seel have given it to him? She was hiding it for him.”

“What if it was too much money, and what if your wife decided to risk taking it and making a run for it? Pardon me, but I’ve gathered this wasn’t the happiest marriage in the world.”

“It wasn’t.” Bronson frowned. “You know, she was very... considerate today. She made a big production out of lunch. That wasn’t like her.”

“As if she was fixing the last lunch she’d fix for you?”

“It... it could have been that way.”

“And suppose Danny arrived at the wrong moment, as she was getting ready to take off?”

“Even so, Sergeant, he could have made her tell where she moved it to. He... he’s an expert. Nick and Kennedy used him for that kind of thing. He wouldn’t have to kill her.”

“Unless she could do some talking that would hurt him.”

“Then he wouldn’t have done it that way. It wouldn’t have been... so messy. He’s a professional.”

Wixler had the tired feeling that Bronson was probably right. The murder had that distinctive look of amateur passion and violence. It would be pleasantly easy to convince yourself Danny Bronson had done it. He wondered how far along Catelli was. He might be able to add something.

“Have some more coffee, Lee. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Catelli had nearly finished. The prints had just come from the dark room, and he was labeling them. He reported to Ben in his usual disorganized way.

“The guy got blood on his shoe, the left shoe, on the outside near the toe. Right about here. Two steps in the kitchen and then we don’t get the next couple, and then we get one on the bottom step of the back porch. The ground was soft but the son of a bitch stayed on that little walk, so we lost him there. Now these here are off the big can, the one that had the flour in it. These are hers. Two good ones and a fair one.”

“Recent?”

“From the oil, today or yesterday. Now we got this. An old one. Half the tip of the middle finger — not enough to go on except Dan Means tells me to check with prints on file from a Daniel Bronson. It matches perfect.”

“As fresh as hers?”

“No. Nowhere near. If I got to guess, I’d say over a week old. Pretty well dried out.”

“Will it stand up? Is there enough?”

“Stand up! Check it yourself, Sarge. Look at this here whorl, and see this scar right through it like a kinda thin cut? Anyhow, I got a better one even.”

“Where?”

“Dan Means tells me that figuring the way she was stacked I should give the bedroom the real business. You see that little table between the beds? It’s got a glass top on it. I wish all the tables in the world got glass tops. The glass is lousy with her prints and her husband’s. But look at these here? First and second fingers of the right hand. Strangers! Here’s the picture of the table where I circled the place we lifted them. Daniel Bronson, clear as a damn bell. Honest to God, if these nail him, I’m going to start believing in this crap.”

Wixler looked at the picture of the table. A man would have to be in her bed or sitting on the edge of her bed to leave his prints in that position on the table.

“How old, Catelli?”

“Not as old as the ones on the flour can, Sarge. Not that old. But not real fresh. Don’t pin me down. I’ll put it this way. If her prints on the can are today, and his print on the can is a week old, then this comes somewhere in the middle. Three days, five days. Hell, I can’t tell for sure.”

“But you would swear they weren’t made on the same day.”

Catelli looked at him with an expression of outrage. “I know they weren’t made on the same day. The oil was...”

“Okay, okay. How about the money Dan found?”

“Nothing. You expect anything?”

“Not really. Knobs and latches?”

“Still nothing. Not even any kind of little piece of a print on the inside knob of the back door. It turns hard, so it looks like he had gloves or else he wiped it.”

Ben went back up to the room where Bronson waited. Bronson looked at him with an odd expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just remembered the last thing I ever said to her. I leaned down and yelled in her face. I yelled ‘Shut up,’ and then I left.”

That memory made up Wixler’s mind for him. It would hurt Lee, but hurt him in a different way than he was punishing himself. In a dispassionate voice he told him what Catelli had found — the evidence of at least two visits, and the indicative place where the more recent prints were found.

“From three to five days ago?” Bronson said blankly. “In the bedroom?”

He stood up quickly and went to the window and looked out at the brick wall eight feet away, his back to the room. Wixler waited. Bronson stood there for at least two full minutes. Then he turned slowly and came back and sat down. “That is something Danny would do. But not without an invitation. And I don’t think he just happened to sit on the bed and watch her hide the money. Not Danny. I wonder just how many other God damn invitations she passed around, and how many acceptances she had.”

“Take it easy.”

“I feel like a fool. That’s something about her I should have been able to guess. When you get Danny I want to see him.”

“I may want to talk to you again tomorrow.”

“You’re not holding me?”

“I don’t see why we should. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you wore a size twelve and a half shoe instead of an eleven, we might have solved your housing problem. I’d rather you didn’t stay at home. I don’t imagine you want to, do you?”

“No.”

“I’ll have Detective Spence take you back there while you pick up what you’ll need. When you find a place to stay, phone in and let me know. By the way, Dr. Haughton is getting someone to take your classes. This is going to be a big thing in the newspapers.”

They walked downstairs together. Lee Bronson stuck out his hand. Wixler hesitated, and then took it. He said, “I think we’ll crack this as soon as we can get hold of your brother.”

“Thanks for being... so damn decent, Sergeant.”

Wixler watched him join Al Spence at the door and go out. He met Dan Means outside the door of the ready room.

“Got Keefler?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, Ben.”

“Sit in on this with me.”

“I never liked that guy, believe me.”

“You aren’t alone. Let’s take him upstairs. You bring him.”

Keefler came in with an air of arrogance. “I don’t know what you fellas think you’re doing, Wixler. I’m working and I get hauled in off the street like a bum or something.”

“Where was he?”

“Plato’s bar on Fifth Street.”

“I was looking for a guy,” Keefler said.

“Sit down and lower your voice, Keefler,” Wixler said. Keefler hesitated and then sat down, expression defiant. “Now I am going to point out a few things to you. You are no longer a member of the force.”

“Don’t you think I...”

“Shut up.”

“I got a license for a gun and your stooges took it off...”

“I told you to shut up. If you don’t, I swear to God you spend the night in the tank and I talk to you in the morning.”

Keefler looked at Wixler and then at Dan Means. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay, what am I supposed to have done?”

“You reported Danny Bronson as being in violation of parole.”

“Right.”

“Your responsibility ended there.”

“Not if I can find him, it don’t.”

“It ended there. If your case load isn’t heavy enough, ask for more. Bronson is a police responsibility.”

“Okay, so I look for him anyway. Show me a law. Show me why I can’t.”

“You threatened a private citizen. Mr. Lee Bronson.”

“He’s another punk like his lousy brother.”

Ben looked over at Dan Means. “I think I will put in an official complaint, Dan. I think this little viper ought to be in some new kind of work.”

“He’s a hero, remember,” Dan said. “He shot an unarmed fourteen-year-old kid between the eyes after the kid blew his hand off.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Keefler should be permitted to carry a gun, and I don’t believe he should be permitted to attempt to intimidate private citizens. I think we’ll fix his hash in the morning.”

Keefler began to yell. Spittle sprayed the table top. He slapped the table top with his good hand. For a time he was entirely incoherent, Wixler watched him mildly and then with more interest as Keefler became understandable. “...know a frigging thing about police work! So where is Danny? He’ll be in when I bring him in. I got leads. What do you jokers know? I know he’s on a blackmail kick and he’s working solo or maybe with a woman and when I got pulled in I was on the track of a statement in an envelope he’s got planted with somebody for insurance.”

“Hold it!” Ben snapped.

“Sure. Now you listen. Now you sit up. Sure.”

“What envelope? How did you hear about an envelope?”

“I’m not a cop so it’s my private business.”

“Lock him up, Dan.”

“On what charge? What’s going on?”

“Suppressing evidence. It seems a crime was committed, Johnny. Somebody killed Lucille Bronson. They were looking for something in the Bronson house. So talk. Or get booked as a common criminal.”

“The envelope. You want to know about that. Okay, he was in town Thursday, Bronson was. Last Thursday, and no smart cop made him and picked him up. He went to a lawyer. He tried to get the lawyer — his name is Paul Verney — to hold a statement for him. Verney didn’t like the way he acted. So he checked later, after he turned him down, and yesterday he got hold of me, and Verney give me some leads, some first names, Fred and Tommy, guys Bronson said would hold it for him. I checked the first names through CR and I been checking the list. So all the time Bronson had it! I seen them Saturday. They lied to me. You got him in a cell? I want to talk to that guy.”

“Sit down. You’re not talking to anybody,”

Keefler sat down sullenly.

“Why did Verney contact you?”

“He found out I was Bronson’s parole officer.”

“Were you going to go see the Lee Bronsons again?”

“If the lead didn’t check out. I was going to rough ’em a little and see if they knew about any papers Danny could have left. Now that you guys know I’ve been doing some good, you can stop kidding me about getting me fired off this parole thing. I can do good in that job and I like it. How about letting me help on the killing?”

Ben Wixler looked at the long, loose-mouthed face with its stain of viciousness. He let the silence grow. Keefler, during his police career, had typified the kind of officer Wixler despised.

“Johnny, I wouldn’t let you put an overtime tag on a tricycle. I don’t think you should be permitted to be in legal contact with any paroled convict. I think it was a sad mistake to give you the job. And I’m going to make it my business to see that it’s taken away from you. Your police pension will carry you. And if you are found meddling in police affairs in any way from now on, I can assure you that you will handled with the utmost severity. Don’t try to bring up your record because I know your record, and it stinks. Arid don’t hint about any influential friends, because I don’t think you have a friend in the city. Now you can go.”

Keefler did not move for perhaps ten seconds. Then he made his previous tirade sound, by comparison, mild and reasonable. Wixler watched the contortions, listened to the invective, and suddenly realized without great surprise, the man was insane. He glanced at Dan and Dan moved closer to Keefler. Keefler’s scene was shocking, disturbing. Wixler found himself following a tiny thread of coherence. There was something about somebody named Mose being knifed to death. And some names, and deaths told of with smacking satisfaction. Rillyer. Gennetti. Casey.

“...soft!” Keefler yelled. “Every damn one of you! Mush! Soup! You gotta go after the bastards. You got to get ’em one way or another. Get ’em off the streets. Any way you can. Got to get ’em like I got Kowalsik. Filth! They’re all filth! They killed Mose. They tried to kill me. You mushbellies don’t understand what it is to be a cop. You don’t...”

Ben Wixler let the words fade from his consciousness as he leafed through old files, old names. The open file on murder was much larger in Hancock than it should have been. He had been through the file many times. Many of the murders had been committed long before he had joined the force, but there was no statute of limitations on murder. He remembered the grimy label on the faded file folder, a folder of a type no longer in use. Kowalsik, Gilbert Peter. And a particularly unsavory glossy photograph of the body flashed into his mind. Tortured to death. Body found in the lake.

“...try to lose me my job, a pansy cop like you, and I’ll go to every paper in town and I’ll...”

“Shut your mouth!” Ben roared. It startled Dan Means as much as it startled Keefler. Keefler sagged back in the chair.

“I want to hear just a little bit more about how you got Gilbert Kowalsik, Johnny,” he said gently. “Tell me a little bit more.”

Keefler looked at Wixler. He snapped his head around and looked at Dan Means. His eyes were wide and staring and curiously blank. He looked like a man suddenly awakening from a sound sleep. His eyes narrowed. He looked down at his artificial hand. In far too casual a voice he said, “I didn’t say anything about Gil Kowalsik. I don’t know where you got an idea like that.”

Ben didn’t even have to glance at Dan Means to have him come in on cue. “We both heard you, Johnny. We want to know about it.”

“Tell us,” Ben said. “First you called him just Kowalsik. I called him Gilbert Kowalsik, but you called him Gil. I guess you knew him pretty well.”

“Gil? Oh! Oh, sure, I knew Gil. When I was a kid. I think he got killed. I remember something about it. A long time ago, I think.”

“But, Johnny. You didn’t say you fixed him. You didn’t use a word like that. You said you ‘got’ him. I think you were explaining how a good cop takes the law into his own hands. We both heard you, Johnny. We just want to know how you got Kowalsik.”

“You guys are nuts. I didn’t say anything about him. You didn’t hear me right.”

Ben leaned back. “You know something? We got all night, Johnny. All night long. Dan, suppose you go pull the Kowalsik file. Check the estimated time of death. Send somebody into dead records to pull Keefler’s duty reports for the estimated time of death. Bring the file back up here. And bring a fresh pot of coffee.”

“You guys are way off the beam,” Keefler mumbled.

“We’ve got all the time in the world, Johnny.”

The sedan pulled away and Ben walked up his front walk in the first pale gray of dawn. He managed to undress so quietly Beth didn’t stir. But when he eased himself into bed the sag of the bed aroused her.

“ ’Lo, honey,” she murmured. “Gosh, s’nearly morning.”

“Go to sleep, baby.”

She braced herself on one elbow and looked at him. “You got the grumps, haven’t you? Bad night?”

“I’ve got to be back at nine. We’ve got a hot one. But I guess it was a good night. We took an old one off the books. Got a confession. In detail. Seems a cop did it.”

“Oh, honey! How awful for you!”

“An ex-cop, but he was a cop when he did it, and I personally think he’s been crazy all his life, and he did it in a way that turned my stomach and I... The hell with it. Good night, baby.”

She kissed him. “Sleep fast because you haven’t got much sleeping time, darling.”