Manhunt. Volume 13, Number 5, September 1965

Turnabout by Billy Gill

He’d been framed by a crooked cop. And now, after twelve years, he was about to straighten that crooked frame.

Jake Harlan relaxed in the soft reclining seat as the big blue and white bus reached the edge of town and picked up speed, heading south. The late evening sun shone through the tinted glass, accentuating the hard lines of his face and the salt-and-pepper of his hair, making him look older than his thirty-four years. But Jake couldn’t be expected to resemble a college sophomore; twelve years in prison isn’t usually considered to be a beauty treatment. Nor does it make a man overly prosperous: the cheap serge suit and ten bucks, given him by the warden this morning, comprised his entire fortune.

Jake closed his eyes and sat still, enjoying the freedom that he couldn’t, as yet, realize. After twelve years it would be difficult to break the habits that had become so much a part of a man in Prison. He smiled, thinking by the time it was all out of his system he’d probably be right back in again, this time on Death-Row. Jake Harlan was going home, to kill the man who’d been responsible for sending him up in the first place...

He’d been twenty-two then, with an idea and a girl. The idea was to build a string of garages all over the State; the girl was Kathleen Carlson, whose blue eyes and coppery hair, coupled with a well rounded silhouette, caused Jake to get dry throated and clumsy handed. He already owned a small garage, from which he expected the others to grow, but it didn’t seem important when he was with Kathy. In fact, when they were together, the only thing he considered important was the one thing Kathy would slap hell out of him for trying.

When the garage began showing a steady profit, Jake made a small down-payment on a house. Picking out the furniture, he was ashamed to tell the sales clerk how nearly broke he was; the clerk must have been pretty smart for, when the bill was made out, it equalled Jake’s bank balance, almost to the penny. Two weeks later, before a nearsighted old Justice of the Peace, whose wife and maid acted as witnesses, Jake Harlan and Kathleen Carlson were married.

During the next six months business at the garage picked up considerably, maybe because Jake could concentrate more on his work and less on Kathy. He might even have accomplished his dream of owning a string of garages if Patrolman Ned Barnes’ car hadn’t developed engine trouble.

The sleek little sports car stalled at the traffic light in front of Jake’s garage, and stubbornly refused to start again. Jake watched as Barnes, careful not to soil the neat blue uniform, peered under the hood with the air of a man who doesn’t know what he is doing. Cursing, he slammed the hood viciously, face beet red with anger. Getting back into the car, he ground hopelessly on the starter. Jake grinned. Cops made him nervous, for no reason he could explain, so to see one discomfited helped his sense of humor.

Barnes gave up. “Say, Bud, can you fix this damned thing?” Then needlessly, “It won’t start and I’m due to go on duty, pretty quick.”

“I gathered as much,” Jake laughed. “Sure, I’ll take a look.” Gathering a few tools, he went out to the car.

As Jake delved into the engine compartment, the young Cop nosed around in the garage. He took in the clean floors, neat spare parts bins and well worn tools. Hearing Jake hit the starter and the engine start to purr smoothly, he came out calling, “That was quick, what was wrong with the old buggy?”

“Not much,” Jake replied, “Usually if one doesn’t crank, the trouble is in the ignition system.” Then, as Barnes reached for his wallet, “Never mind, this time it’s on the house.”

“Thanks,” Barnes said. “Uh, by the way, could you paint a car here too?”

“Sure, I’ve got enough equipment here to do darned near anything to a car; except buy one.” Jake laughed self-consciously.

“All things come to him who waits — if he works like hell while he’s waiting.” Barnes waved and drove away.

Next day Barnes came back, this time leaving his car for Jake to paint. Looking at the polished unmarred finish Jake thought, “It needs painting like I need a hole-in-the-head.” But he didn’t say anything to Barnes.

During the next weeks Barnes came in every few days, sometimes for auto repairs that, for the most part, weren’t needed; other times he’d drop by just to talk. The fact that Barnes was a cop gave him three strikes and out as far as Jake was concerned. He wasn’t a typical policeman but he was what an uneducated, slum-reared boy would consider typical. The over-bearing manner and flat, expressionless eyes that never seemed to look directly at a person bothered Jake. He tried to make it clear that he didn’t like Barnes, but his hints were either unnoticed or ignored. Jake started to worry. Barnes must be after something, feeling him out, maybe, but for what reason Jake couldn’t figure. Well, he didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice but to wait and see.

One night just before closing time, Barnes drove in and offered to buy the drinks. Curiosity made Jake accept the offer; locking the doors, he thought “Well, well, here’s the pitch.”

“Jake,” Barnes said, as they settled into a booth, “How would you like to make some real money, a lot more than the chicken feed you’re pulling down now?”

“Thought you had something on your mind,” Jake murmured, “but you haven’t said anything yet. Keep talking.”

Barnes looked around carefully, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard, then hunched forward in his seat. Just like the bad guy in the movies, Jake thought, wanting to laugh. Then Barnes was talking again.

“Well, I know some boys who can use a good mechanic. General repairs, painting and such, plus a place to store cars for a day or two at a time.”

The term “to store cars,” told Jake what he wanted to know. “Hot cars,” he said. “That’s why you had me do the paint job and repair work on yours: to see if I was good enough to fill the bill. Your boys steal ’em and bring ’em to me for camouflage, then out of the state for a sale. Right?”

Barnes laughed. “Smart Boy. It’s OK, then?”

Jake wanted to say yes. It sounded good, and he knew he could dress up a car so the owner himself wouldn’t recognize it. And the money; there were lots of things Kathy needed for the house. Besides, with a little money he could branch out, start setting up that string of garages.

“Go to Hell,” he said.

The good humor left Barnes’ face. “Think about it, Jake.” He finished his drink and stood up. “Think about it real hard.”

“I said go to Hell,” Jake replied easily, “I meant it.”

Kathy wrinkled her nose when she smelled the liquor on his breath, but didn’t mention it, determined not to be a “nagging wife.” Jake told her about it while they were doing the dishes; and Kathy changed her mind about being a “nagging wife.” She wanted Jake to go to the police with the story. Jake was sure that’s what she wanted because she told him, dozens of times; throughout his favorite television program; in the bathroom as he got ready for bed, and in bed. At midnight Jake finally blew his top.

“Shut up, Goddammit,” He yelled. “How the hell do I know which cop to talk to? For all I know, they could all be mixed up in this. And besides, wouldn’t I look cute, pointing the finger at anybody, especially a cop, without a damn bit of proof. Now, shut up and go to sleep.”

This was a long speech for Jake, but it brought the desired results. Kathy lay quietly on her side of the bed for awhile. Then soft hands and warm lips told Jake, without words, that he’d won the argument. As he put his arms around her, he thought, “I’m going to have to raise Hell around here more often.”

Developments came sooner than Jake expected. Of course he’d been stupid not to think of it, but Barnes couldn’t make a move until Jake was silenced. The following day as he sat eating his lunch, cops came pouring in and before he could struggle to a standing position, had quietly, efficiently started to ransack the place.

“What the Hell is this,” Jake yelled, choking on a hard-boiled egg.

“Simmer down, Harlan,” the biggest, ugliest one said. “We got a search warrant.” Then, in the bored tone of a good cop who has to ask the questions, knowing he’ll get stupid answers, anyway, he said, “Or would you rather save time and bother by telling us where it is?”

Jake’s rage left him, replaced by fear. He tried not to show it. “Considering that I own the joint, and regardless if you got a warrant or not, I think I got a right to know what the hell this is all about before you finish tearing up the place.” He tried to get it all out in one breath and ran down, going from righteous wrath to embarrassing squeak.

“Some guys never learn,” the cop muttered. His tone went polite; too polite. “You’re right, Mr. Harlan, absolutely right, and I’ll tell you what it’s all about. It’s about a loan company and a guard, Mr. Harlan. The company was heisted and the guard crippled for life by a .38 slug. We don’t like anonymous tipsters, Mr. Harlan, but we follow any leads we get, regardless of their source.” All sarcasm, he went on, “And now we’ll continue this little game and you ask me which loan company and how much they got took for, OK?”

“Nope, I read about it in the papers. Go ahead and search, you won’t find anything.” Jake tried to look nonchalant, but only succeeded in looking like a guilty man trying to look innocent. Inside, he felt queasy. Framed, by god. Barnes must be back of this; Kathy was right dammit, he should have taken his chances and gone to the cops last night.

They found the money; still in neat bundles held together by green paper bands. The name of the loan company was stamped on each band. Jake never learned how nor when Barnes had hidden it, but that had to be the answer. This was Barnes’ insurance in case Jake turned thumbs down on his proposition, so he’d probably taken care of it when he decided to bring Jake in on the racket.

Jake was already on the way to the station, sandwiched between two cops in the back seat of a squad car, when the thought struck him: Oh my God, I can’t tell them about Barnes now; they’ll think I’m trying to throw up a smoke-screen.

The house and garage went to pay for his defense, but he could just as well have saved his money: Barnes testified that he’d met Jake near the loan company just before the robbery, but hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. A sad-looking skid-row derelict said he’d seen a man closely resembling Jake run from the company’s office at the approximate time of the robbery. (His testimony must have cost Barnes at least two bottles of bust-head wine, Jake thought.) The crippled guard, brought in on a stretcher, didn’t hurt Jake’s chances, but he didn’t help them a whole hell of a lot, either: The robber had been of average size, like Jake, but he’d worn a silk stocking over his head and face, so he was all but unrecognizable.

There was other testimony, some good, some bad. Jake’s lawyer fought hard, but he was fighting because that was his job and Jake was paying him, not from any belief in his client’s innocence.

The jury deliberated a whole hour before finding Jake Harlan “guilty as charged.”

Kathy fainted when Jake stood up for sentencing, so she didn’t hear the Judge toss away twelve years of his life. She was still out when they led him away.

Prison changed Jake but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Probably because of his attitude: to him, prison wasn’t an end but an interlude; something he had to sweat out until he was free to kill Ned Barnes. It was simple; when the Judge sent Jake to this hock-shop for twelve years, he had unknowingly, sentenced Barnes to die.

Kathy never missed a visitor’s day. She watched, as time and Prison worked their changes in her man. The boyish, indistinct outline of his face hardened and set, became the face of a man. The grey eyes turned bleak, the mouth thinned. Actually, though it took Kathy a long time to realize it, the change in his face was for the better: from a feminine viewpoint he could be considered handsome.

At Kathy’s every visit Jake picked up gossip for the mental dossier he was keeping on his man. From her he learned of Barnes climb up the promotion ladder; to Sgt.; then as time passed, to Lt. of Detectives. She told him of Barnes’ marriage, of the birth of his child, a boy. Jake was careful never to let her know of his plans. If she got the slightest inkling that he was planning a murder, there’d be hell to pay; and Jake wasn’t going to be sidetracked by anyone, not even Kathy. If he got away with it they could go away and start over; if not, well, that was in the cards.

During her last visit before Jake’s release, she mentioned that she was working at a drive-in a couple of blocks from Barnes’ new home. Jake tensed inside, but his face remained blank.

“Oh? Where’s this?” His voice carried exactly the right amount of don’t-give-a-damn. But he learned the location of the house.

It was also during Kathy’s last visit that he convinced her not to meet him at the prison. “I want to come back alone, baby, like a man that’s free.” He frowned, concentrating. “Dammit, Kathy, I can’t explain it. Look, we’ll have a lot of years together, let me have this one thing. Instead of taking a sick man back, let a healthy man come back to you.”

To his surprise, the last sentence convinced her. “Alright, darling.” She looked at him happily. “Don’t get lost on the way. Twelve years is a long time to wait.” She blushed and giggled.

“Take a week off from your job,” Jake grinned, “you’ll need at least that long.”

It was midnight when the bus pulled into the station and the sleepy passengers started, as if from habit, to push and elbow their way out. When the last one was clear Jake strolled into the station restaurant for coffee.

He meant to get a look at Barnes’ home before this night was over. Dangerous? Sure. Stupid, too. He didn’t stand a chance of accidentally walking into the perfect situation to kill Barnes and get away clean. That would take planning. But no one had ever accused Jake Harlan of being overly smart, and he was going to get a look at that house. He paid the tired waitress for his coffee and left.

Anticipation and the long walk had him keyed-up, nervous. Nearing the imposing, two story home with well kept lawn and shrubs, he instinctively hugged the shadows, checking avenues of escape. This was going too far. Maybe he’d better get back to town and think this over.

“Yeah, I’ll go on back, till I come up with a plan.” He edged closer.

A small ray of light, shining through an improperly closed blind, drew him like a magnet. Bent double, hardly daring to breathe, he peered through the opening — and froze, surprised delight on his face.

Inside, Detective Lt. Ned Barnes and wife were having a whopper of a family scrap. Barnes, older and heavier than Jake had expected, sat in an overstuffed chair, chastened and resigned. His wife, negligee hanging carelessly open and nothing underneath, stood over him.

“Damn you, Ned,” She was hollering, “I’ll ruin you.”

“But Myra, I told you—” Barnes started.

“Yeah, you told me,” she interrupted. “Business. It was business. Ha. With that cheap tramp. I warn you, Ned.” The screech went up an Octave. “I’ll ruin you if I ever see you with that witch again.”

Barnes wasn’t a cop now, but a thoroughly cowed husband. “Myra, will you listen to reason?”

His words set off another tirade of invective from his wife. She raved on, face livid, cords in her neck standing out starkly.

Outside, Jake grinned with unholy glee. “Maybe I oughta let the bastard live,” he thought, “A show like this is almost worth it.”

Barnes was pacing the floor, occasionally trying to get in a word past his wife’s chatter. He didn’t stand a chance. Cursing, he grabbed his hat and coat and started towards the door.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” screamed Mrs. Barnes, wrapping both hands around his big arm.

“Out,” hollered Barnes. “Out to a boiler factory or a mad-house, where I can have peace-and-quiet.”

Her hand went up to his face, raked down, leaving four dark furrows oozing blood. He hit her then; hard, flush on the chin. Both feet left the floor, she landed shoulders first, and lay still. Barnes knelt, hand on her breast feeling for a heartbeat. Nodding, satisfied, he rushed out to his car and sped away, tires throwing gravel, engine roaring, fleeing as if from a devil. He was.

Chuckling silently, Jake turned to go, then stopped. Of course; he didn’t want to kill the detective, there was a better answer. He walked quietly, naturally, into the house and knelt beside the now semi-conscious Myra Barnes.

Jake said, “I hate to do this, baby. We’re almost on the same side.”

He put his work hardened hands around her throat and slowly, as if trying to be very gentle, choked her to death.

Jake and Kathy followed the trial in the newspapers.

“Yes,” said Barnes’ son. “Mommy and Daddy woke me up, yelling at each other. No, I didn’t hear anyone else in the house.”

“Yes,” said the Desk-Sgt. “The Lt. came in that night for some Iodine. He had scratch marks on his cheek. No, he didn’t try to explain, nor did I ask.”

“Yes,” said the Medical examiner. “She had shreds of flesh under her fingernails. Yes, they matched the flesh on her husband’s face.”

The morning that Ex-Lt. Ned Barnes was sentenced to thirty years for the murder of his wife, Jake and Kathy boarded a bus for the west coast, a new-start-in-life look in their eyes.

As she slid into a seat next to a window, Kathy said “See, silly, after all these years his sins caught up with him, and without any help from you.” She moved closer to him and took his big hand in both of her small ones.

“You know, Jake,” she said, “for a long time I was afraid you were going to try to kill him when you got out of prison. Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t?”

“I sure am, Honey, I sure am,” Jake said.

Jake Harlan relaxed in the soft, reclining seat as the big, blue and white bus reached the edge of town and picked up speed, heading West...