The Copper Frame

Chapter 7

Saxon glared through the bars at the man, “Quit horsing around, Coombs. This is no joke. Tell the truth.”

“I’m telling it,” Coombs said calmly. He looked at the sergeant. “The chief here kept going back to the last cell and asking the woman if she wanted a little company. I didn’t like the way he asked it, and neither did she, because she kept telling him to get lost. Finally I heard him unlock the cell and go in. I heard her say, ‘Leave me alone! Stop it! Are you crazy! You’re hurting me!’ Not all at once. There were little gasps and cries and suppressed screams, like he was holding his hand over her mouth, in between. A couple of times there was the sound of tearing cloth. It was clear to me he was raping her, but locked in here, I couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Saxon stared at Coombs with his mouth open. After a long time he said, “Why, you lying punk! You’d go that far to get even for a lousy traffic ticket?”

“You told me to let the sergeant know what happened,” Coombs said reasonably. “So I told him.”

Saxon strode back to the last cell and looked in. The woman still lay sprawled in the same position. She looked at him with such hate that, in spite of himself, he couldn’t suppress a twinge of guilt, immediately followed by a rush of anger at both her and himself for allowing her histrionics to begin to get to him.

Returning to the first cell, he said, “Now that you’ve had your little joke, Coombs, tell the truth.”

“How many times do I have to say it?” Coombs inquired. “You raped her.”

Saxon looked at Morrison. “Do you believe this guy?” he demanded.

“Uh-huh.”

“I told you the way it really happened. Your prisoner deliberately framed me. And Coombs is backing up her story because he’s sore about being jailed.”

Morrison slowly shook his head. “You’re not getting through to me, Chief.”

Saxon felt his face redden. “So what do you plan to do about it?”

“I can hardly place a police chief under arrest in his own headquarters,” Morrison said tonelessly. “But I’ll be damned if you get away with raping a prisoner of mine left in your custody. I want a doctor to examine this woman before she leaves here. And I want your district attorney brought down here to decide what to do about you.”

Saxon stalked past him back to the desk, lifted the phone, and dialed the number Jenny Waite had left in case of emergency. It was the private home of a friend of the meter-maid’s, and he had no trouble getting her called to the phone.

“Sorry to break up your party, Jenny,” Saxon said. “But I need you at headquarters right away.”

“Oh, no!” she said. “Tonight of all nights.” Then her tone became resigned. “Okay, Chief. Soon as I can get home and change into uniform.”

“Skip the uniform,” Saxon said. “I want you here fast.”

“If it’s that important, I’m on my way,” Jenny said.

Breaking the connection, Saxon dialed the hospital. When the switchboard operator answered, he said, “Is Dr. Harmon still in the hospital?”

“No, sir,” the operator said. “He left about eleven-thirty.”

“This is Chief Saxon. What emergency number do you have listed for him?”

“He’s at the Elks party, Chief.”

Hanging up, he dialed the Elks Club and had Dr. Bruce Harmon paged. When the doctor came to the phone, Saxon said, “This is the chief, Bruce. I need you over at headquarters. Better bring along whatever equipment you need to determine if a woman has been forcibly raped.”

“Oh, oh,” Harmon said. “Anyone I know?”

“I doubt it. How long will you be?”

“Expect me in twenty minutes.”

“Fine. The D.A. happen to be at the Elks party?”

“Nope. He always makes the country club on New Year’s Eve.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Saxon said.

He hung up and dialed again. When a voice behind a background of noise and music said, “Country Club bar,” Saxon asked, “Arnold Kettle there?”

“He was in the bar a minute ago. Hold on.”

About three minutes passed before a deep voice said, “Hello.”

“This is Ted Saxon, Arn. Hate to interrupt your party, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come down to headquarters.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“A female prisoner is claiming forced rape.”

“Oh. Can’t it wait till morning?”

“You must not have heard me clearly,” Saxon said. “I said a female prisoner.”

“Huh? You mean while in custody?”

“That’s right. In a cell.”

“Who did it?”

“Nobody. It’s a frame.”

“Well, who’s she accusing?”

“Me,” Saxon said.

“My God!” Arnold Kettle said. “I’ll be right down.”

Saxon hung up the phone and looked at Sergeant Morrison. “Everything is arranged,” he said coldly. “Satisfied?”

“Don’t get yourself sore at me,” Morrison said. “I didn’t rape the woman. You did.”

Saxon’s face darkened and he started around the counter. The sergeant held up one hand. “Now don’t get excited, Chief. I don’t want any trouble.”

Saxon paused with his fists clenched. Though Morrison was a big man himself, he regarded the width of the younger man’s shoulders dubiously. “I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated.

Saxon pointed at the bench along the wall. “Then sit down over there and keep your mouth shut.”

Obediently the sergeant went over to the bench and sat down.

Jenny Waite was the first one to arrive. She came in with a snow-sprinkled headscarf over her head, hung it on one of the hooks near the door, and hung an evening cloak next to it. Beneath the coat she wore a flowered evening gown. She was a slightly built woman in her late thirties with a thin, pixie-like face and an amusing manner of cocking her head to one side whenever she asked a question. She was a widow with four children and had been vaguely “engaged” to a local widower named Joe Penny for the past five years.

“Joe dropped me off and went back to the party,” she announced, seating herself on the bench to remove fur-topped boots. “What’s up?” She glanced curiously at Sergeant Morrison, seated only a few feet away on the bench.

“Female prisoner,” Saxon said briefly. He didn’t bother to introduce her to the sergeant.

Jumping up, Jenny set her boots against the wall beneath her cloak and approached the counter. “Keys?”

“She doesn’t require searching, and I don’t want you in the cell alone with her, because she’s a little nuts. You can go take a look, then wait out here until the doctor arrives.”

“Oh, she’s sick?” Jenny asked, starting toward the cell block.

Saxon didn’t reply.

As Jenny disappeared, the phone rang. It was Emily, calling from the hospital.

“Sorry I couldn’t phone at midnight,” she said. “But a patient picked that time to pull loose an intravenous transfusion needle. Things have quieted down now. Just called to say Happy New Year.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Same to you.”

“Things quiet there, too?”

“Not very. I’d better phone you back later, honey.”

“Oh. Well, make it before five A.M., because we start taking temperatures again then.”

“All right,” he said, and hung up.

Jenny came back into the room and asked, “What’s the matter with her? Why’s she lying there all exposed like that?”

So the woman still hadn’t changed position, Saxon thought. She must be simulating being in a state of shock.

“Guess she’s preserving evidence,” he said dryly. “She’s pretending she was raped.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. Saxon felt savage amusement when her gaze touched the silent man seated on the bench and her expression indicated she had jumped to the conclusion that he was the accused rapist. Apparently deciding that it wouldn’t be tactful to ask any questions in front of the suspect, she seated herself on the farthest end of the bench from Morrison.

Dr. Bruce Harmon arrived at a quarter of one. He was a lean, bouncy man about Saxon’s age, who gave the impression of always being in a hurry and usually moved at a gait approaching a trot. Setting his bag on the bench, he quickly hung up his coat and hat, but retained his galoshes.

Briskly rubbing his hands together, he said, “Getting colder out. Hello, Jenny. Where’s the patient?” Then he glanced at Morrison with recognition and said, “Hello there. How you feeling?”

“Better,” Morrison said.

Saxon laid the cell keys on the counter and said, “Show him, Jenny.”

Moving over to the counter, Jenny picked up the keys. “This way, doctor.” She led the way toward the cell block.

They had hardly disappeared when District Attorney Arnold Kettle came in stamping.

Arnold Kettle was a plump, red-faced man of fifty-five with iron-gray hair and such an erect stance that his protruding stomach gave the impression that he was leaning slightly backward. He didn’t remove either his hat or his overcoat.

After glancing at Sergeant Morrison, Kettle came over to the counter. “Now what’s this all about, Ted?”

“Doc Harmon and Jenny Waite are back with the alleged victim,” Saxon said. “You’ll have to wait until Bruce is finished before you can talk to her. The woman is Grace Emmet.”

The district attorney’s eyebrows shot upward. “The Buffalo murderess?”

“Uh-huh. Sergeant Morrison over there on the bench was bringing her back from Erie and dropped her off here for an hour in order to see a doctor. This was about eleven o’clock. He thought he had a hot appendix. Turned out he didn’t, but while he was gone, the Emmet woman faked a suicide attempt in order to get me into her cell. Soon as I entered, she ripped her clothing, scratched me up a bit, and started yelling rape. Morrison walked in while we were wrestling and jumped to the conclusion that she was telling the truth.”

“I know what I saw,” Morrison said in his rumbling voice. “I assume you’re the district attorney. The chief here isn’t introducing me to anyone because he’s sore at me.”

The D.A. walked over and held out his hand. “Arnold Kettle.”

Rising, Morrison shook hands. “Glad to know you, Mr. Kettle. Chief Saxon neglected to mention that there’s another witness to the rape. There’s a guy in one of the cells. He couldn’t see into the woman’s cell, but he heard everything that took place. And he verifies the woman’s story.”

Kettle turned to frown at Saxon.

“Oh, it’s a very thorough frame,” Saxon said. “The prisoner he’s talking about is sore at me for jailing him on a traffic charge. He’s corroborating the woman’s story just to get even.”

“You’ve got a persecution complex,” Morrison said.

“Why the hell would either prisoner want to frame you?”

Saxon leaned his elbows on the counter. “You think you saw the rape actually taking place, don’t you, Morrison?”

“I know I did.”

“Okay, think about what you saw. The Emmet woman’s clothing was convincingly disarranged, but it takes two to tango. Was mine even slightly disarranged?”

“You were on your knees with your back to me for several seconds after she pushed you off the bunk. You had plenty of time to button up.”

“For God’s sake,” Saxon said disgustedly. “I’m beginning to think you’re in on this frame.” Then his eyes narrowed. “You know, that’s a thought, Arn. Maybe he is.”

Arnold Kettle gave him a strange look. “Are you suggesting a conspiracy between the sergeant and his, prisoner?”

“Yeah,” Saxon said slowly. “I don’t know why it didn’t register sooner. He comes in here with a faked appendix attack and leaves the woman in my custody. He even talks me out of calling in a matron, because that would spoil the frame. I see just how they worked it now.”

“Boy, are you reaching out in left field,” Morrison said in a tone of disgust. He smiled the slightest smile.