Deadly Deed

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

JUNE 4, 9 AM

ARIZONA REPUBLIC NEWSPAPER

PHOENIX, ARIZONA

I walk through the Arizona Republic with coffee in hand, looking for Specs. I pick up my messages, hoping there is one from Globe, but there isn’t. The ME is really slow in doing his job. Everything moves slower in Globe. Specs doesn’t have any new information to add to what Blondie has already told me about the tailor’s murder, except the police have some kid they think is the killer, a Bob Davis. I return a few calls, make some calls, jot down notes, and decide to wander over to the police station for more information.

Chief Deputy Harry Morse speaks up as I approach, saying, “Well, here comes Bulldog,” and the guys he’s talking with turn around.

“You know why I’m here? I want the names of the witnesses in the Tchaikovsky killing and any information you may have regarding the killer. Have you got him yet? Seems with all the witnesses you must have an identification.”

The guys all laugh. It’s only been forty-eight hours, and they feel confident that the kid they have in custody is the killer. Right now, sitting in the Chief’s office is the killer, and when you ask my old friend, the Chief, for an interview with him, he nods as if it’s almost routine.

“Okay to go in now?”

“OK, sure, Gene. Go ahead. He has calmed down.”

“Calmed down? Why, was the trip from Chicago rough when you brought him back?”

“It’s always tough when young punks like that know that we’ve got them cold. He is a funny kind of kid, funny kid, jumpy, you know. So go on in and see what you think.”

“I won’t take long.”

“My name’s McLain, Bob, Gene McLain from the Arizona Republic. Do you want to talk?

“About what?”

“You know, what I’ve been doing this morning.”

“What?”

“When my paper got word that they were bringing you back, I started looking up the people in town who knew you. Just talking to them and making notes.”

“I don’t know anybody in Phoenix.”

“Sure you do. Alex Fergus said that you stayed at his rooming house for a while. Here, see.”

“What did he say?”

“Not very much. You have a rough time back home, kid?”

“You mean reform school? Partly.”

“What did your teacher back home mean? She told me on the phone that she remembered that you were afraid of the dark.”

“My teacher? Ms. Hodges. Boy, you did a lot of talking.”

“That’s my job. Are you afraid of the dark?”

“Me, look Mr. … McLain. I guess, in a way, I have always been afraid of something. Sometimes it’s okay, like when the grass is getting green, and the sky’s all blue, but then it’s dark and cold, and nobody cares. Real scared like a little kid. Ah, forget it. It don’t make sense.”

“Are you scared now, Bob?”

“Sure I am. That guy that brought me back, he says that I killed Mr. Tchaikovsky.”

“Did you?”

“No … Do you have to go?”

“Now, look at me, Bob. Listen to me, listen to me real hard. Alright. Three witnesses pulled your mug out of the file. Three good, decent, honest people who swear you went into that tailor shop and killed Val Tchaikovsky.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Do you expect me to hear you say that you did? Now look, you knew the place. You worked there once, and you needed dough.”

“Sure I did.”

“Listen, there is more. Right after the murder, you fled, kid. Do you know what that means?”

“Sure.”

“And finally, you’ve got a record for armed robbery. Go ahead, add it up yourself.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“No, why not? Where were you on the 24th?”

“I told them I was in El Paso. I hitchhiked with a friend.”

“El Paso is 500 miles away. Can you prove that you were there? Where in El Paso? Did anyone see you?”

“I talked to this guy in a tourist cabin.”

“You haven’t told me anything yet.”

“I am trying to. I didn’t kill anybody, Mr. McLain. I got to keep saying it. Don’t you understand? Does anybody believe me? Do you?

“Alright, Bob, I need my head examined. I will go along on a hunch. I will try to help.”

“I tell you, I never killed anybody.”

“Look, son, the cops in this town play square with me. I play that way too. If I come up with something against you, I give it to them. It works both ways, kid. That is the only way I want it. Okay? Okay. Let’s go to work now.”

You listen to this boy, Gene McLain. You see what Chief Morse meant. A funny kind of kid—nervous, jumpy—and I wonder if my hunch is all wrong, but somehow when I look at Bob Davis, I go on trying. I go back to Chief Morse and try again.

“I am not making a big pitch for the kid, but all I say is that if the kid did hitchhike to El Paso, let’s talk to the boy that was with him.”

The Chief says, “We did. The FBI picked him up the same time that we landed Davis.”

“What did he say? Was he with Davis in El Paso?”

“In Chicago, they told the boy that Davis was in trouble, and they didn’t hold him. There was no reason to. By the time that we got there, the boy was gone. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You don’t hang around when your buddy is up for a murder rap, not when you know that they have him cold. Sorry to punch holes, Gene, but this one is cold.”