• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Savich walked into the small interrogation room, took a seat beside Delion, and said, “How are you feeling, Mr. McGuffey?”

The guy pressed himself against the back of his chair. “I know who you are. You’re that big fella who tried to kill me.”

“Nah, I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Savich said, a smile on his face that would terrify anyone with half a brain, still in doubt in McGuffey’s case. “If I’d wanted to kill you, trust me, you’d be in the morgue, stretched out on a nice cold table, without a care in the world. What did you do with the gun?”

“I didn’t have no gun.”

“Actually, yes, you did and you gave it to that other guy. You know, Milt, the thing is that I saw you. I was watching the crowd, that was my assignment from the lieutenant, to watch, because just maybe the guy who killed Father Michael Joseph would be there, to get his jollies, to make him feel really proud of himself. Sure enough you came. But you weren’t there just because you were proud of your work; nope, you were there to kill Nick Jones because she can identify you. You really moved fast, didn’t you? It’s only been a couple of days since she gave your description to the forensic artist and the drawing of you was in the newspaper. How’d you find out it was Nick Jones?”

“Look, man, I did see that drawing in the paper, that’s true, but I didn’t know who the guy was. Wait, you can’t really think that guy was me. No way, I don’t look nuthing like that dude. Mean fucker, that’s what I thought when I saw his picture and read the story.”

“Yeah, right, Milt,” Savich said. “Whatever. Now, don’t get me wrong. That was a real slick move you made—you palmed the gun, silencer still attached, and handed it off to your partner as you ran past him. He slipped it into his coat pocket. You never broke stride. It really was well rehearsed and well executed. Only thing—I was watching. You weren’t lucky there.”

Savich leaned forward until his nose was an inch away from McGuffey’s.

He said very slowly, “I saw you do it. They’re looking for him right now. I gave a really good description. They’ll bring him in and he’ll rain all over your picnic.” Savich looked over at the door, knew that Sherlock was close.

McGuffey’s eyes followed.

Sherlock stepped right up into the doorway, gave Savich a big smile, nodded in satisfaction, and stuck her thumb up.

“Ah,” Savich said, “at last. Didn’t take our guys too long, did it? Just over two hours. I told you I gave them a great description. Now we have him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? Nuthing! You couldn’t have caught no guy because there wasn’t a guy.”

Savich rose suddenly. “You can go back to your cell now, Milt. You’re tiresome, mouthing all that crap, crying, for God’s sake. Just look at poor Inspector Delion. He’s nodding off, your lies have bored him so much. You need lessons, Milt. You weren’t really all that good a show.”

Savich leaned over and splayed his hands on the tabletop, got right in McGuffey’s face. “We’re going to hold you on the attempted murder of Nick Jones. After your accomplice talks—and he’ll fillet you but good, Milt, don’t doubt it—the DA is going to have a solid multiple-murder case against you. He’s going to enjoy parading you in front of a jury—talk about a slam dunk. He’s even got a witness, you know who she is, all right—Nick Jones. You saw her standing out there, didn’t you? The white bandage around her head? She sure sees you, and believe me, she knows who you are.

“Yeah, the DA’s really going to be happy about this one. You know what else is great about California, Milt? California’s got the death penalty. Killing a priest and an old woman, now there’s just no excuse for that at all—rotten childhood, too much sugar, chemical imbalance in your brain; none of that will work. They’ll drop-kick you right into San Quentin’s finest facilities. You can appeal for years, but eventually you’ll exhaust everything our sweet legal system has to offer you, and then you’re toast.”

Savich