Extra Kill - Dell Shannon

Extra Kill

Dell Shannon
1961

Jaques:
And then he
drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it
with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, "It
is ten o'clock.
Thus may we see," quoth
he, "how the world wags.
'
Tis but an
hour ago since it was nine;
And after one
hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour
to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from
hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby
hangs a tale."
—
As You Like It, Act
II, sc. 7

ONE

That he was making history was an idea that didn't
enter the head of the rookie cop Frank Walsh. He was riding a squad
car alone for the first time, which made him more conscientious than
usual. He saw this car first when they pulled up at a stop light
alongside each other on Avalon Boulevard; he'd never seen one like it
and was still looking for some identification when the light changed
and it took off like a rocket. He was going the same way, and it was
still in sight when they passed a twenty-five-mile zone sign; it
didn't slow down, and Walsh happily opened up and started after it.

The bad old days of quotas for tickets, all that kind
of thing, were long gone—and Frank Walsh was twenty-six, no
starry-eyed adolescent; nevertheless, there was a kind of
gratification, a kind of glamour, about the first piece of business
one got alone on the job. In time to come, he would have kept an eye
on that car for a while, clocked it as only a little over the legit
allowance and obviously being handled by a competent driver, and let
it go. As it was, a mile down Avalon he pulled alongside and motioned
it into the curb.

It was quite some car, he thought as he got out and
walked round the squad car: a long, low, gun-metal-colored job, a
two-door hardtop. This close he made out the name, a strange one to
him—Facel-Vega, what the hell was that? One of these
twenty-thousand-buck foreigners, probably with a TV director or a
movie actor or something like that driving it, just to be different
and show he had the money. Walsh stopped at the driver's window. "May
I see your operator's license, please?" he asked politely.

The driver was a slim dark fellow with a black
hairline moustache, a sleek thick cap of black hair, a long straight
nose, and a long jaw. He said just as politely, "Certainly,
officer," and got out his wallet, correctly slid his license out
of its plastic envelope himself, and passed it over.

There was a woman beside him, a good-looking redhead
who seemed to be having a fit of giggles for some reason.

Walsh checked the license righteously, comparing it
with the driver. A Mex, he was, and quite a mouthful of name like
they mostly had: Luis Rodolfo Vicente Mendoza. The license had been
renewed within six months and matched him all right: five-ten, a
hundred and fifty-five, age thirty-nine, eyes brown, hair- Walsh
said, "You know, Mr. Mendoza, you were exceeding the limit by
about fifteen miles an hour." He said it courteously because
that was part of your training, you were supposed to start out anyway
being polite; but he felt a little indignant about these fellows who
thought just because they had money and a hot—looking expensive car
the laws weren't made for them.

The driver said, "You're perfectly right, I
was." He didn't even point out that practically everybody
exceeded the limit in these slow zones; he accepted the ticket Walsh
wrote out and put his license back in its slot, and Walsh, getting
back in the squad car, was the least bit disappointed that he hadn't
made the expected fuss.

It wasn't until his tour was over and he reported
back to his precinct station that he found out what he'd done. It was
the car that had stayed in his mind, and he was describing it to
Sergeant Simon when Lieutenant Slaney came in.

". . . something called a Facel-Vega, ever hear
of it?"

The sergeant said it sounded like one of those
Italians, and the lieutenant said no, it was a French job, and what
brought it up? When he heard about the ticket, a strangely eager
expression came over his face.

"The only Facel-Vega I know of around here—what
was the driver like, Walsh?"

"He was a Mex, sir—why? I mean, his license
was all in order, and the plate number wasn't on the hot list.
Shouldn't I—?"

"And his name," asked Slaney in something
like awe, "was maybe Luis Mendoza?"

"Why, yes, sir, how—"

"Oh, God," said Slaney rapturously, "oh,
brother, this really makes my day! Walsh, if I could christen you a
captain right now I would! You gave Luis Mendoza a ticket for
speeding? You don't know it, but you just made history, my boy—that's
the first moving-violation ticket he's ever had, to my knowledge."

"You know him, Lieutenant?"

"Do I know him," said Slaney. "Do I—?
I suppose he had a woman with him?"

"Why, yes, there was a redhead—a pretty one—"

"I needn't have asked," said Slaney. "There
always is—a woman, that is, he's not particular about whether it's
a blonde or what. He looks at them and they fall, God Almighty knows
why. Do I know him, Says you. For my sins I went through the training
course with him, eighteen years back, and we worked out of the same
precinct together as rookies. And before we both got transferred, the
bastard got a hundred and sixty-three dollars of my hard-earned money
at poker, and two girls away from me besides. That's how well I—"

"He's a cop?" said Walsh, aghast. He had a
horrid vision of riding squad cars the rest of his life, all
applications for promotion tabled from above. "My God, I
never—but, Lieutenant, that car—"

"He's headquarters—Homicide lieutenant. The
car—wel1, he came into the hell of a lot of money a couple of years
after he joined the force—his grandfather turned out to've been one
of those misers with millions tucked away, you know? Oh, boy, am I
goin' to rub his nose in this!" chortled Slaney. "His first
ticket, and from one of my rookies!"

"But, Lieutenant, if I'd known—"

"If you'd known he was the Chief you'd still
have given him the ticket, I hope," said Slaney. “Nobody's got
privileges, you know that."

Which theoretically speaking was true, but in
practice things weren't always so righteous, as Walsh knew. He went
on having gloomy visions for several days of a career stopped before
it started, until he came off duty one afternoon to be called into
Slaney's office and introduced to Mendoza, who'd dropped by on some
headquarters business. Slaney was facetious, and Walsh tried to
balance that with nervous apology. Lieutenant Mendoza grinned at him.

"Cut that out, Walsh, no need. Always a first
time for everything. The only thing I'm surprised at is that it was
one of Bill Slaney's boys—I wouldn't expect such zealous attention
to duty out of this precinct."

"Why, you bastard,” said Slaney. "Half
your reputation you got on the work of your two senior sergeants, and
I trained both of 'em for you as you damn well know."

"Yes, Art Hackett's often told me how glad he
was to be transferred out from under you," said Mendoza amiably.

All in all, Walsh was enormously relieved; despite
his rank and his money Mendoza seemed to be a regular guy.

That happened in January;
a month later, the memory of this little encounter emboldened Walsh
to go over Lieutenant Slaney's head and lay a problem before the
headquarters man.

* * *

"I've got no business to be here, Lieutenant,"
said Walsh uneasily. "Lieutenant Slaney says I'm a damn fool to
waste anybody's time about this." He sat beside Mendoza's desk
stiffly upright, and fingered his cap nervously. He'd called to ask
if he could see Mendoza after he came off duty, and was still in
uniform; he was on days, since last week, and it was six o'clock, the
day men just going off, the night staff coming into the big
headquarters building downtown with its long echoing corridors.

"Wel1, let's hear what it's about," said
Mendoza. "Does Slaney know you're here?"

"No, sir. I've got no business doing such a
thing, I know. I asked him about it, sir, and he said he wouldn't ask
you to waste your time. But the more I got to thinking about it . . .
It's about Joe Bartlett, sir, the inquest verdict yesterday—"

"Oh?" said Mendoza. He got up and opened
the door. "Is Art back yet‘?" he asked the sergeant in
the anteroom.

"Just came in, want him?" The sergeant
looked into the big communal office that opened on the other side of
his cubbyhole, called for Art, and a big broad sandy fellow came in:
the sergeant Walsh remembered from last Friday night and yesterday at
the inquest. He wasn't a man to look at twice, only a lot bigger than
most—until you noticed the unexpectedly shrewd blue eyes.

"I thought you'd left, now what d'you want? I
just brought that statement in—"

"Not that. Sit down. You'll remember this young
fellow, he's got something to say about the Bartlett inquest. You
handled that, you'd better hear it too."

"Bartlett," said Sergeant Hackett, and sat
down looking grim. Nobody liked random killings, but the random
killing of a cop, cops liked even less.

"I don't think that inquest verdict was right,"
blurted Walsh. "I don't think it was those kids shot Joe.
Lieutenant Slaney says I'm talking through the top of my head, but—I
tried to speak up at the inquest yesterday—maybe you'll remember,
Sergeant, I was on the stand just before you were—but they wouldn't
let me volunteer anything, just answer what they asked."

"What was it you wanted, to say? Didn't you tell
your own sergeant about it?"

"Well, naturally, sir—and the lieutenant—and
they both think I'm nuts, see? Sure, it looks open and shut on the
face of it, I admit that. Those kids'd just held up that market, they
were all a little high, and they weren't sure they'd lost that first
squad car that was after them—maybe they thought we were the same
one, or maybe they didn't care, just saw a couple of cops and loosed
off at us. We were parked the opposite direction, but they might've
figured, the way the coroner said, that that first car had got ahead
and gone round to lay for them."

Which had been the official verdict, of course: that
those juveniles, burning up the road on the run from the market job,
had mistaken the parked squad car for the one that had been chasing
them and fired at it as they passed, one of the bullets killing
Bartlett. They'd already shot a cashier at the market, who had a
fifty-fifty chance to live.

"They say, of course, that they never were on
San Dominguez at all, never fired a shot after leaving the market,"
said Hackett.

"Yes, sir, and I think maybe they didn't. I—”

"Giving testimony," said Mendoza, "isn't
exactly like talking to somebody. Before we hear what brought you
here, Walsh, suppose you give me the gist, in your own words, of just
what did happen. I know Sergeant Hackett's heard it already, and I've
read your statement, but I'd like to hear it straight."

“
Yes, sir. We were parked on the shoulder, just up
from Cameron on San Dominguez. That's almost the county line, and one
end of our cruise, see. We'd just stopped a car for speeding and I'd
written out the ticket. Joe was driving then and I was just getting
back in, and in a second we'd have been moving off, when this car
came past the opposite in way and somebody fired at us from it. Four
shots. It must've been either the first or second got Joe, the doctor
said, by the angle—and it was just damned bad luck any of them
connected, or damned good target shooting, that's all I can figure.
The car was going about thirty. The shots came all together, just
about as it came even with us and passed, and the way things were I
hardly got a look at all. Joe never moved or spoke, sir, we know now
the shot got him straight through the head . . ." Walsh stopped,
drew the back of his hand across his mouth. He'd liked Joe Bartlett,
who'd been a good man for a rookie to work with, easy and tactful on
giving little pointers. Ten years to go to retirement, Bartlett, with
a growing comfortable paunch and not much hair left and always
talking about his kids, the boy in college, the girl still in high
school. Also, that had been Walsh's first personal contact with
violence, and while he'd kept his head it hadn't been a pleasant five
minutes. "He slumped down over the wheel, I couldn't get at the
controls until I'd moved him, it was—awkward, you can see that. I
think I knew he was dead, nothing to be done for him—I just
thought, got to spot that car .... I shoved him over best I could to
get at the wheel, but by the time I got the hand brake off and got
her turned, my God, it wasn't any use, that car was long gone. I was
quick as I could be, sir—"