Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood Read Online Free
Author: Dane Hartman
who badgered him for a comment. “I’ll have something for you in the morning,” he asserted, hoping that would satisfy them.
Actually, Bressler did not know what he’d have in the morning. It did not surprise him that a preliminary check with the authorities in Palm Springs had not yielded anything substantive regarding the identities of Misses Paine and Nold. No such names were listed in the telephone directory, and the poor bureaucrat who had been roused from bed and sent to study the municipal records and tax and electoral rolls could find nothing either.
It did not surprise Bressler; he’d assumed from the outset that the names were fraudulent. The girls could have come from anywhere in the country.
The case promised to be nothing but ugly and sordid and, worst of all, futile. The best forensic pathologist in the world was not going to find any useful leads from the charred, headless, handless remains he was saddled with. Unless the psychopath who was responsible for this butchery had committed similar crimes in the past or intended to repeat himself in the future, they might never solve the murders at all.
When such cases came his way Bressler invariably chose the same person to investigate them. A man whom he felt was absolutely appropriate for something like this: Inspector #71, Harry Callahan.
Harry didn’t need to be told. He had an instinct about these things. As soon as he heard the news of what had happened at the Tocador Hotel he resigned himself to being assigned to the investigation. The more pitfalls a case held for a detective the more likely it was that Bressler would pick him in the hope that he would fuck up, and fuck up so catastrophically that he could be busted down to traffic cop. Harry had fucked up in the past, occasionally it was unavoidable, but generally he’d avoided the more unspeakable punishments that Bressler had in mind for him.
He had no sooner entered the Homicide Department, on the seventh floor of the Justice Building, than he was informed that Bressler was waiting to see him. It was ten minutes of nine in the morning, a day which up to now had shown no sign of ever clearing up enough to let the sun shine through. The murkiness of the atmosphere was reflected in Harry’s face.
“You’re going to burn out before your time, Harry,” Bressler said, taking a good look at him.
“It’s possible it’s already happened,” Harry wearily conceded.
“You know what they say about burning your candles at both ends.”
“Speaking of burning, is this about the Tocador?”
“Yes, this is about the Tocador. You got a feel for this business, Harry.” Sarcasm lay heavy in his voice.
Bressler raised his eyes to the clock on the wall. “In exactly one hour I am going to hold a news conference. The mayor will be there. And what I will say to the members of the press is that we will have the murders solved by the end of the month, that we have some significant leads, and that right now we have men out on the streets, watching for anyone who might be attempting to dispose of evidence of the crime.” He regarded Harry almost sorrowfully. “In fact, only the last part is true. The rest of it is bullshit. There is, however, a pressing need to make an arrest in this. It would be one thing if you got two hookers stiffed. That’s stuff for the National Enquirer. Nobody worries. But what we have here is five additional stiffs, elderly residents of the damn hotel, respectable people eking out a living from Social Security checks.”
He lifted a folder off his desk and held it up as though it were a trophy he’d just won. “What we got here is the Mission Street Knifer.”
“What’s he got to do with this?”
“We went through our records, ran everything through our computers, this is what we came up with, the only known murderer-mutilator we got actively running around town.”
“But his victims are usually derelicts, winos. From what I can recall he’s never gone in for
Actually, Bressler did not know what he’d have in the morning. It did not surprise him that a preliminary check with the authorities in Palm Springs had not yielded anything substantive regarding the identities of Misses Paine and Nold. No such names were listed in the telephone directory, and the poor bureaucrat who had been roused from bed and sent to study the municipal records and tax and electoral rolls could find nothing either.
It did not surprise Bressler; he’d assumed from the outset that the names were fraudulent. The girls could have come from anywhere in the country.
The case promised to be nothing but ugly and sordid and, worst of all, futile. The best forensic pathologist in the world was not going to find any useful leads from the charred, headless, handless remains he was saddled with. Unless the psychopath who was responsible for this butchery had committed similar crimes in the past or intended to repeat himself in the future, they might never solve the murders at all.
When such cases came his way Bressler invariably chose the same person to investigate them. A man whom he felt was absolutely appropriate for something like this: Inspector #71, Harry Callahan.
Harry didn’t need to be told. He had an instinct about these things. As soon as he heard the news of what had happened at the Tocador Hotel he resigned himself to being assigned to the investigation. The more pitfalls a case held for a detective the more likely it was that Bressler would pick him in the hope that he would fuck up, and fuck up so catastrophically that he could be busted down to traffic cop. Harry had fucked up in the past, occasionally it was unavoidable, but generally he’d avoided the more unspeakable punishments that Bressler had in mind for him.
He had no sooner entered the Homicide Department, on the seventh floor of the Justice Building, than he was informed that Bressler was waiting to see him. It was ten minutes of nine in the morning, a day which up to now had shown no sign of ever clearing up enough to let the sun shine through. The murkiness of the atmosphere was reflected in Harry’s face.
“You’re going to burn out before your time, Harry,” Bressler said, taking a good look at him.
“It’s possible it’s already happened,” Harry wearily conceded.
“You know what they say about burning your candles at both ends.”
“Speaking of burning, is this about the Tocador?”
“Yes, this is about the Tocador. You got a feel for this business, Harry.” Sarcasm lay heavy in his voice.
Bressler raised his eyes to the clock on the wall. “In exactly one hour I am going to hold a news conference. The mayor will be there. And what I will say to the members of the press is that we will have the murders solved by the end of the month, that we have some significant leads, and that right now we have men out on the streets, watching for anyone who might be attempting to dispose of evidence of the crime.” He regarded Harry almost sorrowfully. “In fact, only the last part is true. The rest of it is bullshit. There is, however, a pressing need to make an arrest in this. It would be one thing if you got two hookers stiffed. That’s stuff for the National Enquirer. Nobody worries. But what we have here is five additional stiffs, elderly residents of the damn hotel, respectable people eking out a living from Social Security checks.”
He lifted a folder off his desk and held it up as though it were a trophy he’d just won. “What we got here is the Mission Street Knifer.”
“What’s he got to do with this?”
“We went through our records, ran everything through our computers, this is what we came up with, the only known murderer-mutilator we got actively running around town.”
“But his victims are usually derelicts, winos. From what I can recall he’s never gone in for
Readers choose
Chandler Dee
Sax Rohmer
Scott Westerfeld
Tilda Shalof
Martin Limon
Allyson Young
Melissa Marr
Teresa Rae
Jenna Black
Anne Doughty