“The hell you say? Chicago police planting the seeds of evidence?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did they put up men before you? A lineup?”
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“Yeah, that’s what they called it.”
“Not a photo array? Real men?”
“Yes, a lot of different looking fellas I never seen before.”
“Did you point one out?”
“I did.”
“But man, you just said you had seen none of them before.”
“They wanted me to point to one.”
“They pressed you to choose one?”
“They did.”
“And did you already know which one they wanted you to point out?”
“I knew.”
“How did you know which one would please them?”
“How’s a man know when a deef and dumb fellow wants to barter?”
“I see. You read their gestures, and all of them pointed to a man named Philo Keane.”
“Don’t know ’is name, but he shook when I pointed ’im out.”
“I gotta go help my friend out of this mudslide he’s in.”
“Sorry for the part I played, but they had me up all night.
Can you get me outta this cell?”
But Ransom was already gone in search of where they held his friend. He stomped up to the second floor, not willing to wait for the lift. The noise of his cane beat a hasty rhythm along the steps as he ascended. Like a rattler on a snake, some observed, the way he used that cane as a warning of an impending showdown.
He burst into one interrogation room and found two fellow inspectors interrogating Philo’s landlady, the woman in tears. He slammed the door and moved on to the next bare room, finding Philo half asleep, one hand holding down a piece of paper, the other trying to negotiate his signature.
Ransom rushed round the table, pushing Griffin into a chair when he dared get in the way, while Kohler shouted, “What kind of ass do you intend making of yourself now, Alastair?”
Ransom ignored the others, grabbed up the half-scribbled CITY FOR RANSOM
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signature on the confession and ripped it to shreds. “You bastards are railroading this man! Look at him! He is in no condition to sign anything!”
“The man has confessed, Ransom! Confessed to multiple murder!” protested Griffin.
“And it will stick to the end.” Kohler’s smug look was that of a preening rooster.
“I’m taking him outta here,” Ransom declared.
“Try it and you’ll be arrested and stripped of rank!”
shouted Kohler.
“Alastair,” said Griffin, putting up both his hands in a gesture of pleading.
Kohler pulled out a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber and pointed it at Ransom. “One attempt to take our confessed prisoner from custody, Inspector, and you will be shot.”
“He needs no further provocation, Ransom,” declared Griffin.
“Why wasn’t I consulted? Why did I have to learn of this idiocy from Thom only this morning?”
“We tried to locate you, but afraid—” began Griff.
“You bloody know Kohler didn’t want me on hand. Else there’d’ve been a fight when you attempted an arrest! Right, Nathan?”
“Give you enough rope . . .” Kohler glared across at him, his gun still pointed at Ransom’s chest.
“You arrest a man for murder just to bait me?”
“Sheer babbling nonsense from the brook of insanity.”
“And you, Griff, you Judas!”
“We have proof, evidence,” Griff countered.
“Coincidence only cuts so much ice,” said Kohler.
“What proof? What evidence?”
Griff grabbed a closed file lying on the table and spilled forth its contents. “Photos of several of the victims in the nude.”
“Jesus! The man makes his living as a blasted photographer! Women go to him for this express purpose. The girls pay for copies, and they in turn sell them for extra cash.”
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“It’s obscene,” said Kohler. “Disgusting. Against all decency! He’s e’en got the pregnant victim posing in the nude.”
“Obscene to you, but they fail as evidence in a court of law.”
“You’re now a lawyer?” challenged Kohler, still pointing his gun.
“Please, Chief, put the gun down,” cautioned Griff, seeing the older man’s finger tighten about the trigger.
“What other coincidence have you?” challenged Ransom.
“His words, his
“Philo was speaking only of his loss, his grief.” Running both hands through his hair, Ransom paced the room like an angry lion. It looked as if he might break down a wall.
Kohler countered with, “He spoke of his involvement with two victims, and now we know of a third.”
“I know what he said!”
“You’ve not sat and read his confession. You ripped it up instead! Pick it up, piece it together and bloody read it, Inspector!” Nathan shouted across the table at him.
Ransom reluctantly found the scattered pieces and puz-zled it back together, then scanned the bogus document.
“This is crap,” he challenged Kohler.
“Crap? What do you mean, crap?”
“What else do you have on Philo?”
“He knew Trelaine and they argued—repeatedly—on each occasion of their meeting, according to the landlord.”
Griffin added, “At the top of their lungs.”
“What the bloody hell else do you have? Because you take this garbage into a Chicago courtroom, this flimsy bull, and you, Chief, you’ll be laughed out of the building. You’d be lucky to land a job selling plumbing fixtures.” Suddenly, Philo shouted out, “I’ve pleaded with them all night and all day, Alastair. I could not kill my love, never!
Trelaine, yes, but never—”
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“Shut up, Philo! You’ll dig your own grave with these fools!”
The room fell into a deep silence at this.
Still, Ransom saw that Philo had been beaten, and that he’d been deprived of sleep, food, water, facilities. He could well imagine what they’d been telling Philo. Lies, half-truths, and deception in the hands of a skilled interrogator proved powerful tools. What might normally seem absolute nonsense—like elves born of drink and
