used to get this hot in Southern California, that it was the rise in population and all the watering of gardens that had changed the climate. He would just as soon live in a cooler climate, but he'd also like to make rank on this top force.
He took over the newly gassed-up squad after the briefing in the Traffic squad room, at one minute past four. He was on a beat right in the heart of the oldest part of the city, and parts of it were quiet as the grave and parts of it could get pretty hairy. But they didn't have the manpower to run two-men cars anymore. He had covered the beat once by five o'clock and had just turned back onto Alameda when he caught the light a half a block down. As he sat waiting for it to change, somebody honked at him urgently and he looked around. There was a big truck looming up at the left of the squad and its driver was leaning across the seat of the cab beckoning at him. Turner pointed up toward the side street, and the driver nodded and put up a thumb. The light changed, Turner pulled into the side street and parked and in the rearview mirror saw the truck ease cautiously across traffic into the right lane to follow him. It pulled into the curb ahead of the squad. It was a Goodwill truck, the familiar logo across each side of the body. Turner got out, automatically putting on his cap, and the driver slid down from the cab. He was a thick- shouldered, stocky man in the forties with thinning red hair and freckles.
He said to Turner, 'Say, I don't want to give you a bum steer, you know? God, it's hot. What a climate. Seems to get worse every year.' He brought out a handkerchief and l mopped his forehead. 'I was just figuring maybe I oughta tell somebody about it, just in case it is anything.'
'About what?' asked Turner.
'Well, I figure I got sent to the wrong address, see. Nobody down here in this neck o' the woods would have much good salvage to give away. It's an address back there on Banning Street,' and he gestured. 'I nearly didn't get out of the truck. Old shack of a place. But it was the address the dispatcher gave me so I went up and rang the bell. This was about ten minutes ago. Had to wait awhile, nobody ever did answer the door, but I could swear I heard somebody callin' for help from inside. Kind of a weak voice- Help me, somebody.'
'I'll be damned,' said Turner.
'I come away, but I was still thinking about it when I spot your squad car, and I just figured I'd feel better if I told somebody about it.'
'Yes, sir,' said Turner. He got the man's name for the record, Bill Cotter. 'Thanks very much, Mr. Cotter. We'll check into it.'
'I suppose it could've been kids, but you never know. Helluva thing. Kind of scared me.'
'Yes, sir, I'll have a look.'
Cotter went back to the truck and pulled out. Turner went around the block and headed back to find Banning Street. He knew generally where it was, a short and very narrow old street on the wrong side of Alameda, not far from the railroad yards. A street of ramshackle old houses dating from the turn of the century and never very fancy to start with, houses unpainted, with narrow front yards bare of grass or flowers. Peering against the too-bright late afternoon sun, he spotted the address. It was an ancient frame house ready to fall down. One of the front windows to the right of the tiny porch was broken-a whole pane missing. He parked the squad in front, went up to the porch and pushed the bell. He listened and in thirty seconds he heard it-a thin, faint voice moaning, and then 'Somebody- please help me-somebody.' He pushed the bell hard again. There was a shuffling step inside and the door was pulled half open to reveal a tall thin old man in stained cotton pants and a ragged shirt. There was about a week's growth of gray stubble on his chin. He looked at Turner and he said, 'I got no time for niggers. What do you want?'
Turner showed him the badge. 'There seems to be somebody in trouble here, sir. May I come in?'
'Ain't no trouble here,' said the old man brusquely. And the faint voice came again, 'Please, help me-help me-'
'Iet me in, sir,' said Turner gently. For one moment he thought the old man would slam the door in his face, and then he stepped back reluctantly.
Turner went in past him to a little living room nearly bare of furniture, only a sagging armchair and an old console T.V. He turned right into a short hall and faced a closed door which must lead to the room where that broken window was. He opened it, took one look and said sickly, 'Oh, my God! '
It was a bedroom containing only an old twin bed, a small table, a rickety unpainted chest. It was a shambles of squalor and filth. There was long-dried excrement on the floor and bed, a thousand flies zooming around, and on the bed, in a tangle of dirty bedclothes, was an old woman, emaciated to skin and bones, gray hair wild about her witless face. She was moaning weakly.
Turner swung back to the old man. 'What's your name, sir?'
After a dragging moment he said, 'Leach. Ben Leach.'
'Is this your wife?'
'Ain't got no wife. No use for females. She's my sister.'
'What's her name?' `
'Mary. Mary Leach. I don't purpose to have no dirty niggers asking no questions nor coming in my house-'
'Please leave the door open, Mr. Leach,' said Turner sharply. He went back to the squad and put in a call for an ambulance. While he waited for it, he went back into the house.
The old woman's eyes were dazed, unfocused, and she twisted her thin body feebly. 'Please-help me-so hungry-'
The old man had the television on.
'My good God,' said Turner to himself. 'People.' On this job you saw everything.
THE NIGHT WATCH came on. 'At least,' said Bob Schenke cheerfully, 'we get to stay in air conditioning part of the shift.'
Piggott was studying the real estate section of the Times.
'There's nothing within reason,' he said dismally.
'Take it to the Lord in prayer,' said Conway flippantly.
'Oh, don't think we haven't. If it's intended-' Piggott sighed.
'You're just the born pessimist, Matt,' said Schenke kindly. 'Hold the positive thoughts.'
'You're not looking for a home with reasonable payments,' said Piggott peaceably.
'Well, no. Maybe I was born to be a bachelor.'
At least the day watch hadn't left them anything to do. They didn't get a call until nine-forty, from a squad out on Alvarado-a mugging. Piggott and Conway went out on it. The victim was D.O.A. and there were witnesses: people up the block, one elderly man, who had also been waiting for a bus at the corner like the victim.
'They just came up and-and attacked him. Slugged him and knocked him down-and I guess got his wallet and just ran off. It all happened pretty fast, and I got a pacemaker- I couldn't do much even if it hadn't been so fast-' The couple of people farther up the block hadn't seen the assault so clearly. There were, of course, no descriptions. Only that there were two muggers, both men and probably young.
About twenty feet up the street they found a worn old billfold. It was empty of cash, but there was identification in the plastic slots. At a guess, of course, homicide hadn't been intended. He'd been knocked down hard against the bus-stop bench and probably died of a fractured skull. His name was Vincent Carmody and he'd lived on Coronado Street in the Silver Lake area, by the driver's license. He was twenty-five and he had been good- looking. Piggott and Conway went up to break the news and tell the family about the mandatory autopsy, when they could claim the body.
'He was just going to see Judy,' wept Mrs. Carmody, 'the girl he was engaged to-such a nice girl-just waiting for a bus to come home, his car was on the fritz in the garage. Just coming home from seeing Judy-it doesn't seem fair- It isn't fair-'
Carmody had been a clerk at a Sears warehouse, with a blameless record. It didn't seem fair, but that was the way things went.
