needed attending to.”
“I would call that an understatement,” Hansen said, and ambled to the edge of the sidewalk. His chunky partner followed him, and when Hansen squatted to regard the corpse, the partner squatted beside him, as if their entire relationship were a game of Simon Says.
Like Aggie Underwood, Harry the Hat had seen damn near everything; but even from my vantage point in the street, I could see his stony mask slip. The chunky cop at Harry’s side was scowling in disgust.
“Christ, Harry,” he was saying, waving away the flies.
“Somebody spent his sweet time on her, Brownie,” Hansen said to his partner. “Ever see a face cut up like that?”
“Hell no.”
“That grin carved in her face? Cut clean through the cheeks… Somebody made a real hobby out of her.”
The Hat rose; so did “Brownie.”
Lieutenant Haskins said, “I already called in the lab boys. They should be on the way.”
The Hat shot him a look. “Who did you talk to?”
“Lieutenant Jones-Lee Jones.”
“Call again. Get Ray Pinker over here.”
Pinker was chief of the LAPD crime lab.
“Yes, sir,” Haskins said, and went off to use the police radio.
The Hat called out to him. “Don’t use the radio! We got enough bystanders and meddling cops and damn reporters, already. Where’s the nearest pay phone?”
“There’s one on Crenshaw.”
“Good… Hurry back.”
The lieutenant paused, as if trying to find the sarcasm in Hansen’s words; but the Hat was a deadpan comic and you couldn’t always tell.
Gazing with what might have been mild disgust at the lieutenant, who was climbing into his squad car to go make his phone call, Hansen finally noticed me.
Initially, surprise tightened the Robert Mitchum eyes; then his tiny mouth puckered into a smile. “And I thought this already was interesting… Come say hello, Nate.”
I nodded at the Hat as I made my way to the sidewalk.
“We have a celebrity at the scene, Brownie,” Hansen was saying. “This is Nate Heller, that Chicago private detective you’ve heard so much about.”
“I have?” Brownie asked.
“Fred Rubinski’s new partner. The one who helped me break the Peete case.”
Actually, I had broken it by myself, but never mind.
“Good to see you again, Harry,” I said, and offered my hand.
The Hat grasped my hand with one of his, using the thumb of his other hand to indicate his partner. “This is Sergeant Brown- Fine — us Brown…”
That was spelled Finis, I later learned.
Shaking Brown’s hand, I said to the Hat, “I thought you worked exclusively with Jack McCreadie.”
“They split us up. Share the wealth-spread the expertise. I’m known for my skills as a detective, you know- like right away, my nose is twitching, finding a Chicago private dick at an L.A. crime scene… and what a crime scene.”
I gave a quick explanation of how I came to be here.
“I don’t know what became of Fowley,” I said, looking around, not hiding my irritation. “Son of a bitch stranded me here.”
“I can tell you,” the Hat said. “Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce he drove over to the Examiner to fill Richardson in, in person. This is going to be a big case. Ever see the like, Heller?”
“Well, actually…”
The Hat snapped his fingers; the sleepy eyes popped awake. “You have! You worked that Butcher case in Cleveland! When was it, ’38?”
That floored me. “How the hell do you know that, Harry?”
The Hat shrugged. “You turned up in the middle of the Peete case, Nate. I researched you. I know things about you that you’ve forgotten… Brownie, Mr. Heller here is thick with Eliot Ness.”
“Who?” Brown asked.
“Ness-he ran the Capone squad in Chicago, then made all those headlines in Cleveland, running the Mayfield Mob out of town. Youngest safety director in these United States, Ness was.”
“Oh,” Brown said. But it was obviously all news to him.
Under their lids, the Hat’s eyes fixed on me like gunsights. “You think I should talk to Mr. Ness about this, Nate? That case was never solved, was it?”
“What case?” Brown asked.
“The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. Thirteen torso killings… like this one, here.”
“Not quite like this one,” I said. “The Butcher usually dismembered his victims, and usually decapitated them, just for good measure… This is a similar M.O., but-”
“Why don’t you call Mr. Ness for me?” the Hat asked genially. “He’s not safety director, anymore, I realize…”
“That’s right. He’s in private business.”
“But it would be nice to get his read on this. Would you mind?”
“No! No, not at all.”
That was Harry the Hat for you. His whole style was low-key-no intimidation, no rubber hoses from the Hat; he had a gentle touch, using psychology and subtle manipulation, to get confessions out of suspects.
“Mr. Heller here is a true detective, in the best sense, Brownie. We’re lucky to have him with us… a lucky coincidence.”
“I, uh, don’t see anything so coincidental about it,” I said.
Brown was frowning, eyes disappearing into slits on his basketball-shaped head. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence? A private dick at a murder scene?”
“Who worked another torso slaying,” Hansen added pleasantly. “That is, slay- ings.”
“Listen, boys, I’m just waiting for my ride. You’ve got a lot to do. Let me just get out of your way…”
The Hat put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you pitch in? A man of your expertise. What have you noticed?”
So I shared my observations with them, as I had with Bill Fowley, pointing here, pointing there: the lack of blood, the clean nature of the bisection itself, the discarded cement sack, the bloody obscured footprint on the driveway, the tire marks.
“You see, Brownie? A master detective, our friend from Chicago.”
We were still on the sidewalk, near the corpse.
“You’ve hardly left anything for us to do, Nate.” The Hat leaned over the corpse, touched the white flesh of her thigh, near where a chunk had been carved away. “She’s cold…” He eased his hand underneath her, just a little. He looked up at me in surprise. “Ground’s wet.”
I frowned. “Dew?”
Brown frowned. “Do what?”
Hansen nodded at me. “She was left here before dawn, when the ground was still wet with dew… I’d say this body was washed, perhaps soaked in water, possibly scrubbed…”
I’d forgotten to mention the bristles; I pointed those out.
Hansen, still kneeling, nodded. “Possibly an effort to remove latent prints.”
Brown-who, of course, was also kneeling-said, “Maybe she was strangled… Look at those ligature marks on her neck.”
“I’m not so sure she was strangled,” the Hat said. “That large wound to the head could have caused a fatal concussion.”
I was staring at the girl’s face; I didn’t want to-but I was compelled, as if I were trying to find the pretty features somewhere there, despite the battered forehead and the carved clown’s grin.
