Fletch Won

“Did he do himself?” Fletch was looking over Biffs shoulder into the front seat of the Cadillac.

A man in his sixties was slumped over the armrest. His left leg hung out of the car. His shoe almost touched the ground.

Biff turned his head slowly to look at Fletch. His look said that plebeians were not supposed to initiate conversations with royalty.

“Or was he shot?”

Not answering, Biff Wilson stood up and turned. He waited for Fletch to move out of the way. Despite the heat, the strong sun in the parking lot, Biff wore a suit jacket and tie, although his shirt collar was loosened. Hair grew out of his ears.

Biff walked the few steps to the three policemen standing by the black-and-white police car. Only two of the police were in uniform.

“Do we know who found him yet?” Biff asked.

“Do we?” Fletch said to himself.

The younger uniformed officer was staring at Fletch.

Three cars were parked at odd angles around the blue Cadillac. One was the plainclothesman’s unmarked green sedan. The second was the black-and-white sedan, front door open, police radio crackling, red and blue roof lights rotating.

The third said NEWS-TRIBUNE on the sides and back. This was the car Biff Wilson used. Its front door was open, too. Radios crackled from its interior. And a blue light flashed from its roof as well.

The older man in uniform looked at his notebook. “Female employee of the News- Tribune named Pilar O’Brien.”

Biff let spit drop on the sidewalk between his shoes. “Never heard of her.”

“Suppose she’s a secretary.”

“And she called the cops?”

“She told the security guard at the gate.”

“And he called the cops?”

“No,” said the plainclothesman. “He called the news desk.”

Biffs smile glinted. “Everybody’s buckin’ for promotion.”

“Your photographers have already come and gone,” said the older uniform.

“They didn’t touch anything,” the youngest cop said. “I saw to that. Photographed him from the side and through the windshield. Took a few long shots. Didn’t touch the car or the victim.”

“Gun been found?” Biff asked.

“Not visible. Might have slipped under the seat,” said the plainclothesman. “Where’s forensics? I want my coffee.”

“Donald E. Habeck,” the older uniform read from his notebook. “Anyone know what he was doing here?”

“Yeah,” Biff answered. “He was here to see John Winters, the publisher. Ten-o’clock appointment. They were going to set up the announcement that Habeck and his wife are going to, were going to, give five million bucks to the art museum.”

“How do you know that, Biff?” the plainclothesman asked.

“How do I know everything, Gomez?” Again Biff spat on the sidewalk.

“I know you’re the greatest, Biff. I spent all last night tellin’ my wife that.”

Biff shrugged. “Car telephone, jerk. Hamm Starbuck said Donald Habeck was dead in the parking lot. I asked him, What’s he doin’ at the News-Tribune? Wouldn’t you say that’s a natural question?”

“That’s why I just asked it, Biff.” At least Gomez had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

There was no shade in the parking lot.

The younger uniformed policeman kept giving Fletch long, hard looks.

“Five million dollars. Jeez.” The older uniformed policeman rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Think of bein’ able to give away five million dollars.”

“You’ve never been able to do that?” Biff asked.

“Saturday I gave my niece and her new husband an old couch we had in the den. Slob didn’t even come for it. I had to truck it over myself.”

“Nice of you,” Biff said.

“Didn’t get no story about myself in the newspaper for it, though.”

“Maybe Biff will write you up a story,” Gomez said.

“Sure,” Biff said. “Friday night I gave my kid a welt under his left eye. I’m generous, too.”

“Here comes your competition, Biff.” Gomez nodded toward the security gate.

There were two cars there from the Chronicle-Gazette.

“Sunday I realized how much I missed that couch. I had to sit up during the ball game. And my back was sore from movin’ the damned thing the day before.”

The younger uniformed cop. touched Biffs sleeve and then pointed to Fletch. He spoke quietly. “He with you?”

Biff considered Fletch from his throne as News-Tribune crime writer. “Naw.”

“Does he work for the News-Tribune?”

“I dunno.” Biff was not keeping his voice low. “Maybe I’ve seen him around. Emptying wastebaskets.”

“Didn’t know the News-Tribune had any waste-baskets,” Gomez said. “Just delivery trucks.”

At the gate the security guard was delaying the arrival of the Chronicle-Gazette’s reporter and photographer at the scene of the crime.

“Haven’t you had any coffee yet this morning?” Biff asked Gomez.

“Only two cups,” Gomez said. “Anglo.”

“You act like you haven’t had any.”

“El mismo” Gomez said.

“Because I’ve seen something about that guy,” the younger officer said. “Recently. A picture, or something.”

Biff fixed Fletch with his distant gaze again. “Maybe on the funnies page.”

Finally the two cars from the Chronicle-Gazette reached the scene of the crime. Neither had lights flashing nor radios crackling.

“Don’t you guys touch anything,” the younger uniformed officer shouted at them.

The reporter said, “Shut up.” He looked into the car.

The photographer was bending around taking pictures without the reporter in them.

“Who is he?” the reporter asked.

“Not confirmed,” Biff answered.

“Employee of the News-Tribune?”

“Probably,” Biff answered. “Most of us have Caddy Sevilles. I let my kid take mine to school.”

“Security guard must know who he is,” the reporter said. “He must have given a name when he came in.”

“Go ask him,” Biff said.

“This is your story, uh, Biff?” the reporter asked.

“It happened in his backyard,” Gomez said.

“Yeah,” the reporter said. “Expect I can make something of that. Murder in the parking lot of a family newspaper. Tsk, tsk.”

“That’s Habeck,” said the photographer. “Donald Habeck, the attorney. Rich guy. Lives over in The Heights.”

“Yeah?” said the reporter. “What’s he doin’ here?”