around her to ask her if she were all right. Sandy meanwhile hadn’t the leisure to be solicitous and he started to drag her, heedless of her missing footwear and injured ankle.
There were too many people in the way and still no one knew what was happening. In any case there wasn’t all that much space on this walkway to maneuver. Harry called out to Sandy, addressing him by name, demanding he surrender.
Instead, he did what Harry feared he would. Tossing away the jacket dangling off his arm, he brandished his weapon and pressed it close to the woman’s breast. Those in the vicinity screamed and tried to back off.
Harry had his .44 out, but it didn’t seem it would be of any use to him.
“I’ll kill her, I swear I’ll kill her if you don’t put that down and get out of here!” Sandy shouted, his voice hoarse and venemous.
Just then, before Harry had a chance to react, there was a loud blast. Blood coursed over the front of Sandy’s checkered short-sleeved shirt and he pitched over the railing of the walkway and plummeted to the mall below. The woman was shaken but unhurt.
Predictably, the chaos that ensued in the wake of the killing made it impossible for Harry to determine who had shot Sandy. Wherever he looked, people were scrambling for shelter, understandably convinced further shots would follow though none did. There was a great uproar. Some were screaming in panic, others from horror, others from plain fear. But collectively, in this public atrium, their screams made it seem as though the Golden Gateway complex had become the temporary home of a tribe of aborigines conducting strange nocturnal rites.
By the time the uniformed officers arrived on the scene and began their investigation, no less than twenty possible witnesses were prepared to say what they’d seen. And virtually all of them declared that while they might not be aware of the context of the situation they had no doubt that Harry had been the one to fire on the kidnapper.
Harry thought it of little significance that he was believed to be Sandy’s killer. When, later that day, Bressler called him in to discuss this latest incident, Harry pointed out that his gun had not been discharged and he was certain the ballistics tests would bear him out. Not that he felt any remorse over Sandy’s death, but he wanted it made emphatically clear that he would never risk opening fire when doing so would imperil the life of an innocent victim.
Bressler, however, was not so easily convinced. “We’ve already run a ballistics test,” he said. “That’s why I called you in here. Sandy Lyman was shot by a .44 Light.”
Harry knew what was coming. But he protested that further ballistics tests would clearly show that it was not his .44 that had been responsible.
“I don’t doubt you, Callahan. But that’s not the point. It’s common knowledge you busted Lyman yesterday and because you failed to take into account certain legal niceties, he was released only hours after you arrested him. Now he’s dead. Just like Judge Gallagher, Marc Torio, and Morris Page. And now add to the list Lyman. You know what kind of publicity we’re bound to get? No matter what our tests finally show, you’ve got fifteen, twenty people out there willing to testify it was you who fired the gun. They may think you’re a hero, they’re undoubtedly as unreliable as most witnesses are, but imagine the field day the papers are going to have with it?”
Harry said nothing. Not much imagination was required.
Bressler said, “Whoever wants your ass, wants it bad. And it’s damned embarrassing for the department. You’re being depicted as some kind of freak, a mad vengeful cop taking the law into his own hands. The heat’s getting to us all. I am afraid I’ll have to suspend you pending the outcome of our investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The one the commissioner has just ordered. Things happen quickly around here, you’ve got to keep up.”
Harry
There were too many people in the way and still no one knew what was happening. In any case there wasn’t all that much space on this walkway to maneuver. Harry called out to Sandy, addressing him by name, demanding he surrender.
Instead, he did what Harry feared he would. Tossing away the jacket dangling off his arm, he brandished his weapon and pressed it close to the woman’s breast. Those in the vicinity screamed and tried to back off.
Harry had his .44 out, but it didn’t seem it would be of any use to him.
“I’ll kill her, I swear I’ll kill her if you don’t put that down and get out of here!” Sandy shouted, his voice hoarse and venemous.
Just then, before Harry had a chance to react, there was a loud blast. Blood coursed over the front of Sandy’s checkered short-sleeved shirt and he pitched over the railing of the walkway and plummeted to the mall below. The woman was shaken but unhurt.
Predictably, the chaos that ensued in the wake of the killing made it impossible for Harry to determine who had shot Sandy. Wherever he looked, people were scrambling for shelter, understandably convinced further shots would follow though none did. There was a great uproar. Some were screaming in panic, others from horror, others from plain fear. But collectively, in this public atrium, their screams made it seem as though the Golden Gateway complex had become the temporary home of a tribe of aborigines conducting strange nocturnal rites.
By the time the uniformed officers arrived on the scene and began their investigation, no less than twenty possible witnesses were prepared to say what they’d seen. And virtually all of them declared that while they might not be aware of the context of the situation they had no doubt that Harry had been the one to fire on the kidnapper.
Harry thought it of little significance that he was believed to be Sandy’s killer. When, later that day, Bressler called him in to discuss this latest incident, Harry pointed out that his gun had not been discharged and he was certain the ballistics tests would bear him out. Not that he felt any remorse over Sandy’s death, but he wanted it made emphatically clear that he would never risk opening fire when doing so would imperil the life of an innocent victim.
Bressler, however, was not so easily convinced. “We’ve already run a ballistics test,” he said. “That’s why I called you in here. Sandy Lyman was shot by a .44 Light.”
Harry knew what was coming. But he protested that further ballistics tests would clearly show that it was not his .44 that had been responsible.
“I don’t doubt you, Callahan. But that’s not the point. It’s common knowledge you busted Lyman yesterday and because you failed to take into account certain legal niceties, he was released only hours after you arrested him. Now he’s dead. Just like Judge Gallagher, Marc Torio, and Morris Page. And now add to the list Lyman. You know what kind of publicity we’re bound to get? No matter what our tests finally show, you’ve got fifteen, twenty people out there willing to testify it was you who fired the gun. They may think you’re a hero, they’re undoubtedly as unreliable as most witnesses are, but imagine the field day the papers are going to have with it?”
Harry said nothing. Not much imagination was required.
Bressler said, “Whoever wants your ass, wants it bad. And it’s damned embarrassing for the department. You’re being depicted as some kind of freak, a mad vengeful cop taking the law into his own hands. The heat’s getting to us all. I am afraid I’ll have to suspend you pending the outcome of our investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The one the commissioner has just ordered. Things happen quickly around here, you’ve got to keep up.”
Harry
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