Dirty Harry 09 - The Killing Connection (6 page)

But Bender wasn’t one to go out like that. Even Harry could see that the .45 was raised off the ground at a slight angle. Bender’s finger tightened and the big automatic boomed, the speeding bullet smashing through the middle of Tuccio’s back, exploding out his stomach just above his sternum.

Some of Tuccio’s middle made it to the car before he did. It splashed against the grill and hood, glowing in the hot white of the headlights. It started to dry immediately from the engine’s heat, losing its lustre just as Tuccio collapsed across its front. The crook’s eyes—gleaming first with surprised life then lost all their illumination. He died as he slowly slid across the grill to the ground.

Again it was just Callahan and the car; facing each other in a sort of perverted version of
High Noon.
Pressing his foot down on the gas pedal, he sent the big auto barreling across the body of its dead owner. Tuccio bounced twice beneath the spinning wheels, hunks of him being spit out of several orifices.

Harry wasn’t going to stand on ceremony. The driver had had his chance twice before and as far as Callahan was concerned, no more Mr. Nice Guy. He planted his feet apart and blasted away at the oncoming car.

The first bullet was too low, breaking through the grill and damaging the engine block, The second shot smashed the windshield from the center outward, blinding the chauffeur with shattered glass. But the bullet itself had missed him. The third bullet caught him right in the middle of his head, pinning him back against the seat. But since the lead had hit him straight on and the seat was backstopping him, there was nowhere for him to go. His corpse remained upright, his mind’s last command keeping his hands frozen to the wheel.

Both Harry and Fatso fired. There was no way of knowing which bullet had the greater effect since both hit their target at once, but it hardly made a lot of difference either way. Harry’s fourth bullet exploded the left front tire while Devlin’s round crashed through the side window and into the dead driver’s shoulder.

The force of the .357 slug pushed the chauffeur’s corpse over, making him turn the wheel. The ruined tire gave way, making the car spin sideways. Harry had just enough time to throw himself to his left as the car went sweeping by, neatly clipping the .44 out of Callahan’s hand.

The operation couldn’t have been more precise. Since Harry was somersaulting forward, his hands wound up behind him as he fell on his back. As the Lincoln’s bumper shot past, it just tapped the end of the Magnum’s barrel hard enough to pull it out of Harry’s grip. The car slid between where Harry lay and Fatso crouched, while the .44 flew into a crate of overripe oranges.

The Continental smashed into another row of booths behind the two rows it had leveled initially. It kept going this time, until there was nothing between it and the edge of the marketplace. Since the place was nothing more than a collection of booths beneath a tent-like awning held in place by thin metal beams, there was no wall to stop the barreling Continental. It vaulted off an asphalt embankment and landed on its nose halfway down the incline. Upside down it lay on the edge of the railroad tracks.

It rocked painfully back and forth, the metal groaning and the hot underside steaming and sizzling in the hard morning rain. On his knees, Callahan watched it reach its resting place then slowly rose to his feet.

“I’ll go check it,” Devlin offered. His superior nodded, so the round cop trotted off toward the wreckage.

Harry turned back to see Brown Bender walking toward him, his .45 shakily pointed at his waist.

C H A P T E R
F o u r

T
he hitman had taken three 9mm bullets fired at close range and was carrying at least two of them inside his body. But still, the giant was pulling himself toward Harry, the heavy weapon aimed accurately.

Callahan didn’t take his eyes off Bender. Maybe Devlin was still close enough to do some good. Harry wasn’t about to turn or call his name. That would be Bender’s cue to start shooting. As it was, the wounded killer was only moving closer to insure his shot. He wanted the Inspector dead.

Thinking about the hitman’s wounds, Harry figured the assassin would not only be strong enough to kill him, but perhaps even strong enough to live on afterwards. Even with slugs in his side and shoulder, and the shattered bottom of his face dripping crimson sludge, he might conceivably be brought back to a semblance of health while Harry deteriorated in the cold ground should his bullet find its mark.

Harry carefully used his peripheral vision to see what immediate chances were left him. Slowly, carefully, he started moving to the side. Bender was beyond expressing anything on his visage, but if he still had a mouth, Callahan was fairly certain that he perceived a smile. As far as the hitman was concerned, Harry was the cornered mouse while he was the fat cat.

Harry slowly kept skittering to the side and Bender kept pace with him. Callahan watched the .45 rise just as slowly, judging where the hitman would stop and pull the trigger. The weakened black man was relying on his momentum to keep him going. If Harry interrupted that momentum, it might throw the guy completely off.

As suddenly as Harry started moving, he stopped. Bender stopped as well, the gun centering on Callahan’s chest. But just as it was coming up, Harry screamed, leaping to the side and grabbing the hanging hook he had used to swing over the car. He pulled it down and threw it forward just as Bender fired.

The hitman looked down as he tried to move away, but to his surprise he found himself standing amid a squashed crateload of bananas. Whether it was the fear of falling or simply that he was too weak to move, Bender remained motionless as the hook slammed into his chest.

The heavy hook should have knocked the hitman over and that would have been enough for Callahan to disarm him. But as fate would have it, Bender’s knees buckled just as the hook got close. The surprisingly sharp point dug in just under his rib cage and the black man’s massive weight did the rest. The hook sunk all the way into his chest. The hook slid back to Harry, dragging Bender with it on his knees.

Devlin came back at the first shout. He slowed from a run to a casual walk when he saw what was on the end of the hook. The round Irishman had stopped being shocked at Harry’s exploits quite some time ago. He said a few “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers” to himself whenever he emerged from another Dirty Harry operation with his form intact. He was the only partner Callahan ever had who managed to do so for any length of time.

Fanducci, the first, Smith, the fourth, and Moore, the sixth, had all been killed. Deitzick, Gonsales, and DiGeorgio, the second, third, and fifth, respectively, had all come very close to buying it. Only Devlin, the man who filled in the empty space at Callahan’s side when Headquarters had nobody else to sit in what was jokingly referred to as the suicide seat in Harry’s patrol car, had never filed for sick pay.

“You all right, Harry?” he asked with a catch in his voice, unable to swallow.

Callahan considered the dead hitman, then glanced around at the other corpses. Like magnets pulled to the sight, the market workers began to drift back to the scene, pointing and mumbling in amazement and disgust.

“Yeah,” he said quietly to Devlin. “I’m going to call somebody to clean it up.”

On the way back to the green hulk the Justice Department supplied him with, Harry retrieved his gun from the depths of the stinking fruit crate. It came out reluctantly, dripping noxious citrus ooze.

“Shit,” Harry said, holding it away from him gingerly by the bottom of the butt.

The police car was unmarked. Otherwise the dark green exterior was beaten and battered about as much as Harry. They both had rough skin and a good variety of scars to show where they had been. Otherwise they both ran well and were dependable in a fix.

As Harry got close, letting the rain wash the dirt from his face and the fruit juice from his gun, he heard the radio burbling from inside the closed window. He quickly opened the door, threw the gun on the seat and sat behind the wheel.

“Inspector Seventy-one,” the crackling male voice on the speaker intoned. “Inspector Seventy-one, come in please.”

“Inspector Seventy-one,” Harry answered, pulling the mike up to his lips and hitting the Talk button.

“Where the hell have you been, Harry?” the less than professional voice on the radio continued.

Callahan thought about it for a second, then replied, “Fishing, Reineke. Been fishing.”

“Catch anything?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Harry answered. “But nothing I’d stuff and hang on the wall. Get a mop-up team out to the W.P.M. right away. They can skin and debone it if they like.”

Reineke didn’t have to ask details. Harry was the proverbial bull in the china shop. As far as HQ was concerned, he should be assigned a permanent sweeper to clean up the carnage he always seemed to leave in his wake.

“You’re a disgusting man, Inspector,” Reineke said with humor. “How can you live with yourself?”

“And you’re a Sergeant bucking for demotion,” Harry retorted tiredly. “What the hell do you want?”

“It’s not me, Harry. It’s McKay. He’s been burning everybody’s butt at both ends for close to an hour now. It got so bad that the Lieutenant put me in charge of finding you. The regular radio personnel gave up after more than a half-hour.”

Harry was intrigued. Ever since the “Enforcer” fiasco which left Kate Moore dead on Alcatraz Island, Callahan and McKay both had been very careful to steer clear of each other. And while they had worked together since, in a manner of speaking, it was only with the greatest of reluctance.

“What does he want? To explain this morning’s ‘Hagar the Horrible’ comic strip?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Harry. Our only instructions were to send you down to McClaren Park.”

That wasn’t so bad. The park was less than two miles from the market. “Where in the park?” Harry asked. “The place is more than a mile long.”

“The northeast corner,” the homicide sergeant said. “Near the reservoir. He says you can’t miss it. The place is crawling with uniforms and medicos.”

Sounded like something big all right. At least all the coroners wouldn’t have to go very far themselves to examine the mess Harry had at the market. “OK,” Harry told the sergeant. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Inspector,” Reineke said with a flourish. “Having done my duty, I can now get back to my glamorous post, doing the thrilling job I always wanted to do: making out a report on a dead wino found on the Embarcadero.”

Callahan snorted. He only wished his own morning was as uneventful. “Sergeant,” he said, “about your earlier question concerning how I live with myself . . . ?”

“Yeah?” Reineke drawled. “What about it, Harry?”

“It’s a rotten job, but somebody’s got to do it,” the Inspector said flatly.

“Yeah,” Reineke repeated. “I know what you mean, Inspector. I know what you mean.” They both considered their dehumanizing lot for a second, then got back to the matter at hand.

“Inspector Seventy-one, over and out.”

“Keep dry, Harry.”

Reineke was right about one thing. They couldn’t miss it. All roads leading to and from the park had been blocked and the entire area was awash with blue uniforms covered with yellow, orange, and black rain slickers. The sun-streaked sky was colored with the flashing blue, white, and red turrets of a small fleet of patrol cars.

Flashing their badges numerous times to make their way through the roadblocks, Devlin and Callahan finally made it to the core. Even so, Harry still had to park the car and walk past at least a half-dozen other vehicles to get to the top of a muddy incline which was lined with police officials.

He slipped into the line, practically unnoticed, since he was wearing the same nondescript light brown raincoat all the other plainclothed cops were wearing. The only difference between him and the others was that he wasn’t wearing a hat—letting the still heavy rain beat down on his head like drumming fingers.

All the men in tan raincoats were standing at the top of the hill, unable and probably unwilling to help with the project occupying the many struggling medical officials at the bottom. Even as Harry watched, a team of interns were pulling the decomposing remnants of a corpse from its sticky makeshift grave.

As he looked around, he saw other medical units piecing another body back together, digging new holes in the hillside and loading the bones into a variety of waiting ambulances. Just as he was taking that in, an umbrella was opened behind him and held over his head. He turned to see forensic labman Walter White standing beside him, his black hand on the umbrella handle.

“McLaren Park ‘is melting in the dark,’ ” Harry said.

“They’ve been digging them out at the rate of one almost every five minutes,” the young black doctor informed him while looking down at the excavation site. “We’ve got more than a half-dozen now.”

“A half-dozen what?”

White continued, “The decomposition is bad, but the victims were also beaten either before or after death. Even so, there’s no mistaking it. All the corpses are women, Harry.”