To Catch a Spy by Stuart M. Kaminsky

slumped to the right.
    The little man was wearing a watch. I turned his left wrist and pointed the beam at it. It was almost one. I sat down next to the dead man with my back against the same tree and put my gun on the ground between my legs.
    Thoughts at the moment:
    Get to a doctor. You were warned by Doc Hodgdon that you’d be in big trouble with another concussion.
    My head, neck, and left shoulder hurt, really hurt, drumming, throbbing, beating, damned hurt.
    I should get the hell out of there.
    Or, I should go find a phone and call the police.
    Or, I should go find a phone and call Cary Grant and tell him what had happened.
    What I decided to do was just sit there breathing hard on the cool grass. I looked over at the dead man and closed my eyes, not because I was looking at death but because of the pain. I forced myself to turn slightly and reach into his jacket pocket. He was wearing a light brown suit with a white shirt and a silk tie with alternating thin black, brown, and white stripes on a slight angle.
    I found his wallet and looked through it.
    Thirty-two dollars, three business cards, and a California driver’s license. His name was Bruno Volkman. His address was in Burbank. I took out my notebook and scribbled the address. Then I pocketed the business cards, left the money in the wallet, and put it back in his pocket. I checked the other pockets. Nothing.
    I still wasn’t sure of what to do next other than try to get up and back to my car. Maybe I should crawl? No, I put my gun in my jacket pocket, held the flashlight in my left hand, and used the tree to help me stand. I was disoriented. It took me a few sweeps of the grove before I figured out where I had parked. I staggered in the right direction. I staggered right into a uniformed cop, who stepped back, one hand on the gun in his holster and the other on a flashlight he clicked on. He had steady eyes and a serious look on his face. I knew a lot of cops, but not many in this district and not this one.
    “What’re you doing in here?” he asked. “The park is closed.”
    I shook my head.
    “That your car on the road? Crosley?”
    “Yes.”
    “You hear any gunshots?” he asked.
    “Gunshots,” I repeated. “Well …”
    “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.
    He thought I was drunk. I decided that it might be better that way. Then I decided that my decision was wrong. He was going to ask me for identification. He was going to find the dead man with what I was sure were a pair of holes in his back. If he didn’t find the body tonight, someone would find him in the morning and then the police would find me.
    “I had a Pepsi around ten-thirty,” I said. “There’s a dead man back there, sitting by a tree.”
    I nodded in the direction from which I had come.
    The cop’s gun was out now and aimed in my direction. He took a step back.
    “You armed?” he asked.
    I nodded to let him know I was.
    “Right jacket pocket,” I said. “I didn’t shoot him. Someone shot him and hit me from behind.… Wait a second! Someone shot him from behind and someone hit me from behind. There had to be two of them.”
    Gun aimed at my stomach, the cop stepped forward and took the .38 from my pocket. He smelled the barrel.
    “It hasn’t been fired. Why are you carrying a weapon?”
    “I’m a private investigator. I have a license.”
    “Show me.”
    I slowly fished my wallet out and handed it to him. He turned the flashlight on it, checked my identification and gun permit and then re-aimed the beam in my face.
    “Let’s go take a look at your dead man,” the cop said.
    “I need a doctor.”
    “We’ll get you one,” he said, herding me back toward the tree.
    We had about forty yards to go. Every step was pure pain, from the electric padding that coated my feet to the jabs of agony at the top of my head. The cop, about six paces behind me, pointed the flashlight in front of him and scanned the trees.
    “Which tree?” he asked.
    I was pretty