poured hot wax all over the
dearly departed's head. Shut off his breathing."
"How?"
"Had tape over his mouth. Wax sealed
off his nose. ... Listen, Z, I got work to do."
"Identify the perp?"
"Not a clue in a carload. Leastways,
that's what the techs say. No prints. No nothing. The door had been
rigged. Looks like a pro done it. That's the whole
deal."
"Money?"
"Nope. Nor drugs, neither. ... Anyway,
what's your interest in this?"
"Just ... interested."
"You got a client who done
it?"
"No."
"Don't shit me, Z. You
don't call, less it's important to you. Not that you got an
important job. But this means something to you. ..... OK. ..... I won't ask
what. ... And Z?"
"Yeah?"
"You're doin' good not to have hinted
for me to break the rules, like beggin' that I give out the name of
the victim. Which I figured you'd do, soon as I heard what you
wanted."
"Don't want to meddle."
"Since when? You must have had a
powerful change of heart since the last time you
called."
"Yeah."
"That it, then?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Sure. And remember, I done you this
little favor. So you owe me."
"Right."
"You get a tip for me, let me
know."
"Right."
Z heard the click of Teddy hanging
up.
Though not realizing it, Ted had
answered all the important questions, first and foremost, that the
medical examiner and the technicians hadn't found anything that
pointed to Z. If, in a day or two, the cops continued to turn up
zilch, the odds said they'd never find a thing. That's why the
first twenty-four hours in a homicide were so critical -- cops
always saying that. Either something breaks right away in murder
cases, or it never does. ... Unless an eyewitness comes forward:
little chance of that.
Something that should have made Z feel
good ... but didn't.
A more recent puzzle had been solved,
however: about Bud Izard's exaggerated reaction to Z scaring off
Howard Kunkle. The sickly grin on Bud's fat face; the sweating; the
offer to pay two hundred; the vow of eternal gratitude; owing Z a
favor; the two of them swearing never to speak of the incident
again. All of it, just ... too much.
It was now clear why Bud had been so
... strange.
He was scared of being involved in
murder, scared of being swept up as an accessory before, or after
the fact. Just plain scared.
Maybe, even afraid Z would find some
way to blackmail him for being in on the kill .......
Could be, even scared
of Z , people
generally afraid of murderers.
For it was clear as could
be that Bud already knew of Howard Kunkle's death -- thought Z had killed the
little man on purpose.
The difficulty was how Bud could know,
when Z, himself ...........
Easy.
Z had tipped the cops
sometime after 2:00 in the morning. By the time they'd
responded, The Kansas City Star had been "put to
bed," so, no mention of the Kunkle affair in yesterday's morning
paper. Nothing that night, because the Star's greedy owners had shut down
the evening paper, Z having to wait until the next morning
-- this morning
-- to discover what had happened.
What was clear was that Bud knew about
the murder by the time Z arrived at 4:00. Probably got it from
noontime TV.
Except it wasn't murder -- just an
accident.
That's what it was all
right, an accident; that's what Z had to keep reminding himself;
that accidents ... happened .
It was not his fault that something
had gone wrong.
Not his fault.
At least, that's what he told himself
... to stop his hands from shaking.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Another day had passed with nothing
else happening. Another day meaning that, while Z was still
concerned about what had gone wrong in the Kunkle affair, the odds
of Z being discovered were falling. He was eating again. Sleeping
again -- though he'd been having bad dreams. Something he never
did.
What were dreams, anyway? God, or nature,
or something "out there" trying to reveal hidden information? He
didn't know. Nor could he remember just what he'd been dreaming about. Only
that he would wake up dripping with
dearly departed's head. Shut off his breathing."
"How?"
"Had tape over his mouth. Wax sealed
off his nose. ... Listen, Z, I got work to do."
"Identify the perp?"
"Not a clue in a carload. Leastways,
that's what the techs say. No prints. No nothing. The door had been
rigged. Looks like a pro done it. That's the whole
deal."
"Money?"
"Nope. Nor drugs, neither. ... Anyway,
what's your interest in this?"
"Just ... interested."
"You got a client who done
it?"
"No."
"Don't shit me, Z. You
don't call, less it's important to you. Not that you got an
important job. But this means something to you. ..... OK. ..... I won't ask
what. ... And Z?"
"Yeah?"
"You're doin' good not to have hinted
for me to break the rules, like beggin' that I give out the name of
the victim. Which I figured you'd do, soon as I heard what you
wanted."
"Don't want to meddle."
"Since when? You must have had a
powerful change of heart since the last time you
called."
"Yeah."
"That it, then?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Sure. And remember, I done you this
little favor. So you owe me."
"Right."
"You get a tip for me, let me
know."
"Right."
Z heard the click of Teddy hanging
up.
Though not realizing it, Ted had
answered all the important questions, first and foremost, that the
medical examiner and the technicians hadn't found anything that
pointed to Z. If, in a day or two, the cops continued to turn up
zilch, the odds said they'd never find a thing. That's why the
first twenty-four hours in a homicide were so critical -- cops
always saying that. Either something breaks right away in murder
cases, or it never does. ... Unless an eyewitness comes forward:
little chance of that.
Something that should have made Z feel
good ... but didn't.
A more recent puzzle had been solved,
however: about Bud Izard's exaggerated reaction to Z scaring off
Howard Kunkle. The sickly grin on Bud's fat face; the sweating; the
offer to pay two hundred; the vow of eternal gratitude; owing Z a
favor; the two of them swearing never to speak of the incident
again. All of it, just ... too much.
It was now clear why Bud had been so
... strange.
He was scared of being involved in
murder, scared of being swept up as an accessory before, or after
the fact. Just plain scared.
Maybe, even afraid Z would find some
way to blackmail him for being in on the kill .......
Could be, even scared
of Z , people
generally afraid of murderers.
For it was clear as could
be that Bud already knew of Howard Kunkle's death -- thought Z had killed the
little man on purpose.
The difficulty was how Bud could know,
when Z, himself ...........
Easy.
Z had tipped the cops
sometime after 2:00 in the morning. By the time they'd
responded, The Kansas City Star had been "put to
bed," so, no mention of the Kunkle affair in yesterday's morning
paper. Nothing that night, because the Star's greedy owners had shut down
the evening paper, Z having to wait until the next morning
-- this morning
-- to discover what had happened.
What was clear was that Bud knew about
the murder by the time Z arrived at 4:00. Probably got it from
noontime TV.
Except it wasn't murder -- just an
accident.
That's what it was all
right, an accident; that's what Z had to keep reminding himself;
that accidents ... happened .
It was not his fault that something
had gone wrong.
Not his fault.
At least, that's what he told himself
... to stop his hands from shaking.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Another day had passed with nothing
else happening. Another day meaning that, while Z was still
concerned about what had gone wrong in the Kunkle affair, the odds
of Z being discovered were falling. He was eating again. Sleeping
again -- though he'd been having bad dreams. Something he never
did.
What were dreams, anyway? God, or nature,
or something "out there" trying to reveal hidden information? He
didn't know. Nor could he remember just what he'd been dreaming about. Only
that he would wake up dripping with
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