Bad Samaritan by William Campbell Gault

out, Vogel said in his cynical way, “I wouldn’t call Kelly’s Kourt the bush, would you? I’m not even sure that Maude believed in God.”
    I had no learned answer, only a memorable line from Buddy Hackett I’d heard on TV. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m sure God believed in her.”
    The cars went away, carrying the mourners back to their labors or back to their hills, according to their life-styles. Chief Chandler Harris stood on the sidewalk, flanked by Nowicki and Helms, waiting for us.
    “I think we should have a conference,” he said, “in my office. I think we should coordinate what we have and determine where we are.”
    I nodded. Helms nodded. Nowicki said, “I’m free.”
    “So is your guilty client,” Vogel said bitterly. “You are really a cute one, Stan.”
    Nowicki smiled. “I know. My mother has been telling me that for years.”
    Harris glared at both of them. “In my office. In twenty minutes.”
    They drove away. Vogel and I walked back to the University Club lot. “A conference,” I said. “And then the official word—suicide.”
    “Don’t bet on it.”
    “That old fox was counting the house,” I said. “He saw how the unwashed outnumbered the washed.”
    “I know him better than you do,” Vogel said, “and I’ll tell you something. He may cut a corner here and there and he has to be a politician, but he’s something better, too. He’s all cop!”
    “Seven bucks to a fin it’s suicide.”
    “You’ve got a bet,” he said.
    Harris was in his chair behind his desk when we entered his office. Helms sat in a straight chair nearby. Nowicki was standing gazing out at the impressive view of bail bond offices across the street.
    The chief held up a stack of papers about two inches thick. “Reports,” he said. “All we know about the death of Mrs. Marner. Do you know what they add up to?”
    All of us except Nowicki nodded.
    “Do you now?” Harris grated. “All three of you agree on what they add up to? Would one of you Hawkshaws inform me?”
    “They add up to nothing in the middle of nowhere,” Vogel said.
    Harris shook his head. “It’s more serious than that. They add up to bad police work. It includes the most superficial coroner’s report I have ever seen, and I’ve seen some beauts from that office. All he tells us is that the lady died from carbon monoxide poisoning. If one of our meter maids had found Mrs. Marner’s body, she could have guessed that.”
    He stopped to get his breath, his face glowing.
    “Was there any indication that the lady had been bound or gagged? Any rope marks on her body, any lint on her teeth or in her mouth, any evidence of a fight for life? No mention of it here.” He slapped the papers on his desk. “And no mention of the lack of it here!”
    Vogel said, “He was questioned about it. He said he hadn’t noticed any.”
    “After the body was gone, after it was cremated, he was questioned about it. He hadn’t noticed any? Had he looked for any? Was he asked that question?”
    Vogel nodded. “I asked him. He only repeated that he hadn’t noticed any. He’s not a detective, Chief.”
    “On this kind of case he is supposed to be. And now Gonzales. Mrs. Marner was asking around about him, the reports show. What did we originally have on him? An incomplete missing persons report. Here’s a kid who finally straightened out. Got himself a fair job, a better than fair future, finally. Is that the kind of man who suddenly takes a bus out of town? Was there any checking of the original report? Hell, no!”
    He was breathing heavily now, and his red face was glowing like a neon sign. “Why not?”
    Nobody answered.
    “Maybe,” the chief went on in a softer but even meaner voice, “we knew Gonzales had left town because Lenny Tishkin told us so. Is that the place to get the official word, from a vicious punk who started to lie when he started to talk?”
    “He was Gonzales’s best friend,” Helms said.
    “Was he?”