City of Dark Corners

The image of the woman’s mouth, open in a scream, floated across my mind, something I would carry with me to the grave. I asked about it.

“Iverson said the mouth was likely propped open that way,” he said. “She wasn’t conscious when she was sawed apart.”

“Our killer is such a humanitarian. Why hasn’t this been publicly disclosed as a homicide? You should go to the press. The public might be able to help. Someone might know her.”

“Because the city commissioners don’t want another Winnie Ruth Judd scandal making Phoenix look bad.” He held up his hand. “Don’t start on me, wasn’t my decision, wasn’t the chief’s decision. The chamber of commerce doesn’t want the city’s reputation further tarnished when they’re rolling out the new ‘Valley of the Sun’ marketing campaign.”

“Sons of bitches.” Or more kindly: “You can always trace all devilment to a chamber of commerce.” Will Roger

s wrote it on the front page of the newspaper, so it had to be true.

I preferred the old motto that had been bestowed on Phoenix: American Eden. But I supposed that wouldn’t attract tourists.

“There’s something else,” Don said. He paused. “She was pregnant. Doc estimated it was about six weeks.”

Before I could say that this was motive for murder, a man popped out of the groves thirty feet away. He was as big as a house, and his face was distinctive, with a long scar and jailhouse eyes that instantly lit on us. He had a revolver in one hand. With the other, he waved into the trees, and four other men stepped out and started our way.

Don swiveled forward and said, “I hope all that choir practice hasn’t made you a pacifist.”

“No.”

I had just enough time to take off my fedora and use it to conceal me removing the M1911 Colt automatic from its shoulder holster under my suit coat. One round was already in the chamber. I thumbed back the hammer. Don’s black .38 Detective Special was out, too, concealed between his leg and the inside of the car door.

By this time, the big man was beside my door, and his friends were converging.

“Out of the car!” he screamed. “We’re taking this!”

He waved his revolver upward.

That was his second mistake. His first was coming here at all.

I lowered my hat and fired. The heavy .45 caliber slug blew off his jaw, split open his scar, and kept going as the back of his head exploded in a geyser of blood, skull, and brains. The impact lifted him as if gravity had been temporarily suspended, and he flew up and back before gravity had its way again and he hit the ground with a hard thud.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a sawed-off in the hand of a scraggly man coming toward Don. It never made it. Don fired twice into his chest, dropping him. Next, Don opened the door and rolled to the dirt prone, where he put two more shots into the third man, who had the added misfortune of having his gun snag in his waistband.

By this time, I was out and using the door as a shield as a shot went wild. The shooter saw me take aim and panicked, turning to run as I squeezed the trigger three times, spinning him like a top until he landed in a red-stained heap.

The last one looked into the citrus trees, calculating.

“Don’t make me kill you.” Don said it in a chilly conversational voice. “This is the police.”

He raised his hands, eyes torn between terror and defeat.

Less than a minute had transpired.

Twenty minutes later, the road was crawling with deputy sheriffs, then Phoenix cops, then meat wagons. Victoria’s Nash came screaming at sixty, a cloud of dust behind it, reaching a hard stop. When our eyes met, she ran without even a camera.

“Gene, my God, are you all right?”

“I am.” I gave her the quick story.

She hugged me a long time, and I allowed myself the shakes. My ears were still ringing from the gunshots. Then she went back to her car, fetched a camera, and got to work.

* * *

The next morning’s Republic had us in bold capital letters:

COP, P.I. TAKE ESCAPEES IN GUNFIGHT