Silently, Watson watched police procedure unroll, blinking as the flashgun of a police photographer illuminated the car’s interior. He saw ballistics experts work out the angle of trajectory from the shattered car window; he watched the medical examiner touch his wife’s still-warm body, then saw it lifted into a police ambulance. He heard the young patrolman report that they had flushed no one in the deserted building.
Finally, as a city tow truck pulled Watson’s car away, Lt. Albindi came over to him and said with gruff consideration, “We’d like you and the other main witnesses to come down to headquarters with us for complete statements.” Albindi carried his jacket over one arm and his shirt was damp with sweat, for the evening was still quite balmy.
He had collected Sperry, whose VW was now out of commission, and given an escort to the elderly couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Grayley. As they walked toward a waiting squad car, Watson asked, “This isn’t going to be on a newscast, is it? My daughter — she’s just fifteen — is spending the night with a friend. I’d hate to have her learn about her mother like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Albindi said. “With so much happening, I doubt they’ve picked this up yet. What a night!” He pitied Watson, one of many who would suffer tonight.
“Mildred never listened,” Watson said, as they drove downtown. “She always had to have her way. I told her it wasn’t safe to go out tonight, but it was our regular bridge night at her sister’s and nothing was going to stand in the way of it. And I don’t even like bridge. Or her sister,” he added glumly. “If just this once she’d listened to me, she’d still be alive. All this rioting and demonstrating, and my daughter saying we have to understand! She gets that at school, but what can I do? I can’t afford private schools on my salary.”
Watson lapsed into a bitter silence, and suddenly Albindi pitied him less.
Headquarters was an organized maelstrom. Phones rang constantly and tired officers, working sixteen-hour stretches as the overload of emergency calls poured in, strode through the halls. Albindi found a deserted office and motioned the Grayleys in first. Their statement was not very informative and Sperry’s offered little more. “I was thinking about the riot,” he said, “and deciding that I’d better turn off at the next block to get around the fire. Sure, my windows were down — it’s like June outside — but I didn’t hear the shot. First thing I knew, Watson slammed on his brakes and I piled into him.”
Watson had his emotions under tight control and answered Albindi’s questions almost coldly. Reading between the lines, Albindi got the impression that Watson’s marriage had been a failure. Only when he spoke of his daughter did his tone thaw. Despite the riot, Mrs. Watson had insisted on keeping their weekly bridge date. Her sister and brother-in-law lived on the southwest side of town; the Watsons lived on the northeast. To get there, they had to drive through the fringes of the riot area.
They’d left home around seven, as usual. “She said it would be safe, that we weren’t going through the worst part. We weren’t involved — you know how it is, you think these things won’t affect you.” Watson seemed to watch his words. Perhaps he had sensed the subtle change of attitude his outburst in the squad car had produced in Albindi.
“One minute Mildred was talking about the riot and the next minute I heard the window shatter and she was dead. Gone — just like that!” He shook his head as if to deny the suddenness of death. “Do you think you’ll find the killer?”
Albindi leaned back in his chair wearily. “I just don’t know, Mr. Watson. You see, most people are killed by someone who knew the victim well and wanted him dead for a reason — love, hate, jealousy, greed, fear, you name it. Nine out of ten killings are simple. We ask around the victim’s neighborhood, talk to his family or friends, and usually come up with the murderer right away.
“But when it’s impersonal — some crackpot shooting at random...” Albindi threw up his hands. “If we don’t catch him immediately, on the scene, where do we start in a city this large? We’ll go over that tenement again with a microscope tomorrow. Maybe we’ll be lucky. But don’t worry, sir, we won’t write off your wife’s death without trying.”
Watson nodded and stood up. At the door, he paused and asked, “What about my car? When can I pick it up?” He seemed almost apologetic. “I use it to commute, you know.”
“We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve finished going over it. I’ll try to expedite it for you.”
Albindi sat looking at the closed door for a long moment after Watson had gone. To his credit, Watson hadn’t pretended a grief he didn’t feel; but could the man really continue to use the car in which his wife had been killed? Flexing tired shoulder muscles, Albindi swiveled in his chair and began typing reports.
Although it was his Saturday off, Albindi came in at noon the next day, determined to whittle down his stack of paper work. Last night’s violence had petered out with a drop in temperature, but he had gotten far behind.
“Need a good secretary?” gibed his partner, Jake Whittaker, riffling through Albindi’s backlog.
“Your figure’s lousy, but you’re hired,” Albindi said as he scanned the top sheet. “Hmmm. Ballistics report on last night’s sniper: M-l rifle; elevation, twenty feet; distance about fifty.”
“Yeah, I saw that. A Mrs. Watson killed, right? Her husband called just now and asked if we’d released the car yet.”
“I forgot. I told him I’d get the lab to hurry it up. Did we get a report on that tenement where the shot was fired from? Oh yes, here it is.” He read aloud, skimming the pages: “Building condemned. Used as a flophouse by area bums. Oh, great! Windows from which shot could have been fired all broken. No positive evidence. Multiple latents on all surfaces.” He groaned. “Want to bet they don’t all belong to winos who saw and heard nothing because they were all passed out in gutters on the other side of town?”
“No takers,” Jake said.
The phone rang and Albindi answered. The conversation was short and he turned to Whittaker as he hung up. “Watson again. He forgot to ask when we would release his wife’s body; and, by the way, could I tell him how much longer we’ll be keeping his car?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Jake, what do you think of a man who’s more interested in his car than his wife’s body?”
“That it’s too early in the year to go fishing,” Whittaker warned. “So he’s not all cut up by her death. We see a lot of men like that. What’s it prove? Or did you see something last night that doesn’t show up in the reports?” he asked shrewdly.
“I don’t know. Guess I’m just tired and a little discouraged to think our city’s going the way of Chicago, Detroit and L.A. Sure, we have our share of racial unrest, of kids marching against the war; and someone set fire to some empty buildings, and there was some minor looting on Dexter Avenue last night. But we haven’t had a lot of violence in these demonstrations and we sure as hell never had a sniper before. I just don’t like to think our little city’s getting to be a jungle.”
“And Watson rubs you wrong?”
“That, too,” Albindi admitted. “Plus the fact that more women are murdered by their husbands than by snipers.”
“Well, not in this case. Not unless Watson’s a magician,” Whittaker said as he shuffled through the reports. “The woman was shot from a distance, by a rifle, while her husband was driving. No one can be two places at one time, Al.”