The patrolman handed the gun to Hackett. It was an old. 32 Colt automatic and it wasn't loaded.
"All right, let's have your name," said Hackett.
The heister said in a thin voice, "Ricky Davies. I'm sorry. He didn't need to hit me that hard, I wouldn't have done anything to him. The gun's not loaded. I don't even know how to load a gun."
Nolan said, "Oh, for Christ's sake."
Hackett reached down and helped Davies onto his feet.
"Come on, I think we want a little talk with you." The uniformed man went out to go back on tour and Nolan said to nobody in particular, "These goddamn punks."
At least the air-conditioning was back on at the jail. While Davies was getting booked in, Hackett called the office and told Lake to start the machinery on the warrant. Davies had I.D. on him, a driver's license, a couple of credit cards and nineteen-sixty-four in cash. He sat hunched in the cramped little interrogation room, and asked in a subdued voice, "Can I call my wife? She's going to be upset as hell about this and I don't know how to tell her. She thinks I'm out with a buddy of mine. She's going to be mad as hell at me and I don't blame her."
Hackett offered him a cigarette and he said he didn't smoke. "You can call your wife whenever you like, and a lawyer. How did you get into this?" Davies was hardly the seasoned criminal by his looks and manner.
Davies said miserably, "It was on account of all the bills. I never did anything wrong before in my life-never wanted to. But it's just, everything costs so much. I've got a good job- I work at Desmond's men's store up on Western-and I thought Stella and I could get by O.K. on what we both make, we just got married six months ago-but we had to get an apartment, I'd been living at home with Mom and she'd been with her folks too, and the rent's three-fifty-you can't find anything much cheaper and it's not a high-class place at that, and Stella's used to nice things- I wanted her to have nice things-and we had to get furniture and a lot of things. She works too, she's a cocktail waitress at the Tail o' Cock, but even between us there's the payments on her car, and my car, and the rent, and all the groceries, I never realized how much groceries cost. And then she said she'd all ways wanted a diamond watch and I got her one for her birthday-and you got to dress pretty sharp in my job and I even when I get a discount it adds up." He took a breath.
"And Stella likes nice clothes-all pretty girls do. And the Visa account got up to the limit, a thousand bucks, and I missed one payment on the car, and then Stella got the flu and was off work a week, and she'd used up her vacation and sick leave when we went on the honeymoon. We went up to Tahoe and that was part of the Visa account. And I got so I just didn't know which way to turn," said Davies helplessly. "And Stella wanted to get me a nice birthday present, it's this gold ring with my initials, she put it on our account at Bullocks', it was ninety-four bucks-and I was feeling kind of desperate, if you get me. I got that gun at a pawn shop for thirty dollars. I don't know anything about guns, I never had any bullets for it-and people just handed over the money. I thought if I came right downtown here there wouldn't be the chance of anybody recognizing me from up in Hollywood. I felt pretty bad about it, it was all wrong, but I got the Visa account nearly cleared up. Stella never looks at the statement- I knew she wouldn't notice." He looked at Hackett, his face haggard. "She's going to be mad as hell at me, get into all this."
"Have you ever been in any trouble before?"
He shook his blond head. "I never even had a parking ticket."
Hackett stood up. "We1l, you can get bail and your wife can get you a lawyer." It was funny in a way, and he felt sorry for this stupid kid. It would probably end up as a reduced charge. Call it a year in and probation. "You'd better call your wife and break the news."
"Thanks," said Davies meaninglessly. Hackett turned him over to the jailer and started back to the office to write the final report on this.
MENDOZA HAD GONE home and nobody else was left in the office at five-fifty, except Higgins and Palliser. They were on their way out past the switchboard when Lake beckoned, put down the earphone and said, "Something funny, boys. It's the California Community Hospital and they say they've got a murder. The desk downstairs relayed the call. It's a Dr. Rasmussen. Says one of the patients has been murdered."
"For God's sake," said Higgins. "And hell, the night watch won't be on for a couple of hours. We'd better have a quick look and see what it is anyway. O.K. John? Jimmy, call our wives and say we'll be late."
"Murder at a hospital," said Palliser as they waited for the elevator. "Funny isn't the word. I didn't think anybody was ever alone long in a hospital, and you usually need privacy to commit a murder." They took Higgins' Pontiac and drove down to that fairly old hospital on Hope Street. In the main lobby, Higgins asked one of the receptionists for Dr. Rasmussen.
"That's me," said a voice behind him. "The other one doesn't look much like a cop, but I spotted you when you walked in." Big craggy-faced Higgins might as well have COP tattooed on his forehead. Rasmussen was a young man with crisp light brown hair, a nearly handsome face with a long nose and bright eyes. "This is the damnedest thing I ever heard of, but when I saw what it was I thought we'd better rope you in. Your business. The damnedest thing." He yawned. "Look, can we sit down to talk? I'm bushed. Had a hell of a day, and now this-and I'm not off till seven and I suppose you'll keep me hanging around. You'll want to talk to all the nurses-"
"Let's take one thing at a time," said Higgins. They sat down in one corner of the lobby and he offered Rasmussen a cigarette. "What's this all about?" Rasmussen was probably one of the interns here, about the right age.
"This patient, Carlo Alisio, cancer patient-man seventy-four and pretty far gone. He was riddled with it. He was in for radiation and therapy, and oddly enough-but it's unpredictable-he'd suddenly gone into remission. We thought he was going any time, about ten days ago, warned the family. But he'd perked up and was doing pretty well. Just a question of time, of course. He was due to be transferred to the V.A. hospital tomorrow. His Medicare had run out and he was eligible." Rasmussen drew strongly on his cigarette. "I saw him for just a minute this morning-no occasion to again, until the nurse called me. That was about five o'clock. She'd gone in for a routine check and found him dead."
"Was he in a private room?" asked Palliser.
"You know what year it is? Hell, no, who can afford it, and we don't have any left. He was in a three-bed room, but the other two patients are fairly comatose-not up to noticing anything-and the curtain was up around Alisio's bed. I thought, of course, he'd just passed out naturally, and I was a little surprised, I must say. Then when I took a look at him-well, the nurse had seen it too- I was even more damned surprised. He was smothered with the pillow. All you have to do is look, it was still over his face. But I looked at it- I don't suppose even your smart lab men could get fingerprints off a pillowcase-"
"You'd be surprised at that, too," said Higgins.
"- And there is the plain evidence. He'd struggled and bitten a piece out of the pillowcase. There's saliva and mucous stains, and a piece of cloth and thread still in his mouth. The damnedest thing."
"Do you know if he had any visitors today?"
Rasmussen said, "The nurse can tell you, but I'd have a bet on it. There was a big family-Italians after all-and all evidently pretty close. Somebody always coming to see him and calling in. Sisters, brothers, nieces and nephews. He was a widower. But we chase the visitors away about four-thirty.