And then it was getting on for eight-thirty, and the dark had come down full, not insidiously and reasonably as it does elsewhere; the sky changed from pink-streaked silver blue to full dark within fifteen minutes, and after that the dark was studded with the men's flashlights, little eyes of light moving along the sidewalks, and, here and there where a house or building was empty, moving past windows inside.
Mendoza was over on Temple Street with Palliser then. "For God's sake," he said to the driver of a squad car at the curb, "can't we get these people off the streets?" Little knots of people stood about, at front doors, under street lights. "They've been warned-they ought to know-"
"You think he might try another one, with all this force out and about?"
"We don't know," said Mendoza. "With one like that, who can say?"
"Well, we can tell 'em to go home," said the driver, "but it's supposed to be a free country." He gunned the car up to the nearest little group, got out, and began to talk to them.
That kind of job was always a tiresome one; at the same time, tonight, the men were all a little keyed up at the thought that they might, just might, find themselves unexpectedly facing the Slasher
…
It was ten twenty-three when Patrolmen McLelland and Leslie, both of the Wilcox Street station, came out of an ancient brick office building on Los Angeles Street and paused to light cigarettes. The office building was on a corner, and a little wind had got up; they went round the side of the building to get their lights, and Leslie said, "Half these old places ought to be knocked down. Did you see the state of those lavatories?"
McLellar1d opened his mouth to answer, and there was a sharp crack; Leslie staggered, dropping his cigarette and shoving McLelland against the brick wall. "Jesus!” he said. "That was a-" A second shot barked and the slug hit the building an inch from McLelland's right ear.
Both men dropped flat in the next second. "You hit?"
"Just nicked me, I think." Leslie explored, said, "Went through the shoulder padding. VK/That the hell-Where's he shooting from? Can you-"
"Over there-kitty-corner across the intersection, I think. Try to cover me." McLelland, gun out, crawled up toward the corner and around it. The side street was all dark, across there, and the street lamp at the corner was out. This block of Los Angeles Street was deserted at night, and not well lighted.
About four buildings up, just passing under one of the feeble street lights, were two men walking in his direction. McLelland debated about calling to warn them to stop. Then a gun spoke again-a heavy gun, by the sound-and one of the two men spun round and fell flat. The other one stopped in his tracks and then stooped over the first man, so the second bullet flew over his head and made a sharp spat on the building front.
McLelland turned and sent a snap shot toward where he thought the gunman was. This thing had started so suddenly that he'd hardly had time to feel surprise. He just found himself thinking blankly, What the hell? Now, lying there, he heard footsteps across the intersection-soft, but audible; steps walking, then running-away. Leslie heard that too. He came up panting. "For God's sake-" he said. "You hit? What-"
The other man came up to them. "You're cops?" he said, seeing McLelland in uniform. "Thank God. Mac's dead. Did you see that? He's dead. We were just walkin' along, talking about politics, and he'd just been saying about all this lousy foreign aid, and then- He's dead. And his eye's all-his eye-" He leaned over, retching, and Leslie took his arm. McLelland, gun still in hand, ran down to where the man lay; he'd been neatly drilled through the left eye, probably a fluke shot.
He looked up the street and saw a black and white squad car coming. It screeched to a halt beside him.
"Were those shots?" asked the driver.
"Sounded like a. 38," said McLelland. "This poor devil's a D.O.A. A sniper- I think he was just shooting at anything that showed, way it-"
From about a block away a gun began to talk-a fusillade of shots, in rapid succession. "For God's sake," said the squad-car driver, "has war been declared?" He picked up the hand radio. "Car 104 at L.A. and Woods. Sniper just shot a man here. Shot at two of our boys."
"He went up Woods," said McLelland.
"He went up Woods toward Main."
The radio crackled excitedly at him. They heard more shots, a little farther off. "Awk!" said the radio as if in comment. "Join car 194 at junction of Main and Woods. Repeat-"
"What about us?" asked McLelland. But the radio didn't say anything about that, so they stayed there and got the names of the two men, quick and dead, and after the ambulance came they went on with the search. That had been their orders.
Mendoza and Palliser were in an empty factory on Third Street when they heard about the sniper. A uniformed man came down the corridor looking, said, "Lieutenant? They sent me over to find you. There's a sniper loose. Last they heard of him, he was on Woods Street somewhere-killed a civilian and shot at two of our men. Then he took some shots at a squad car along Main-"
"?Porvida! " said Mendoza, and then he said suddenly, "That's our boy. Come on. You've got a car? Let's get going."
"But how could- A sniper?" said Palliser incredulously. "You mean like that Corning thing last year? Just some nut loose with a gun? I don't-"
Mendoza was hustling him along. "?Vamos, vamos! It's our boy-I see how his mind works, pues si. I said, just enough sense. He wants to kill, he likes to kill with the knife, but we've told people what he looks like now-and you can kill people from a distance with a gun. With guns. My God, yes-Goldberg's boy too, and that young arsenal-"
They got over to the corner of Woods and Main at about eleven o'clock. Men were looking at the squad car, whose right front door was riddled with bullet holes. A uniformed man was propped against it ‘with his jacket off and a makeshift bloody bandage round one arm. "For God's sake, isn't anyone following him up? Any idea which way he went?" demanded Mendoza.
A shattering explosion of shots in the distance answered him. He commandeered the nearest squad car, piled three men in the back and Palliser beside him, and gunned it in the direction of the shots. They roared up Main, with its lights and crowds thinning here, to Winton Street; down there to the right were three squad cars, slewed around in the street, and a little crowd, and four uniformed men. Mendoza swung the car down there.
"For the love of God, haven't you people any sense?" one of the men was demanding impatiently. "Scatter-get away-" A second man in uniform was leaning against the side of a car, clasping his shoulder; blood seeped between his lingers.
The gun barked, and the other man's plea was heeded. Several women screamed, the crowd scattering back into the shadows of hedges and houses. This was a residential street. The sniper was apparently behind a hedge across the street.
There was a woman lying in the street beside the cars. "She's only winged," said one of the patrolmen. "I put a tourniquet on, and the ambulance is on its way. Now let's have a look at you, Bill--"
They were all crouched clown, now, behind a squad ear, and they all had their guns out.
"What the hell is all this, anyway?" asked the wounded man, sounding indignant. "All of a sudden-"
"It's our boy," said Mendoza calmly, peering round the bumper long enough to fire a shot at that hedge. "I know. We've flushed him."
"The- That's crazy," said the other patrolman. "Excuse me, sir, but he's always used a knife, I don't see-"
"I think he's beyond caring how he kills," said Mendoza, firing another shot. Two more bullets hit the other side of the squad car, and then there was silence. The woman lying in the street moaned. "Don't tell me we've got him? Cover me, please." He moved around the car, bent low, made a dash for the shelter of the hedge across the street. His flashlight flicked on briefly; he straightened.