Chapter Ten:
Bradley got the warrant on Monday, and we went through the motions of searching Darryl Harrington’s office. Of course, we found nothing. Bradley was acutely frustrated. So then we went through Harrington’s car — legally — and again found nothing. I was sent to Michelle’s neighbor, to see if she could remember any car like Harrington’s parked in the driveway. She couldn’t.
Henry was certain Harrington had pitched the gun after killing Michelle. His theory was plausible, but hardly helpful. That would mean the gun could be just about anywhere. But it interested Bradley enough for him to send some uniforms to search Michelle’s neighborhood. They got nothing for their trouble but frozen hands and feet and lots of curious stares from the neighbors.
The chief was politicking with the Veterans Administration to get to Harrington. The bureaucrats were sympathetic, but as firm in their refusals as the doctors had been. If we had some proof, they hinted, they might be a little more inclined to help. But we really had nothing.
“We’re never going to crack this one,” Henry admitted one night as he drove me home. My car had refused to stir from its nice dry garage that morning. Jim had promised to tinker with it after class, but that left me carless for the day. Henry magnanimously offered to be my chauffeur. He was always magnanimous at the end of the month when we rotated shifts. I was due for the afternoon shift; Henry was staying on days.
“Why won’t we crack it?” I sighed.
” ‘Cause Harrington did it, and we’ll never be able to prove it.”
“Never?”
“Never.” Henry grimly negotiated an icy turn, then smiled as though I should congratulate him. I ignored his driving prowess, and the smile faded.
“Know how I see it?” he asked a block later.
I dutifully asked how he saw it.
“Harrington was seeing Whittier on the sly. Even if he’s single, he can’t be caught with a student, so he was putting it to her in secret. And she was so impressed by the big professor that she kept her mouth shut about it, too. Does it fit?”
I akcnowledged that it could fit.
“So he gets her in the sack and flips out — I mean, really flips. He’s back in ‘Nam and this girl in bed isn’t Whittier, she’s the enemy. And what do you do with the enemy?”
“Blow her away?” I asked, feeding him his lines.
Henry nodded happily. “Blow her away. Now he’s over the edge and he’s never gonna climb up out of it. He’s gonna be a slobbering idiot the rest of his life, and we’re never gonna get one sane word out of him. No evidence. No confession. Case closed. He gets away with murder.”
“That’s not exactly getting away with it,” I objected. “He’s paying with his sanity.”
“Yeah, but he’s alive. That’s more than you can say for Michelle Whittier.”
I shivered.
“If the guy has any smarts, he’ll stay crazy,” Henry decided. “As long as he’s bonkers, we can’t touch him.”
“You think he might be acting? Pretending he’s flipped out?”
“Who knows?” Henry asked cheerfully as he slid into my driveway. “If it were me, I’d sure as hell act the part.”
“For the rest of your life?”
“Better than Death Row.”
I didn’t see much difference.
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