In the Heat of the Night (4 page)

“What I want to know,” Sam inquired, “is if Gillespie is as stupid as I think he is, how did he get this job in the first place? He was supposed to have been a hotshot in Texas, wasn’t he?”

Pete shook his head. “He was never a cop; he’s over the height limit. He was a jailor—a strong-arm boy who could handle the drunks. After three years of that, he answered an ad and got this job. He probably figures it will set him up for something bigger after a little while. But if he flubs this one he’s done for, and he knows it.”

“How did you get all this dope?”

Pete pressed his lips together and grinned. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’ve made quite a few friends here and there. I think I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens. I go on days beginning tomorrow so it will look all right. How about you?”

“I think I will, too,” Sam agreed.

Ten minutes later, the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli was brought in. The hospital had refused to hold it any longer. When Pete went to Gillespie’s office to notify his chief of that fact in person, he found him with his hands thrust inside the waistband of his trousers and his mind obviously miles away. Pete waited until he was recognized, conveyed the news, and retreated rapidly while he was still in good order. A few moments later, Gillespie came out of his office, stalked down the corridor, and paused before the door of the detention room. He stared at Tibbs, who sat there reading. When he saw Gillespie, he looked up and waited for the big man to speak.

“Pasadena tells me you’re supposed to be a homicide investigator,” Gillespie barked.

“I’ve done that,” Tibbs replied.

“Ever look at dead bodies?” Gillespie put a leer into the question.

“Oftener than I like.”

“I’m going over to look at one now. Suppose you come along.”

Tibbs got to his feet. “After you, sir,” he said.

No one in the small morgue looked especially surprised when Virgil Tibbs came in silently in the wake of the towering Gillespie. The police morgue was a modest facility with a single surgical table in the middle of the room, and a half-dozen grim drawers like a massive filing cabinet in one wall. There was a wood desk and a chair at one side and next to it a cabinet half filled with instruments. The chief walked without hesitation to the slab in the middle of the room, bent over and stared hard at the dead man. He walked around him twice. Once he reached out and carefully bent the dead man’s arm at the elbow, then he replaced it as it had been. Finally he squatted down and scrutinized the top of the man’s head where he had been struck. Then he rose once more to his feet. With a long arm and an almost accusing finger, he pointed. “Virgil here works for the Pasadena Police Department investigating homicides. He wants to look at the body. Let him.”

Having made his pronouncement, Gillespie stalked out to the men’s room to wash.

As soon as he had removed both dirt and the feel of the dead man from his hands, Bill Gillespie began to think of breakfast. He had given up completely any idea of trying to complete his night’s sleep. He decided also that there was no need to return home and shave; good grooming was not expected under emergency conditions and the fact that he showed visible signs of his extra duty might well be to his advantage. He decided to go and eat.

He walked out through the station, folded himself behind the wheel of his car, and U-turned fast enough to skid at the finish. Six minutes later, he slid the car to a stop at the all-night drive-in, terrifying the youthful attendant simply by the way he planted himself on a counter stool. “I want the ranch breakfast,” he ordered.

The night man nodded quickly and set to work at once to prepare the wheat cakes, eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, and coffee that made up the ranch package. Striving to please, he broke the yolks of both eggs, scraped them away, and tried two more. This time he succeeded. By the time all the food was served, he had refilled Gillespie’s coffee cup three times. When at last the big man had finished eating, paid without leaving a tip, and left, the boy’s hand was shaking so hard he had difficulty drawing a glass of water to slake his own thirst. Apart from stating his order, Gillespie had not said a single word, but the furrows on his brow had betrayed the fact that he had been concentrating on some thought or idea which he did not like.

On the way back to the station, Gillespie drove more slowly. The sun was up now and there was traffic on the highway. Part of his caution was dictated by the fact that he did not want to be detected flouting the traffic laws he was sworn to enforce, the rest by the fact that he wanted time to think.

How, he asked himself, do you go about catching a murderer? Normally you would probably start checking up to see who held a grudge against the deceased, but this was a simple case of robbery. He had learned two things during his brief visit to the morgue—that the dead man’s wallet was missing and that he had been reputed to carry considerable sums on his person. All right then, how do you find the man who hit the deceased over the head in the dead of night and got away without a single witness being anywhere around? How do you find the man who wants more money than he is entitled to, how do you trace money without serial numbers, without anything to go on other than the fact that it exists? There won’t be footprints to pick up in plaster in the middle of a paved highway, or any usable tire marks. Just what the hell do you do?

Well, you might ask to borrow a homicide expert. And then what do you do if you have one dropped into your lap and he has a black skin?

Gillespie changed his mind and drove home. He shaved, put some deodorant under his armpits in lieu of a shower, rebrushed his hair, and drove back through the morning traffic to the police station. On the way he made one decision: he would get rid of Tibbs as soon as possible. The Pasadena boys had been pulling his leg when they recommended him. Nobody could tell him that a colored man could do anything he couldn’t do.

Reinforced by this thought, Gillespie climbed the steps to the station three at a time, stopped at the desk, and demanded, “Where’s Tibbs?”

The day man, who clearly knew fully what was going on, said, “I believe, sir, he’s still examining the body.”

“Still examining the body!” Gillespie exploded. “What the hell is he trying to do, find out how a man died who was hit over the head hard enough to break his skull?”

“I looked in a minute before I came on duty,” the day man replied. “At that time he was removing the dirt from under the fingernails. He asked if we had a microscope and I said that we didn’t. Then he took a ring off the corpse’s finger and looked at the initials inside. By that time I had to leave to come on duty.”

When Gillespie reached his office, he found Sam Wood waiting for him. “I thought I had better report to you before I went home,” Sam explained, “in case you wanted to ask me any questions or have me stay on duty for a while.”

Gillespie allowed himself to look human for a moment. “That was very thoughtful of you, Wood,” he acknowledged. “Sit down and tell me what you think of our colored friend,
Officer
Virgil Tibbs.”

Sam sat down. “I think he’s got guts,” he answered, looking at his chief. Then he changed his tone, as though the statement, in retrospect, had been too strong for him. “At least, he isn’t afraid to handle a corpse.”

“I thought he said he didn’t like to examine bodies,” Gillespie interjected.

“I took that to mean that he didn’t like homicides,” Sam replied.

“I thought homicides were supposed to be his business.”

The conversation was interrupted when Virgil Tibbs appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but could you tell me where I can wash?”

Gillespie answered immediately. “The colored washroom is down the hall to your right.”

Tibbs nodded and disappeared.

“There’s no soap or towels down there,” Sam reminded Gillespie.

“That’s what he’s got a shirttail for,” Gillespie snapped back.

Sam recrossed his legs the other way, tightened for a moment, and then relaxed. It was none of his affair. He wanted to leave, but when he half started to rise, he remembered that he had offered to stay on duty and that he had not received an answer. He looked at Gillespie, who, in turn, was staring down at his immense hands, which he had folded on top of his desk. The storm clouds began to gather in his face. Then he looked up. “Suppose you take your car and see if you can locate Mantoli’s daughter. I heard she was a house guest of the Endicotts. Break the news to her and get her down here to make a positive identification of the body. I know that it will be difficult, but that is part of our job. You had better leave right away if you want to get to her before she hears it some other way. We haven’t given anything out, but you can’t keep a secret in this town very long.”

Virgil Tibbs reappeared in the open doorway and looked at Gillespie. “Do you wish the results of my examination, sir?” he asked.

Gillespie leaned back at a slight angle; because of his size, it was as far as he could go without risking a fall backward. “I’ve thought about it, Virgil, and I’ve decided that the best thing would be for you to leave town on the next train. This is no place for you. I know all I need to know about the body. Tell your boss when you get home that I appreciate his offer of your services, but they are quite unacceptable and you know why.”

Gillespie leaned forward again. “Oh, yes,” he added. “I’m having a release typed up absolving us from false arrest charges in your case. I want you to sign it before you go.”

“As one policeman to another,” Tibbs said evenly, “I don’t intend to sue you or Mr. Wood for false arrest. You don’t need to bother with a release. Thanks for your hospitality.”

An arm suddenly pushed Tibbs aside and Pete, his face flushed, appeared in the doorway. “We’ve got him, Chief, dead to rights. It’s Harvey Oberst. He’s been in trouble before. The boys picked him up and found Mantoli’s wallet on him.”

Gillespie looked back at Tibbs, who was still visible on one side of the doorway. “Like I said, Virgil, we know our business down here. Go home.”

B
ILL
G
ILLESPIE LOOKED
at Sam Wood. “You had anything to eat?” he asked.

“Not this morning,” Sam replied.

“Then stay here and get some chow. Let Arnold go and pick up the Mantoli girl.”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll go. I know how to get to the Endicott place, and I don’t think Arnold does. Speaking of eating, we do owe Virgil some breakfast—we promised it to him.”

“I told him to beat it.”

Sam Wood sensed that he could go a little further. “Yes, sir, but there is no train for hours and the only bus through here going north doesn’t carry colored. It’s my fault he missed his train. Since he
is
a cop, maybe we ought to let him wait here”—Sam paused as inspiration hit him—”so he’ll at least speak well of us when he gets back to Pasadena.”

Gillespie recognized diplomacy as a necessary evil. “All right. But there’re no colored restaurants around here. Get hold of Virgil before he leaves, send him back in here, and have Pete bring him in a bologna sandwich or whatever he can pick up. It might be a good idea to let him see us wrap this one up—show him that we know how to handle men down here.”

His point won, Sam nodded, and retreated rapidly before Gillespie could change his mind again. He found Tibbs saying his good-byes to Pete in the lobby. “Virgil,” Sam reported, “the chief just remembered that he had promised you some breakfast. He wants you to go back to his office.” Sam struggled with himself for a moment and was glad when right triumphed. “And thanks for letting me off the hook on false arrest. You could have made it tough.”

Virgil Tibbs started to hold out his hand and then, to Sam’s immense relief, shifted his coat to his other arm instead. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Wood. I know you would extend me the same courtesy in Pasadena.”

For a moment Sam was ashamed of the fact that if Tibbs
had
held out his hand, he would have had to look away. What with Pete there and all that. But Tibbs had saved him the embarrassment, and for that he was grateful. He left to carry out his unpleasant errand.

Tibbs walked back down the corridor to Gillespie’s office. “Mr. Wood said you wanted to see me,” he said.

Gillespie waved him to a chair against the wall. “I’ve sent for some breakfast for you. You can wait here until it comes; the boys are pretty busy right now. Meanwhile we’ve caught our murderer.”

“You have a confession?” Tibbs inquired.

“Don’t need one,” Gillespie retorted. “I’ve just read the folder on him. Nineteen years old and in trouble twice already. Once petty theft and once for playing around with a girl named Delores Purdy. He had Mantoli’s wallet on him.”

“It sounds like a good start,” Virgil Tibbs agreed.

“You’ll see how good a start it is,” Gillespie declared, and reached for his intercom. “Send Oberst in here,” he ordered.

While he was waiting, Gillespie flashed a look toward Tibbs. “Do you know what ‘poor white trash’ means down here, Virgil?” he asked.

“I’ve heard the term,” Tibbs replied.

There were footsteps in the corridor and then a short, chunky policeman shoved a grown boy into the office. The prisoner was wearing handcuffs. He was too slender for even his moderate height. His blue denim pants fitted him so tightly that the awkward angles of his legs were outlined in sharp relief. His eyes were blinking rapidly—looking about him, down to his manacled hands, at Gillespie, and then back to his hands once more. He seemed to sway on his feet, as though balancing upright was a conscious effort almost beyond his skill.

Gillespie drew himself up and roared at the prisoner. “Sit down!”

Harvey Oberst sat down simply by letting his body go limp in front of the chair. His thin buttocks hit the hard seat with a bump, but he didn’t seem to care. He rested his hands in his lap and let his head fall to one side as though there was no point in trying to hold it upright any longer.

The seconds ticked on as Bill Gillespie waited for the prisoner to become fully intimidated. Oberst, however, didn’t react.