him down and worked against him these last two years. This was the new
beginning. From now on, he was not going to be pushed around. He would
teach everyone to respect him. His luck would pick up, too.
With Doyle and the kid out of the way, he and Courtney could go on
together with their wonderful life. He would be all that she had, and
she would cling to him.
A few minutes past six o’clock Tuesday evening, a call came through from
the police lab. Detective Ernie Hoval took it in his sparsely furnished
office on the second floor of the divisional headquarters building.
“This about the Pulham case?” he asked before the man on the other end
of the line could say anything. “If it’s not, take it to someone else.
I’m on the Pulham until it’s solved, and nothing else.”
“You’ll want this,” the lab man said. He sounded like the same balding,
sallow, narrow man who had not been humbled by Detective Hoval the night
before. “We got the fingerprint report from Washington.
Just came in on the teletype.”
“And?
“No record.”
Hoval hunched over his big desk, dwarfing it, the receiver clenched
tightly in one hand, his other hand fisted on the blotter.
His knuckles were white and sharp. “No record?”
“I told you it might be that way,” the technician said, almost as if he
enjoyed Hoval’s disappointment. “I think this looks more like a nut
case with every passing minute.”
“It’s political,” Hoval insisted, his fist opening and closing again
and again. “Organized cop killing.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You got proof otherwise,”‘ Hoval asked angrily.
“No,” the technician admitted. “We’re still going over the car, but it
looks hopeless. We’ve taken paint samples from every nick and scrape.
But who knows if one of them was made by the killer’s vehicle?
And if one of them was-which one?”
“You sweep out the cruiser?” Hoval asked.
“Of course,” the technician said. “We found a few hairs, pubic and
otherwise. Nail clippings. Various kinds of mud. Blades of grass.
Bits of food. Most of it had no connection with the killer.
And even if some of it does-the hair, a couple of torn threads we picked
off the door catch-we can’t do much with it until we have a suspect to
apply it to. It “The case won’t be solved with lab work,” Hoval agreed.
“What other leads you have?”
“We’re reconstructing Pulham’s shift,” Hoval said. “Starting with the
moment he took the squad car out of the garage.”
“Anything?
“There are lots of minutes to account for, lots of people to talk with,”
Hoval said. “But we’ll come up with something.”
“A nut,” the technician said.
“You’re all wrong about that.” Hoval hung up.
Twenty years ago Ernie Hoval had become a cop because it was a
profession and not just a job; it was work that brought a man a measure
of honor and respect. It was hard work, the hours long, the pay only
adequate, but it gave you the opportunity to contribute something to
your community. The fringe benefits of police work-the gratitude of
your neighbors and the respect of your own children-were more important
than the salary. At least, that had been true in the past . . .
These days, Hoval thought, a cop was nothing more than a target.
Everyone was after the police. Blacks, liberals, spics, peaceniks,
women’s liberationists-all the lunatic fringe reveled in making fools of
the police. These days a cop was looked upon, at best, as a buffoon. At
worst, he was called a fascist, and he was marked for death by these
revolutionary groups that no one but other cops seemed to give a damn
about . . .
It had all started in 1963, with Kennedy and Dallas. And it had gotten
much, much worse through the war. Hoval knew that, although he could
not understand why the assassinations and the war had so fundamentally
changed so many people. There were other political murders in
America’s history, all without profound effect on the nation. And there
had been other wars which had, if anything, strengthened our moral
fiber. This war had had the opposite effect.