Long Live the Dead
    The D.A. and the D.A.’s son were waiting for him. They were a strange pair. Kenneth Innman, the District Attorney, was big enough to be startling, had thin gray hair showing streaks of pink scalp, and owned a championship belt for heavyweight wrestling in amateur ranks. Strong as a horse, he was well over fifty and showed no signs of flabbiness.
    His son, Russell, had been kicked out of Harvard two years ago for doing more sousing than studying. He’d had affairs with torch singers, been refused admission to a nudist colony, warbled smutty tunes in a night club, and invented a cocktail containing three ounces of absinthe for a base.
    Both men stared as Hanley sank into a chair. The D.A. did the talking.
    “I suppose you rather expected this, Hanley.”
    “Being sent for by you?” Hanley murmured. “To tell you the truth, no, I didn’t.”
    “You went to a lot of trouble getting my son’s picture in the Herald .”
    Hanley glanced at the son and thought it too bad that the younger Innman could not do some picture-posing right now. Decked out in a khaki and blue uniform, with many buttons, he looked like an anemic monkey on parade. There was to be a political display this evening, and Russell was attired for the occasion. Hanley recalled vaguely that the fellow played in some sort of band.
    “Well, yes, I did go to some trouble about that picture,” he admitted. “But not to make you dance.”
    “I’m not dancing, Hanley,” the D.A. said coldly. “I merely think, Hanley, it’s bad for everyone concerned when a former police detective, like you, becomes vindictive against the department. You were a good detective. One of the best. And we—well, we can’t have you making faces at us, Hanley. It gives the newspapers too much lurid frontpage copy. You see?”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Well, I think the entire thing was a misunderstanding in the first place, Hanley. Your suspension, I mean. When I talked to Murray about you, I didn’t expect him to be so drastic. Now, I’d like to make amends.”
    Hanley was silent, anticipating what was coming. It was simple, of course. The D.A. was ear-deep in politics and at this particular time could not stand too much of the wrong sort of publicity. His son’s picture in the paper, with talk of
    drunkenness and late hours at night clubs… . “You’d like your job back, Hanley?” “On what terms?” “That you drop the newspaper campaign, of course, and, if
    I may suggest it, that you more or less forget the White case.” Hanley grew an inch. A scowl pulled his thick brows together. “Forget the White case? Why?”
    “The case has petered out. Jake Doonan is still being held but will undoubtedly be released for lack of evidence. White’s dead. You can’t bring him back to life, and the public seems to think it’s a good idea that he was murdered. So, why clean out the sewer when the taxpayers care nothing about it?”
    “Someone,” Hanley said slowly, “murdered that guy.” “Of course, of course.” “My job is—or was—to bring murderers to justice.” “You talk,” said Russell Innman, “like a boy scout reciting
    his lessons.” Hanley ignored that. He centered his gaze on the D.A. “So,” Hanley said, “if I agree to lay off the White case, I
    get my job back. If not, what?” “Why be so concerned over Paul White? I’ve told you,
    Hanley, that Jake Doonan will be released. Isn’t that enough?” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “You insist on an answer?” “I want to know where I’m at.” The D.A. shrugged his big shoulders, glanced wearily at
    his son. “It’s my way, Hanley, or not at all. I’m sorry.” Pooch Hanley said, “Well, it’s not mine.”
    A t nine o’clock that evening Hanley rang the bell of a Back Bay apartment, climbed a flight of stairs, and was greeted by a genial, bald-headed man wearing a bathrobe. The man was Medical Examiner Andrew Edson. “It’s like this, Mr. Edson,” he said.

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