Free The Laughing Gorilla by Robert Graysmith Page B

Egan said as he signed the delivery receipt to turn Josie’s body over to a private undertaker. “Relation to deceased: Executor,” he printed.
    Reporter Henry “Hank” Peters, at a cashier’s window, overheard Egan and went directly upstairs to Dullea’s office. “I didn’t intend to get a ‘raise’ out of the captain,” Peters said later. “All I did was casually mention the hit-and-run body from last night had just been identified by Frank Egan. But when I spoke the name of Mrs. Hughes, he almost hit the ceiling. He said the case might develop into something tremendous, and then he closed up and wouldn’t say any more and told me to get out.”
    Alone in his office Dullea felt as if the shadow of the Gorilla Man had fallen over him again. Once more, he’d been unable to save a woman’s life. He wondered whether it really was a hit-and-run accident or if Egan actually carried out his plot in front of his detectives. Without warning, Egan strutted into Dullea’s office, took a chair, and tossed his expensive tan fedora onto the blotter. “I’ve just come from the morgue, Charlie,” he said. “This Josie Hughes, who was run over last night, was an old friend of mine. This is a terrible thing. She was like a mother to me.”
    “Where do you suppose she was going at that hour on a chilly night without a coat?” Dullea fought to contain his fury. Under the desk his hands were clenched.
    “Josie frequently went for long walks without her hat and coat.”
    “That’s not what the neighbors say. They said she prided herself on her appearance and never even went out to hang clothes on the line without wearing a hat. She was afraid to go out alone at night, especially so far above her home on the sharp incline where her body was found.”
    “Oh, no, you’re wrong there, Charlie. I had often warned her against walking about the neighborhood in the evening. Mrs. Hughes frequently took walks in the hills about her home attired only in house clothing and sweater—no coat, no hat. I cautioned her not to go out without her glasses—about a year ago she was almost hit by an auto—just as she was last night. Her son, James, fourteen, was killed in an auto accident fifteen years ago.”
    Dullea contemplated Egan’s facial expressions. Was he a cold-blooded murderer or not? His placid, self-assured demeanor provided no clue. But Egan was a skilled jury lawyer and consequently a fine actor.
    “By the way, Charlie, I was coming in to see you this morning anyway. Something ought to be done about the parking arrangements in front of the Dreamland Pavilion on fight nights. They’re terrible.”
    Dullea’s heart gave a leap, though his face remained impassive. There it was—the alibi he had expected. “Dreamland Pavilion? Is that where you were last night?”
    “Yep. I came early and remained ringside the entire evening. On the whole, it was a pretty good card, but the parking was terrible.”
    “Well, you should speak to [Captain Charles] Goff at the Traffic Bureau, not me.”
    “An amusing thing happened, by the way. Some drunk sat behind Dr. Housman and I and spent the whole evening throwing Eskimo pies at a friend who was with me.”
    “It’s lucky he didn’t throw them at you. He’d have made a fine mess of that.” Dullea indicated Egan’s spotless fedora. Now he was morally certain that last night’s tragedy had been the work of the man before him, but it would take more than a moral certainty to convince a jury. “San Francisco’s public defender had murdered Mrs. Hughes,” he thought, “yet I can not arrest him.”
    “Well, I have to hurry to wind up Josie’s affairs,” Egan said, rising. “Busy, busy, busy.” On his way out he brushed past Lally, who had Louw’s statement in hand. “So Louw got a good description of the car did he?” Dullea asked Lally. “Louw knows cars,” Lally said. “He’s a garage mechanic and saw the cruising Lincoln well under a street light.”
    “Fine.