Free Ground Money by Rex Burns Page A

can you tell me about his assailant? Was he an Indian too?”
    “That’s what a witness said.”
    “Molly White Horse, right? And these two brought a feud down from the reservation, right?”
    “I can’t comment on that, Gargan. It’s an ongoing case.”
    “Hey, I swear I’m not going to use any names. In fact, this isn’t even a police story—my editor wants me to do a special on Native Americans in Denver. You know: what’s happening to them, how they survive, how they don’t. The sad passing of the old wild west. It’s a big story.”
    Wager didn’t give a damn what kind of story Gargan was working on; they had stepped on each other’s toes too often in the past to kiss and make up now. “Talk to Chief Doyle in the morning.”
    “I got a deadline, Wager. And it’s a bitch getting in to see Doyle!”
    “A reporter’s lot, Gargan, is not a happy one.”
    “Jesus H. Christ, a literary allusion from the world’s only surviving Neanderthal. Thanks a lot, Wager. Maybe I can do you a favor sometime.”
    The new administration had put out a memo reminding officers of the importance of good public relations, so Wager smiled and said thank you. The elevator closed on what sounded like a nasty word.
    Max was already at his desk and shuffling papers when Wager turned in from the hallway that led to the homicide section of Crimes Against Persons. So far this year, each officer had twelve or thirteen folders in the open file to add to or check on or to just stare at and wonder when something else might turn up, something that could provide the legal evidence to nail a known killer or the clue that would point to an unknown one. Some of the files, usually the fattest, had been in the drawer for years, gradually gaining this or that slip of paper, occasionally reassigned from one detective to another as men transferred in and out of the unit. But they were never closed. The statute of limitations on homicides was forever, and these first couple of hours, particularly on the night shift, were usually spent consolidating the letters, reports, and memos that had arrived since the last tour of duty. The detectives placed the new information in the right folder, always with the vague hope that it might click something together; then they made telephone calls to those who had left home phone numbers, or to those other offices open, like this one, every day and every night.
    At his desk, Axton yawned, the gap of his mouth half as large as Wager’s head, and rubbed his thumbs into bloodshot eyes.
    “You’re off to a good start,” said Wager.
    “It’s the Maestas case. I was in court all day.”
    “I thought that finished last month.”
    “Continuance—psychological evaluation. Now we’re back in session and I’m still the advisory witness.”
    It wasn’t unusual for the night shift to be up twenty-four hours; a lot of things couldn’t get taken care of during their official work period when everyone else was asleep. But none of the extra chores was as wearing as sitting in a hot courtroom on a wooden bench and listening to lawyers. “It goes with the territory.”
    “Don’t it, though.”
    They settled back into the stack of envelopes, routing sheets, and interoffice mailers. On the gray filing cabinet, the radio in its charging unit gave its familiar crackle of the night police business in District Two, one of the most active of the city’s four districts. Occasionally a tone alert broke into Wager’s concentration and he half-listened to the all-channels broadcast. So far they had been for ambulances or fire equipment; as yet no voice had called for Union 6, the designation that had been shifted from Rape to Homicide. The new administration reasoned that victims of sexual assault might be further offended by hearing an officer use “Union 69” to call Detective Nine from the rape team. It was one of those nice touches of public sensitivity that came from new blood in high administrative levels, and that