Free Barry Friedman - Dead End by Barry Friedman

should be run?”
    Maharos ran a finger over the top of Birtcher’s
desk and examined the tip of his finger.”
    “Actually, we’re trying to recruit someone to do
our office cleaning. But I don’t think you’ve got what we want.” He extended
his hand. “You’re looking good, Charlie.”
    Birtcher looked at the top of Maharos’ head.
“Hey, I think you’ve grown a hair since I saw you last.”
    “Yeah. In my nose.”
    It was worth a chuckle from Birtcher. “What’s up,
Al?”
    Maharos sank into an easy chair in front of
Birtcher’s desk.
    “You’ve got a guy I’m interested in talking to.”
He glanced at a sheet of paper in his hand. “Lance Harwood.”
    Birtcher gave him a sideways leer. “This your day
for boys? You’re no longer interested in girls”
    “What have you got on him?”
    “Harwood’s a fag. He and his lover had a spat. It
got past the biting and scratching stage. Harwood put him away with a .25, or
maybe it was a .22, I forget. Anyway, he’s in the lock-up. I think his trial is
on the books for next week. What’s your interest in the case?”
    Maharos told him that he was investigating George
Horner’s death and that he was looking at all of the comparable recent
homicides for a possible lead. He asked, “Do you have a confession from
Harwood.”
    Birtcher shook his head. “No. He claims he’s
clean. Says he loved the guy too much to even think of killing him. But we had
picked him up twice before, charged with assault with a deadly weapon, a knife.
Both times he had cut up his roommate, Flossie Burnstein.”
    “Flossie?”
    “Not what you think. Flossie is—was—Frank. He was
a male nurse at Mercy Hospital. We should have locked up Harwood before, but
Burnstein refused to press charges. They kissed and made up. This time, Harwood
really kissed him off.”
    Maharos asked, “Where was Burnstein killed?”
    “We found him in his car out near Hurford Run,
know where that is?”
    “It’s a little south of here, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah. It’s just off I 77. Want to look at the
file?”
    “I’d like that.”
    Birtcher buzzed his secretary and had a thick
file folder brought in. He handed it to Maharos. “I’m not sure what you expect
to find. Didn’t you say your homicide occurred in May? Harwood was locked up at
the time.”
    Maharos knew that Birtcher would laugh him right
out of his office if he told him that he was investigating all the homicides by
gunshot that had occurred on the seventh of each month. He shrugged. “Obviously
Harwood’s not a suspect in Horner’s death. It’s just that there are some
similarities. Maybe we’ve got a copy cat.”
    Birtcher furrowed his brow but said nothing.
Maharos took the file into the squad room and sat at an unoccupied desk to leaf
through it.
    Burnstein and Harwood had been roommates and
lovers for three years. They lived in an apartment complex in an upper middle
class neighborhood. Lance Harwood was a decorator who worked for a large
furniture store. His work was highly regarded, but he had a reputation of being
temperamental. Other employees found him difficult to work with.
    Frank Burnstein was pleasant, placid and friendly.
He made friends too easily to suit Harwood whose jealous rages resulted in
shouting that had been reported to police by neighbors on three separate
occasions. Twice, as Lieutenant Birtcher had told Maharos, Harwood had attacked
Burnstein with a knife. Both times the wounds had been superficial although
they required suturing at the hospital emergency room. Emergency room personnel
as required by law had notified police, but Burnstein did not press charges.
Harwood’s last knife attack had occurred two days before Burnstein was killed.
    The last time Burnstein had been seen alive was
when he went off duty from his three-to-eleven p.m. shift at Mercy Hospital.
The night security guard saw him walking to his car in the hospital parking
lot. Harwood contended that Burnstein never arrived home. He did