Free Hire a Hangman by Collin Wilcox

rooms featured floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that offered a full view of the garden.
    Only a moment after Hastings had pressed the button beside the apartment’s single outside door, the door swung open.
    “Mr. Hanchett? John Hanchett?” As he spoke, Hastings offered his gold inspector’s shield.
    Staring down at the shield with his fix-focused eyes, Hanchett nodded. It was a rigid, stiff-necked nod, complementing the strange fixity of the eyes.
    “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Hanchett. I’m co-commander of Homicide. And I’m investigating the death of your father. I know it’s a bad time for you. But if you’ve got a few minutes …”
    Immediately, Hanchett turned away and walked through the small kitchen to the adjoining living room, with its intimate view of the magnificent garden beyond. Both the kitchen and the living room were littered with the leavings of everyday life: dirty dishes stacked in the sink, food wrappers on the kitchen counters, newspapers and magazines and empty bottles and dirty glasses strewn about the living room, some of the mess on tables and shelving, some on couches and chairs, some on the expensive Oriental rug. The smell went with the litter: musty and pungent, the odor of indifference and defeat.
    Hastings pocketed his shield, closed the outside door, and walked into the living room, where Hanchett sat slumped in a saddle-leather sling chair, his back to the view. Without being invited, Hastings cleared magazines and newspapers from one end of the couch and sat down.
    “It’s pretty tough,” he offered, adding mechanically, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Sitting with his straightened legs spread wide, his long arms dangling, his head bowed moodily, Hanchett gave no sign of having heard.
    “I—uh—I’ve only got a few questions,” Hastings said, “and then I’ll be—”
    “He was never a father to me,” Hanchett muttered. “If you know anything about him—about us—then you know that. Even when he was living here, he was never a father, never a husband.” Like his dark, dead eyes, Hanchett’s voice was fixed—a low, leaden monotone.
    “I’ve already talked to your mother,” Hastings offered.
    “Then you know about him. If you talked to my mother, then you know.”
    As Hastings nodded in response, an instant’s flash of memory erupted: his own mother, standing beside the kitchen table, reading the note his father had left propped against the salt cellar. He’d gone away with his girl Friday, his father had written. He was sorry.
    Experimenting, Hastings decided to say, “Your father—uh—seems to’ve made a lot of enemies.”
    Beyond a sharp, contemptuous grunt, John Hanchett made no reply. His posture remained unchanged: legs spread wide, arms slack, chin resting on his chest. Signifying that, cautiously, Hastings could take the next step: “It’s less than twenty-four hours, but already I’ve talked to several people, and heard about several more, who carried grudges against Dr. Hanchett. Deep grudges. Serious grudges.”
    No response.
    “What I—uh—the reason I rang your doorbell,” Hastings ventured, “is that I—uh—wondered where you were last night. It’s routine, you see, for us to—”
    A harsh laugh suddenly convulsed the long, sprawled body; the legs and arms contracted, the head jerked up. The voice was falsetto-shrill:
    “You think I killed him.”
    Hastings drew a deep breath. “If I thought you’d killed him,” he said, measuring the words, “I’d’ve given you your Miranda rights. It’s the law.”
    “‘You have the right to remain silent—’” It was a manic imitation of the TV-familiar ritual. “‘You have the right to—’ God.” He interrupted himself. “Give me a break, Lieutenant. I might’ve thought about killing him— fantasized about killing him—hundreds of times. But—Christ—” Contemptuously, mock-sadly, John Hanchett shook his head. “You must be hallucinating, if you think I