Killer Profile

Still, he pounded after Minchell, determined that the bastard was not going to get away. They were nearly to the end of the second block’s worth of alley when Morgan saw a pile of garbage bags on the right. Veering left, he launched himself, his arms encircling the legs of his target, and he and Minchell flew as one into the garbage bags and crashed with a sickening, smelly squish. Then they both rolled back into the alley, rising together, facing off, Minchell getting a short-bladed knife from somewhere, like Bugs Bu

As Rossi and Tovar caught up, drawing their weapons as they saw the knife, Minchell lunged at Morgan, the blade extended.

Pirouetting, allowing the blade to miss down his side with a swish, Morgan grabbed Minchell’s right arm, the knife arm, in his own right hand.

The suspect was behind him now, and off balance. As Minchell kept coming forward, helped by Morgan pulling his right arm, Morgan threw his left elbow backward, catching Minchell in the face with a crunch. The blade fell from the suspect’s hand and clattered on the concrete as the man seemed to slowly melt into a puddle at Morgan’s feet, his nose a crushed, shapeless thing.

Standing over the suspect, wearing the nasty smile of big city cop, Tovar said, “You have the right to remain silent.…”

Minchell’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out.

“…oh the hell with it. I’ll Mirandize his ass when he wakes up.”

At Morgan’s side, Rossi asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah. I wish he hadn’t done that, though. Knives aren’t my favorite.”

“Maybe he had the knife,” Rossi said, looking down at the bloody face of the unconscious Minchell, “but he got your point.”

Lorenzon finally came limping up and looked down at Minchell. “That’s what you get, fucker!” he told the unconscious suspect. The big detective leaned down and rubbed his shins. “ Damnit, that hurt. Everybody else okay?”

“Well, except for this lazy jackass,” Rossi said, nodding toward the slumbering Minchell, “yeah.”

Getting out his cell phone, Lorenzon called for an ambulance, then phoned a judge to get a search warrant for Minchell’s apartment.

“A search warrant?” Tovar asked. “On what basis?”

“Ru

Tovar had no argument.

Four hours later, the four found themselves in the curtained cubicle of the nearest emergency room, a bandaged Eddie Minchell in a hospital bed, hooked to a saline IV. The two cops, Rossi and Morgan, fa

“A pound of trouble, Eddie,” Lorenzon said, looking into the bloodshot eyes of the suspect.

“How the hell did you know I had that?” Minchell asked, frowning with the hurt look of a betrayed child. “Did Boo Boo rat me out?”

Rossi looked at Morgan. “Boo Boo?”

Morgan couldn’t help it—he laughed.

“Hey, is it my fault that’s his fuckin’ name?” Minchell said, through bandages that made understanding him a trifle tricky.

“Pound of dope and attempted murder of a federal officer,” Lorenzon said. “Little man, you’ve had a busy day.”

“No shit,” Minchell said; then he lapsed into a surly silence.

“You happen to know about these murders going on in the city?” Tovar asked. “I assume you can read the papers or watch TV.”

Minchell glared at the Hispanic cop, but said nothing.

“We’re not DEA,” Morgan said. “We’re FBI. We came to see you about the killings.”

His eyes huge with fear, Minchell blurted, “I want a lawyer. Now!”

“That’s smart,” Morgan said, patting his arm. “That’s what I’d do if I was in your shoes. Or your hospital bed, anyway.”

Rossi stepped closer to the suspect’s bedside. “My colleague’s right. If you have a lawyer, you can’t get in any more trouble. It’s just that it’s going to take a lot longer to clear all this up.”

“What? Why?”

Rossi gave him a rumpled, seen-it-all smile. “I mean, hell, Eddie—we been through that rattrap where you live. We know you’re not the killer, and we just had a couple of questions for you; but yeah, sure, right, having a lawyer makes more sense. You don’t want to take any chances aiding an investigation.”

Minchell stewed for a long moment.

Then, as Lorenzon plucked his cell phone off his belt, to make the call to the public defender’s office, Minchell said, “I guess I could probably answer a couple of questions, without, you know, an attorney.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “Cooperation is a good thing. That might help me forget what happened in the alley.”

Minchell stared cross-eyed at the bandage on his nose.

“Yeah, I know,” Morgan said, his voice matter-of-fact, no malice at all. “I broke your nose. But remember, you did try to knife me. Attempted murder of a federal officer? Kind of makes a pound of grass seem like so much shit.”

“…Okaaay. What do you wa

Rossi said, “We need to talk to you about a couple of your friends.”

Minchell shifted excitedly in the bed. “You didn’t say anything about me ratting anybody out!”

Rossi shook his head. “These friends aren’t worried about getting ratted out, Eddie. These friends are dead.”

Minchell looked surprised. “No friends of mine died lately. That I know of.”

“How about Bobby Edels and Stevie Darnell?”

His brow tightened. “Never heard of ’em.”

Rossi and Morgan traded a look.

“We were told different,” Morgan said.

“Who the hell said so? Somebody yankin’ your chain, is who. I never heard of eitherof those guys.”

“A bartender from Hot Rods says you knew them,” Rossi said. “In fact, he says that on one occasion, Bobby left the bar with you, and on another, Stevie did.”

Minchell shrugged. “I go to that bar sometimes, yeah. It’s an okay place. I’ve even left with guys from time to time. I’m what you call bi-curious. But I don’t remember either of those names. Of course, sometimes names don’t enter into it.…”

Lorenzon withdrew pictures from a pocket and passed them to Minchell. “You recognize one or both of these men?”

Minchell studied the photos for a moment. “Well… yeah, actually I do. Yeah, I remember both these dudes… but neither of them was ever with me.”

Rossi frowned at him. “Are you saying that neither of them left the bar with you? Or are you saying that you didn’t sleep with either of them? Be specific, Eddie.”

Minchell had to think about it, but finally he said, “I didn’t have sex with either of those guys. Both were dudes I picked up for this otherguy—uptight character who didn’t want to be seen going into a gay club. Paid me good money to help him out and serve as sort of… an intermediary.”

“Pimp,” Tovar chimed in.

“Hey, I performed a service and was tipped for my trouble. I told each of ’em a really good-looking guy was interested, but he was shy, a closeted type, you know? But he was hot, and he had money to burn. They both went along. That isn’t pimping where I come from.”

“The important question now,” Rossi said, “is not what we call your activity, but the name of your client.”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Minchell said. “Swear to God, I don’t.”

Lorenzon held up the bag of weed. “This is not simple possession, you know. This much weight is intent to deliver—a felony.”

Minchell threw up his hands, nearly pulling out the IV. “Bust me for the pot, bust me for the knife, hell, what can Ido about it? I don’t know the guy’s goddamn name!”

Rossi patted the air in a calming fashion, then asked, “Could you identify the guy?”

“How?”

“If you sawhim,” Rossi said, as if to a slow child, “would you knowhim?”

Minchell nodded. “Like I said, good-looking guy. He’s not very big, though. Still… there’s something kind of… offabout him.”