Crime File [antikvár]

1 "I DIDN'T MEAN TO HURT HER NONE," SAID THE stocky bald fellow, blinking up at them. He was slumped over the little table in the interrogation room, frightened and sullen in turn, and also still surprised. "Don't seem possible I coulda. I didn't hit her hard, and I never hit her before, ever, she could tell you that-" "Only she's dead, Mr, Parsons," said Hackett. He exchanged a look with Mendoza. "I know. Don't seem possible." Parsons shook his head. "I never meant to hurt her—I wouldn't hurt Myra. It was just, I had enough o' her complainin'. Squawking about not enough money alia time. I supported myself ever since I was twelve years old. I'm a good worker, I don't sit around takin' the welfare like a bum. I haven't got much learning, so what's that say? On what a trucker earns, she's gonna starve? But she's got to have a new color TV, got to have— But I didn't go to hurt her. I'm sorry—I'm sorry." His head sank to the table. Hackett sighed and followed Mendoza out to the anteroom of Robbery-Homicide, where Sergeant Lake sat at the switchboard reading a paperback. The office was quiet; only the subdued busy click of Policewoman Wanda Larsen's typewriter sounded as she typed up somebody's report. The men at Robbery-Homicide were still feeling appreciative about their unexpected secretary. "And they make TV shows about the glamorous, exciting job of being a cop," said Hackett. "Occasionally it can be exciting," said Mendoza. "Just occasionally. There's nothing to that but a report. The D.A.'ll call it manslaughter and he'll get one-to-three."