My Four Fathers and Other Short Stories

Face flushed with veins bulging in his neck, the detective glared down at the black-and-white death scene, slapping the photo with the back of his hand.


“There’s no way this bozo could have shot himself in the head with his arms tied up the way they were. Even that patrolman Phil, whatever his name is, swore it’s a hit when he found the stiff, and Jesus Christ, he’s a pro, he’s been around long enough to recognize a hit when he sees one . . . I’m with him on this. Wait till all the facts are in, then you’ll see we’re right . . . God damn it.”