“Yeah, McDougall. Who handles him?”
“IFA,” I said. IFA is the other big agency in town.
“Something’s got to be done,” Fisher said. “We got to get the publicity changed. People are saying the guy is a killer.” Fisher paused to cough. “Now, that’s a sweet guy. You know what kind of a guy he is. He’s a sweet guy, and he’s a hell of a client. What’s going to be done?”
“Nothing, Jerry,” I said. “It’s a police investigation. It’s in their hands.”
“Then I’m going to hold a press conference for Clete. Let him tell his side of the story.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Legal complications.”
“What legal complications.”
“He could be held in contempt of court for making a statement.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The coroner’s inquest,” I said. I was being very vague, but Jerry didn’t seem to notice. I came to Perkins’s door and knocked. “Look, Jerry, we’ll talk about this later. I’ll get back to you.”
Jerry looked unhappy as he tossed his butt and then pulled out a fresh one. Perkins let me in. The door closed.
* * *
“It is my impression,” Perkins said, pacing back and forth in the room, “that in general the stupidest members of society become criminals, and the next stupidest become policemen. That is why the police are able to apprehend criminals from time to time—they are fortunate to be dealing with the only segment of society less intelligent than they are.”
Perkins didn’t seem to be in a good mood. The pictures were stacked on the bed.
“Mind if I look?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “They don’t help much.”
I thumbed through the photos, black-and-white glossies, flat lit with flashbulbs, the kind of thing where the background goes black, and the subject is burned up, overexposed.
They were all pictures of the dead body from a hundred different angles.
“Now you see,” Perkins said, still pacing, “the police assume that the center of interest is the deceased himself. Nothing could be further from the truth. The chief point of interest is the bedroom. They took no photographs of the bedroom at all. It is really quite extraordinary stupidity. I want you to call the police and ask them to meet us at the location.”
I frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” There would be reporters on the location, and I didn’t want to make this mess any more public than necessary.
“I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not,” Perkins said. “Right now, it’s the only way we’re going to find out who killed Arthur McDougall.”
CHAPTERNINE
“Kill the baby and hit the junior,” the cameraman said.
“Kill the baby and hit the junior!” shouted the gaffer, waving his arms. The electricians working on the lights made the adjustments.
“And give me two more mini-brutes.”
“Two more mini-brutes!”
“Don’t just blast it in there, angle it. No, better yet, bounce it off Styrofoam.”
“We could fill with shiny boards.”
