In the Heat of the Night

recognized, conveyed the news, and retreated rapidly while he was still in good order. A few moments later, Gillespie came out of his office, stalked down the corridor, and paused before the door of the detention room. He stared at Tibbs, who sat there reading. When he saw Gillespie, he looked up and waited for the big man to speak.
    “Pasadena tells me you’re supposed to be a homicide investigator,” Gillespie barked.
    “I’ve done that,” Tibbs replied.
    “Ever look at dead bodies?” Gillespie put a leer into the question.
    “Oftener than I like.”
    “I’m going over to look at one now. Suppose you come along.”
    Tibbs got to his feet. “After you, sir,” he said.
    No one in the small morgue looked especially surprised when Virgil Tibbs came in silently in the wake of the towering Gillespie. The police morgue was a modest facility with a single surgical table in the middle of the room, and a half-dozen grim drawers like a massive filing cabinet in one wall. There was a wood desk and a chair at one side and next to it a cabinet half filled with instruments. The chief walked without hesitation to the slab in the middle of the room, bent over and stared hard at the dead man. He walked around him twice. Once he reached out and carefully bent the dead man’s arm at the elbow, then he replaced it as it had been. Finally he squatted down and scrutinized the top of the man’s head where he had been struck. Then he rose once more to his feet. With a long arm and an almost accusing finger, he pointed. “Virgil here works for the Pasadena Police Department investigating homicides. He wants to look at the body. Let him.” Having made his pronouncement, Gillespie stalked out to the men’s room to wash.
    As soon as he had removed both dirt and the feel of the dead man from his hands, Bill Gillespie began to think of breakfast. He had given up completely any idea of trying to complete his night’s sleep. He decided also that there was no need to return home and shave; good grooming was not expected under emergency conditions and the fact that he showed visible signs of his extra duty might well be to his advantage. He decided to go and eat.
    He walked out through the station, folded himself behind the wheel of his car, and U-turned fast enough to skid at the finish. Six minutes later, he slid the car to a stop at the all-night drive-in, terrifying the youthful attendant simply by the way he planted himself on a counter stool. “I want the ranch breakfast,” he ordered.
    The night man nodded quickly and set to work at once to prepare the wheat cakes, eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, and coffee that made up the ranch package. Striving to please, he broke the yolks of both eggs, scraped them away, and tried two more. This time he succeeded. By the time all the food was served, he had refilled Gillespie’s coffee cup three times. When at last the big man had finished eating, paid without leaving a tip, and left, the boy’s hand was shaking so hard he had difficulty drawing a glass of water to slake his own thirst. Apart from stating his order, Gillespie had not said a single word, but the furrows on his brow had betrayed the fact that he had been concentrating on some thought or idea which he did not like.
    On the way back to the station, Gillespie drove more slowly. The sun was up now and there was traffic on the highway. Part of his caution was dictated by the fact that he did not want to be detected flouting the traffic laws he was sworn to enforce, the rest by the fact that he wanted time to think.
    How, he asked himself, do you go about catching a murderer? Normally you would probably start checking up to see who held a grudge against the deceased, but this was a simple case of robbery. He had learned two things during his brief visit to the morgue—that the dead man’s wallet was missing and that he had been reputed to carry considerable sums on his person. All right then, how do you find the man who hit the deceased over the head in the dead of night and got away without a single witness being anywhere around?
    How do you find the man who wants more money than he is entitled to, how do you trace money without serial numbers, without anything to go on other than the fact that it exists? There won’t be footprints to pick up in plaster in the middle of a paved highway, or any usable tire marks. Just what the hell do you do?
    Well, you might ask to borrow a homicide expert. And then what do you do if you