Note to my readers: if you really, really don't like the ending of this chapter, I encourage you to read the spoiler alert at the bottom before deciding whether or not to give up on this story!
After driving through the dark streets of Los Angeles at the speed limit, Hamilton Burger pulled up to the Rosewood Apartments. Jumping out of his car and slamming the door behind him, he hurried through the double glass doors into the lobby.
As expected, an anxious Andy Anderson came forward to meet him.
"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Burger."
"Say nothing of that. Have there been any new developments since we spoke?"
"Not that I know of. I have been down in the lobby since I hung up the phone."
"All right, let's go," the District Attorney said, heading promptly for the elevator.
…..
They rode up to the second floor. Just as they got off the elevator, they saw a white-haired man in his late sixties, wearing a wrinkled white shirt and thick, black-rimmed glasses, being led towards it by two police officers. His hands were pinned behind his back with handcuffs. His head was bent towards the floor, as if in shame or disappointment. But despite this, he was muttering in a rather loud voice,
"You all don't understand. She is not dead! You should have let me explain. She is not dead!"
Another voice, which Hamilton Burger barely recognized, yelled furiously after the prisoner and his escorts:
"Get the liar out of my sight! Now I have heard every ridiculous excuse a murderer could possibly use! Not dead! I think after four decades as a homicide detective, I know a corpse when I see one!"
This explosion was followed by the sound of a door slamming.
Burger shot a horrified glance at Andy as they passed the entourage in the hall. The young Lieutenant had certainly not been exaggerating.
Coming to Unit 201, they forwent knocking and opened the door and walked in on the crime scene.
The apartment was filled with rather old, worn furniture. Despite the economy of the furnishings, there was a bookcase up against almost every wall – later examination would prove them to be an odd assortment of Shakespeare's plays, other literature, and chemistry textbooks. In one corner of the room, there were several cages, filled with large, scampering white rats. In another corner stood a table on which a burner, several beakers, and dark glass bottles were scattered. By the window stood a variety of exotic plants. In the center of the living room there were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Draped over the couch was a tell-tale white sheet, signifying the place where the murder victim lay.
Pacing back and forth like a caged tiger throughout the entire length of the room was Lieutenant Tragg, his face red with anger. As soon as he caught sight of the new arrivals, the detective precipitously stopped in his tracks.
"Mr. Burger, how did you hear about this case?" he demanded. He spun around on his heel and glared at Sergeant Brice. "Did I not tell you over an hour ago that I wanted the lid on?! Do I have to explain to you why we cannot have any leaks about this case?"
"Lieutenant, Lieutenant, it is not the Sergeant's fault," Burger soothed in as even a voice as he could manage. "Andy called me. He thought that perhaps you could use some help."
"Oh did he?!" the elderly man snapped, glaring at his protégé. "Why didn't you put in a phone call straight to the Los Angeles Times, while you were at it?"
"Come now, Tragg, that is unfair to the young Lieutenant," the District Attorney rejoined, a little more forcefully. "From what I am seeing and hearing, he had every right to be concerned. You know better than to berate a suspect or your subordinates like that!" Having said this, he added, "After all, just think of what sort of mincemeat Perry Mason would make of your investigation in light of your foul humor, should he end up acting as defense counsel!"
Suddenly, Tragg's shoulders sagged, and he shuddered. After a moment, he spoke.
"I know I lost my head, and I am sorry, Mr. Burger," he said in a quivering voice. "Whatever mistakes I made, I will work day and night to rectify them and to ensure that we have all the evidence we need to get a conviction in this case." Hamilton Burger noticed that the detective's hands were shaking. Remorseful for having spoken so harshly to his old friend, the district attorney was opening his lips to speak words of reconciliation and reassurance when Tragg added, "But you do not need to worry about Mr. Mason personally making mincemeat of the investigation. Even Perry will never defend that miscreant!"
Hamilton Burger gave a short laugh.
"Don't be so hasty, Lieutenant! You know that Perry's selection of clients sometimes defies reason!"
"Well, he won't defend this case, unless his own reason thoroughly deserts him!"
"What makes you so certain?"
Lieutenant Tragg nodded grimly at Sergeant Brice.
"Show him," he ordered. He glanced at the District Attorney and added, "Brace yourself."
Obediently, James Brice advanced, and lifted the white sheet which lay draped over the sofa.
Hamilton Burger felt himself flinch as the corpse came into view.
On the couch, perfectly still and terribly pale, but still remarkably beautiful, lay Della Street.
Please bear with me here! I know a lot of people tend to stop reading fanfiction stories when one of the main characters is killed off but…
*SPOILER ALERT*
…there may be more to the suspect's claim that Della 'is not dead', than Lieutenant Tragg gave him credit for!