In the Heat of the Night

check up on you. Take care of him, Sam.”
    Without speaking, Sam Wood turned around and followed Virgil Tibbs out of the room. Ordinarily he would not have permitted a Negro to precede him through a doorway, but this Negro did not wait for him to go first and Sam decided it was a bad moment to raise an issue. As soon as the two men had left, Gillespie raised one massive fist and slammed it down hard on the top of his desk. Then he scooped up the phone and dictated a wire to the police department of Pasadena, California.
    Sam Wood showed Virgil Tibbs to a hard bench in the small detention room. Tibbs thanked him, sat down, pulled out the paperback book that he had had in the station, and returned to reading. Sam glanced at the cover. It was On Understanding Science by Conant. Sam sat down and wished that he, too, had a book to read.
    When the sky began to gray through the window, and then grew streaked with curiously dirty stripes of high clouds against a lightening background, Sam knew that he would not be driving his patrol car anymore that night—it was too late for that. He began to ache from sitting on the hard bench. He wanted a cup of coffee despite the heat; he wanted to move around. He was debating whether he wanted to stand up and stretch, and make a slight exhibit of himself doing so, when Gillespie abruptly appeared in the doorway.
    Tibbs looked up with quiet inquiry in his eyes.
    “You can go if you want to,” Gillespie said, looking at Tibbs. “You’ve missed your train and there won’t be another one until afternoon. If you want to wait here, we’ll see you get some breakfast.”
    “Thank you,” Tibbs acknowledged. Sam decided this was his cue, and stood up. As soon as Gillespie cleared the doorway, Sam walked out and down the short hall to the door marked men—white. The night desk man was inside, washing his hands. Something about the twist of the man’s mouth told Sam there was undisclosed news. “Got anything, Pete?” he asked.
    Pete nodded, splashed water over his face, and buried it in a towel. When he came up for air, he replied. “Chief got a wire a few minutes ago.” He paused, bent down, and checked that all the toilet compartments were empty. “From Pasadena. Gillespie sent one out that said: ‘We have serious homicide here. Request information re Virgil Tibbs, colored, who claims to be member Pasadena Police Department. Holding him as possible suspect.’”
    “I don’t blame him for checking up,” Sam said. “Wait till you hear what he got back.” Pete lowered his voice so that Sam had to take a step closer to hear him. "‘Confirm Virgil Tibbs member Pasadena Police Department past ten years. Present rank investigator. Specialist homicide, other major crimes. Reputation excellent. Advise if his services needed your area. Agree homicide serious.’”
    “Wow,” Sam said softly.
    “Exactly,” Pete agreed. “I bet Gillespie doesn’t know a damn thing about homicide investigation. If he doesn’t clear this one up, and fast, the whole town will be down on his neck. So he has the offer of a specialist who is both chief suspect and a nig—” He paused when Sam shot up his hand as a warning. Footsteps passed down the corridor and disappeared into silence.
    “What I want to know,” Sam inquired, “is if Gillespie is as stupid as I think he is, how did he get this job in the first place? He was supposed to have been a hotshot in Texas, wasn’t he?”
    Pete shook his head. “He was never a cop; he’s over the height limit. He was a jailor—a strong-arm boy who could handle the drunks. After three years of that, he answered an ad and got this job: He probably figures it will set him up for something bigger after a little while. But if he flubs this one he’s done for, and he knows it.”
    “How did you get all this dope?”
    Pete pressed his lips together and grinned. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’ve made quite a few friends here and there. I think I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens. I go on days beginning tomorrow so it will look all right. How about you?”
    “I think I will, too,” Sam agreed.
    Ten minutes later, the body of Maestro Enrico Mantoli was brought in. The hospital had refused to hold it any longer. When Pete went to Gillespie’s office to notify his chief of that fact in person, he found him with his hands thrust inside the waistband of his trousers and his mind obviously miles away. Pete waited until he was