Phillips continued to stare at the girl. He pulled the tag of identification from its slot in the drawer and studied it. “Julie Callaghan,” he read. “Age 23. Height 5 ft. 4 inches. Weight 112 lbs. Address not known. No relations.” He pulled the tag out further. “Cause of death: Murder by stabbing. Profession: Prostitute.”
He released the tag, which snapped back into its socket. “Well, well,” he said.
The three men stood silently looking down at the figure in the drawer, then Franklin said, “You never can tell, can you? Here I was workin’ up some sympathy for her, and she turns out to be a whore.”
Phillips glanced at him. “What’s the matter with that?” he said. “Can’t you give her any sympathy?”
Franklin threw the sheet over her and closed the drawer. “You ain’t one of those guys who tries to put glamour in that type, are you?”
“You’ve got the angle wrong. That dame’s doing a job of work. Maybe it ain’t a good job of work, but all the same, she’s human, ain’t she?”
Franklin wandered to the bench and sat down. “Come off it,” he said, “that don’t hold water. I’ll tell you something. I hate these broads. I despise them. To me, that dame is just one more of ’em out of the way. She got what was comin’ to her. She was too damn lazy and too damn brainless to do anythin’ else.”
Furtively the driver had opened the drawer again and was looking with fascinated eyes.
Both Phillips and Franklin took no notice of him.
Phillips said, “Some of these girls are forced into the trade, Franky. You ought to know that. Gee! You ought to be sorry for them.”