Read In the Heat of the Night for Free Online

Wood said you wanted to see me,” he said.
    Gillespie waved him to a chair against the wall. “I’ve sent for some breakfast for you. You can wait here until it comes; the boys are pretty busy right now. Meanwhile we’ve caught our murderer.”
    “You have a confession?” Tibbs inquired.
    “Don’t need one,” Gillespie retorted. “I’ve just read the folder on him. Nineteen years old and in trouble twice already. Once petty theft and once for playing around with a girl named Delores Purdy. He had Mantoli’s wallet on him.”
    “It sounds like a good start,” Virgil Tibbs agreed. “You’ll see how good a start it is,” Gillespie declared, and reached for his intercom. “Send Oberst in here,” he ordered.
    While he was waiting, Gillespie flashed a look toward Tibbs. “Do you know what ‘poor white trash’ means down here, Virgil?” he asked.
    "I’ve heard the term,” Tibbs replied.
    There were footsteps in the corridor and then a short, chunky policeman shoved a grown boy into the office. The prisoner was wearing handcuffs. He was too slender for even his moderate height. His blue denim pants fitted him so tightly that the awkward angles of his legs were outlined in sharp relief. His eyes were blinking rapidly—looking back to his hands once more. He seemed to sway on his feet, as though balancing upright was a conscious effort almost beyond his skill.
    Gillespie drew himself up and roared at the prisoner. “Sit down!”
    Harvey Oberst sat down simply by letting his body go limp in front of the chair. His thin buttocks hit the hard seat with a bump, but he didn’t seem to care. He rested his hands in his lap and let his head fall to one side as though there was no point in trying to hold it upright any longer.
    The seconds ticked on as Bill Gillespie waited for the prisoner to become fully intimidated. Oberst, however, didn’t react.
    Gillespie looked up at the arresting officer. “Have you got it?” he demanded.
    The stocky policeman reached inside his tunic and produced a heavily tooled wallet thick with its contents. Gillespie took it, examined it in detail, and peered at the identification cards which it contained. “You can take the cuffs off him,” he said almost conversationally.
    As soon as he was released from the handcuffs, Harvey Oberst began to rub his wrists, first one and then the other, but he said nothing.
    “Whatcha do it for?” Gillespie demanded.
    Oberst drew breath and lifted his head up. “Because it was just lying there. Right where I could see it. Full of money. I looked; he was dead and couldn’t use it. It was just lying there. If I hadn’t a taken it, somebody else would of. I needed it bad; so I took it.” He paused.
    “That’s all,” he added apologetically.
    “That is, after you killed him,” Gillespie prompted.
    The prisoner jumped to his feet, his face twisted so tightly that he seemed to be in sudden acute pain. “I took his wallet,” he screamed. “Because he was dead I took his wallet. I needed it, bad—but I didn’t kill him!” His voice cracked on the last words so that he croaked them out, robbed of any strength of meaning.
    Oberst tried again. With his left forefinger he thumped himself on the chest. “I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t of had to kill him even if I wanted to grab his dough. He was a real little guy, I seen him before. I could’ve handled him easy if I’d wanted to. I just picked up his wallet, I tell you!” Suddenly he gave up and dropped back into the chair. This time he let his head roll forward until his chin almost touched his chest.
    Bill Gillespie waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Book him,” he ordered. “Suspicion of murder.” He rocked back in his chair as far as he cared and stared at the ceiling. He continued to look there until the prisoner had been taken away.
    When a cell door could be heard clanging shut a few moments later, Gillespie relaxed visibly and looked at Virgil Tibbs, who still sat on