Marshall headed into Courthouse Square. The square consisted of two buildings, tastefully garnished with willows and shrubs, facing a common parking lot. On one side was the classy two-story brick courthouse, which also housed the town’s police department and that somewhat decadent basement cell block; one of the town’s three squad cars was parked outside. On the other side was the two-story, glass-fronted town hall, housing the mayor’s office, the town council, and other decision-makers. Marshall headed for the courthouse.
He went through the unimposing, plain doorway marked “Police” and found the small reception area empty. He could hear voices from down the hall and behind some of the closed doors, but Sara, the secretary, seemed temporarily out of the room.
No—behind the receptionist’s formica-topped counter a huge file was slowly rocking back and forth, and grunts and groans were coming up from below. Marshall leaned over the counter to see a comical sight. Sara, on her knees, dress or no dress, was in the middle of a blue-streak struggle with a jammed file drawer that had entangled itself with her desk. Apparently the score was File Drawers 3, Sara’s Shins 0, and Sara was a poor loser. So were her pantyhose.
She let out an ill-timed curse just as her eye caught him standing there, and by then it was too late to rebuild her usual poised image.
“Oh, hi, Marshall …”
“Wear your Marine boots next time. They’re better for kicking things in.”
At least they knew each other, and Sara was glad for that. Marshall had been in this place often enough to become well-acquainted with most of the staff.
“These,” she said with the tone of an articulate tour guide, “are the infamous file cabinets of Mr. Alf Brummel, Chief of Police. He just got some fancy new cabinets, so now I’ve inherited these! Why I have to have them in my office is beyond me, but upon his express orders, here they must stay!”
“They’re too ugly to go in his office.”
“But khaki … it’s him, you know? Oh well, maybe a little decoupage would cheer them up. If they must move in here, the least they can do is smile.”
Just then the intercom buzzed. She pressed the button and answered.
“Yes sir?”
Brummel’s voice squawked out of the little box, “Hey, my security alarm is flashing …”
“Sorry, that was me. I was trying to get one of your file drawers shut.”
“Yeah, right. Well, try to rearrange things, will you?”
“Marshall Hogan is here to see you.”
“Oh, right. Send him in.”
She looked up at Marshall and only shook her head pathetically. “Got an opening for a secretary?” she muttered. Marshall smiled. She explained, “He’s got these files right next to the silent alarm button. Every time I open a drawer the building’s surrounded.”
With a good-bye wave, Marshall went to the nearest office door and let himself into Brummel’s office. Alf Brummel stood and extended his hand, his face exploding in a wide, ivory smile.
“Hey, there’s the man!”
“Hey, Alf.”
They shook hands as Brummel ushered Marshall in and closed the door. Brummel was a man somewhere in his thirties, single, a one-time hotshot city cop with a big buck lifestyle that belied his policeman’s salary. He always came on like a likable guy, but Marshall never really trusted him. Come to think of it, he didn’t like him that much either. Too much teeth showing for no reason.
“Well,” Brummel grinned, “have a seat, have a seat.” He was talking again before either man’s cushion could compress. “Looks like we made a laughable mistake this weekend.”
Marshall recalled the sight of his reporter sharing a cell with prostitutes. “Bernice didn’t laugh the whole night, and I’m out twenty-five dollars.”
“Well,” said Brummel, reaching into his top desk drawer, “that’s why we’re having this meeting, to clear this whole thing up. Here.” He produced a check and handed it to Marshall. “This is your refund on that bail money, and I want you to know that Bernice will be receiving an official signed apology from myself and this office. But, Marshall, please tell me what happened. If I had just been there I could have put a stop to it.”
“Bernie says you were there.”
“I was? Where? I know I was in and out of the station all night, but …”
“No, she saw you there at the carnival.”
Brummel forced a wider grin. “Well, I don’t know who it was she saw in actuality, but I wasn’t at the carnival last night. I was busy here.”
Marshall had too much momentum by now to back off. “She saw you right at the time she was being arrested.”
Brummel didn’t seem to hear that statement. “But go on, tell me what happened. I need to get to the bottom of this.”
Marshall halted his attack abruptly. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it was out of intimidation. Whatever the reason, he began to rattle the story off in neat, almost news-copy form, much the way he heard it from Bernice, but he cautiously left out the implicating details she shared with him. As he talked, his eyes studied Brummel, Brummel’s office, and any particular details in decor, layout, agenda. It was mostly reflex. Over the years he had developed the knack of observing and gathering information without looking like he was doing it. Maybe it was because he didn’t trust this man, but even if he did, once a reporter, always a reporter. He could see that Brummel’s office belonged to a fastidious man, from the highly polished, orderly desk right down to the pencils in the desk caddy, every point honed to perfect sharpness.
Along one wall, where the ugly filing cabinets used to stand, stood a very attractive set of shelves and cabinets of oil-rubbed oak, with glass door panels and brass hardware.
“Say, moving up in the world, huh, Alf?” Marshall quipped, looking toward the cabinets.
“Like them?”
“Love them. What are they?”
“A very attractive replacement for those old filing cabinets. It just goes to show what you can do if you save your pennies. I hated having those file cabinets in here. I think an office should have a little class, right?”
“Eh, yeah, sure. Boy, you have your own copier …”
“Yes, and bookshelves, extra storage.”
“And another phone?”
“A phone?”
“What’s that wire coming out of the wall?”
“Oh, that’s for the coffeemaker. But where were we, anyway?”
“Yeah, yeah, what happened to Bernice …” And Marshall continued his story. He was well practiced in reading upside down, and while he continued to talk he scanned Brummel’s desk calendar. Tuesday afternoons stuck out a little because they were consistently blank, even though they were not Brummel’s day off. One Tuesday did have an appointment written down: Rev. Oliver Young, at 2 P.M.
“Oh,” he said conversationally, “gonna pay my pastor a visit tomorrow?”
He could tell right away that he had overstepped his bounds; Brummel looked amazed and irritated at the same time.
Brummel forced a toothy grin and said, “Oh yes, Oliver Young is your pastor, isn’t he?”
“You two know each other?”
“Well, not really. We have met on an occasional, professional basis, I suppose …”
“But don’t you go to that other church, that little one?”
“Yes, Ashton Community. But go on, let’s hear the rest of what happened.”
Marshall was impressed at how easy this guy was to fluster, but he tried not to press his challenge any further. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he picked up his tale where he left off and brought it to a neat finish, including Bernice’s outrage. He noticed that Brummel had found some important paperwork to look over, papers that covered up the desk calendar.
Marshall asked, “Say, just who was this turkey cop who wouldn’t let Bernice identify herself?”
“An outsider, not even on our force here. If Bernice can get us the name or badge number, I can see that he is confronte
d with his behavior. You see, we had to bring some auxiliaries down from Windsor to beef things up for the Festival. As for our own men, they all know full well who Bernice Krueger is.” Brummel said that last line with a slightly wolfish tone.
“So why isn’t she sitting here hearing all this apologizing instead of me?”
Brummel leaned forward and looked rather serious. “I thought it best to talk to you, Marshall, rather than cause her to parade through this office, already somewhat stigmatized. I suppose you know what that girl’s been through.”
Okay, thought Marshall, I’ll ask. “I’m new in town, Alf.”
“She hasn’t told you?”
“And you’d love to?”
It slipped out, and it stung. Brummel sank back in his chair just a little and studied Marshall’s face.
Marshall was just now thinking that he didn’t regret what he said. “I’m upset, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Brummel started a new paragraph. “Marshall … I wanted to see you personally today because I wanted to … heal this thing up.”
“So let’s hear what you have to say about Bernice.” Brummel, you’d better choose your words carefully, Marshall thought.
“Well—” Brummel stammered, suddenly put on the spot. “I thought you might want to know about it in case you might find the information helpful in dealing with her. You see, it was several months before you took over the paper that she herself came to Ashton. Just a few weeks before that, her sister, who had been attending the college, committed suicide. Bernice came to Ashton with a fierce vindictiveness, trying to solve the mystery surrounding her sister’s death, but … we all knew it was just one of those things for which there will never be an answer.”
Marshall was silent for a significant amount of time. “I didn’t know that.”
Brummel’s voice was quiet and mournful as he said, “She was positive it had to be some kind of foul play. It was quite an aggressive investigation she had going.”
“Well, she does have a reporter’s nose.”
“Oh, that she does. But you see, Marshall … her arrest, it was a mistake, a humiliating one, quite frankly. I really didn’t think she would want to see the inside of this building for some time to come. Do you understand now?”
But Marshall wasn’t sure he did. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard all of it. He suddenly felt very weak, and he couldn’t figure out where his anger had gone so quickly. And what about his suspicions? He knew he didn’t buy everything this guy was saying—or did he? He knew Brummel had lied about not being at the carnival—or had he?
Or did I just hear him wrong? Or … where were we, anyway? C’mon, Hogan, didn’t you get enough sleep last night?
“Marshall?”
Marshall looked into Brummel’s gazing gray eyes, and he felt a little numb, like he was dreaming.
“Marshall,” Brummel said, “I hope you understand. You do understand now, don’t you?”
Marshall had to force himself to think, and he found it helped not to look Brummel in the eye for a moment.
“Uh …” It was a stupid beginning, but it was the best he could do. “Hey, yeah, Alf, I think I see your point. You did the right thing, I suppose.”
“But I do want to heal this whole thing up, particularly between you and me.”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Even as Marshall said it, he was asking himself if he really had.
Brummel’s big teeth reappeared. “I’m really glad to hear that, Marshall.”
“But, say, listen, you might give her a call at least. She was hurt in a pretty personal way, you know.”
“I’ll do that, Marshall.”
Then Brummel leaned forward with a strange smile on his face, his hands folded tightly on the desk and his gray eyes giving Marshall that same numbing, penetrating, strangely pacifying gaze.
“Marshall, let’s talk about you and the rest of this town. You know, we’re really glad to have you here to take over the Clarion. We knew your fresh approach to journalism would be good for the community. I can be straightforward in saying that the last editor was … rather injurious to the mood of this town, especially toward the end.”
Marshall felt himself going right along with this pitch, but he could sense something coming.
Brummel continued. “We need your kind of class, Marshall. You wield a great deal of power through the press, and we all know it, but it takes the right man to keep that power guided in the right direction, for the common good. All of us in the offices of public service are here to serve the best interests of the community, of the human race when you get right down to it. But so are you, Marshall. You’re here for the sake of the people, just like the rest of us.” Brummel combed his hair with his fingers a bit, a nervous gesture, then asked, “Well, do you get what I’m saying?”
“No.”
“Well …” Brummel groped for a new opener. “I guess it’s like you said, you’re new in town. Why don’t I simply try the direct approach?”
Marshall shrugged a “why not?” and let Brummel continue.
“It’s a small town, first of all, and that means that one little problem, even between a handful of people, is going to be felt and worried about by almost everyone else. And you can’t hide behind anonymity because there simply is no such thing. Now, the last editor didn’t realize that and really caused some problems that affected the whole population. He was a pathological soap-boxer. He destroyed the good faith of the people in their local government, their public servants, each other, and ultimately himself. That hurt. It was a wound in our side, and it’s taken time for all of us to heal up from that. I’ll cap it off by telling you, for your own information, that that man finally had to leave this town in disgrace. He’d molested a twelve-year-old girl. I tried to get that case settled as quietly as I could. But in this town it was really awkward, difficult. I did what I felt would cause the least amount of trouble and pain for the girl’s family and the people at large. I didn’t press for any legal proceedings against this man, provided he leave Ashton and never show his face around here again. He was agreeable to that. But I’ll never forget the impact it made, and I doubt that the town has ever forgotten it.
“Which brings us to you, and we, the public servants, and also the citizens of this community. One of the greatest reasons I regret this mixup with Bernice is that I really desired a good relationship between this office and the Clarion, between myself and you personally. I’d hate to see anything ruin that. We need unity around here, comradeship, a good community spirit.” He paused for effect. “Marshall, we’d like to know that you’ll be standing with us in working toward that goal.”
Then came the pause and the long, expectant gaze. Marshall was on. He shifted around a little in his chair, sorting his thoughts, probing his feelings, almost avoiding those gazing gray eyes. Maybe this guy was on the up and up, or maybe this whole little speech was some sly diplomatic ploy to shy him away from whatever Bernice may have stumbled upon.
But Marshall couldn’t think straight, or even feel straight. His reporter had been arrested falsely and thrown into a sleazy jail for the night, and he didn’t seem to care anymore; this toothy-smiled police chief was making a liar out of her, and Marshall was buying it. C’mon, Hogan, remember why you came down here?
But he just felt so tired. He kept recalling why he had moved to Ashton in the first place. It was supposed to be a change of lifestyle for him and his family, a time to quit fighting and scratching the big-city intrigues and just get down to the simpler stories, things like high school paper drives and cats up trees. Maybe it was just force of habit from all those years at the Times that made him think he had to take on Brummel like some kind of inquisitor. For what? More hassles? For crying out loud, how about a little peace and quiet for a change?
Suddenly, and contrary to his better instincts, he knew there was nothing at all to worry about; Bernice’s film would be just fine, and the pictures would prove that Brummel was
right and Bernice was wrong. And Marshall really wanted it to be that way.
But Brummel was still waiting for an answer, still giving him that numbing gaze.
“I …” Marshall began, and now he felt stupidly awkward in trying to get started. “Listen, I really am tired of fighting, Alf. Maybe I was raised that way, maybe that’s what made me good at my job with the Times, but I did decide to move here, and that’s got to say something. I’m tired, Alf, and not any younger. I need to heal up. I need to learn what being human and living in a town with other humans is really like.”
“Yes,” said Brummel, “that’s it. That’s exactly it.”
“So … don’t worry. I’m here after some peace and quiet just like everybody else. I don’t want any fights, I don’t want any trouble. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”
Brummel was ecstatic, and shot out his hand to shake on it. As Marshall took the hand and they shook, he almost felt he had sold part of his soul. Did Marshall Hogan really say all that? I must be tired, he thought.
Before he knew it, he was standing outside Brummel’s door. Apparently their meeting was over.
AFTER MARSHALL WAS gone and the door was safely closed, Alf Brummel sank into his chair with a relieved sigh and just sat there for a while, staring into space, recuperating, building up the nerve for his next difficult assignment. Marshall Hogan was just the warm-up as far as he was concerned. The real test was coming up. He reached for his telephone, pulled it a little closer, stared at it for a moment, and then dialed the number.
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