He sighed. “Don’t know what I would do in a case like that.” Ruddy’s fingers, tan and stiff, gripped the steering wheel with murderous intensity. Gradually his emotions cooled and calmed. Well, he’d go home now. No, he did not want to. And he didn’t wish to see a movie either. He was tired but restless, nervously taut but not sleepy. And he did not relish seeing or talking to Agnes just now. Then, from out of the depths of him, there flashed the vague and comforting image of an office, his office, the official home he had out there in far-off Brentwood Park. He glanced at his wristwatch; it was a quarter past nine. Yeah, I’ll drop in there. And I’ll go by way of those woods above Brentwood Park.
He reversed the direction of his car at an intersection and rolled swiftly forward. He was now psychologically organized again, a policeman on duty, an efficient officer upholding the law, an officer on a mission, on guard, alert. Twenty minutes later, he turned and took the road whose sign read: BRENTWOOD PARK, 10 MILES. The road rose in the warm spring night, stretching ahead between far-flung and rising yellow streetlamps, whose glow was misty like blobs of shimmering gold. Ten minutes later he was atop the vast and sloping hill, staring down at the oblong shape of the town of Brentwood Park, its outline marked by yellow lights that glimmered. He slowed, turning, following the roadway, and began the long descent till the streetlamps were no more. Yeah, I’ll get this place lit up; that’s the first thing I’ll order done. How fine the air smelled up here! How cool and clear was the scent of the looming black pine trees! And how calm and silent were the woods! It seemed impossible that three atrocious murders had taken place in these surroundings, that five people had lost their lives. Yet the thick foliage made him know that such a landscape offered criminal possibilities galore. What was a paradise for some was a hell for others. Yeah, a bushwhacker could thrive up here. He slowed the car to five miles an hour; yes, he could see a few people out strolling even on this dark, starless, moonless night. Couples arm-in-arm passed him, talking in low tones. “Even five murders can’t help ’em out of here,” he mumbled in amazement. Everybody thought that they could not be killed; their neighbors could be, their friends, even their fathers and mothers, but they themselves were immune. Ruddy was familiar with that feeling in his police work. Cops never really believed the bullets of the killers would reach them, for, if they did, they would be as frightened as the killers. A sudden impulse made him pull his car over onto a stretch of wide gravel that soft-shouldered the road and stop. He doused his lights, sat back, lit a cigarette, puffed, but hid the glowing tip between each inhalation and exhalation. He was still about two minutes when he heard a sound; his ears pricked up. Footsteps were slowly approaching his car—the kind of footsteps that bushwhackers used. His right hand snaked lightning-like to his gun, and in a second he had it in readiness and was peering about over his shoulder while he crushed out his cigarette into the car’s ashtray. Yeah, somebody was creeping toward him. Was this it? He strained his eyes. God, it was a white face! And though he did not know it, he was surprised to know that the possible attacker was a white man. Who in hell is this? The face came closer and closer. Ruddy flung open the car door and demanded harshly: “Stand where you are!”
“Hey, what’re you doing here?” the white face challenged him.
“Who are you?” Ruddy demanded, swinging the police spotlight round and full into the man’s face.
“Hey, you’re blinding me…don’t do that!” the white face shouted.
“Put your hands up and come closer,” Ruddy snapped softly. “I’ve got you covered with a gun. Be careful.” He sighted along his revolver straight in the direction of the man’s heart.
A pair of long arms lifted into the darkness and the blinking white face came nearer.
“Who are you? What’re you doing out here?” Ruddy asked.
“I’m Dr. Louis Redfield,” the man stammered.
“What’re you doing sneaking up on my car?”
“I-I t-thought you were a prowler,” the man stammered.
“That’s hot,” Ruddy said, relaxing. “A prowler prowling at cars and looking for prowlers, eh?”
“But…I…who are you?”
“Come closer,” Ruddy ordered. “And keep your hands up!”
“Don’t hurt me, Mister,” the man begged in a trembling tone.
“I’m a policeman,” Ruddy informed him, alighting from the car now. “I’m not satisfied with what you told me about sneaking up on my car.”
“Oh, you’re the police,” the man said in a tone of deep relief. Ruddy took the spotlight out of the man’s face now. “Aw, yes, an officer. Thank God. I thought you had cornered me. You see, sir, we’ve got an unofficial posse patrolling these woods at night since all of those terrible crimes were committed. We’re searching for those murderers.”
“An amateur detective, eh?”
“Sort of,” the man apologized with a sheepish smile.
“Where do you live?”
“92 Edgeware Avenue, Brentwood Park.”
“Where do you work?”
“I teach at the University of Chicago.”
“You’re a professor there?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“You know, I can check that.”
“I’m assistant head of the department of sociology there,” the man explained.
“Oh!”
“It’s true,” the man insisted.
“Did you know Detective Heard’s son, who went to school there?” Ruddy asked.
“I heard of ’im,” the man said. “He was not in any class I taught.”
“Step closer to me and still keep your hands high,” Ruddy ordered.
The professor came so close that Ruddy could feel his hot breath on his cheek. Then Ruddy quickly patted the man’s pockets, hips, and felt along his legs for weapons.
“Okay. You can drop your hands,” Ruddy said.
“I’m not armed,” the man protested.
“They all say that.”
Ruddy slid his gun back into its holster.
“I was really looking for—”
“I think you ought to go home and go to bed,” Ruddy told him. “And leave law enforcement to the police department.”
“Yes, Officer.”
“You own a car?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“About half a mile from here.”
“Show me your driver’s license.”
The man fumbled in his pockets, and Ruddy pressed even closer to him, so close that if the man had suddenly drawn a hidden gun, Ruddy could have seized his arm.
“Here it is, sir.”
Ruddy examined the document and handed it back.
“Okay, Professor. I think you can go home and tell your friends, if any are out here, to go home too,” Ruddy said.
“Yes, Officer.”
The man started off.
“Say,” Ruddy called.
The man turned and walked back.
“You said that you were in the department of sociology.”
“Yes, Officer.”
“Well, I want to ask you a few questions. You know this town well?”
“Oh, like a book. In fact, I’ve written a book on it.”
“You know these woods well?”
“Absolutely.”
“You know all the paths leading in and out of here?”
“Everyone of ’em, Officer.”
“Could anybody get into these woods without coming through that town?”
“Sure.”
“How?”
“There’s one narrow path that comes up over the rocks and across a brook.”
“Oh.”
“It’s about two miles back there.”
“Where does that path start?”
“It takes off in a railroad yard—just beyond Brentwood Park.”
“I see.” Ruddy was thoughtful. “Professor, I want you to report to police headquarters at ten in the morning and—”
“Bu
t I’ve done nothing,” the professor protested. “I was only trying to hunt for murderers. I—”
“You will come, won’t you?”
“Will I be arrested?”
“If you don’t come, I’ll take you in now,” Ruddy threatened.
“Sure, I’ll come,” the professor said. “But I haven’t done anything. I—”
“We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. I’ll come.”
“Okay. Go on home,” Ruddy said.
The man walked off with quick and nervous steps, making loud echoes on the gravel of the soft shoulder.
“He’s no bushwhacker,” Ruddy said to himself. “He’d wake the dead with those feet of his.”
He got into his car and rolled toward headquarters. “Lay detectives…my God. It’s a wonder there aren’t more people killed in this world.”
Ruddy nosed his car into the gate of police headquarters and was confronted by an armed officer.
“Who’s that?”
Ruddy poked out his head and grinned. “Chief of Police, Rudolph Turner,” he called.
There was an astonished silence. “Yes, sir! Come in, Chief. We weren’t expecting you tonight. Roll straight ahead and you’ll find the main door over that red light.”
“Right.”
Ruddy heard a shrill whistle behind him and at once a sergeant loomed before him as he slowed the car. The sergeant saluted.
“Good evening, Chief.”
“Good evening, Sergeant.”
The sergeant opened the door and Ruddy stepped out and looked around.
“You want me to show you to your office, Chief?”
Ruddy looked at the eager man and smiled. He knew that officers liked calmness and deliberateness.
“I would appreciate that,” he told the officer.
“Right this way, Chief,” the man sang.
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
He followed the officer, who was a tawny-haired, chunky lad of about twenty-three. Irish maybe. Seems eager to serve. He strode along walls of marble, and he knew from the smell that the air was conditioned. The hallway was carpeted thickly with red plush material into which his feet sank. Plush…swank almost. Well, this was the top of his career. He had been sent in here to clean up crime. By God, he’d do it. They were lifted upward in an ornate elevator four floors and he fronted a huge open door, which bore gilt letters: THE CHIEF OF POLICE—BRENTWOOD PARK
“Officer Ed Seigel is in your office, sir,” the sergeant said, flinging wide the big doors.
“Good. I’m looking for ’im.”
As Ruddy went through the door, his eyes swept what was to be his office.
“The staff is gone, sir,” the sergeant said. “But if there’s anything that—”
“I won’t need anything tonight.” Ruddy dismissed the man.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Ruddy stood still as the door closed behind him. Yeah, there was old Ed Seigel seated at the side of his desk, his head lifted toward him in a cone of light shed by a desk lamp. Ruddy said nothing for a long moment, his eyes sweeping the office. It was huge, some thirty feet by forty feet, with a huge desk, beside which was a teletype machine, now silent, a wall map of the city of Chicago and its environs, and then various watercolors. Three sofas of red leather adorned one end of the room and a huge table stood at the center. The big portrait of the mayor of Chicago, Mayor Denin, occupied the left wall and an American flag of fifty white stars was on the right. Ruddy looked and pulled down the corners of his lips.
“The taxpayers are good to me,” he mumbled.
“Damn right,” Ed smirked.
“What are you butting in for? Work, you bastard!”
Ed laughed, rose, and ran his fingers through his graying hair, his left hand resting on the open dossiers that Captain Snell had given to him.
“What in hell you think I’m doing?” Ed came from around the desk and stood facing Ruddy. “Ruddy, you didn’t forget me, did you?”
“Drop dead,” Ruddy said, embarrassed.
“I’m grateful for the first promotion I’ve had in fifteen years,” Ed said with a husky voice.
“You deserve it,” Ruddy said.
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Bring me here? Promote me…?”
“I want your help, you dope!”
“But I thought you didn’t believe in my ideas,” Ed protested.
“Maybe I don’t,” Ruddy snapped.
“Then why am I here?”
“To give you a chance to convince me that you’re wrong,” Ruddy said with heavy irony.
“You’re a straight guy, Ruddy,” Ed said.
“You’re straight too, Ed. You’ve been a friend of mine ever since you came on the force.”
“That’s natural.”
“Sometimes.”
“With me, friendship always comes natural.”
“Why in hell do you think I’ve got you here if I didn’t know that?” Ruddy asked.
“Look, did you see this gold eagle here?” Ed pointed out. “That’s to go on your cap.”
Ruddy lifted the golden insignia and studied it.
“Eagles have claws,” he said absentmindedly.
“Yeah. To grab crooks with,” Ed reminded him.
“And to scratch out the eyes of officers who are insubordinate.” Ruddy chuckled. He slumped into the seat behind the desk, then looked down at a mass of papers.
He read out loud: “Inauguration ceremony at two P.M. Staff meeting at four P.M. Bullshit. Ed, have you been over those dossiers?”
“Just finished ’em, Chief.”
“Listen, Ed. Cut that ‘chief’ shit with me, see?”
Ed grinned his appreciation. “Okay, Ruddy.”
“Now, tell me. What do you make out of those reports?”
“Ruddy, you have to read this stuff in order not to believe it,” Ed stated.
“Now, what do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you about this unless I fly off into the clouds,” Ed complained. “And that’s what I don’t want to do. I want to start my job right. But, Jesus, I can’t make head or tail of this.”
“First, one straight question…”
“Yeah, Ruddy.”
“Did you find anything amiss with the conduct of the police in those dossiers?”
“Nothing. If there’s any monkey business here, I can’t spot it. Branden was a house on fire, but he was straight, regular. He did what any policeman would have done.”
“Good. That means that we can look for crooks,” Ruddy said. “And we don’t have to be scared of our shadows.”
“You’ve got enough rope to proceed?” Ed asked, arching his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” Ruddy snapped. “Ed, I won’t get any more promotions. I’m at the top. So I’m not scared of making mistakes or stepping on anybody’s corns. I’m out to do a job. Come hell or high water.”
“Good. A thing like this comes once in a lifetime.”
“What do you think of my team? The commissioner gave—”
“I saw the list,” Ed said with a grin. “I peeped into your papers.”
“Before I did?”
“Yeah. I’m a spy.”
“Look, I’m the chief. Not you.”
“Just helping, Ruddy. You asked what I thought of your team, your staff…first-rate. All except one. And that’s me. I can’t judge myself.”
“Nobody’s asking you to,” Ruddy said. “Now, tell me what that nightmare report gave you. What impressions?”
“Nightmares,” Ed said, sitting, stretching out his legs. “Honest to God, we are out to catch a phantom.”
“Do you think there was one or two or three or more murderers?” Ruddy asked.
“One.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Ed confessed.
“Just hunches, guesses?”
“Somethi
ng like that,” Ed said. “There isn’t enough here for me to go on for me to make any other kind of statement. These are terse facts, and they do speak a kind of cryptic language.”
“Okay. Just relax and let me hear what you think and feel,” Ruddy said. “Don’t hold back anything. Remember that you are going over ground where all the experts failed. So don’t be bashful.”
“Ruddy, we’re dealing with something out of the ordinary here,” Ed began.
“Is that all you got to tell me?” Ruddy countered.
“Wait. Let me get into it,” Ed protested. “Now, look, this murderer—”
“Man or woman?” Ruddy interrupted.
“I think it was a man,” Ed said haltingly.
“Why?”
“Well, in the light of what we got to go on,” Ed began, “it’s a kind of psychological guess, you see. A preacher is killed with a woman. Then a priest is killed with a nun. Then the detective’s son is killed—alone. Now, Ruddy, I’ve been sitting here trying to put myself in that murderer’s place. It’s hard. Now, that preacher, that priest, and the detective’s son represented something to that killer. Ruddy, a woman is an earthy kind of creature. If she hates you, she kills you. And there is always an understandable reason. But a man kills in a funny kind of way. First of all, those whom he kills have to be kind of transfigured in his mind…”
“What?”
“Made bigger than life, see?” Ed hastened to explain. “That priest was not just a priest. That preacher was more than a man of the cloth. And that detective’s son was more than merely some man’s son.”
“What were they?”
“Symbols of something hated,” Ed said.
Ruddy sighed, looked at his shoes, and then at Ed. “I’m the craziest chief of police in the whole United States,” he said slowly.
A Father’s Law Page 13