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somebody might hide out in that forest for a time. But big-time crooks would get away by the highways, the lake, or that airfi eld over there.”
“Looks like the highways would be the thing,” the driver said.
“Of course, somebody on foot could come over this hill,”
Ruddy said. “But I’d rule out bank robbers, kidnappers, and gangsters using these hill roads. That leaves the highways and the lake and the airfi eld.”
“Well, not much doing on that lake since rum-running days,” the driver said.
“Right. And I don’t see anybody pulling something and fl ying off in a Piper Cub,” Ruddy said. “They couldn’t get far. And the noise of the motor would be heard. And I’m sure each plane there is accounted for.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“So whatever happens here is mostly bound to take place with all the players living right down there, barring an occa-sional joker creeping over this hill at night,” Ruddy said.
“That simplifies it.” The driver grinned.
“And makes it more complicated,” Ruddy growled. “Those goddamn inside jobs are a headache. Everybody seems guilty, and everybody swears they are innocent, and everybody calls on everybody else for an alibi. Well, goddamnit, we’ll see. Let’s get back down, fellow.”
“Right, Chief. Where to?”
“Take me home. 9890 Elm Street.”
“Okay, Chief.”
C H A P T E R 6
Ruddy rang his doorbell and waited for Agnes or Tommy to answer. When no movement or sound came from
within the house, he let himself into the front hallway with his latchkey.
“Agnes!” he called.
His voice echoed hollowly and there was silence. He took the steps four at a time, calling “Agnes! Tommy!”
He halted amid silence in the upper hallway. Agnes’s door was open. He whirled to Tommy’s door; it also stood ajar. Where in hell were they? Then his ears caught a strange sound. “Static!
My radio’s on . . .” He descended the stairs and went into what he was wont to call his den, and there the radio crackled, emit-ting no voice of music. He scanned the room and fi nally spied what he knew he would find—a note. He snatched it up and read:
Darling:
We got the news on the radio. Tommy and I are off to look at Brentwood Park. We’ll see you for lunch! How awfully exciting it all is! Incidentally, Tommy is soaring up into the air,
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for he specialized in the social stratification of the Brentwood Park area last year! Imagine! He’s just dying to talk to you!
Darling, congratulations and tons and tons of kisses. There’s so much to talk about.
Yours,
Agnes
So they were gone. Hell, you’d think that they had been appointed Chief of Police of Brentwood Park. They’re taking over my own job. He sighed, folded the note, and put it into his pocket, then changed his mind and laid it on his desk. He clicked off the radio and slumped into an armchair. Well, wonders never cease . . . he was a chief of police! How did chiefs of police feel? He did not know. But he was one and he ought to know. “How do I feel?” he asked himself out loud. “Well, I feel tired, and just like I felt yesterday morning. Only I’m sleepy.”
He poured himself a jigger of whiskey and downed it. He’d be getting his pension and also a chief of police’s pay. He’d be on easy street, money-wise. Okay. That’s settled.
The phone shrilled. Agnes, no doubt. He picked up the receiver.
“Chief Turner . . . Is he there?”
He swallowed and answered: “Chief Turner speaking.”
“Chief Turner, this is Captain Snell speaking. I’ve been the acting Chief of Police until I was notified a few moments ago that you’d been sworn in,” the voice rumbled. “First of all, Chief Turner, my warmest congratulations!”
“Thanks a lot. That’s kind of you, Captain.”
“Look here. I heard from Commissioner King that you were planning to plunge right into things,” Captain Snell said.
“Shall we send a car for you? Is there anything we can help you do?”
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“No. Look, thanks a lot. I was planning on taking nap and dropping over tonight and—”
“I could come by later and give you a rundown on everything,” Captain Snell offered.
“Say, that’s not a bad idea,” Ruddy agreed, accepting. “It would help me to know what’s what when I get there.”
“That’s the idea, sir,” Captain Snell said. “You name the hour.”
“What about three o’clock?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be seeing you, Chief. If you want to contact me, I’m right here on tap.”
“Are there any urgent problems pending, Captain?”
“Nothing that won’t keep.”
“Right.”
As soon as he hung up he heard Agnes’s and Tommy’s voices calling from the downstairs hallway: “Ruddy!” “Dad!”
He rushed to meet them, hugged them both at once.
“Wow!” Tommy said, jumping up and down.
“Darling, darling,” Agnes murmured, kissing him clingingly.
“Okay, okay, give me some air, folks.” He chortled, edging away and waving his hands.
“This is tops for you, darling!” Agnes screamed, her face radiant.
“Dad, I don’t want to sound like a know-it-all,” Tommy yelled. “But, tell me, do you know what a chief of police is?”
“No, son. You tell me,” Ruddy said.
“You are going to be a Little Caesar in that Brentwood Park police station. Your discretion is almost unlimited. Gee, nothing like this ever happened to us before. Hot diggity dog!”
Ruddy doubled his fist and nudged it tenderly under Tommy’s chin.
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“Take it easy, boy. You know I’m no Hitler!” He grew serious.
“Folks, come in and sit down. We’ve got to hold a family council.”
“Goody, goody,” Agnes crooned, dancing into Ruddy’s den.
“Dad, I got a million questions to ask,” Tommy announced.
“And I’ve got a million questions to ask you,” Ruddy said, grinning, pushing Tommy into a chair.
“Darling,” Agnes asked, “did you expect this? Had you any notion when that Mary Jane called this morning?”
“I knew nothing,” Ruddy said, sitting. “To tell you the truth, I thought I was being called on the carpet about something. I didn’t care, really, though. I thought my record’d save me.”
“But what happened? ” Agnes demanded.
“I’ll get to it,” Ruddy soothed her. “Let me tell it my way. You see, what happened was this: Branden was killed . . . and—”
“We heard that,” Tommy and Agnes chimed together.
“Well, Commissioner King really tricked me,” he admitted.
“He was making me accept it before I knew it. I knew nothing when I got to headquarters.” He leaned forward in his seat and smiled at his wife and son. “I hope you’re not angry. I—”
“You’re crazy,” Agnes sang.
“Dad. Dad! Chief,” Tommy murmured.
“Thanks, folks,” Ruddy sighed. “The board of directors votes me a dividend—”
“And elects you chief,” Agnes said, smiling mistily.
“Now, I got to work,” Ruddy said. “Look, I—”
“Let’s leave your father, Tommy,” Agnes began.
“No, no!” Ruddy checked their standing up. “For once, my work starts in my family.” He paused and stared at Tommy. “My first conference as Chief of Police of Brentwood Park is now coming to order. Tommy, they tell me that you studied that region last year and—”
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“I’m still studying it, Dad,” Tommy decl
ared, looking at the fl oor.
“Oh! I see,” Ruddy said. He laughed. “They’d call it graft if I put you on my payroll. But I must ask you some things. For instance . . . what the hell’s happening in Brentwood Park?”
Tommy stared at his father, bit his lips, and then rose again and walked the fl oor.
“I don’t want to sound off,” he said, obviously trying to control himself. “Maybe you’ll think I’m crazy. ‘What’s happening in Brentwood Park?’” He repeated Ruddy’s question. “Life, Dad. Life’s happening there.”
There was a long silence. Agnes glanced from her husband to her son and leaned forward tensely.
“Yeah. Go on. Explain it. I’m waiting,” Ruddy said.
“Who can explain life?” Tommy countered.
“Aw, son. Come on. Get down to brass tacks,” Ruddy chided him. “I’ve got to deliver. I can’t say that to the commissioner.”
“I know that,” Tommy agreed. “And that is what makes it so difficult. I’m not trying to dodge. I’m trying to find a way to tell you what’s happening so that you can give the higher-ups a hint, a glimpse, see? Now, Detective Heard’s son and I went over that joint with a fi ne-tooth comb—”
“You knew ’im?” Ruddy shot out, a policeman now, even though he was talking to his son, his flesh and blood.
“Yeah, Dad” Tommy grinned. “He was a personal friend of mine.”
“I know that,” Ruddy said.
“Really? How? Who told you? When?” The questions came tumbling eagerly.
“The commissioner told me,” Ruddy said.
“Oh!” Tommy exclaimed and stared off. “How did he know?”
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“From Ed Seigel, another detective,” Ruddy said.
“Oh! I see.”
“Now, how did Heard’s son die?”
“How did he die?” Tommy repeated the question. Then he grew solemn and self-conscious. “He was killed—they say.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“How well did you know this Heard boy? Charles was his name, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, Dad. I knew ’im well. Very well. We worked together, as I told you.”
“But why would anybody want to kill ’im?”
“Gee”—Tommy scratched his head and stared off—“I don’t know.” Tommy looked at his father, then his mother. Then he broke into a loud and long laugh.
“What’re you laughing about?” Ruddy demanded sternly.
“Excuse me, Dad. But you see, in our studies, we don’t study such questions.”
“What do you study?” Ruddy asked and did not know that he had asked it. His mind was suddenly lost in a region that was alien and frightening to him.
“We . . . w-we s-study about why hasn’t he already been killed?” Tommy said stammeringly.
“What? ” Ruddy echoed.
“What do you mean, Tommy?” Agnes asked, her lips parted.
Tommy sighed, laughed again, and sat down.
“Dad, what I’m going to say to you will sound wild and crazy,” Tommy began. “In school we are trying to understand things just as they are. You ask me: ‘Why was Charles killed?’ And in our studies we asked: ‘Why is Charles not being killed?’ Sounds crazy, eh? Well, it is simply because you’ve not heard the question put before. Now, wait—does that mean we are advocating
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Charles being killed? No, no. There’s more meaning in that question than you think, Dad. The question is: ‘ What is it that keeps people from killing Charles? ’ That takes us into history, into law, into the ideals by which we live.” Tommy paused.
Ruddy stared, looked nervously toward the bottle from which he had taken a drink, but did not move.
“Yeah,” Ruddy said dryly, “go on.”
“Dad, do I make any sense to you?” Tommy asked with eager passion.
“The law that I uphold, that I swore today to uphold, says that you must not kill.” Ruddy spoke slowly, heavily. “That’s the law I took an oath to keep.”
“But who’s behind that law?” Tommy asked with breathless passion.
“What? Who’s behind it? Hell, it’s the law,” Ruddy bellowed.
“Okay, okay,” Tommy agreed. “But where did it come from?”
“The people made the laws,” Ruddy said.
“Sure, sure,” Tommy readily agreed. “But what people?”
“The American people, you dope!” Ruddy shouted.
“Okay, okay,” Tommy murmured, smiling, looking off. “I see what you mean. Look, Dad, this is the first time we’ve talked about this. That’s why I’m going easy, see? Sure, I know the people made the laws. They elected people to represent them, and those people made laws that the people accepted. But how long ago was that? Do the people who now live under those laws believe in them? Was there ever a time in the whole history of the human race when murder was more popular? Was—”
“What in hell are you taking about, son?” Ruddy demanded.
Tommy giggled and sighed. He looked at his father and said, “This is going to be hard. But you’re my father and you’ll have to listen. I’ll make you listen. ”
“Tommy, shut up! You’re crazy! ” Ruddy shouted.
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“Tommy, you never told me about this,” Agnes stammered.
Tommy rubbed his hand nervously over his mouth.
“Back of law are people,” Tommy began, “and back of people are the beliefs of the people. Those beliefs come down the ages and most people are unaware of how they come and what they mean. Even when people stop believing in their beliefs, they still walk around repeating them but negating them by their actions.
Now, now, take it easy, Dad. I know: we’re talking about Brentwood Park. I’m talking about it, too, but in a general and abstract way. I’ll get to those murders later on. Every now and then in history men meet, argue, fight, and finally embalm their so-called beliefs in great documents. The Bill of Rights. The Rights of Man. The Magna Carta, and so on. But history rolls on. Slowly time, usage, progress, saps the meaning of those documents.
And men are unaware of that sapping. Now, when those men created those documents and forced kings at the point of death to honor them, those men felt that those documents embodied not only what they felt deep in their hearts but also what the universe endorsed. God wanted those documents enacted, those men felt. Now, the time that sapped the meaning and validity of those documents was impersonal. No cynic destroyed the meaning of those documents. Gangsters had nothing to do with it.
Thieves did not plot it. Forgers did not tamper with the writing.
Inventions, discoveries, etc., made those documents useless. But the people did not know it. So they went on living by the word of those documents while they really obeyed the living spirit of their times. Now, let’s get to Brentwood Park. Something happened over there that runs counter to the laws that you just swore to enforce. Who’s breaking those laws? Bad men? Gangsters? Thieves?
NO! The men whose forebears made those laws. Why? Because they don’t really believe in those laws anymore; they don’t feel the need for them. The laws don’t serve their interests anymore.
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They have outlived the usefulness and meaning of their laws. So that is why I asked: Why should not Charles Heard be killed?
I’m not advocating his death. I’m simply calling to your attention that there just does not now exist in this state or nation any real hindrance to the killing of the thousands of Charles Heards.
That’s my point, Dad.”
In the silence that followed, Ruddy sighed, rose, and walked about the room with steps so heavy that he jarred the parquet.
He paused, stared at Tommy, whose eyes avoided his, whose lips drew deep and nervously upon a cigarette.
“If I felt like you, I couldn’t be a chief o
f police,” Ruddy said.
“Dad, it’s going to be hard for you in Brentwood Park,”
Tommy told him. “It’ll not be like enforcing the law in a Black Belt area. There, the folks believe in the law even when they violate it. They do it sneakily, in the dark, sweating and trembling.
They know they are doing ‘wrong’ when they do ‘wrong.’ But in Brentwood Park the law is violated in the light of day, in the sunshine, with hundreds looking on.”
“They’re criminals just the same,” Ruddy ruled.
“No. They’re just folks having a good time,” Tommy corrected his father. “They feel no guilt. That’s the main thing. It’s hard to catch a criminal who has no sense of guilt.”
“All I’ve met so far have felt guilty,” Ruddy said uneasily.
“In Brentwood Park you meet some who don’t,” Tommy said.
“Well, you oughtn’t try to discourage your father,” Agnes said in a troubled voice.
“He’s not bothering me any,” Ruddy said too loudly. “Ha, ha!
Looks like I’m going to have some help right in my home this time with my police work. Tommy, I’ll test out some of your ideas.” He rubbed his palms together to indicate an eagerness that he did not feel. “Well, wife, how about some grub? How do you expect a starv-ing man to do a decent job of being a chief of police?”
C H A P T E R 7
The late breakfast was filled with laughing chitchat; Ruddy felt sleepy and even the strong black coffee did not help him much. And beneath his hunger and lack of sleep the job he had to do slumbered stirringly.
“Tommy, when did you start visiting the Brentwood area?”
he asked, pushing back his chair from the table and lighting a cigarette.
Tommy hesitated and nudged his father in the ribs with his elbow. “Am I a suspect?” he asked, grinning.
“No. I’m wanting to know how well you know the place,”
Ruddy said.
“Oh, about a year ago,” Tommy said, shrugging.
Ruddy’s lips opened as if he were about to ask another question, but he remained silent. He yawned.
“I got to lie down and try to sleep,” he mumbled.
“Come, darling,” Agnes coaxed. “Let me tuck you in.”
“What’re you doing?” he asked her gruffly. “Trying to baby the chief of police?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Agnes said. “Your poor eyes are heavy with sleep.”
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