“But I’ve no proof,” he growled out loud. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”
Yet he knew that in any other case, had he had as much suspicion as he had regarding Tommy, he would have been in action; he would have been at the home of the suspect, examining his shoes, firing one question after another, poking into attics and basements for that .38. And here he sat, paralyzed.
Yes, he knew now why doctors always called in another doctor when members of their family were ill; they had to have objective opinions. Should he talk to Ed? God, no! He was Ed’s boss. And he had been on this job less than twenty-four hours.
To be named chief of police and to ask one’s neighbor if one harbored a murderer in one’s family was insane, unthinkable, crazy, wild!
No, he needed sleep. He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. He rose and adjusted the Venetian blinds, letting in the soft light of a murky April morning. He had told the male secretary on guard to inform Agnes that he was being detained by urgent duty. Yeah, he’d go home. No. He had an appointment with that Professor Louis Redfi eld! Yeah, he would have to stay.
In a sleepy drawl, Ruddy ordered coffee, orange juice, and toast, and when an attendant served his breakfast, there was a batch of morning papers. Good God! Tall black headlines swept across the tops of the front pages like shouting borders of mourning:
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NEW BRENTWOOD PARK MURDER
ANOTHER CORPSE IN BRENTWOOD FOREST
BRENTWOOD FOREST CLAIMS SIXTH VICTIM
NEW POLICE HEAD FACES GRIM TEST
HOW SAFE ARE WE NOW? ANOTHER SLAYING IN BRENTWOOD
ARE OUR POLICE ASLEEP?
BRENTWOOD PARK GHOUL STRIKES AGAIN
And in all the papers were photographs of Janet Wilder, some showing her in a bathing costume, others placing her in a picnic gathering amidst trees and wildf lowers, and in one she stood with her arms about a young man’s shoulder.
Yes, it was all calculated to rouse the most intense horror, to cast doubts upon the efficiency of the police, and to make one stare suspiciously at one’s neighbor. But, luckily, so far as he could see, no vital information had been leaked to the press, and for that Ruddy was grateful. He thrust the papers aside and ate mechanically, scarcely tasting his food. Yeah, I’m in the soup, all right. They are demanding that I deliver before I’m hardly on the job. He was determined not to let the press worry him, for he knew that the favorite sport of newspaper reporters was to bait and browbeat the police, who could not make a rebuttal. He knew how the public loved it when the press was rapping the police across the knuckles! It made the taxpayer feel that he was at last getting his money’s worth. I’m not going to let ’em bother me.
Yet, as soon as he had finished his cup of coffee, he picked up the papers again, turning to the front page editorial in the Chicago Tribune:
We live in the twentieth century. Piracy is supposed to be dead. Gangsterism is allegedly on the decline. We
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pay high taxes to make our streets and highway safe. Yet murder after murder occurs in our midst? How? Why?
How long must we law-abiding citizens tolerate
lawlessness? How is it possible in our day and age for a murderer to strike again and again with impunity?
Are we helpless in the face of those who would make a mockery of law and order? Is our law-enforcement machinery breaking down? It is time we asked these questions and had some frank answers!
During the early hours of this morning a work-
man came across the body of Janet Wilder, aged 20, lying amid weeds in the woods just east of Brentwood Park. A .38 bullet had shattered her skull. The slaying of this innocent young working girl brings the total of victims to six for Brentwood Park within the space of less than a year!
And the police tell us that they have no clues, no motives, no ideas, and no solution! What are police for?
Why are not the woods of Brentwood Park patrolled?
Why are not lights strung out along the highways tra-versing those woods?
The public is demanding action, results, not excus-es, evasions. We want to see the criminal in the dock.
We want no more corpses! And we demand action now.
If not, then let us have a police “shake-up.”
Ruddy gritted his teeth, crumpled the paper into a ball, and flung it from him. Goddamn! What a cheap way to win sympathy with the public! He could wring the neck of the fool who wrote those lines. Yet Ruddy felt those words in that newspaper stinging him. He was sensitive to public opinion; he knew that many thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands would take their
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cue from that editorial. He snatched up a phone and asked for Lieutenant Hawkins of the riot squad.
“Lieutenant Hawkins, Riot Detail.”
“Chief Turner speaking. Listen, I want you to establish roadblocks on all highways leading in and out Brentwood Park,”
Ruddy said crisply. “Now, don’t discuss this with me. I know we can’t catch murderers that way, but we must do something to reassure the public. Put our police force out there where the public can see ’em, see?”
“Yes sir, Chief. I get it.”
“Okay. Get moving!”
“Right, Chief!”
Ruddy slumped back into his chair. Thirty seconds later he heard the riot gong clanging and a few moments later there came the sound of sirens as one squad car after another sped from the station house. I can’t give ’em a criminal, so I give ’em a circus. He smiled cynically.
The phone rang. He lifted the receiver.
“Chief Turner speaking.”
“Ruddy? Bill speaking.”
“Hi, Bill!” Ruddy’s face came alive, his eyes shone.
“Are you on top of things out there?”
“So far, yes. I’ve not got a wink of sleep since I saw you.”
“Hell, no. Is that true?”
“Brother, this place is hot, I mean hot.”
“Take it easy. Now, look, I’m calling about the press this morning.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Now, don’t take that seriously. I know how it feels to read stuff like that when you’re the guy they are shooting at.”
“I can’t put the guy who wrote the editorial in the Tribune in the electric chair for life,” Ruddy growled.
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“I know, I know,” Bill said soothingly. “But forget it.”
“Look, Bill,” Ruddy explained. “I’ve sent out roadblocks. Just to show the public our men. I can’t catch murderers that way.
You know it. But I want them to know that we are on the job.”
“I was going to suggest that you do that,” Bill said. “I knew you’d be on the job. Don’t let ’em shake you, Ruddy. I told the reporters this morning that we’d given Brentwood Park the best officer we had and that that officer would do his best.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“And get some rest, boy.”
“I’ve an appointment at ten, then I’m going home to hit the hay.”
“Nothing new?”
“We found the hole where the gun was buried. No doubt the murderer went there to dig it up. That Wilder girl surprised
’im and he let her have it,” Ruddy said.
“Oh! So there is something,” Bill approved.
“But keep that on ice,” Ruddy warned.
“I get it.”
“Everything that can be thought of is being thought of, and all that can be done is being done.”
“Right. You have my absolute confi dence, Ruddy.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“I canceled all that gold-braid stuff, as you suggested.”
“I thought you’d understand.”
“By the way, have a chat with the mayor, when you can.”
“I’ll do that, Bill.”
/> “Bye.”
“Bye now, Bill.”
He felt good. His boss trusted him. And he had made a tiny bit of progress! At least we know the murderer is still active, still around. And—
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The phone tingled again.
“Chief Turner speaking.”
“Chief, your son’s here to see you.”
Ruddy froze, his lips becoming tense. He swallowed, then said, “Send him right in.”
Mechanically, Ruddy hung up the phone, feeling mesmer-ized. Instead of his carrying the initiative to Tommy, Tommy was taking the issue to him! He felt cornered. Was Tommy deliberately coming to see him to prove that he had nothing to fear, to hide? Or was he so bold that he was coming to see if Ruddy suspected anything? Or was he, Ruddy, falling victim to his own imagination? He had wanted to be able to question Tommy without his suspecting his reasons for doing so. Instead, Tommy was maybe coming to question him with hidden reasons? Then, before he could sufficiently collect his thoughts, before he knew what line to take, the door opened and a beam-ingly radiant Tommy breezed into the room, clad in sweater and slacks, carrying a tennis racket under his left arm. At once, every morbid suspicion that had been rankling in Ruddy’s heart fled and hid in shame.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Hi, son!”
“Gee, you look like a million dollars with that golden star on you,” Tommy exclaimed, his brows lifted.
“That’s my badge of authority,” Ruddy said.
“You look tired. You didn’t sleep at all?”
“Just a wink or two—there on that sofa,” Ruddy murmured, yawning. “I’ll be home this afternoon and catch up.”
“Gee, Mama and I were thunderstruck at this new development,” Tommy rattled on, sitting on the edge of Ruddy’s desk.
“Imagine, finding a corpse right off. Any line on who did it, Dad?”
“Nothing, nothing yet,” Ruddy said.
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“Gosh, what an office,” Tommy said in an awed tone.
“Sort of nice,” Ruddy agreed.
“A real teletype?”
“Yep.”
“Just like in the movies,” Tommy marveled.
“Yes and no. Looks like the movies, but things are much more humdrum here,” Ruddy said.
“Not with a murder on your hands,” Tommy disputed him.
“But I guess it’s old stuff to you. Say, Dad, why did they kill her?”
“We don’t know, son.”
“Did they rob her?”
“Not that we can tell.”
“Molest her sexually?”
“The coroner says she wasn’t touched.”
“Then why was she killed?”
“We know nothing.”
“And the papers said she was only twenty years old.”
“Yep.”
“How horrible,” Tommy breathed, looking off into space.
“It’s life” was all that Ruddy could say. “Look, I wanted to talk with you more yesterday. You ran out on me.”
“Had a date,” Tommy said.
“A new gal?” Ruddy forced a smile.
“No. Went over to see Charles’s mom and dad,” Tommy said in a preoccupied voice.
“Oh. He lived here in Brentwood Park, didn’t he?”
“Sure. Just a few blocks from here.”
“He was a good friend of yours, hunh?”
“A straight guy. I liked ’im.”
“A lot of horrible things happen to a lot of innocent people.” Ruddy sighed, thinking of both Tommy and Charlie as he spoke.
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“Yeah. That’s true,” Tommy mused. “But, shucks, Dad, you fellows on the police force get hardened to all this. I’m surprised to see you so wistful.”
“Nobody gets used to death, Tommy,” Ruddy said.
“Yep. Guess not. Say, how was that gal killed?”
“Shot.”
“And no motive? No clues? Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you think it’s tied in with all those other killings, Dad?”
“We’re going on that assumption.”
“Quite a lot of senseless killing,” Tommy murmured, shaking his head.
“It’ll make sense someday, son,” Ruddy said, trying to keep an edge of bitterness out of his voice.
“Dad, is it really true that there are a lot of murders that are unsolved?”
“A few.”
“I suspect that there are more than the police want to admit,” Tommy declared.
“Why do you say that?”
“One has to assume that all murderers are caught,” Tommy reasoned. “Or why would we have a police force. But what about the murders that are not detected at all? There must be some.
. . . Not all criminals are stupid.”
“Not many get away with it,” Ruddy said.
“Perfect crimes are not even known about,” Tommy said.
“I’d bet that the police only stumble on the blunderers.”
Ruddy eyed his son, cleared his throat, and asked: “You don’t like police, do you, Tommy?”
“As people, yes. As a force out to catch other people, no.”
“Why?”
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“I like constructive activities,” Tommy said, replying and yet evading.
“You haven’t told me why.”
“It’s the role of the profession, Dad,” he said. “I like to ask questions. For the profession of law enforcment, one has to assume that one knows, really knows all the answers.”
“I don’t see—”
“Dad, I’m talking in philosophical terms,” Tommy said, laughing suddenly. “Maybe I don’t make much sense to you.
You know, police work is exciting. I see that aspect of it.”
“Don’t you see that we are defending and protecting people, Tommy?”
“Dad, do people really want to be defended and protected?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, obviously, the man who’s spreading all this terror in Brentwood is not scared,” Tommy said. “And I’d suspect that he could be found if people really wanted to find ’im badly enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad, I feel that what keeps us from getting all the criminals is that we would have to act and feel like them in order to catch ’em,” Tommy said.
Ruddy blinked; he felt anger growing in him.
“You’re talking rot,” Ruddy spat.
“Dad, is there any law against cannibalism in this state?”
Tommy asked.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“We don’t have such laws because we don’t want to think of such,” Tommy stated.
“So you think that there is a vast horde of people getting away with everything, eh?”
“No. Not at all. Just a bold few,” Tommy said, grinning.
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“The average man does not commit crimes simply because he does not think of it.”
“And that’s a damn good thing too.” Ruddy laid down.
“But let the notion get into a man’s head, and he goes to town.”
“Like the guy who killed Hindricks, Father Byrnes, and that gal last night?”
“Oh, that . . . you know, I suspect that most of that killing was done by accident,” Tommy said, laughing.
Ruddy wanted to order the boy from the office, but he kept still.
“I’d hate to let the taxpayers hear you talk like that to me,”
Ruddy muttered.
“Oh, I’ve got better sense than that,” Tommy assured him.
“Why do you think those killings were accidental?”
“They were done so perfectly,” Tommy said. “If they’d been planned, there’d be traces of clues all over the place.”
&nbs
p; “Maybe there are some clues,” Ruddy suggested teasingly, looking off.
“No. You said there weren’t.”
“The police don’t tell everything, son.”
“So there were clues this time?”
“We’ve pretty well reconstructed this last killing,” Ruddy said, realizing that he was not giving anything away by putting Tommy wise to what had happened. After all, only the police knew so far.
“Then what happened?”
“Some man went into that wood to dig up a gun,” Ruddy related. “He got the gun. A .38. This girl came upon him accidentally . . .” He paused and was struck by the word accident. “The man shot her; it was the only thing he could do. Then he got away.”
“Didn’t I say it would be accidental?”
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“Yeah, you did. Why did you say it?”
“Accidents have something free and pure about ’em,”
Tommy said eagerly. “They drop out of the blue. And you can never tell what direction an accident takes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did they find the gun?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it was a gun he dug up?”
“The shape of it was still in the wet clay.”
“Oh.” Tommy mused a moment, then said, “Maybe he’s go -
ing to use it again.”
“Maybe.”
“You know, I bet that guy thought that that gun would be found,” Tommy said in a voice of slow amazement.
“What do you mean?”
“He knew that a new investigation would take place with a new police chief, and he dug it up. He was scared of its being found—”
“In all that wet grass? We wouldn’t’ve found that gun till kingdom come.”
“Yeah. He should have left it there,” Tommy said loudly, laughing. “Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“How much you can find out about something by just juggling the facts in a logical way,” Tommy said. “If that guy ran to dig up that gun, it means that he was in a panic. And that means that he was not as intelligent as the kind of killers I have in mind.”
“Tommy.”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Only stupid people kill.”
“That’s a big generalization. I wonder if the police know enough to assume all that?”
“We do, son.”
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