Johnny Get Your Gun

by John Ball

  “Did you believe him?”

  The Negro youth’s voice rose slightly. “Mister, I wasn’t takin’ no chances on that. I started to edge around him so’s I could grab him from the back. Jeff and Harry, they went for the sides. Beater, he stayed where he was in front. With the kid pointin’ the gun at him he didn’t dare go noplace.”

  Tibbs glanced down the hall toward the nurse receptionist, but she seemed occupied in working with a form on her desk.

  “And then?”

  Again the maddening shoulder shrug before the answer came. “The kid, he tried to jerk away, same time he fired the gun and hit Beater right in the guts. The damn little monkey shot him in cold blood.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Beater, he grabbed hisself and went down. Mister, I was too scared to know what I did. I let the kid go; I think he fired again, but I ain’t sure, then he turned and run like hell. We didn’t give no damn for him; we laid Beater out in the car and I brought him here.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “They went home.”

  Tibbs produced his notebook. “Where do you live, Sport?” he asked. Dempsey gave him his address and those of his other two associates.

  “Tell me about Beater, what sort of a fellow is he?”

  This time there was no preliminary shoulder shrug, instead the boy seemed glad to answer the question. “Beater, he’s got talent, he can do anythin’. Real sharp. He’s a great cat on the skins, as good as they come, s’why we call him Beater. Good in a fight, clean like, good talker. He’s got it all.”

  “Good friend of yours?”

  “Best I got.”

  That sobered Tibbs, knowing what he did about the injured boy’s condition. He flared with inner anger at the senselessness of it all. The loaded gun kept where a child had access to it; the idiotic mistake of grabbing a badly frightened boy from the rear when he was holding a gun and someone was standing directly in front of him.

  Guns, dammit, guns! The right to keep and bear arms was given when a raw young country was part of a great, wild, largely unknown continent. In crowded modern cities a loaded gun was as lethal as a pit viper, a machine for killing and nothing else. Killing. First there was Kennedy and the bitter, terrible reality of a presidential assassination. Then Martin Luther King, as a Negro Tibbs could never forget that one. Because King had been more than just a prominent public figure who had been cut down; he had been the whole pride and hope of a long-suffering people, a man whose voice was listened to everywhere—and respected. The manhunt for his killer had been one of the most intensive in all history, but that did not bring King back, or his words, or give back to the Negro people their Nobel Prize winning peacemaker.

  Then Robert Kennedy—three bullets from a small .22 had stopped his energy, his intensive drive, erased his victory over Eugene McCarthy, terminated in mid-flight his bid for the Presidency. One man, any man, could do it at any time.

  It bit deeply into Tibbs’s being because so many who had fallen had been Negroes, leaders who had offended the Southern white establishment. And among the dead lay the white mailman who had gone to the South to ask for fairness for his fellowmen and who had left his life there.

  Because someone had a gun, a gun he could buy as easily as a stick of gum. Now Johnny McGuire was still in the city somewhere, still loose, still frightened, and still armed with a gun with several live bullets nested in its chambers.

  For a few seconds Virgil had a hard time controlling himself. He saw before him the face of Mike McGuire, who ruthlessly forced other cars off the road when he was piqued, who in his ignorance considered himself to be a superior being, and who kept a gun to feed his vanity and cover his weaknesses.

  In rage and frustration he clamped his teeth and cursed the day he had become a policeman. Then he would not have had to face things like this. But they would still be happening, whether he saw them with his own eyes or not. And until the last bullet was out of Johnny McGuire’s gun, or until he was captured and the weapon was safely taken from him, who knew what could happen.

  The nurse down the hall picked up her phone in answer to a short, subdued ring. She listened and then motioned to Virgil Tibbs who walked quickly down to where he could speak with her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tibbs, it’s all over,” she said. “They did everything possible, but it was no use. The boy died in surgery two or three minutes ago.”

  7

  A sense of weariness and galling defeat hit Virgil Tibbs; for the moment life to him was not worth the living.

  Somewhere in the interior of the hospital a promising boy he had never met lay dead, his life taken from him before he had hardly begun to live. Somewhere in the city there would be parents, anxious parents by now, to whom someone would have to carry a terrible message. Somewhere else there was an irresponsible boy, armed and dangerous, who in his desperation, might shoot again.

  He would have to go back to the McGuires now and break the news of what had happened. Then, somehow, he would have to find and disarm their son. He understood perfectly how the boy had been frightened, he knew that the fatal shooting had been accidental, but that did not resolve the problem. Because of his own dark skin, it might even compound it: if he came face-to-face with Johnny McGuire the boy would hardly now turn to him for help. It was more likely that he would think him a vengeful parent or older brother of the boy he had shot.

  Tibbs went back up the corridor to where the lanky adolescent was still waiting. “I’ve just had a report,” he said.

  “Is he gone?” the boy asked.

  Tibbs nodded. “They lost him in surgery, trying their utmost to save his life. So he didn’t know, he was asleep.”

  There was a dead, thick silence.

  “I’m gonna find that kid and kill him,” Sport said. Not to Tibbs, but to the world around him, as far as it would reach.

  “No. We’ll find the boy. We’ll get the gun and take him into custody.”

  “I’m gonna kill him,” Dempsey repeated.

  “You won’t, you must not. For one thing, he isn’t the only guilty person.”

  “Then who is?” the boy asked, burning Tibbs with his eyes.

  “There’s more than one person. His father, for keeping a gun where he could find it. Some Washington lobbyist who fought firearms control. Some legislators who went along with him because he was a good fellow.”

  “You gonna tell his family?” Sport asked. “I don’ wanna have to do that.”

  Tibbs looked down at his hands to see if they would hold steady. He had had an exhausting day well before the first call on this job had come in, now he was physically and emotionally near to the end of his reserves. “I guess I’ll have to,” he said.

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor made him look up; a young man in a clerical collar was approaching. “Mr. Tibbs, I’m Pastor Phillips,” he said and shook hands briefly. “I understand a little of what has happened. Can I be of any help?”

  Tibbs introduced Dempsey and supplied a condensed account of the evening’s events.

  “Has the family been notified?” the minister asked.

  Tibbs shook his head. “I suspect that will be my job.”

  “Let me.” He turned toward Dempsey. “Let’s go together, since you know them. I may be able to offer spiritual comfort—poor people.”

  “Pastor, if you would care to do that, it would be a great help to me,” Tibbs acknowledged. “I have another family to see.”

  The minister laid his arm across the shoulders of the awkward boy. “Shall we go?” he invited. With calm assurance he led him down the corridor and outside.

  “Thank God for him—literally,” Virgil said to himself and returned to the admittance desk where he could phone. He reported and was told in return that the watch over the Hotchkiss house would remain in effect on a twenty-four hour basis until Johnny McGuire had been captured. A stakeout was also set up at the McGuire home in the hope that the missing boy would come back on his own. N
ow, however, things were different and he would have to be taken into custody.

  There was nothing new about the boy. One of Tibbs’s fellow investigators came on the line briefly; he had made a quick check of the area where the shooting had taken place. Two families where lights had been on had admitted that they had heard “a noise” which might have been a shot or shots. Neither had reported it, one householder claimed he had thought it was a backfire from a hopped-up car, the other flatly admitted that whatever it had been, he hadn’t wanted to get involved. The investigator had not bothered to explain that a properly equipped ambulance, if one had been called promptly, might have made the difference between survival or death; it would have been a waste of breath.

  Notebook in hand, Virgil asked the admissions nurse for the proper name of the deceased, he had only heard him described as “Beater.” The efficient, middle-aged woman consulted the work sheet before her. “Willie Orthcutt,” she reported, and supplied the address. “That’s all that I have now, Mr. Tibbs, there should be some more details later.”

  He drew in his breath and held it, then he let it out slowly while he thought. His mind at that moment was very active; unconsciously he passed a hand across his forehead as though to wipe away invisible perspiration.

  “Mr. Tibbs, would you like a sedative?” the nurse offered. “Just something to quiet your nerves?”

  “Thank you, but I wouldn’t dare—at least not now. When I get home tonight, if I ever do, I’m going to mix myself a strong drink, listen to Ravel, and read the Book of Job.”

  “Why don’t you do that right now.”

  “Impossible, you know that. Do me a favor, phone headquarters and give them what facts you have about the shooting victim. I have to follow up on the boy with the gun.”

  “Take care of yourself,” the nurse admonished as he turned to leave.

  Fifteen minutes later Tibbs was back in the kitchen of the McGuire apartment. “You oughtn’t to come here so much,” Mike told him. “We’re looking for our boy to come home, but he won’t if you’re hanging around all the time.”

  Tibbs was in no mood to be unduly polite. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said, and let it hang there.

  Maggie had the first inkling, she looked up at him from where she sat, her eyes widening in renewed fright. “Has he done something?” she asked, forcing the words out from between her lips.

  Virgil nodded. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. McGuire, desperately sorry, but I’m afraid that he has. Another boy, about fourteen years of age.”

  Mike McGuire was suddenly sobered, his wounded pride was put aside. “Did he—hurt him?” he asked.

  For Maggie’s sake Tibbs forced down the impulse to give it to him right between the eyes. “Something like an hour ago Johnny fired a shot into the Hotchkiss home, at least we are assuming it was your son. Fortunately no one was hurt.”

  “Then who…?” Mike asked.

  “Somehow, I’m not sure how, Johnny apparently made his way to the west side of the city. There four boys out in a car stopped him, again I can’t say for certain that it was your boy, and a scuffle followed.”

  “What were they trying to do to him?” Mike asked in quick suspicion.

  “I don’t know for sure, Mr. McGuire, one of them told me they thought he was lost and hoped they could earn a dollar or two taking him home. I don’t entirely believe that, but there is no evidence so far that they had any criminal intent. Whatever the circumstances, Johnny apparently became frightened and fired the gun. I don’t believe that he did it on purpose.”

  “And…?” Maggie asked.

  “One of the boys was hit, in the abdomen, I understand. I’m very, very sorry, Mrs. McGuire, to have…”

  “Is the boy all right?” she interrupted him, her voice rising.

  He shook his head. “He died in the hospital a few minutes ago.”

  She buried her face in her folded arms. Tibbs looked at McGuire whose color was now ashen. “If by any chance you see your son before I do, don’t under any circumstances tell him about the death. If he still has the gun…”

  “I’ll take it away from him,” he promised. “You can have the damned thing, I don’t want it any more.”

  “Exactly what kind of a gun is it?” Tibbs asked. “I know you said that it is a Colt .38, but that covers several models. Can you be more specific?” The question helped just a little to restore some emotional balance in the small room.

  “It’s called a Chief’s Special,” Mike answered. “You know about it?”

  “Yes, I do. I think you’d like to be alone now; you don’t need to expect me back any more this evening.”

  “What if you find Johnny?”

  Virgil Tibbs considered that for a moment. “In view of what’s happened, we’ll have to hold him—at least temporarily. But it might be the best thing for him, and for his mother, if we brought him here for a little while first.”

  Mike rubbed his jaw with the flat of his hand. “That’s decent of you,” he said, and for the moment paid his guest the supreme compliment of overlooking his heritage.

  One more weary time Tibbs drove back to headquarters and made his report. Then, his duty done for the time being, he headed for home. In his own car he drove to his apartment, turned on the lights, and gratefully kicked off his shoes. Despite the fact he had not eaten, the idea of food did not attract him. Instead he mixed himself a drink, sat down stiffly on one end of his davenport, and nourished his spirit by studying a magnificent painting which hung on the opposite wall. It was an outdoors scene which proclaimed itself to be California; dominating the picture as its central subject was a lovely young woman. She had deep blue, widely separated eyes, golden blond hair brilliant in the strong light. She looked out of the canvas, directly at Virgil, proud and unconcerned by her nudity. Her perfectly formed breasts were not on display, they were simply part of her which added to the all-over perfection of her body.

  To Virgil Tibbs the picture meant far more than the considerable cash value it represented. An original by William Holt-Rymers was entirely beyond his means, but this one was not only a gift from the artist, it had also been done particularly for him without his knowledge and the subject had sat for it as her contribution.

  Presently the alcohol took the sharp edge off his fatigue; he reminded himself that he had had nothing to eat since noon. He got to his feet and raised his glass a few inches toward the picture.

  “Thank you, Linda,” he said half aloud. The ritual completed he changed into a comfortable yukata, put a new recording of Miroirs on his stereo system, and opened his refrigerator door.

  When he awoke in the morning the fact that his phone had not rung told him that Johnny McGuire had not been located. It also implied that the gun he carried had been silent. By eight-thirty he was in his office, facing a pile of work which was always waiting on his desk. Bob Nakamura, his unofficial partner and office mate, sat a few feet away embroiled in his own case file. The weather outside was fine, the only redeeming feature of what otherwise promised to be a grim and possibly tragic day.

  There was nothing new whatever concerning Johnny McGuire.

  As soon as he had taken care of some urgent details left over from another case, Tibbs went to see Captain Lindholm, the chief of the detective bureau. After exchanging a brief greeting, he plunged directly into the thought which was in his mind. “I lost a bet last night,” he admitted. “I was confident, at first, that the McGuire boy would go home. He didn’t—you know what happened.”

  The captain nodded. “He could have been too frightened or else got lost, pure and simple.”

  Tibbs nodded. “I can buy it either way, sir, although I like the second a little better. Another thought—you know where the shooting took place. It’s only about five blocks from the Arroyo Seco. If the boy was lost, or too scared to go home, he might have hidden somewhere in the park. That is, if he knew it was there.”

  Lindholm smiled. “I’ve had two men in plain clothes down there for t
he past hour. I’d like to send more, but we had two armed robberies after you went home last night.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stick on the McGuire thing by all means. Let me know if you get into a corner or need more help.”

  “Thank you,” Virgil said, and left.

  Twenty minutes later Tibbs was back at the Huntington Memorial Hospital. The surgical team which had worked to save the life of Willie Orthcutt would have left a report. Because of something he had noticed the previous night, he was most anxious to see it.

  Although no postmortem had as yet been performed, the preliminary findings were quite clear. The fatal bullet had entered the abdomen on a straight line, indicating that it had been fired from a point approximately three feet above the ground. Had prompt medical attention been available on the scene before the victim had been moved, he might have been saved, but this was highly problematical.

  There was also a second wound, this one in the upper forearm. Assuming that the two shots had been fired from the same point, then rough triangulation, according to the surgeon’s estimate, gave the distance as between ten and fifteen feet. The bullet in the abdomen had entered just below the normal position of the belt buckle and had traveled in an almost exactly horizontal line; the one in the forearm had entered through the biceps muscle and had struck the bone. The triangulation presumed that both shots had been fired at almost the same time, otherwise a standing posture on the part of the victim could no longer be assumed.

  The rest of the medical report was technical, but ended with the unqualified statement that death had been caused by the abdominal bullet which had passed entirely through the body. The fact that the spine had not been struck was immaterial in view of the fact that death had taken place. Tibbs absorbed the information with a sense of satisfaction; it was a thoroughly professional job of putting facts on paper. This saved much time and provided a piece of reliable evidence for the use of the Juvenile Court.