Happy Policeman

by Patricia Anthony

  Between sobs, she nodded. And DeWitt wondered, at this late and sour date, how sweet he could make the world.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On the drive to town DeWitt listened to the sniffling of Tammy in the back seat, the soothing croons of Bo. Bo more than anyone knew the lure of excessive force.

  His photo in the Dallas papers, the official portrait in police blue. With those disarming eyes he’d looked like a child playing dress-up; but then you noticed the ominous set of the jaw.

  Did you mean to? DeWitt had asked during the preliminary interview.

  Bo’s expression hadn’t changed; but his hand, curled on the armrest, tightened into a fist. The grand jury no-billed.

  DeWitt was surprised at the calm, even tone of the reply. But then Bo had had practice repeating his innocence: to the press, to Internal Affairs, at the Coroner’s hearing.

  That wasn’t what I asked you. Did you mean to kill him?

  The only clue to Bo’s tension was a slight tremor in his hand. I got separated from my partner. My fault. That never should have happened. A fistfight started, and I tried to break it up. Emotionless. As if he had discovered that the key to indifference was repetition.

  How did you feel toward Jerry Hardesty?

  Feel? The round blue eyes widened. The victim was intoxicated, belligerent. The autopsy proved his blood alcohol level was—

  He was a faggot.

  The tip of Bo’s tongue traced his top lip.

  They were all faggots. The great Oak Lawn Halloween, everyone in drag. How did you feel about that?

  Bo sat in the line of DeWitt’s questioning like a frog in a gigger’s light.

  One of the witnesses was dressed like Marilyn Monroe, if I recall, DeWitt told him. And Hardesty himself was in leather, like a biker, only he was wearing a strand of pearls. Did that repulse you, I guess is what I want to know. Some men feel uncomfortable around that sort of thing. Frightened of it, I suppose. How did you feel?

  At last DeWitt saw he had gotten past the recorded loop into thoughts too terrible to be voiced. I felt the bone break.

  What?

  Bo opened his fist. There were half-moon prints of fingernails in the pale skin. When I had him in the chokehold, I thought everything was in control. Then l felt the bone break.

  It was only after Bo was hired that DeWitt learned Jerry Hardesty’s death hadn’t been the accident everyone, including Bo, believed it to be. The chokehold had been a symptom. It wasn’t that Bo felt above the law; but that he believed himself inseparable from it.

  DeWitt parked on Main. They climbed out of the car. He wanted to tell Tammy he was sorry, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her head was down, her blond hair cascaded on either side of her face. A purple bruise was blossoming on her cheek.

  “DeWitt,” Bo called.

  DeWitt stopped and turned. Bo was standing by an old station wagon. Uneven white streaks ran down the red upholstery, and white blotches marred the dash.

  “Chicken shit,” Bo said.

  “What?”

  “Miz Wilson’s car.”

  “Let’s go have ice cream, “ DeWitt said abruptly.

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to think about it right now. We’ll find out what she’s up to later. First things first. Let’s go get Tammy her ice cream.” He started up the sidewalk fast, Bo and Tammy in his wake.

  They passed the bank and entered the next open doorway. The drugstore aisles were empty, the front counters unmanned. Purposefully, DeWitt made his way to the soda fountain.

  “. . . prayed about it.” Pastor Jimmy’s master-of-ceremonies voice, louder than the ubiquitous Muzak, drifted over a wall of products for feminine protection. “The chief of police is an adulterer, and he has joined the forces of Satan.”

  Blue boxes of Stay-Free Maxi Pads at his shoulder, DeWitt stopped. Adulterer.

  Now Doc spoke. “Bo’s more used to writing up traffic tickets and killing queers than looking for a damned murderer. And ever since Bomb Day, DeWitt’s been cozying up to them Torku like a newborn looking for a tit.”

  “Them just sitting there,” a female voice put in, quavering with indignation. “Sitting there, mind, while I’m up to my ears in that poisoned coffee. Who’s going to get them damned boys out of my well water, I want to know.”

  Adulterer. Had Tammy heard? Had she understood?

  “Well, now,” Doc said reasonably, “you just go on and stay with your people in town, Miz Wilson. That’s the best thing. I’ll get a sample of your water in a few days and see just what’s there.”

  “In the meantime . . .” Pastor Jimmy began.

  “Yeah, in the meantime,” Doc said, “we do what you suggested. We’ll get rid of as many of the Torku as we can. Soon as the sun’s down. And for God’s sake, Miz Wilson, will you not say anything to DeWitt-less or that wind-up rent-a-cop?”

  “After prayer service,” Jimmy said. “It must happen after prayer service, so that we are sure the Lord is with us. And you must come, Doctor, to be anointed. You and all your people. Otherwise you cannot have my support. Around nine, then?”

  A clunk. Someone had set a glass down on the counter hard. “Nine.” Doc sounded annoyed.

  Muzak was playing a lethargic “Cecilia” as the three conspirators walked down the neighboring aisle, through the antacids, and out the door.

  DeWitt heard the door close, the voices fade. “What kind, Tammy?’ he snapped.

  “Huh?”

  “Goddamn it! What flavor ice cream do you want?”

  Tears welled. “You still mad at me, Daddy?”

  DeWitt’s legs went weak. “Oh no, baby. No.” He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. Her hair smelled of shampoo and smoke. “Daddy’s not mad.”

  There was no reason for his anger. The condom in Eddie’s pocket was old, like the one DeWitt had aged in his wallet through four years of high school. It wasn’t careful planning, but wishful thinking.

  A clang startled them both. Bo was no longer in the aisle.

  “Bo?”

  “Here.” The answer came from the soda fountain. When DeWitt and Tammy walked around the end of the Kotex aisle, they found him, grim-faced, making three sundaes.

  “Let’s eat the damned ice cream and get out.” Bo shoved one chocolate-on-chocolate sundae toward Tammy and another toward DeWitt.

  DeWitt kept his head down, reluctant to meet Bo’s gaze. The police chief is an adulterer. Even now Bo must be wondering who. He would never suspect Hattie.

  “Eat,” Bo said. “Then maybe we can go tell the Torku they’re about to be murdered.” DeWitt pushed the sundae away, untouched. Until today he had believed himself better than Bo. That was the reason he hired him. DeWitt might have a Spring’s quick temper, but he’d never injured a suspect. Never before raised a hand to a child, particularly one of his own. Had wanted, even at the cost of the law, to protect the town.

  Bo finished his scoop of vanilla, rinsed the dish, and left the rest for the Torku to clean. “Come on. Let’s take Tammy home.”

  “You drive.”

  With a questioning glance, Bo took the keys.

  They walked to the car, Tammy licking ice cream off the swollen side of her lip. It looked as though the bruise was hurting her.

  When they arrived at the house, Bo insisted on accompanying Tammy inside. Janet came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She halted when she saw the three of them standing in the den. The towel dropped.

  Denny appeared at the door behind his mother, a bag of Cheetos in his hand.

  Janet rushed forward, looked at her daughter’s bruise. “What happened to you, honey?”

  “I fell down and hurt myself, and Daddy brought me home.”

  Janet turned to DeWitt, and he had the sudden urge to confess. To tell her of
his own brutality, of his own affair. And that he knew of hers.

  “Tammy fell,” Bo said. “She just fell down. Maybe you can put some ice on it or something.”

  Janet looked at Bo, lips tightening. Bo stared evenly back. Then she put out a hand to her daughter and told her to come on.

  Denny, a ring of Cheeto-orange around his mouth, was the last to leave the room, He lingered at the door, disappointed that the event had been defused.

  When he was gone, Bo told DeWitt, “Okay. Now we talk to the Torku.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The visitors’ lot was empty. DeWitt nosed the squad car to the steps of the center and parked.

  Bo asked, “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  What Bo hadn’t asked was: “Who is she? When did the affair start?” Any of the expected questions.

  “It’s best if I go alone.”

  DeWitt got out and trudged up the stairs. In the rec room the lights were on, the Ping-Pong tables and couches empty of the usual teenagers. Feeling a tingle of unease, he walked across the indoor/outdoor carpeting.

  A voice from a side room: “ . . . marketing plan.”

  Startled, he drew back until he was hidden in the tiny kitchen. The voice was pitched low, and it oozed with salesmanship. It belonged to Hubert Foster.

  “Explain marketing,” Seresen said.

  It was an eight-block hike from the banker’s house to the center, and the weather was chilly, even for an Autumn. Foster evidently wanted to keep his visit a secret.

  “Okay. Let’s consider your goal. You and I know that goal visualization is the first step, right?”

  DeWitt tried to imagine what sort of goal Seresen might have. He couldn’t.

  Foster would have continued his pitch, but Seresen became uncharacteristically garrulous. “It is the primary truth. As universes leak into each other, all things are one. All time is one. There is no here and now . . .”

  “Yes, yes. That’s all very interesting. And just what I’m talking about. Marketing means bending the universe in such a way that it works for you. Now. My suggestion is that a couple of us go to the other side and set up a program.”

  DeWitt was fascinated. He leaned over a coffee maker to catch Foster’s every quiet word.

  “Those people on the other side are probably hungry. We give them food. We talk to them a little about religion. They’ll go for it. You’ll see—”

  “But here.” The alien seemed frustrated. “We set the program here.”

  Religion? DeWitt didn’t know what Foster meant by religion, but he knew what he was up to. And it was obvious Seresen hadn’t figured out that he was being used. Foster wanted to cross the Line as some New Age CEO. DeWitt wondered if Loretta had threatened to expose the scam and that was why Foster killed her. He wondered if Seresen knew Foster was the murderer, and was protecting him anyway.

  “The people here aren’t receptive. That’s why you haven’t been able to make inroads. They’re tied to outmoded ideas. Look. You start over with a clean slate. Take everything away: food, housing, safety. That’s how you get a fresh market. It’s simple. Over on the other—”

  Seresen sounded exasperated. “Life is not simple. It is complex, yet it contains order. A leaf holds the structure of a tree. A speck of dust is a model to the boulder. These things are identical, yet distinct.”

  DeWitt leaned farther over, and held his breath.

  “I know that, Seresen. You’re preaching to the choir here. Let’s go to the other side. Those people are hungry for the truth. What they need is a leader, and you know I’ve been preparing. How much I’ve worked—”

  “You do not understand. There is no choice between one side and the other. The Monopoly players are one. The board is one with the pieces. You do not understand. Some think the preacher speaks of existence when he talks about this Rapture, but I suspect he does not understand, either. Six years, and you still separate the pieces from the board.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute, Seresen! Don’t leave. I brought flow charts. I’ve got statistics . . .”

  DeWitt took a deep breath and walked around the edge of the alcove. Not five feet in front of him, Seresen came to a sudden stop. Behind the small alien, Foster went through a Torku transformation, turning pink from neck to scalp.

  Childhood is hungry: it reaches out small, selfish hands. The mature DeWitt could not let go of the adolescent Janet, and Janet was snared by the teenaged Foster. The current Foster was out of shape. His gut strained the buttons of his shirt. Janet didn’t see that he wasn’t a teenager with a convertible anymore.

  “Foster? Go home. And Seresen, I want your people in your side of the center right now. There’s going to be trouble.”

  The obvious question came not from the Kol, but from Foster. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Call them together now.”

  Foster stayed put. DeWitt couldn’t tell whether courage kept him from leaving or if his knees had simply locked up.

  “Let me handle everything, Seresen. I want you out of the way. Bo and I will need our guns.”

  Seresen’s answer was quick and to the point. “No.”

  “I’m a cop. You talked a moment ago about order.” Foster’s blush faded to a cadaverous pallor. Now the banker knew that DeWitt had been eavesdropping. “What the badge represents is order. But I can’t stand up against the whole town unarmed.”

  “Your type of order is ignorance. We do not need you. I will get my people into the center.”

  DeWitt raised his voice. “It’s my job!”

  Seresen’s calm eyes were pink with threads of saffron through them. “It is your job to protect us if you must. It is my job to tell you no. Probabilities spring from this occurrence. They form a resonant pattern.”

  “Shit.” For a while DeWitt had thought he had some idea of what the alien was talking about. Now he was totally lost.

  “Look. I don’t want you to do anything stupid,” he said. “Bo and I will go up to the church. We’ll check things out. Nothing’s going to happen until around nine.”

  Foster shrugged. “Well, DeWitt, if nothing’s going to happen until nine . . .”

  “Time is arbitrary,” Seresen told the banker. “And I will get my people from the church.”

  DeWitt checked his watch. Five to seven. “All right. Let’s get moving,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jimmy Schoen checked the mirror that hung on the pulpit door and brushed a prodigal lock of hair into place. He straightened his tie and then straightened it again.

  “You look just fine, Jimmy.”

  He ignored his wife. Cracking open the door, he saw that the congregation was filing in. Doc was among them. As Doc had promised, the rest of the conspirators were there as well.

  Schoen would talk of Moses, of the divine right of leadership. And then he had a little surprise. He would preach of Doc’s drunkenness, of Purdy’s vile home movies, of specific fornication and faithlessness. Schoen knew the conspirators well, knew their lies, had kept track of every indiscretion. He had looked into their living-room windows as God looked into their souls.

  The demons had already occupied their side of the aisle—but there would be no killing in his church. He would make certain of that. His people would wait until the demons were outside before the hammer of God struck them down.

  “Jimmy, honey?” Dee Dee called in her syrupy voice. “Look here, Jimmy. Look who’s come.”

  Schoen reluctantly tore his gaze from the filling church. A polite greeting died on his lips.

  “Hello, Pastor,” the police chief said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  If the pastor was stunned, his wife was beaming. “It’s so good to see you!” Dee Dee clapped her hands in delight. “Jimmy? Isn’t it good to see them?”


  Schoen, hands trembling, straightened his tie. The knot ended up at an angle to the collar.

  Dee Dee aligned it, then stood back to inspect her work.

  “DeWitt and Bo are looking into the murder. Isn’t that interesting?” To DeWitt she said, “That’s just the most interesting thing.” Her eyes, brown and sweet, were imperceptive as fudge.

  “And you!” she said to Bo, who had not backed up quickly enough. “You just look so good. Doesn’t Bo look good, Jimmy? Why, I think he’s a Winter. That’s a really nice season to be. Very intuitive. And has anybody ever told you you’re a Spring, DeWitt? You should wear more yellow. A light yellow, not anything too heavy. Are y’all staying to service?”

  “I . . .” DeWitt began uncertainly, amazed by Dee Dee’s obvious tie to Foster.

  “Yes,“ Bo said. “At least until just before nine.”

  Jimmy’s eyes narrowed with cunning.

  “Oh. Well, you know service ends at eight,” Dee Dee said doubtfully. “But then we have coffee and cookies afterwards. You can buy something from the Washed in the Blood cake sale—“

  “They may not want to stay,” Schoen told her.

  “Well, honey, they might. Eleanor Wheeler made one of her double chocolate cakes with marshmallow frosting and—”

  DeWitt’s grin tightened. “‘Course at nine, we got places to go, people to see.”

  “Y’all just stay so busy. Don’t they, honey? Don’t they stay so busy?

  Schoen’s mouth settled into a rebuking line. “I know sin when I look it in the face.”

  For once Dee Dee had nothing to say.

  “Murder is sin,” DeWitt said.

  The pastor cleared his throat with an impressive rumble. When his words emerged, they rang, as though he were already standing in the pulpit. “Murder applies to creatures with souls. These demons are godless. Make your choice, Chief: Heaven or Hell. But don’t force the town into the flames with you.”