Hot Springs es-1

by Stephen Hunter

  "I suppose."

  "Betty!" Sam called.

  "Her name is Ruth and you gave her the day off."

  "Goddamn her. Don't think she'll work out neither. You wait here."

  The older man left and Carl sat there, suffocating, as the fog in the air wore him down. He felt a headache beginning and he heard Sam banging drawers and cursing mightily.

  Finally, Sam came back.

  "There, there it is."

  He handed over the file, and Carlo read what was inside. It turned out to be straightforward enough: on October 5, 1940, the fire department was called by Mrs. Swagger and a truck got out to the place fast. The firemen found her crying in the bam at the feet of her son, who had hanged himself with a rope from a crossbeam. Sam arrived and directed that the body be taken down. The sheriff was located and he arrived from a far patrol and took over. Sam made the necessary interviews as brief as possible and supervised as the boy's body was taken to the morgue. The boy was buried without ceremony a day later and the sheriff never talked about it again. The county judge ruled death by suicide.

  "No autopsy?" Carlo asked.

  "What?" said Sam.

  "Didn't y'all do an autopsy?"

  "Son, it was open and shut."

  "Well sir, I learned my policing in Tulsa under a chief detective inspector named O'Neill and if I'd have closed on a suicide without an autopsy, he'd have―"

  "Henderson, you're like all the kids today. You think every damn thing is a crime. It's my job to represent the state in these tragic instances and believe me there wasn't nothing in that circumstance worth an autopsy. I wasn't no greenhorn neither. I'd been assistant prosecuting attorney since 1935. I'd seen a lifetime's worth of squalor and misery and pain and lost life. So I made a judgment."

  "But it was irregular?"

  "You are a persistent son of a bitch, ain't you?"

  "I take great pride in my investigative work, sir. I believe I have a calling at it."

  "Okay. You believe in law and order?"

  "Of course I do. More than anything."

  "Now you listen to me. Law and order. Law and order, you understand? That's a easy one. But let me ask you. Do you believe in law or order? That one ain't so easy."

  Carlo drew a blank. He wished he were smarter and could play ball with this sly dog.

  "Seems to me they are the same," he finally allowed.

  "Maybe mostly. But maybe not. And if you've got to choose, what do you choose?"

  "I don't see how there can be one 'thout the other."

  "Sometimes you got to give up on law to save order. Sometimes order is more important than law. By that I mean, sometimes you learn something that might hurt order. It might hurt the way people think on things. They have to trust the man with the badge. He's got to be a paragon, a moral certainty to them. If he has weaknesses, and those weaknesses become public knowledge, well, my God, who knows where it might lead. To doubt, then chaos, then anarchy. The edifice is only as strong as its weakest buttress. So sometimes you make a call: you don't deal with something. You let it pass, you shave a corner, you do this, you do that. Because the idea of the lawman as a man of honor and virtue and courage and decency is much more important than that lawman himself. You understand?"

  Carlo did, of course. He now knew what the old bastard was getting at. He himself knew cops who were drunks or cheats or liars or cowards. But if you made a moral cause of it, and by that cause held the larger issue of the police up to ridicule, you only weakened the structure that supported the community or, even larger, the nation. So a police officer or a prosecutor had to use a certain discretion: there was a time to act, and a time to look away, and that was the heart of it.

  "You've been a great help, Mr. Vincent," Carlo said, rising. "I can see the people in this county are well represented."

  "Don't be in no hurry, Henderson. You ain't done learning for today. You and me, we got a place to go. You want to learn a thing or two? Then by God so you will. Get your hat and let's go."

  * * *

  The police station was in the same City Hall building but without direct hallway access, for arcane architectural reasons. It was actually outside, so they walked around the corner through small-town America to its entrance. At least half a dozen people said, "Howdy, Mr. Sam," and tipped a hat, and Sam tipped his in return. The trees were in full leaf, so the sun wasn't so hot and a cool wind blew across them.

  "Stop and look," Sam said as they stood atop the stairs that led to the station. "What do you see?"

  "A small town. Pretty little place."

  "Where and how most people live, right?"

  "Yes sir."

  "It's all stable and clean and everything's right in the world, isn't it?"

  "Yes sir."

  "It's order. And that's what you and I, we work to defend, right?"

  "Right."

  "We defend the good folks from the bad. From the monsters, right?"

  "Yes sir."

  "We defend order. But what happens, Henderson, when you got yourself a situation where the good folk is the monster?"

  Carlo said nothing.

  "Then you got yourself a fine kettle of fish, that's what you got," said Sam. "And you and I, son, we got to clean it up. It's really the most important thing we do. You see what I'm driving at?"

  "Yes sir."

  They walked in, past the duty sergeant's desk with a wave, back into the day room and the detective squad room―more waves―then past the lockup and the little alcove where there was a vending machine for Coca-Cola and another one for candy bars, down a dim corridor, until finally they reached a room marked EVIDENCE.

  Sam had the key. Inside, he found a light, and Carlo saw what was merely a storeroom, boxes and boxes on shelves, the detritus of old crimes and forgotten betrayals. A few guns, shotguns mostly, rusting away to nothingness on the dark shelves. The shelves were labeled by year and Sam knew exactly where he was going.

  They went further into the room, to the year marked 1940 on the shelving. Sam pointed to a box on a high board marked SWAGGER, BOBBY LEE. Carlo had to strain to his tiptoes to get it down, though it was light, being composed of little beyond documents and manila envelopes.

  Immediately Carlo saw that the documents were mere photo duplicates of the one he'd already read. But the older man grabbed an envelope, opened it, looked at it, and then handed it over.

  "Take a gander," he said, "and learn a thing or two."

  And Carlo beheld the horror.

  Chapter 31

  "Them two," said Vince Morella, who managed the Southern.

  "Yes, I see."

  "Shall I send some boys over?"

  "No. Not at all. Send over a bottle of champagne. Very good stuff. The best, in fact."

  It was between sets in the grillroom at the Southern, beneath the cavernous horse book and casino upstairs. This week's act: Abbott and Costello.

  "You sure, Owney?"

  "Very."

  "Yes sir."

  Vince called his bartender over and whispered instructions. Shortly thereafter, at the bar where two men stood drinking club sodas, the barkeep approached with a bucket full of ice and a green bottle.

  "Fellows," he said, "this is your lucky day."

  "We already ordered drinks," said the older man.

  "You didn't order no alcoholic drinks. So the owner wants everybody happy and he sent this over, his compliments. Enjoy."

  He worked some magic and with a pop the bottle was pried open, its cork caught in a white linen towel. He poured some frothy bubbly into two iced glasses.

  "Bottoms up," he said.

  The younger of the men, with tight, ferocious eyes, picked up the glass and poured it back into the bucket.

  "I drink what I like," he said.

  It was the cowboy and his older partner. Owney recognized them now clearly from the train station, where the cowboy had smashed Ben Siegel. They reeked of aggression as they sat at the bar, especially the cowboy. Strong of fram
e, erect, his bull neck tense, his dark, short hair bristly. Darkness visible: he had a look of darkness, dark eyes, dark features, a gunman's look.

  A space had cleared away around him. Though elsewhere in the room, elegant men in dinner jackets ate dinner with their begowned wives and mistresses, here at the bar it was quiet and tense. The bartender swallowed, smiled pathetically and said, "I don't think Mr. Maddox is going to like that."

  "I don't give a shit," said the cowboy, "what Mr. Maddox likes or what he don't like."

  The bartender slipped away, reported to Vince, who in turn reported to Owney.

  "They's asking for it," said Flem Grumley. "We should give it to 'em."

  "Yes, yes, let's shoot up the most beautiful and expensive spot between St. Louis and New Orleans. And while we're at it, let's shoot up my roomful of brand-new Black Cherries, clanking away upstairs and paying the house back 34 percent and buying you and yours clothes, food, cars and your children's medicine. How clever."

  He fixed Flem with a glare; Flem melted in confusion.

  "They want something, else they wouldn't be here, eh, old man? Let's see what it is."

  He inserted a Nat Sherman into his onyx cigarette holder, lit it off a silver Dunhill and stood.

  "You boys stay here. I don't need any beef around."

  "Yes sir," said Flem, speaking for the phalanx of Grumleys who surrounded Owney ever since the Mary Jane's shoot-out.

  He walked over.

  "Well, fellows," he said, sitting down at the bar, but facing elegantly outward, "isn't this a little brazen, even for you? I mean, my chaps could polish your apples in about seven seconds flat, eh what?"

  Neither of his antagonists said a thing for a bit. But then the cowboy spoke.

  "You try something fresh and tomorrow they'll bury ten more Grumleys. And you too, friend. And you won't care whether we made it out or not."

  As he spoke, he pivoted slightly to face Owney, and his coat fell open, revealing a.45 in a shoulder holster. The thickness of his belt suggested it supported another.45.

  Owney looked him over. He had a little Mad Dog to him, with the glaring eyes and the total absence of fear, regret, doubt or hesitation. But he also had a command to him. He was used to people doing what he said.

  "Who are you? Still playing mysterious? We'll find out soon enough. You won't remain anonymous much longer. Somebody'll talk. Somebody always does.'

  "You'll be finished by that time. You can read our names in the fishwrap at the penitentiary in Tucker."

  "I won't serve time at Tucker. Or Sing Sing. Or anywhere. That's what lawyers are for, old man. They can get a chap out of anything. Now, really, what do you want? Are you measuring this place for a raid? Yes, do come, guns blazing, and kill a doctor or a judge or a politician. That'll do Becker no end of good."

  "listen here, Maddox," said the old man. "We come to talk straight out. You can't scare us, you can't bluff us, you can't stop us. We mean to keep coming at you. The more you squawk, the more killing there's going to be. Why don't you just cash in and get out now. You've got your millions. Move off to Mexico or Switzerland or out to Nevada or someplace."

  "Well spoken, old fellow. He's got a bit of the philosopher to him, doesn't he? But you see the analysis is faulty: this isn't about money. We all know that. It's about some other thing. It's about who's the boss."

  "We don't care much about that," said the cowboy. "We just mean to rim you out of town or bring you down. Them's the only two possibilities."

  "A third: you could die."

  "It ain't likely," said Earl. "'Less you get some real bad boys."

  "A fourth," said Owney. "For the old fellow, a nice retirement contribution. A nice nest egg. Well invested, he could live grandly. As for the cowboy here, he comes to work for me. I've heard the reports. You're a good gunman. They say as good as Johnny Spanish, maybe better. You come work for me."

  "I bet you even think that's possible," said the cowboy. "See, here's the thing. You're a bully. You like to push people around. I don't like that, not even a little. In fact, it gets my blood all steamed."

  It was amazing, and truly rare. Here was a man who seemed literally fearless. His own death had no meaning to him. Owney could read his essential nihilism in the blackness radiating from his eyes. He had Vincent the Mad Dog's contempt for life and willingness to risk his own anytime for any stake in any fight in any street or alley. Memphis Dogood was right: he didn't fear death. And that made him very dangerous indeed.

  "Do you really think you can scare me?" said Owney. "I've fought on the street with guns and knives. I've shot it out with other gangs in the most brutal city on earth. When you've had a crazy black Irish boyo named Mad Dog out for your blood, and you're alive and he's dead, let me tell you, you've done something. And Mad Dog's only one."

  "Yakkity-yak's cheap. We talk lead."

  "You listen to me, cowboy. Oh, hello Judge LeGrand"―he waved his champagne glass in salute to the politician and issued a wondrous smile at the judge and Mayor O'Donovan, who accompanied him―"and you listen intently. The day after the next raid, a bomb will go off. In the Negro town. It'll kill twenty or thirty Negroes. Everybody will think some night riders did it, or some fellows in hoods. The investigation will be, I think one can safely predict, feckless. But you and I, friend, we'll know: you killed those Negroes. And you'll kill more and more. So I'm afraid you'll have to be the one who leaves town. Or turn the streets red with Negro blood and think about that for the rest of your life, old man. Enjoy your champagne. Cheers."

  He rose and walked away.

  Chapter 32

  "Why are you showing me these?" said the doctor, his face pained.

  "Well, sir," said Carlo, "I went to the library and I looked up medical journals. I spent three days. Shoot, a lot of it I couldn't even understand. But you wrote a paper published in 1937 called 'Certain Patterns in Excessive Discipline in Situ Domestico.' I read it. You seemed to be talking about a similar thing."

  "It's the same/' said the doctor, who was head of the Department of Pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma, in Norman, in whose office Carlo now sat.

  The doctor―his name was David Sanders and he was in his forties, balding, with wire-frame glasses―looked squarely at Carlo.

  "That paper didn't do me a bit of good, except that it got me laughed at. A man has a right to beat his children, everybody says so. Spare the rod, spoil the child. To suggest that a child has a right not to be beaten, well, that's radical. I even got some letters accusing me of being a communist."

  "Sorry to hear that"

  "So I gave it up. It was infinitely depressing and nobody wanted to hear about it. So I gave it up."

  Carlo said, "I see you won a Silver Star. It's up there on your wall. So you can't be a coward."

  It was, next to degrees and other professional awards, books and photos of fat, smiley babies.

  "That was a war. It was different."

  "Still, if anybody can help me, maybe you can."

  "You want a lot. Officer Henderson." Sanders sighed and looked at the photographs.

  There were eight of them. The boy, naked on a morgue slab, from various angles. The rope burn was livid, and his neck was elongated, strangely wrong, clear testament to asphyxiation by hanging. But that was only part of it.

  "The welts," said Carlo.

  "Yes. This boy has been beaten, many times, with a heavy strap or belt. There's second-degree scar tissue all over his back, buttocks and upper thighs. He's been beaten beyond all sense or reason. Almost daily, certainly weekly, and nobody cared or intervened."

  "Was he tortured? Them spots on his chest. Look like cigarette bums to me."

  "Oh, I think to his oppressor, the beatings were satisfying enough. The cigarette burns were almost certainly self-inflicted. When I was looking into these matters, I saw a lot of it."

  "I don't get it. Why would he do that to himself? Why would he want more pain?"

  "The victim comes to believe tha
t somehow it's his fault. He's the problem. He's no good. He's too weak, stupid, pitiful. If only he were gone, it would be all right. So he finds himself guilty and sentences himself to more torture. He finds small, cruel, barely bearable rituals for inflicting the punishment upon himself. He is blaming himself for the crime, not the person who is beating him. It's a fairly predictable pathology. I gather from the elongation of the neck he finally ended it?"

  "Yes sir," said Carlo. "This was all back in 1940."

  The doctor turned one of the photos over, where the date had been stamped: OCTOBER 4, 1940, POLK COUNTY

  PROSECUTING ATTORNEY'S OFFICE.

  "Well, at least the pain stopped."

  "Do most of them commit suicide?"

  "It's not uncommon, from my preliminary survey. But the rest? Well, go to any prison and ask the right questions and you'll find out. You raise a child in great pain, he comes to believe pain is a normal condition of the universe. He feels it is his right to inflict it. From what little research I did, I saw what looked to be a frightening pattern: that our most violent criminals were beaten savagely as children. They simply were passing the lessons of their childhood on to the rest of the world."

  "Who would do that to a boy?"

  "Oh, it's usually the father. I see a father who secredy hates himself, who almost certainly has a drinking problem, who quite possibly works in a violent world, who was almost certainly savagely beaten himself. He considers it his right to express his rage at the world for disappointing him in the flesh of his son. But he's really expressing his rage at himself for knowing that he's not the man the world thinks he is, and he's feeling the strain of maintaining the facade. I don't know. I only know he'd be pitiful if he weren't so dangerous."

  "Suppose he was a policeman?"

  "Again, I'm just speculating. But he'd be a man used to force. He'd believe in force. His job was to use force."

  "This one used it a lot. Not just on his sons. The people in his town consider him a damned paragon, a hero."

  "Again, not surprising. Almost banal. Who knows why, really. That's the difference between public and private personalities. We consider that what goes on at home, in the privacy of that casde, to be nobody's business."