“The bad boy is a shit. The bad boy is a fuck of a shit. I hate the bad boy.”
“Good boy. You’re a good boy. We’ll punish the bad boy.”
I tugged at my badge in his fingers, but it only made him hold it tighter. I gave up and tugged the blanket around Stevie, checked his chart, saw no signs of rectal tearing or penetration of the anus, and went out to his parents. The description I had of a tall, thin, white male teenager with short blond hair and “shiny teeth” — braces or a lot of fillings — meant nothing to them. Ralph took me aside and told me that there was semen on Stevie’s dungaree pants and that his wife had found them on the mattress but hadn’t left them where she’d found them. “She took them and she threw them out the car window on the way to the hospital,” he said. “She don’t want it to come out in the papers as a sex thing. She don’t want the boy to live with that when he gets older.”
I nodded, and then I asked both Morrises to promise they’d get my badge from Stevie and put it in a safe place.
I went straight to the twenty-two hundred block of Clifton Avenue and walked around back of the Morrises’ house.
No one was out back. A scattered chorus of watchdogs barked from fenced-in red-brick row homes on either side of me. A gray-haired woman with glasses watched me from a second-story window as my eyes scanned the dirt and grass. I wasn’t dressed like a cop, so I thought I’d better act like one before she called the police on me. I squatted and studied the dirt intently as if looking for clues. Actually, I was trying to listen and could hear youthful voices and a rock-and-roll beat through the gaps in the barking.
I walked over to a driveway and beyond that to a dirt path through wild growth.
Once at the path, I looked down and saw a steep seven-foot drop to railroad tracks. Sloping down from the tracks there was a wooded area that, judging from the sound of the music, contained the shack.
I removed my .38 and checked the cylinder to see if it was loaded, put it back in my holster, and climbed down the slope. White linen pants turned spotted brown from the dust. It was obvious that Stevie would have had an impossible time making it down to the tracks by himself. The almost-killer would have had to carry Stevie, and a struggling Stevie would have been a problem and an embarrassment. The almost-killer must have befriended Stevie and carried him down the slope in his arms to be killed.
I headed over the tracks and through the woods.
At 12:07, I confronted seven of what cops call “subjects,” all white male youths ranging in age from roughly twelve to sixteen. None of them had braces or obvious silver fillings. When I approached I could smell a sweet pungent odor that I recognized from police training to be marijuana.
I was back in police work. Pure and simple. I was talking to myself in the language of a cop. It was almost as though I’d never stopped being a cop. The feelings and the routine reactions, the instincts, came back to me as if I’d been doing it yesterday.
The subjects were sitting on top of, inside of, and leaning against what appeared to be an abandoned sheet-metal chicken coop situated in a grove of tall oak trees. The trees had little puncture wounds, some fresh and some probably old. The scars appeared to have been produced by steel-tipped arrows, as pieces of broken arrows were noted on the ground.
The rock music was coming from a large boxlike black-and-chrome portable radio on top of the shack.
Two of the subjects leaning against the shack appeared to put out and then swallow hand-rolled marijuana-type cigarettes when they saw me.
Nobody said anything as I strode to the shack. The youth closest to the radio, a muscular pimple-faced boy with his head shaved, smiled insolently, reached over, and put up the volume full blast. It was one of the loudest experiences I’d ever had. I smiled back at him, walked up to the radio, snatched it by the chrome handle, and swung it overhand into the thick trunk of an oak tree growing next to the shack. The music stopped, and chips of shiny black-and-chrome plastic rained from overhead.
“What the fuck, you can’t do that, pig motherfucker. That’s my fuckin’ radio, you asshole,” said a dark boy of about fifteen who had been leaning against the tree. He was five nine, about one hundred forty pounds, with a dark-brown shoulder-length hairdo parted in the middle and fluffed out at the ends. He wore faded dungarees and black engineer boots and a faded dungaree jacket with the name ROCK embroidered on the left breast pocket.
With my left hand I picked him up by the front of the jacket near his neck and pinned him to the same oak tree, dangling him a foot off the ground. Leaning my body weight into my left hand and into him so that my arm didn’t have to do all the work, I pointed the chrome handle of the radio “box” at his eyes.
“You can’t search me,” he squeaked through a tight throat. “You ain’t got probable cause. I ain’t holdin’ nothin’ anyway.”
The other subjects scrambled and ran. Three of them stopped to watch from what was a safe distance in their minds, about fifteen feet.
“Where’s the torpedo with the braces?” I said softly and leaned harder into him. “And don’t waste my time talking any more bullshit.”
“I can’t talk. You’re choking me.” He squirmed.
I held him and looked in his brown eyes. He looked from my eyes to the handle of the radio. I tried to look bored.
“Well,” I said. “I’d sincerely like your cooperation.”
“Let him down,” yelled Baldy from behind me. “You’re killing my best friend, man. You hurt him, you’re gonna pay for it. Let him down I said. The creep you want went to school today.” The good old brown leather chair worked again.
“Police brutality,” yelled another. “Kick him in the nuts, Rocco. You’re in the right.”
“He ain’t no cop,” said the third. “Your old man don’t do shit like that. Cops can’t do that shit. Kick him, Rocco.”
So this was the “little cocksucker,” Rocco DiGiacomo, Jr. A bullshitter, too. Coincidences like this happened in a small town like Wilmington, a city not much larger than the population of Yankee Stadium on opening day, a city and a friendly small town at the same time. I continued to hold Junior with his brown hair spread out against the tree. He was turning red.
“What school?” I said and leaned harder when I felt him slip.
“Shelton,” said the baldheaded best friend from behind me as he picked up a big stick and pounded his palm with it. “Let him down. He can’t take no more.”
“Tell me the name of the creep with the braces,” I said slowly.
“John Gandry,” Rocco, Jr., squeaked through his constricted larynx.
I let go and he fell a foot to the ground, collapsing into his chest and coughing. His face slowly began to get some natural color back. I could have held him against that tree all day and he’d never have developed petechial hemorrhages.
“You don’t know what strangling is, you leech. Where’s Shelton High School?” I demanded, and kicked him in the sole of his boot.
“Over there.” He pointed to a yellow brick building that was barely visible through the woods about a quarter of a mile away on a little hill in the opposite direction from Stevie Morris’s home.
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” he said, crying. “I ain’t done nothing. My father’s a real cop. I know my rights.”
“I don’t know what kind of bullshit they’re teaching you in school these days, but, kid, you shouldn’t talk bullshit to me. Now I’m going to put you on my probation. For the next year I’m going to be your probation officer. Whenever I see you again, anywhere, anytime, I’m going to hit you. If I see you in these woods I’m going to hit you five times. That’s a lot of times to be hit by me. Go to school, kid. It’s safer than hanging around, with me on the prowl.” I started walking uphill.
“He’s stone fucking crazy,” said Rocky’s bald friend with the stick. As I passed him, he made a wide circle around me to get
to young Rocky.
At Shelton High I went to the principal’s office on the first floor — a Darwin Hearn — and asked his middle-aged thin-lipped secretary in a purple dress if I could see him on official police business about a male student. While I stood over her desk, the secretary talked to Hearn on the phone and then kept me waiting five minutes, and enjoyed it. She finally showed me in. Two other men were already in the room. Hearn was sitting, and they were standing on either side of him. They must have come in through a door on the other side of what in private business would be considered a very large office. The principal looked to be less than thirty and the other two over forty, more my age.
“Sergeant, my secretary says you’d like to speak with us about one of our students,” said the principal through his blond beard and red lips.
I looked at the other two, waved at them with each hand, and said, “Sure, why not?”
“They’re my assistant principals, Mr. Scharff and Mr. Govados,” said Darwin Hearn.
“Sergeant Lou Razzi,” I said and shook everyone’s hand.
“John Gandry,” I said when we finished the handshaking.
“I kind of knew it,” said Govados, a good four inches shorter than me, wearing a five o’clock shadow and a pepper-and-salt crew cut, and sporting a brand-new gray University of Delaware sweatshirt. “The real bad ones only come to class when they’re hiding from the law, or the family court makes them. The term has two days left, and John Gandry shows up in gym today. Late, but he shows up. He hasn’t been to school in a month. I knew he was in trouble. He had that look, you know.”
“Believe me, I know. What time did he show up?” I asked.
“Gym started at eleven and he was about ten minutes late. What’s he done?”
“He’s suspected of attempting to kill a three-and-a-half-year-old boy sometime before eleven this morning at a shack a quarter of a mile due east of school. Does it sound like something he’d do?”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said Govados.
“I know the spot,” said the principal.
“That’s another thing,” I said. “There were seven boys lounging around the shack. They should have been in school, and even though it’s been a long time, I recognized the odor of marijuana. Two boys swallowed their reefers when I got there or I’d have brought them with me. Somebody better tear the shack down, and you ought to be aware of what’s going on so near the school. Marijuana leads to heroin.”
Govados and Scharff looked at Hearn. The three men looked confused.
“Yes, of course,” said Hearn. “We do our best to keep it out of the school, Officer. There is absolutely no marijuana smoking permitted on school property. The smoking lounge is for cigarettes only. The shack, of course, is not on school property.”
Now I was confused, but I’d been away a long time.
“Where is Gandry now?” I asked.
“What section’s he in?” asked Scharff.
“Nine-two,” said Govados.
Scharff stepped over to a big white cardboard chart on one wall of the principal’s office. It was full of neat rows of black lines and letters. He extended the pinky and thumb on each hand and ran them down the chart, keeping a straight line. That must be his job, I thought. Chart reading.
“He’s in Sociology,” said Scharff.
“Is that an advanced class?” I asked. “Is he bright?”
“God no,” said Hearn. “Sociology and Social Problems is a required part of the curriculum here at Shelton.”
“He’s a dumb shit,” said Govados.
“Yeah,” said Scharff.
“My height, long blond hair, skinny, about sixteen,” I said.
“That’s him,” said Govados.
“Can I look through a window of his classroom,” I asked, “and see him without him seeing me?”
“Sure. Take him up,” said Hearn to Govados. “I see no violation.”
“Violation?” I asked.
“School Board rules, the Student Rights Handbook, due process. I take it you must work with adult crime. Not too much experience with juveniles, eh, Officer?”
“I guess I’m a little rusty,” I said.
Govados took me up a flight of stairs to room 213. We looked through the window pane in the rear door. The students’ backs were to us, and most of the kids were more or less facing the front of the room. A young black-bearded and very skinny male teacher in a green corduroy jacket and tan corduroy pants was sitting on top of his desk at the front, with his feet on the desk and his arms wrapped around his bent knees and skinny legs. The students were doing many different things, but only a small group in front of him was looking directly at the teacher and paying attention to him.
“It’s the end of the term,” said Govados. “I guess it’s hard to keep their attention.”
“I’ll bet you could,” I said. “Gandry?” I pointed to a desk in the far corner by the window. I had his profile.
Govados nodded.
I studied Gandry. Blue jogging shoes. No socks. Dungarees held up by a wide black leather belt. Yellow cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. No books on his desk or anywhere near him. His head was bowed and he stared at the top of his desk. He looked like he was doing time, or had done some and knew how to do it. Tall for his age. Very thin. And very guilty of something. He was sitting there practicing a look of innocence and waiting for someone to find the body.
I told Govados that I’d be back and to keep John Gandry in school any way he could think of.
I walked back though the now empty woods to the Morrises’. They were pulling up behind my rented car. Good timing. There’s plenty of good luck around when things are going right. When a case breaks, it’s like an avalanche if you move quickly enough. Speed counts for everything.
I waved them to my car and opened the passenger door. “Let’s take a little ride,” I said.
“Did you find the bad boy?” Stevie asked when they all got in. “Did you spank him?”
“We’ll see,” I said and gave him a hug with my right arm as we drove away.
“Is that the bad boy?” I removed my arm and pointed to Rocco, Jr. He was standing on a corner. When he saw me point he ran away down the street.
“No,” said Stevie.
“When you see him you tell me, okay?”
From the back seat the Morrises stared intently out each side window.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” said Mrs. Morris nervously. “They said he was okay but he should get plenty of rest.” When no one answered she made a sucking sound with her teeth clenched, as if she had been stung by iodine on an open wound. Finally, she sighed loudly. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, letting Stevie get mixed up in a thing like this. He shouldn’t be sittin’ in the front seat of a car neither.”
A block from the school a black-and-white Wilmington patrol car with its red top lights flashing passed by me in the opposite direction. A young cop was behind the wheel, and he didn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry despite the emergency signal.
“Is that cop gonna catch the bad boy?” pleaded Stevie. He turned and looked back at his mother. “I don’t wanna catch the bad boy.” He started sniveling and cried softly the rest of the way, with his father saying, “There, kid,” and with me trying to comfort him with my right hand.
A bell sounded inside the school when we pulled up. Govados was outside waiting. I got out of the car and went straight up to Govados as the Morrises got Stevie and lagged nervously behind.
“It’s a change of class,” said Govados, “but it doesn’t affect Gandry. He’s still inside. He won’t be —”
“Stop it, Stevie!” yelled Mrs. Morris from behind me.
I turned to see Stevie furiously trying to pull his hand loose from his mother’s grip and get back in the car. Stevie started to scream and to breath
e in an unnatural pattern. He inhaled short, quick, audible gasps and exhaled loud crying screams. “I don’t wanna catch the bad boy,” he begged.
“He seen himself in the mirror,” Ralph said.
“I’ll take care of him,” Govados said to me and bounded toward Stevie. The screaming continued as Govados carried Stevie into the backseat of the car and put him down flat.
“I’m not puttin’ him through no more, and he ain’t goin’ through no trial neither,” Mrs. Morris yelled at me with her face pushed up to mine the way a short baseball manager might argue with a taller umpire. She then pushed Govados aside to scoop up Stevie in her chunky arms and hold him outside the car. Stevie’s breathing got more normal as she engulfed him and rocked him back and forth.
“When she says somethin’ she means it,” said Ralph. “You’re gonna hafta find ’is guy without Stevie.”
“Stevie,” I said. “You’re scared because you’re little. Your mom’s scared because you’re scared. Your dad’s not scared because he’s a brave man. Are you scared, Mr. Govados?”
“No, not at all,” he said.
“I’m not scared either, and I’m very strong and I have a gun.” I pulled it out and held it up. “And your daddy and Mr. Govados and I won’t let anything happen to you. We have to hurt that bad boy before he hurts somebody else who’s little. That bad boy is a fuck of a shit. We have to put him in jail. Stevie, you are the only good boy who knows what the bad boy looks like. Remember what you told me about his teeth?”
“Shiny teeth,” whimpered Stevie.
Mrs. Morris loosened her grip, and Govados snatched Stevie from her and said, “This brave policeman is going to catch the bad boy and you’re going to help him. We’ll go inside the school and get him. You just show us the bad boy, okay? Just point your finger at him.”
“Don’t see him,” sniffed Stevie.
“Not yet,” said Govados. “We’ll go inside the school and get him.”
I leaned over to Govados’s ear, away from the side where he held Stevie.
“He’s still in two-thirteen?” I whispered.
The Right to Remain Silent Page 7
