Gray looked in at the motionless figure face-down on the cot. Eddie had been lying like this when Gray had first seen him, but there was a new rigidity now to the look of the square back, a change in the whole feeling of the way the boy lay.
The guard said, “I told him you wanted to talk to him in the office. He wouldn’t say a word. I could—”
Gray said, “Never mind. I’ll talk to him here.” He looked at the guard searchingly. “He knows about his mother’s death,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
The guard shrugged helplessly. “I guess he does. Orders were not to tell him, but you know how it is. Grapevine, maybe. Or maybe somebody goofed.”
Gray said, “Well, it’s done now. Open the door, will you?”
Eddie did not stir as the lock clicked, the hinges squeaked, and Gray walked in to stand beside him, looking down.
“This is Michael Gray, Eddie,” he said in a quiet voice. “I had some bad news for you, but I guess you’ve already heard. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you what happened myself.”
Eddie didn’t stir.
Gray said, “I have to talk to you, Eddie. I’ve been seeing a lot of people since I talked to you last. I’ve found out some things that maybe you don’t know. If you could help me a little I think we can really find out the truth. About what happened to your mother and what happened to Ann Avery. Eddie, will you help me?”
Eddie did not seem to have heard. Gray frowned down at him, disturbed by the apathy that had apparently seized the boy. It could be a dangerous apathy, and the boy might sink too deep into it to struggle free unless, somehow, he could be stirred to life.
Gray said, “Who was it killed Ann Avery, Eddie?”
No response.
Gray drew a deep breath and said with sudden, sharp command, “Eddie, sit up!”
An involuntary stirring of surprise moved the boy’s limbs a little. Before he could settle back into his apathy, Gray snapped again, “Sit up!”
For a moment Eddie didn’t move. Then the head resting on his bent arm rose just a little. Nothing more. Eddie waited indecisively.
Gray stooped and with firm, gentle hands gripped the boy’s shoulders, lifting him off the bed. Eddie stiffened at the touch, then allowed himself to be raised until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. His chin rested on his chest, and he stared down at his own toes.
Gray put his hand under Eddie’s chin and lifted it. The boy’s gaze met his own.
Gray felt sudden shock. He had seldom seen such concentrated hatred in a look.
“Who killed Ann Avery?” he asked again, keeping his voice calm but incisive.
Eddie’s lips moved a little. He shut his eyes tight.
“Open your eyes!”
Eddie obeyed. The hatred was still there, but a deep and terrible distress looked out at Gray now along with it. Hatred and fear and anguish.
The boy tried to turn his face away. Gray’s grip was steady on his chin. Eddie’s gaze shifted quickly. He was not looking now into Gray’s eyes. He spoke in a choked voice.
“I…all right, I…killed—” He stopped.
Gray said, “Look at me. Tell me the truth.”
The boy’s lips moved again, but no words came out. Some violent conflict was seething in him. Gray felt the tension seem to rise until the air between them almost burned with it. He knew this was a crisis. A dangerous crisis. If he could somehow, even by force, break through the barriers that locked the boy’s mind in a strong grip of fear and hate—then perhaps he could save Eddie. Somehow, irrationally, he felt sure of it. And he felt equally sure that if he failed now there might be no second chance.
Gray had to make a choice. The boy was at a crossroad. But Gray didn’t know which turn might lead narrower and deeper into darkness, and which might take Eddie painfully upward to freedom. This was a chance he had to take, making the right choice almost blindly.
He locked Eddie’s gaze with his.
He said, “Who killed her, Eddie?”
Eddie’s face was bleak under his gripping hand. All the color drained out of it, leaving the skin gray-white and cold against Gray’s fingers. The fear in the boy’s eyes mounted to a blind panic. A frozen look, Gray thought. He had to break through the freeze somehow.
He tightened his grip on the boy’s chin and snapped his hand left and then right, sharply, shaking Eddie’s head—not hard, but with a sense of shock.
Eddie’s mouth opened. He croaked, a hoarse, wordless noise. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.
Gray said, “Who killed her?” His voice was relentless.
The tension had mounted to a screaming, silent peak—and Gray felt it explode under his hand. Eddie wrenched free. His mouth opened to a straining square. He shouted at the top of his voice, raucously, a yell of blind rage that echoed from wall to wall of the little cell.
“You God-damned son of a bitch! You son of a bitch! You–you killed her! You killed her! YOU KILLED HER!”
He scrambled back on the bed, pressed himself against the wall. His face was scarlet now. He shouted defiance in meaningless phrases. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his mouth.
The guard’s alarmed face looked through the glass in the door. Gray shook his head at him and stood silent, waiting. Gradually the boy’s rage poured itself out.
Gray sat down on the edge of the cot. Eddie winced, choked on a word, and was silent. Fear was coming back into his face, replacing the rage.
Gray said gently, “I won’t hurt you, Eddie. Everything’s all right.”
The boy stared at him, still in panic at the memory of the rage he had poured out against Gray. But Gray knew he wasn’t the real target of that wild hostility. He said nothing. He smiled at Eddie. There was warmth in the smile, and reassurance. It held more meaning than any words Gray could have said.
And it was enough. Eddie lurched sidewise, threw himself face-down, and began to cry, aching, painful sobs that shook the bed. Gray waited. Once he put his hand out toward Eddie’s shoulder, but then he shook his head slightly and withdrew it. After a long time Eddie spoke, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I guess…I guess I must be crazy.”
“You’ve had a rough time,” Gray said.
“I didn’t mean—what I said.”
“Sure you did,” Gray told him. “There’s nothing wrong about getting mad.”
“But I…I’m not mad at you.”
“You can be, if you want to. It’s good to blow off. If you don’t, sometimes you build too much pressure inside.”
The boy didn’t answer.
Gray said, “Here.” He lit two cigarettes, handed one to the boy. Eddie sat up, not looking at Gray, accepting the cigarette. Side by side on the edge of the cot, they sat smoking, looking at the wall.
Gray said, “Why did I kill her, Eddie?”
Eddie mumbled. “I must have been crazy. I don’t know why I said that. You couldn’t have killed my mo—”
“Your mother?” Gray said, when he paused.
“No. I meant—Mrs. Avery.” He hesitated, puzzled. “I shouldn’t have got mad,” he said, with the air of one ending a discussion.
Gray wouldn’t let him. “Everybody gets mad,” he said. “Mad enough to kill somebody, now and then.”
Eddie shook his head slowly. “I—I feel mixed up. My mother—I’ve been mad as hell at her. But—she’s dead. I have a funny feeling that I—”
“That you what, Eddie?”
“That I stabbed her.”
“Stabbed who?” Gray asked, watching him.
Eddie opened his mouth and closed it. He said vaguely, “They say she was beaten up. She wasn’t stabbed, was she? It was Ann that got stabbed. Mrs. Avery.”
“That’s right. Eddie, when you heard your mother was dead you wouldn’t move or speak for a while. Do you know why you did that? Do you remember how you felt?”
Eddie shut his eyes. “Crazy,” he said. “This is crazy. I knew what they told me, all right. But I was—mixe
d up. My mother—I wasn’t thinking about her. All I could think was, ‘Ann’s dead.’ Like that. ‘Anns dead.’ It was like—like I hadn’t really known she was dead till then.”
Gray said, “I think I see. Mrs. Avery and your mother got mixed up a little in your mind.”
The boy shivered. “Mixed up,” he repeated. “Jesus! I can’t figure anything out.”
Gray waited. When Eddie said nothing more, he spoke in a meditative voice, casually. “Eddie, do you know anything about your father?”
Eddie frowned. “No.”
“Nothing at all? Is there anybody who might know?”
“I guess not.” A slight edge of hostility sounded in the boy’s voice. “Unless maybe—”
“Maybe?”
“I never thought of that before. But maybe Ann knew. I think she knew my mother. When I was little.” Eddie looked intently at nothing. “I remember the ring,” he said slowly. “I was a real little kid. But I remember it. I remember my mother wearing the ring. Only…this is crazy. It scared me.”
“What did?”
“The whole thing. Ann giving me the ring. The way she acted…I thought she—she was making a pass at me. It was—I don’t know. Creepy.”
“Why?”
Eddie shook himself. “I don’t know why. I’ve been around. I’m no kid. Women don’t scare me. Only—it seemed all wrong, somehow. I guess it was the ring. It was—” He closed his eyes, trying hard to remember. “Mom used to be—better than she is now. She used to—like me better. A long time ago. That’s when she used to wear the ring. I remember playing with it sometimes when I was a little kid. But later on, she—”
“What?”
“She…didn’t like me much. I can’t remember, it was so long ago. I used to think about the ring—you know, if I could only find it she’d be nice to me again.” His voice tightened. He turned his face away.
“Did you remember all this when Mrs. Avery gave you the ring?” Gray asked.
“No, I didn’t. Not all at once. I just knew I liked it. It made me feel good.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “I wish I knew what scared me. But…look, I’m all mixed up. My mother was killed. I—I—” He looked helplessly at Gray. “I don’t know,” he said in a shaken whisper.
Gray knew what he meant. “Don’t push it,” he said. “It takes time.” He thought. “I’ll try to get back to see you tonight, Eddie. But if I can’t, I’ll be in tomorrow morning.”
Eddie nodded slowly.
Gray said to Zucker, “I asked Eddie who killed Ann Avery. First he said he did.”
The detective shrugged.
Gray went on, “Then he said I did. What do you make of that?”
“Nothing,” Zucker said. “What the hell is there to make of it?”
Gray said, “It gave me some ideas. Eddie’s mother treated him pretty badly. He must have felt like killing her plenty of times. So—”
“So he feels guilty when she is killed,” Zucker interrupted. “Nothing new about that. Happens all the time.”
“All right. Then why did he go on to say I killed her?”
“There’s no why about something like that. He was just sounding off.”
Gray said, “Eddie’s illegitimate. He hasn’t got any father, never remembers one. To him, a father must mean somebody who’s skipped out and left him. Somebody who’s hurt him and his mother. I should think it’s something he’s always resented, ever since he was old enough to realize other kids had fathers and he didn’t. That’s probably one reason for his delinquency. He may have been trying to make up for something he missed. He did it the hard way. Part of it must have been a rebellion against authority. To him, authority may have meant the father who deserted him.”
Gray shrugged. “I’m authority to him, so I’m his father. So he blames me for everything bad that’s happened to him.”
Zucker groaned. “Theories. Why doesn’t he think I’m his father?”
Gray smiled. “He does. Every cop is. Every judge is. Maybe every adult male is, to Eddie.” He was silent a moment, thinking.
“A funny angle, though,” he said. “Eddie got all mixed up between Blanche and Ann Avery. He didn’t seem to feel sure for a minute which of them was stabbed. He felt guilty about them both. And he said he hadn’t really felt Ann was dead until Blanche died.” Gray paused again. “There’s something there. I can’t quite get hold of it, but it’s something.”
“Something crazy,” Zucker said.
“The ring’s an odd thing, too,” Gray went on. “He connects the ring with love. Blanche used to wear it when he was small and she was kinder to him. Before she started on the downgrade, I suppose. When Ann Avery gave him the ring, he got scared. Very scared. And he thought she was trying to make a pass at him.”
Zucker said, “Well, maybe she was. If she was sleeping with that teacher, Quentin, why should she stop there?”
“Was she sleeping with him?”
“Hell, I guess so. Why not? Why did she pick up Eddie in the first place? Some of these married women never get enough, especially if they’re married to a cold fish like Tod Avery.”
“What I wonder,” Gray said, “is why Eddie was scared.”
“He’s just a kid. Maybe it was the first time for him.”
“He says he’s had sexual experiences before.”
“Maybe he’s bragging.”
Gray shook his head. “I’ll have to think it over. Let it incubate. Maybe I’ll get hold of the answer if I stop trying too hard.” He glanced at his watch.
“Harry,” he said, “I want to talk to Quentin. How about it?”
Zucker scratched his jaw and looked undecided. Rather hopelessly he said, “Why not leave it to us, Mike?”
“I can’t,” Gray said. “You know I can’t. Not since that letter turned up. I keep feeling another right guess or two might clear everything up. If Eddie didn’t kill Ann Avery, then we’ve got a murderer walking around free, and there isn’t any reason why he has to stop at two killings. Besides, Harry, it isn’t the killings alone. Eddie’s future is right in the balance now. He could go either way.”
Zucker nodded. “All right, Mike. See Quentin if you have to. I can’t stop you. But watch your step.”
“Have any of your people seen him yet?”
“Yes. He knows what we know by now. He’s probably still at home. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but remember one thing—we’re burying the narcotics angle. Don’t bring the subject up.”
Gray raised his eyebrows.
Zucker said, “The narcotics boys are very interested in Ann’s letter. She didn’t say anything definite, of course, but what she did say seems to tie in with leads they’re already following. You know how hard it is to get evidence against top men in the distributing racket. Well, they think they’ve got something. But for them, it’s a matter of timing. If anybody tips the word too soon, they might as well go home and go to bed. Just stay away from the narcotics angle, Mike.”
“Who is it they’re after?” Gray asked. “Somebody I’ve met in this case?”
“What you don’t know,” Zucker told him, “you can’t spill. Go on and see Quentin if you have to, but be careful. By the way, I’ve got a couple of boys over at Blanche’s room going through her things. Give me a ring when you finish with Quentin. I might have some news for you.”
“Good,” Gray said. “I will. I might even have some news for you, too, by then.”
16
There was nothing about the neighborhood Quentin lived in, or the outside appearance of his apartment building, to prepare Gray for the expensive splendor inside. Quentin answered his ring slowly. When he saw Gray he said in a resigned voice, “I wondered if you were going to show up, too. Come in.”
The living room was not really large, but it looked large because the decorator had known how to create the illusion. Subtle coloring, subtle line, rich fabrics, combined to soothe and deceive the eye. The room was a work of art. And yet something w
as missing. A sense of being lived in, perhaps, Gray thought, comparing it with the Reiners’ shabby and comfortable home. He looked at Quentin speculatively.
The teacher’s thin face was haggard today. A half-empty highball glass, with ice tinkling in it, sat on the coffee table before the curved sectional sofa that lined two walls of the room. Quentin, reaching for the glass, said,
“Want a drink? I know it’s early. I’ve just had a session with the police, and I needed this.”
Gray shook his head. “No, thanks. I won’t take much of your time.”
“Well, sit down anyhow. I’m glad you came. I wanted to thank you. After I had had time to think things over, I realized you were right about not pushing charges against Witczak when his gang jumped us.”
Gray said, “I don’t know if I was right or not. These things aren’t ever simple enough to be sure about.”
“Maybe not,” Quentin said. “Are they releasing Eddie now?”
“No. Why?”
Quentin looked surprised. “But his mother was killed last night. Eddie couldn’t have done it. Surely it’s obvious he isn’t guilty of the—the other killing either.”
“You think both murders were committed by the same person?”
“They must have been. It’s a matter of probability. Do you know what the chances are of two people in the same family being involved in murder within such a short time just by chance? I’ve been figuring it. It can be quantified—we know how many murders occur in this country annually and how many families there are, and—”
Gray said, “I thought you were convinced Eddie killed Mrs. Avery, not so long ago.”
Quentin flushed. “That was before Blanche Udall died. And before I knew about the—the letter.”
“Did you read the letter?” Gray asked.
“No. They didn’t even tell me there was one until after they’d questioned me nearly an hour. I didn’t really intend to hide anything—about Ann and me, I mean. I just didn’t see what good it could do to blacken her name after she was gone. The whole thing was a private matter between us.”
“It might have helped Eddie if you’d told the truth,” Gray reminded him.
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