by Packer, Vin
“Yeah,” Jake said. He looked back at his paper and he said, “See your sister?” and turned a page.
“Evie?”
“Yeah, she just left a couple minutes ago.”
“I wasn’t here,” Charlie said. Jake was a stupid rhinoceros!
“Yeah, just left a couple minutes ago,” Jake said.
“Who with?”
“Jim Prince.”
Charlie said, “Oh.”
His straw made a noise in the bottom of the soda glass. He swung himself off the stool and walked out the door. It was hot in the street. Who the hell cared what Evie did or said or thought? Russel Lofton must have told her he was going to get married to old gin-pot!
Charlie, Charlie, don’t let it hurt you, son. Don’t let it!
I got news for you. It’s painless.
Don’t give in, boy. Fifty years from now you’ll never know the difference.
You don’t seem to understand that I’m perfectly O.K. right now. Outlook — optimistic.
Charlie turned off Broad and walked toward the movie theater. It was air-conditioned. That was the only reason he was going to the stinking moving pictures. Next thing you knew his mother would buy a lousy television set and stick it right in the living room and lie around and watch movies all day. It was the trend of the times.
It was an old movie. He’d seen it. Gary Cooper strutting around in tight pants and the song yelling do not desert me oh my darling all over the place.
Charlie sat down in the back row and watched. He couldn’t help it, he felt like crying. If anyone walked in and saw him blubbering in the back row of the Majestic they’d think he was off his stick!
You tried so hard. You’re young and sweet and you tried so damn hard, kid!
I didn’t understand.
You still don’t. No one would. You won’t forget right away, but someday you’ll laugh at it.
I thought I loved her. I thought it was going to be beautiful. You know how I felt. God, I never felt that way. I didn’t mean to shake her. I was scared.
First she was all over you. Those fingers of hers. Then when you tried to kiss her she went cold.
I know it.
It wasn’t your fault.
She said I was just a dumb clumsy kid!
She didn’t say that at all!
Yes, she did.
You’re imagining that. She didn’t say it. I swear on my eyesight.
Charlie looked back at the picture. The song was all about being a man, about not being a coward and being a man. It was such a lousy stunt that Gary Cooper was pulling. Running around out in Hollywood, California, U.S.A., with his sunglasses and big cars pretending he was a lousy cowboy.
Then Charlie had a crackpot idea that it never happened. The whole thing never happened. He hadn’t even seen her that day. If he had seen her, why wasn’t he drunk? He drank all that icky gin and his gut must be full of it. So why wasn’t he drunk? It was all folly. God, he couldn’t even tell the difference between fact and fiction any more, he was so squirrely.
He watched the movie carefully. He wondered what all those men and women did when they weren’t making movies. Oh, he knew! Sure, he knew.
The movie was almost over. He had come in toward the end. He looked around the theatre to see who he would be sitting under bright lights with during the intermission. A dart of heat went up in his stomach. Four rows away Evie was sitting beside Jim Prince and he had his long arm wrapped around her shoulder. They were all but necking. God, the things a kid was exposed to! At every turn!
Charlie got up immediately and walked out of the movie house. He’d be damned if he’d speak to them. It was hot as hell and he’d go home and take a cold shower and talk to his mother.
Well, go the right way.
There’s no hurry.
Where you going?
Not where you think I’m going.
Charlie, get a grip on yourself!
It’s broad daylight.
What’s that got to do with it?
Why don’t you go back and see the rest of the lousy movie? They’ll let you in. You’re invisible.
Grinning, Charlie put his hands in his pockets and walked along slowly. Everybody was at the lake swimming. He could swim if he wanted to learn, but why the hell should he? Even Merrill Watkins could swim. That midget! Charlie wondered when Merrill would be home. They couldn’t be friends any more. Too much water under the bridge for that.
There was one thing about Azrael, you could be left alone. Just make everyone hate you and you could be left the hell alone. Charlie knew full well he didn’t have a friend in the entire town. There was no one he wanted for a friend.
Her name is Jill.
His I.Q. was too high for friends. He was a brain.
Her name is Jill.
All right, all right, all the sneaky thoughts that wanted to pester him could, but he wasn’t going to pay any attention to them. They were automatic. Habit. It’d all stop soon.
Charlie walked and walked. He circled streets and went up one side and down the other. What if he was near Deel? It was a small town, wasn’t it?
His hands were fists. He was soaked with sweat.
What the hell did Gary Cooper know?
Her name is Jill.
Charlie felt the sledge hammer in his brain. Gee whiz, gee whiz, I’m sick, he thought. I’m not well. I want to lie on the grass and hold my head. Aw, Mom, I’m sick. Your kid’s sick. Don’t you have time, Mom? Don’t you have time for your kid who’s sick?
He’d find Mom. She’d help. If he hurried, she’d help. He tried to run but it made his head hurt more and he slowed down and said, “Easy, boy, easy there, sonny,” to himself. She’d have time for him. Nobody ever said she didn’t. She’d been taking care of him all his life and she was good. Ah, God, she was a good mom.
It was as though he had walked a very long, long way. A journey, really. As though he had taken a journey. When he saw the house, the headache eased. He walked right toward it. The sun was going down. It was still there but it was going down. Not really. It was broad daylight. Charlie kept walking. He had to make it. His knuckles were white. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The hammer came back, tapping gently.
The driveway was gravel. His shoes sounded heavy on the gravel. He walked around to the back of the house and he kept thinking, Please have time, Mom, for your kid. Your kid is sick. Let Lofton get dinner somewhere else, Mom.
There was a light in the kitchen. The steps leading to the back porch led directly into the kitchen. For a moment he stood there looking toward the light and the steps. Then he walked up the steps slowly, his jaw tight to keep his lips from quivering, his eyes blazing.
The screen door was open. He saw three things. He saw a coffeepot on the stove. He saw a loaf of bread on the table with a long silver knife beside it. And he saw Miss Jill Latham.
Chapter Fourteen
We will further prove that the defendant showed no remorse over his crime, that his reaction to his murder of Miss Jill Latham was as cool and coldhearted as was his manner of committing the terrible act.”
— From the opening speech of the prosecutor, Nathan Lee
PATROLMAN ED WYATT was standing on the corner of Broad and Allen, mopping his brow. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and he was off at five. He thought he might take the wife and kids out to Green Lake for a swim, grab a fish fry, then drive over to the Sloan County Fair after. A little excitement for a muggy Saturday night at the end of July.
When he saw the boy coming toward him, he did not recognize him, but the boy waved and Ed waved back. The boy had on blue cord pants, a white shirt, and brown shoes. He was holding his hand to his chest, covering it with his other hand, and when he got closer, Ed recognized Em Wright’s kid. He saw the dark stain on the kid’s shirt, and the blood on the kid’s hand.
“Badly hurt, fellow?” he asked.
“Cut my hand,” Charlie Wright answered. He looked at the policeman directly, his eyes earne
st and friendly. He said, “I guess it’s pretty deep.”
“Let’s see.” Wyatt looked down and saw a small slash on the back of the kid’s hand near the knuckle. It wasn’t a serious slash but Wyatt said, “Better take care of it right away.
“Yes,” Charlie Wright answered.
“Maybe down at Kelley’s Pharmacy they’ll have a bandage,” Wyatt said. He began to walk along with the boy. “Your name’s Chuck, isn’t it?”
“Charlie,” Charlie told him. “Charlie Wright.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around the Gazette…. How’d you do it?”
“I just killed someone,” Charlie said. “Miss Latham. Runs the Red Clover Bookshop. You know. I just killed Miss Latham,” Charlie repeated, “with a knife.”
Wyatt gripped the boy’s arm, stared at him. Charlie Wright met his glance. There was still that expression of amiability, innocent sincerity. Wyatt said, “What!”
“Yes,” Charlie said. “Back at her house. Deel Street.”
Wyatt tightened his grip on Charlie’s arm. He said, “Well, my God!” and then, suddenly becoming an officer of the law, remembering himself as Patrolman Ed Wyatt, he said, “Come on,” very calmly. “Come on. We’ll take a look.”
Charlie said, “I left my coat there. It’s all bloody.”
They walked along quietly at first and Charlie asked Wyatt if he had a handkerchief. Wyatt gave him one and Charlie wrapped it around his hand. “Don’t want it to get infected,” he explained. Wyatt mumbled something and went faster, pulling Charlie along with him. A few people in the street were staring at the pair. Wyatt kept his eyes in front of him, his face expressionless. Somehow he didn’t believe the boy. Maybe the kid had gone nuts. He said, “Losing much blood?”
“Some. Yes.”
Wyatt was glad when they came to Deel. Charlie told him it was the house at the end of the block. Wyatt remembered Jill Latham well. She was a beauty. Now and then they passed the time of day. His beat took him right past the bookstore.
Charlie said, “Back door,” and they walked down the drive. The crunch of gravel under their feet sounded ominously loud and Wyatt did not hold the kid’s arm any more. The kid said, “Up these steps.”
There was no beauty left on the face of the woman on the floor. The face was contorted with agony. The royal-blue robe was drenched and dark with blood; the white lace was red now. She was still alive. There were hard gasps coughing from her throat, and as Wyatt bent over her, she twisted her head painfully and looked at him.
Wyatt’s insides looped and he said, “Did the kid do it — Charles Wright?”
She stared at Wyatt and said, “Yes.”
“Why did he do it?” Wyatt asked.
“He — didn’t know — I — was a-afraid too.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. She bit her lips and shut her eyes in pain and turned her head back so that it faced up to the ceiling.
Ed Wyatt got up from his knees and looked at Charlie. Charlie was holding his coat over his arm, staring down at her. Wyatt said, “Where’s the phone?” and the kid led him into the hallway and stood beside him while Wyatt called an ambulance, then headquarters. The kid kept watching his hand bleed, knotting the handkerchief tighter around it.
After he hung up he said, “We’ll wait here,” and the kid nodded. Wyatt said, “Why did you do it?” and he felt like taking the kid by the neck and socking the stuffing out of him. But mostly he was bewildered. A murder in Azrael, Vermont. My God. So he just said, “Why did you do it?”
Charlie Wright looked at him. Then he looked down. He shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t know why?” Wyatt said.
Charlie said, “It’s involved.” It was a plain straight statement, stated as a fact with no emotion in his voice. Then very quietly he held his hand out before Wyatt and said, “I ought to get some iodine or something on this. Don’t want to get infected.”
• • •
Late that night Detective Millard Kahl questioned the boy at police headquarters in Azrael, Vermont. The boy’s arm was bandaged and Kahl had the boy’s statement to Chief Radkit before him. Mrs. Wright, her daughter, and Mr. Russel Lofton were on their way to headquarters for questioning. According to the boy, he had murdered Jill Latham immediately before he had approached Patrolman Wyatt. He had gone directly to the policeman to confess his crime. During the time that he had spent at headquarters, Miss Latham had died in Azrael City Hospital. Upon being informed of this, the boy had seemed indifferent. He had made no comment.
Detective Kahl looked at Charlie Wright carefully. He appeared completely oblivious of the meaning of his act. He answered the questions promptly, with no change in his facial expression. His expression was placid, almost benign.
“You claim you don’t know the reason for it?” Kahl asked. “No.”
“Do you remember doing it?” “Yes.”
“What did you use? What weapon?” “A silver knife.”
“What did you think when you saw her sitting at the table in the kitchen drinking coffee?”
“I remembered that my mother said caffeine was good for headaches. I had a headache.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“That’s what I remember.”
“And the headache was from the gin that you had earlier at her home?” “Yes.”
“And earlier at her home, you say she kissed you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She liked me, I guess.”
“And did you like her?”
“She was all right.”
“Had you visited her before?”
“I wrote all that down. I mean, I told it all.”
“Would you repeat it?”
“I saw her two times before. Once I had a soft drink after I walked her home from the library. I didn’t stay long that time. Another time I went to see her. She played a record and we danced. That was the first time she did it.”
“Did what?”
“I told you,” he said quietly. “Kissed me.”
“And how did you feel?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You went to see her again.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you think of a reason?”
“Yes, but-”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said.
“You know we’re asking you these questions because we’re trying to help you.” “Yes.”
“Your mother and sister are on their way down. And Mr. Lofton.” “They know?”
“Yes,” Kahl said. “They can’t believe it.”
The boy didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a while. Kahl watched the boy. Once or twice the boy looked up and searched Kahl’s face as though he might find a reason for what he had done in Kahl’s expression. Detective Kahl felt sorry for the kid. He didn’t know why. A brutal murder like that. Maybe the Latham girl was a screwball, a nympho, a dipso, but to put a knife in her breast!
“You don’t have anything more to say, then?” Detective Kahl said.
“No.” The boy looked down at his bandaged hand. He said, “I suppose I’ll sleep here tonight.”
Kahl said, “That’s right. From now until the trial.”
Charlie Wright nodded. “O.K.,” he answered.
Chapter Fifteen
Dr. Alvin Jewitt has stated that in his opinion the defendant is insane according to the definition of the law. He has shown in this report that Charles Wright was suffering from a mental disorder that rendered him not responsible for his acts. I shall use his report as the basis for my defense of this young man. None of us can pretend to know the intricacies of the sane mind, and the intricacies of the insane mind are even more vague. When they involve murder, it is our duty to rely heavily on the knowledge of trained psychiatrists. It is our responsibility to check our indignation at the crime, as well as our cries
of “Avenge the crime,” and be humble in the face of what we may not know, for the sake of justice in the eyes of God.”
— From the opening statement of the defense counsel, Russel Lofton
CHARLIE SAT in the little room with the barred windows and listened to Dr. Jewitt talk. This room had been his home for three days. His books were there. His mother had brought them to him, her face white, her words hesitant, as though she were afraid to say them; as though she no longer knew him. She had brought the books he requested and sometimes he read from them when he was alone. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Jewitt came all the time to see him and they talked for hours and hours, but most of the time Charlie was alone.
“Why did you grin when I said that?” Dr. Jewitt said.
“Because it struck me as funny for you to want to know all these things. I mean, what do you care?”
“Are you embarrassed to talk about sex?”
“I’m not embarrassed, but why do you want to know?”
“I want to help you.”
“Well, the answer is yes. I never thought whether it was harmful or not. Is it supposed to be unique?” “Certainly not. It’s a part of growing up.” “Then what’s so special?”
“Well,” Dr. Jewitt said, “what you thought when you did it.”
“That’s special?”
“I think it might be.”
“I don’t remember,” Charlie answered. “I thought of other people sometimes. Women. Not pretty ones, either. I didn’t give two cents for pretty ones. What do you make out of that? She was pretty.”
“Who?”
“Miss Latham,” Charlie said. To himself he thought, Jill! She was real pretty, but it was funny. When he saw her on the floor, when he came back with the cop and saw her on the floor, he didn’t even care. She was nothing. Nothing. Bloody and half dead. What had she meant when she said she was afraid too? He thought about that a lot, but not as though it were important. More as though it was something someone had said to him once a long time ago and he had just thought of it again.
“Yes, she was,” Dr. Jewitt answered.
