The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  I shook my head. “Nope. Let’s go check the files, huh?”

  “Sure. Can I ride with you? I rode in with Thompson; he’ll have to stay.”

  “Come along,” I told him.

  * * * *

  By ten fifteen that evening, we had narrowed the field down considerably. We fed all the data we had into the computer, including the general type number of the spermatic fluid, which Dr. Prouty had given us, and watched while the machine sorted through the characteristics of all the known criminals in its memory.

  Kleek and I were sitting at a desk drinking hot, black coffee when the computer technician came over and handed Kleek the results at ten fifteen. “Quite a bunch of ’em, Inspector,” he said, “but the geographic compartmentalization will help.”

  Kleek glanced over the neatly-printed sheaf of papers that the computer had turned out, then handed them to me. “There we are, Roy. One of those zanies is our boy.”

  I looked at the list. Every person on it was either a confirmed or suspected psychopath, and each one of them conformed to the set of specifications we had fed the computer. They were listed in four different groups, according to the distance they lived from the scene of the crime—half a mile, two miles, five miles, and “remainder,” the rest of the city.

  “All we got to do,” Kleek said complacently, “is start rounding ’em up.”

  “You make it sound easy,” I said tightly.

  He put down his coffee cup. “Hell, Roy, it is easy! We’ve got all these characters down on the books, don’t we? We know what they are, don’t we? Look at ’em! Once in a while a new one pops up, and we put him on the list. Once in a while we catch one and send him up. Practically cut and dried, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Look, Roy,” he went on, “we got it down to a fine art now—have for years.” He waved in the general direction of the computer. “We got the advantage that it’s easier to sort ’em out now, and faster—but the old tried-and-true technique is just the same. Cops have been catching these goons in every civilized country on Earth for a hundred years by this technique.”

  “Sam,” I said wearily, “are you going to give me a lecture on police methods?”

  He picked up his cup, held it for a moment, then set it down again, his eyes hardening. “Yes, Roy, I am! I’m older than you are, I’ve got more years on the Force, I’ve been working with Homicide longer, and I outrank you in grade by two and a half years! Yes, I figure it’s about time I lectured you! You want to listen?”

  I looked at him. Kleek is a good cop, I was thinking, and he deserves to be listened to, even if I don’t agree with him.

  “O.K., Sam,” I said, “I’ll listen.”

  * * * *

  “O.K., then.” He took a breath. “Now, we got a system here that works. The nuts always show themselves up, one way or another. Most of ’em have been arrested by the time they’re fourteen, fifteen years old. Maybe we can’t nail ’em down and pin anything on ’em, but we got ’em down on the books. We know they have to be watched. We got ninety per cent of the queers and hopheads and stew-bums and firebugs and the rest of the zanies down on our books”—he waved toward the computer again—“and down in the memory bank of the computer. We know we’re gonna get ’em eventually, because we know they’re gonna goof up eventually, and then we’ll have ’em. We’ll have ’em”—he made a clutching gesture with his right hand—“right where it hurts!

  “You take this Donahue killer. We know where he is. We can be pretty sure we got him down on the books.” He tapped the sheaf of papers from the computer with a firm forefinger. “We can be pretty sure that he’s one of those guys right down there!”

  He waved his hand again, but, this time, he took in the whole city—the whole outside world. “Like clock-work. The minute they goof, we nab ’em.”

  “Sam,” I said, “just listen to me a minute. We know that ninety per cent of the men on that list right there are going to be convicted of a crime of violence inside the next five years, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you. The minute—”

  “Wait a minute; wait a minute. Just listen. Why don’t we just go out and arrest them all right now? Look at all the trouble that would save us.”

  “Hell, Roy! You can’t arrest a man unless he’s done something! What would you charge ’em with? Loitering with intent to commit a nuisance?”

  “No. But we can—”

  I was cut off by a uniformed cop who stuck his head in the door and said: “Inspector Royall, Dr. Brownlee called. Says they picked up Hammerlock Smith. He’s at the 87th Precinct. Wants you to come down right away if you can.”

  I stood up and grabbed my hat. “Sam, you can sit on this one for a while, huh? I’ve been waiting for Hammerlock Smith to fall for two months.”

  Sam Kleek looked disgusted. “And you’ll see that he gets psycho treatment and a suspended sentence. A few days in the looney ward, and then right back out on the street. Hammerlock Smith! There’s a case for you! Built like a gorilla and has a passion for Irish whisky and sixteen-year-old boys—and you think you can cure him in three days! Nuts!”

  I didn’t feel like arguing with him. “We might as well let him go now as lock him up for three or four months and then let him go, Sam. Why fool around with assault and battery charges when we can wait for him to murder somebody and then lock him up for good, eh, Sam? What’s another victim more or less, as long as we get the killer?”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” he said stolidly. “To get killers.” He scratched at his balding head. “I don’t get you, Roy. I’d think you’d want these maniacs put away, after your—”

  He stopped himself, wet his lips, and said: “O.K. You go ahead and take care of Smith. Get some sleep. I’m going to. I’ll leave orders to call us both if anything breaks in the Donahue case.”

  I just nodded and walked out. I didn’t want to hear any more.

  But the door didn’t close tightly, and I heard Kleek’s voice as he spoke to the computer tech. “I just don’t figure Roy. His wife died in a fire set by an arson bug, and he wants to—”

  I kept on walking as the door clicked shut.

  * * * *

  I was in my office at nine the next morning, after seven and a half hours of sleep on one of the bunks in the ready room. The business with Hammerlock Smith had taken more time than I had thought it would. The big, stupid ape had been in a vicious mood, reeking of whisky and roaring insults at everyone. His cursing was neither inventive nor colorful, consisting of only four unlovely words used over and over again in various combinations with ordinary ones, a total vocabulary of maybe a dozen words.

  It had taken four cops, using night-sticks, to get him into the paddy wagon, and Dr. Brownlee had finally had to give him a blast of super-tranquilizer with a hypogun.

  “Boy, Inspector,” one of the officers had said, “don’t let anyone ever tell you some of these guys aren’t tough!”

  I was looking over the written report. “What about this kid he accosted in the bar? Hurt bad?”

  “Cracked rib, sprained wrist, and a bloody nose, sir. The doc said he’d be O.K.”

  “According to the report here, the kid was twenty-two years old. Smith usually picks ’em younger.”

  The cop grinned. “Smith had to get his eventually, sir. This guy looks pretty young, but he was a boxer in college. He probably couldn’t’ve whipped Smith, but he had guts enough to try.”

  “Think he’ll testify?”

  “Said he would, sir. We already got his signature on the complaint while he was at the hospital. He’s pretty mad.”

  Smith’s record was long and ugly. Of the eight complaints made by young boys who had managed to brush off or evade Hammerlock’s advances, six hadn’t come to trial because there were no corroborating witnesses, and the charges had been dismissed. Two of the cases had come before a jury—and had resulted in acquittals. Cold sober, Smith presented a fairly decent picture. I
t was hard to convince a jury of ordinary citizens that so masculine-looking a specimen was homosexual.

  The odd thing was that the psychopathic twist which got Hammerlock Smith into trouble had been able to get him out of it again. Both times, Smith’s avowal that he had done no such disgusting thing had been corroborated by a lie detector test. Smith—when he was sober—had no recollection of his acts when drunk, and apparently honestly believed that he was incapable of doing what we knew he had done.

  This time, though, we had him dead to rights. He had never made his play in a bar before, and we had three witnesses, plus an assault and battery charge. As Inspector Kleek had said, we get ’em eventually.…

  …But at what cost? How many teenage boys had been frightened or whipped into doing as he told them and then been too ashamed and sick with themselves to say anything? How many young lives had been befouled by Smith’s abnormal lust?

  And if Smith spent a year or two in Sing Sing, how many more would there be between the time he was released and the time he was caught again? And how long would it be before he obligingly hammered the life out of his young victim so that we could put him away permanently?

  That was the “system” that Kleek—and a lot of other men on the Force swore by. That was the “system” that the boys in Homicide and in the Vice Squad thought I was trying to foul up by “babying” the zanies.

  It’s a hell of a great system, isn’t it?

  * * * *

  I called the hospital and talked to the doctor who had taken care of Smith’s victim. Then I called Kleek to see if there had been any break in the Donahue case. There hadn’t.

  Finally, I called my son, Steve, at the apartment we shared, told him I wouldn’t be home that night, and sacked out in the ready room.

  By nine o’clock, I was ready to go back to work.

  At nine thirty, Kleek called. His saggy face looked sleepier and more bored than ever. “No rest for the weary, Roy. I got a call on a killing on the Upper East Side. Some rich gal with too much time on her hands was having an all-night party, and she got herself shot to death. It looks like her husband did it, but there’s plenty of money involved, and the Deputy Commissioner wants me to handle it personally, all the way through. I’m putting Lieutenant Shultz in charge of the Homicide end of the Donahue case, but I told him you were the man to listen to. He’ll report directly to you if there’s any new leads. O.K.?”

  “O.K. with me, Sam.” As I said, Kleek is a good cop in spite of his “system.”

  “The boys are out making the rounds,” he went on, “bringing in all the men with conviction records and questioning the others. And we’re combing the neighborhood for the kid’s clothes. They might still be around somewhere. Shultz’ll keep you posted.”

  “Fine, Sam. Happy hunting in High Society.”

  “Thanks, Roy. Take it easy.”

  At fifteen of eleven, the Police Commissioner called. He spent ten minutes telling me that I was going to be visited by a VIP and giving me exact instructions on how to handle the man. “I’m depending on you to take care of him, Roy,” he said finally. “If we can get this program operating in other places, it will help us a lot. And if you need help from my office, grab the nearest phone.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised him. “And thanks, sir.”

  The Commissioner was a lawyer, not a cop, so he wasn’t as tied to the system as Kleek and the others were. He was backing me all the way.

  I punched Sergeant Vanney’s number on the intercom. “Inspector Royall here, Sergeant. Do me a favor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go down to the library and get me a copy of Burke’s ‘Peerage.’”

  “Burke’s which, sir?”

  I repeated it and spelled it for him. He didn’t waste any time; he had it on my desk in less than twenty minutes. When the VIP arrived, I had already read up on Chief Inspector, The Duke of Acrington.

  Here’s how he was listed:

  ACRINGTON, Seventh Duke of (Robert St. James Acrington) Baron Bennevis of Scotland, K. C. B.: Born 7 November 1950, B.S., M.S., Oxon., cum laude. Married (1977) Lady Susan Burley, 2nd dau. Viscount Burley. 2 sons, Richard St. James, Philip William.

  Joined Metropolitan Police (1975); C. I. D. (1976); dep. Insp. (1980); Insp. (1984); Ch. Insp. (1990). Awarded George Medal for extraordinary heroism during the False War (1981).

  Author Criminal Law and the United Nations, The Use of Forensic Psychology (police textbook), and The Night People (fiction; under nom de plume R. A. James).

  Clubs: Royal Astronomical, Oxonian, Baker Street Irregulars.

  Motto: Amicus Curiae.

  I had to admit that I was impressed, but I decided to withhold any judgment until I had met the man.

  * * * *

  He was right on time for his appointment. The car pulled up to the parking lot with a sergeant at the wheel, and I got a bird’s eye view of him from my window as he got out of the car and headed for the door. I had to grin a little; the Commissioner had obviously wanted to take the visitor around personally—roll out the rug for royalty, so to speak—but he had had a conference scheduled with the Mayor and some Federal officials, and, after all, the duke was only here on police business, not as Ambassador from the Court of St. James. So he ended up being treated just as any visitor from Scotland Yard would be treated.

  He was shown directly to my office, and I gave him a quick once-over as he came in the door. Tall, about six feet even; weight about 175, none of it surplus fat; light brown hair smoothed neatly back, almost no gray; eyes, blue-gray, with finely-etched lines around them that indicated they’d been formed by both smiles and frowns: face, rather long and bony, with thin, firm lips and a longish, thin, slightly curved nose. He wore good clothes, and he wore them well. His age, I knew; it was the same as mine. It was the first time I had ever seen a man who looked like a real aristocrat and a good cop rolled into one.

  He had an easy smile on his face, and his eyes were taking me in, too. I stand an inch under six feet, but I’m a little broader across the shoulders than he, so the ten more pounds I carry doesn’t make me look fat. My face is definitely not aristocratic—wide and square, with a nose that shows a slight bend where it was broken when I was a rookie, heavy, dark eyebrows, and hair that is receding a little on top and graying perceptibly at the sides. The eyes are a dark gray, and I’m well aware that the men under me call me “Old Flint-eye” when I put the pressure on them.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Acrington,” he said pleasantly, giving me a firm handshake.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” I said. “I’m Inspector Royall. Sit down, won’t you?” I gestured toward one of the upholstered guest chairs, and sat down in the other one myself, so we wouldn’t have the desk between us. “Have a good trip across?” I asked.

  “Fine. Except, of course, for the noise.”

  “Noise?” I knew he’d come over in one of the Transatlantic Airways’ new inertia-drive ships, and they’re supposed to be fairly quiet.

  His smile broadened a trifle. “Exactly. There wasn’t any. I’m rather used to the vibration of jets, and these new jobs float along at a hundred thousand feet in the deadest silence you ever heard—if you’ll pardon the oxymoron. Everybody chattered like a flight of starlings, just to keep the air full of sound.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe they’ll put vibrators on them, just to make the people feel comfortable. I read that the men in the moon ships complain about the same thing.”

  “So I’ve heard. But, actually, the silence is a minor thing when one realizes the time one saves. When one is looking forward to something interesting, traveling can be deadly dull.”

  It was beautiful, the way he did it. He had told me plainly that he wanted to get down to business and cut the small talk, but he’d done it in such a way that the transition was frictionlessly smooth.

  “Not much scenery up there,” I said. “I hope you’ll find what we’re trying to do here has a few more points
of interest.”

  “I’m quite sure it will, from what I’ve heard of your pilot project here. That’s why I want to, well, sort of be a hanger-on for a few days, if that’s all right with you.”

  * * * *

  Before I could answer, the phone blinked. I excused myself to the Duke and cut in. The image that came on the screen was almost myself, except that he had his mother’s mouth and was twenty-odd years younger.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said, with that apologetic smile of his. “Sorry to bother you during office hours, but could I borrow fifty? Pay you back next week.”

  I threw a phony scowl at him. “Running short, eh? Have you been betting on the stickball teams again?”

  He cast his eyes skyward, and raised the three fingers of his right hand. “Scout’s Honor, Dad, I spent it on a new turbine for my ElectroFord.” Then he lowered his hand and looked down from the upper regions. “I really did. I forgot that I was supposed to take Mary Ellen out this evening. Car-happy, I guess. Can you advance the fifty?”

  I threw away my phony scowl and gave him a smile. “Sure, Stevie. How’s Mary Ellen?”

  “Swell. She’s all excited about going to the Art Ball tonight—that’s why I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

  “Slow up, son,” I told him, “you’ve already made your pitch and been accepted. You’ll get your fifty, so don’t push it. Want to come down here and pick it up?”

  “Can do. And have I told you that you’ll be invited to the wedding?”

  “Thanks, pal. Can I give the groom away?” It was a family joke that we’d kicked back and forth ever since he had met Mary Ellen, two years before.

  “Sure thing. See you in a couple of hours. Bye, Dad.” He cut off, and I looked at the Duke.

  “Sorry. Now, you were saying?”

  “Perfectly all right.” He smiled. “I have two of my own at home.

  “At any rate, I was saying that the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard has become interested in this experiment of yours, so I was sent over to get all the first-hand information I can. Frankly, I volunteered for the job; I was eager to come. There are plenty of skeptics at the Yard, I’ll admit, but I’m not one of them. If the thing’s workable, I want to see it used in England.”