Happy Policeman

by Patricia Anthony

  “But perhaps the man does poor work on the car. He does not pay attention to the steering mechanism. Is he not a murderer, then?”

  “Let me explain how it is.” Next to DeWitt lay a stack of xeroxed announcements weighted by a chunk of granite. He picked up the stone. “A man bashes in the head of another man with a rock.” DeWitt brought the granite down on the table harder than he intended. The crack resounded through the room, halting the Ping-Pong game, “That’s murder. Now a man throws a rock for whatever reason. Just for the hell of it, let’s say. And let’s say there’s a man over in the trees that the rock-thrower never saw. The rock hits and kills him. That’s an accident.”

  Seresen turned to watch the girls. They had resumed play and were volleying easily to each other.

  “One of the Harper kids hit a Torku with a rock,” DeWitt said.

  “Accident or murder?”

  DeWitt’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you saying the Torku died?”

  “Never. I would never tell you such a thing. Thought is the same as act. I meant only to demonstrate the absurdity of your logic.”

  “Look, Seresen. A. Torku was hurt. And Loretta wanted to talk to you before she died. I’m covering for you right now, but it’s looking more and more like you were the one who murdered Loretta. If you killed her for revenge, that’s understandable. We can work that out. I need to know the truth.”

  Seresen eyed him. “Your family is important to you.”

  It was as though the alien had slapped all breath, all warmth from his body, Numb, DeWitt watched as Seresen reached into a fold of his voluminous shirt and pulled out a small stack of photographs.

  With cold hands, DeWitt took them.

  Not Janet, not Foster. Three Torku. They stood at rigid attention before a mountain scene. The Torku at each end were tall; the one in the middle was shorter. The poses were so stiff that the picture seemed to have been shot with dummies.

  “My family,” Seresen said.

  DeWitt turned the photos over. KODAK was printed across white backing. He leafed through the snapshots again. They were identical.

  “We sympathize with family.”

  No, the pictures weren’t quite the same. And the Torku in them were real. It was the lighting that was funny.

  DeWitt recognized Seresen by the mottled pattern above his right eye. In the first shot the Kol had his hand draped over the younger Torku’s shoulders. In the second the hand was touching what must have been the wife. In the third the wife was looking slightly to her left, away from Seresen and the child, as if something had caught her attention. In the fourth and fifth the shorter Torku had shifted his body. DeWitt leafed through them quickly, hurriedly, again. There was a pine branch above the trio. The shadows on the branch didn’t match the shadows on the Torku.

  “A beautiful wife, don’t you agree?”

  The artificiality of the pictures scared DeWitt to death. “Yes.”

  “And a handsome son.” Seresen held his hand out. DeWitt placed the snapshots in the alien’s soft palm. “So take care to speak gently. It is a dangerous thing to speak of murder. Discuss it, and acts are set in motion. Are there any other questions?”

  DeWitt opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t. Jesus God. Are you threatening me? What do you know about my wife?

  Seresen rose. “It has been nice talking with you again. And I rely on you to explain the prudence of silence to the others.”

  With that, Seresen walked away, disappearing through the steel door to the Torku side of the center. When DeWitt could postpone the moment no longer, he stood and walked out to the yard.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What’d he say?” Doc asked.

  DeWitt took a deep breath, readying for the burden of deception. “That, as usual, he relies on me to deal with the problem. He hopes I’ll find the killer soon.” DeWitt looked to Granger for support, but the canted eye lured his gaze to the man’s cheek.

  Doc gave an astonished chihuahua bark. “What?”

  “Said he—”

  “”I heard what you said. Just thought if I asked again, you’d tell me the truth.”

  DeWitt glowered. “Get in the goddamned car. I’ll drive you back to your office.”

  “I’d rather walk.” Doc strode off. Granger hesitated as if considering the seven-block hike, then trudged after him.

  Bo tapped DeWitt’s arm. “I’d like to go back to the place we found the body. Maybe there’s something you overlooked.”

  DeWitt thought of Janet’s muddy sneakers, the possibility of footprints. “If you want.”

  They got into the squad car, and DeWitt drove slowly toward the west end of town.

  “Did Seresen tell you why he destroyed the house?”

  DeWitt remembered the arterial splatters of spaghetti sauce. What had upset Loretta enough to make her dirty her kitchen? What had prevented her from cleaning it? “Seresen said . . .” DeWitt cleared his throat. “ . . . that she was haunting it.”

  A dry, “Did he really?”

  DeWitt took his eyes off the road for a second and gave Bo a furious glare. “I’m not in the mood to be questioned.”

  “Doc’s right. You’re lying.”

  DeWitt stepped on the brake. With an angry tug at the wheel, he pulled over and parked. To their left, out past a barbed wire fence, a small herd of Brangus steers raised their heads at the unexpected visitors. “What have you been saying behind my back?”

  “Nothing. Not yet. But you’re lying, DeWitt. Makes me wonder,” Bo said without meeting DeWitt’s challenging stare, “if you’re involved with the Torku in the murder.”

  DeWitt hissed, “Get out of the car.”

  Bo didn’t flinch. He was so still, he didn’t seem to be breathing. “The law’s the law, Wittie. If you helped them, you’re an accessory.”

  DeWitt sat back in the seat. The car, he noticed, stank of stale marijuana smoke. “You tight-assed prick.”

  Bo’s pupils were emotionless dots in the ice-blue of his irises. DeWitt wondered if those eyes were so cold that fatal night in Dallas.

  “You asked me to join your investigation to keep tabs on me, to protect the Torku. Don’t think I haven’t figured it out. You don’t like me, and that’s fine. Nobody in this goddamned town likes me much. But listen, DeWitt. Justice isn’t comfortable. The law has edges. Tell me the truth, or I’ll go after you.”

  It was instinctive: DeWitt would always protect Janet. He would defend her against any threat: against Bo; against the truth; against the law. And if it came to it, he would pay for her freedom with his own life. Or Seresen’s.

  Suddenly he wanted a cigarette more than he wanted a solution to the murder. If Bo hadn’t been in the car, he’d have rolled himself a joint.

  “All right. Okay.”

  While DeWitt talked, Bo sat looking at the dripping trees and the watercolor gray horizon.

  “So if the Harper kid killed a Torku, we’ve got even more of a motive.”

  “If. If. We don’t know the Torku is dead. I wouldn’t be sure the Torku’d died if Seresen came right out and told me. He lies about everything, and not just to cover up, either.”

  “There’s always a reason for lying.”

  “Is there? Maybe the aliens don’t lie the same way we do. Maybe to them lying isn’t wrong.”

  “Damn it, Wittie. I know you’re a better cop than this. Why do you have to defend them?”

  DeWitt punched the steering wheel. “Because the Torku are the only order we have left!”

  “And you’d kiss ass to preserve order. Seresen’s got you by the balls.”

  Seresen held DeWitt by more than that. He held him by his wife.

  “I can handle the Torku.” With a vicious twist of the wheel, DeWitt pulled the car off the shoulder and drove on.

  “Where are you
going? Sparrow Point’s south of here.”

  “To Billy’s place. Whoever killed Loretta had a truck and gas. Billy’s got a portable generator. Seems to me he’d have spare gas for that.”

  “I made a cast of the tire treads. Dunlops,” Bo said. “The Torku use Dunlops on their UPS vans.”

  Janet’s Suburban had Dunlops.

  When they arrived at the construction site, DeWitt escaped from the car and walked the planks to the open door.

  “Billy?” His voice echoed back from the plastered walls. Bo joined him. Together they walked into the garage. Against a naked sheetrock wall DeWitt found twelve gas cans. Five of them were full.

  “See?” DeWitt clung to hope so desperately that his voice quavered.

  “Doesn’t mean much.”

  Next to the cans was a pile of yellowing magazines. DeWitt knelt, picked one up, and leafed through it. His gaze fell on the picture of a woman chained to a bed. “You think Billy was into stuff like this?”

  “It s just a magazine, Wittie. There’s all kinds of pictures in there. Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.”

  DeWitt left the garage, trying doors as he went. In a shadowy corridor he stopped dead.

  “This door’s locked.”

  “Let’s go ask Curtis for a search warrant.”

  “Involve Curtis? You’ve got to be kidding.” Taking a penknife from his pocket, DeWitt slipped the end of it into the lock. With two fingers he gave the knife an expert twist. The mechanism clicked, the knob turned.

  Billy had made himself a French whorehouse. Across the thick, red carpet stood an ornate fireplace. Smoked mirrors were suspended above a dark four-poster bed. More pornographic magazines were strewn across the tousled covers, women’s underthings scattered among them. The panties were pink and white and blue and yellow.

  “It’s a one-handed love nest,” DeWitt laughed.

  Bo shot him a look. “What we’re doing is illegal.”

  Bending over the bed, DeWitt used the penknife to sift through the undergarments, Billy hadn’t been choosy. Some were big, some small, some medium-sized. Under a magazine DeWitt found a red lace see-through bra, size B half cups, with white appliqued hearts. His chest emptied.

  “Come on, Wittie. We’re breaking and entering. We’re violating the man’s rights.” Bo fumbled for his arm. DeWitt pulled away.

  The bra was dotted with yellow stains and some of the hearts were rubbed off. “It’s Janet’s.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. You know that. He stole it. Remember those B&Es before Bomb Day? You remember? Nothing looked like it was stolen, but the locks were forced?”

  “But that’s Janet’s bra.” A tremor went through DeWitt like shockwaves in water.

  Bo’s voice was as soft as his eyes. “I know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Schoen stormed into the living room and turned off the TV with a flourish, silencing the Roadrunner mid-beep. “I’m trying to work, “ he announced.

  Dee Dee and his children, up to their elbows in color, paused in their fingerpainting. His three-year-old daughter clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Daddy’s very, very busy. I have my daily sermon to write. My morning prayers. God speaks in a still, small voice. He’d have to shout to be heard over you.”

  Marsha dropped her hand. Around her lips was the imprint of five small green fingers.

  He said, “Dee Dee, there’s no sense in turning the house upside-down to keep them entertained. Can’t you read them a Bible story?”

  “Well, I could. But they’ve heard them so many times—”

  “Children can’t have enough of Bible instruction. And I thought you were going to do something with your hair.”

  She was already capping the paints, sponging clean the sheet of plastic they knelt on. “Now, you know? I’ve been meaning to do that. I really have. But with . . .”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Tomorrow, Dee Dee,” he ordered as he went to answer. Doc was standing on the porch. A whiff of agnosticism and drunkenness came off the man like the overly ripe odor of rotting food.

  “Got to talk to you.”

  Recovering from his shock, Schoen led him to his front study, skirting the children and the dirty living room. On November 21, he had watched in his telescope as Doc played The Exorcist on his VCR. And when Doc taught at the high school in October, he confused the children with tales of evolution.

  “Civilization’s back.” The physician sat in Schoen’s favorite chair. “Granger’s picking up music on his radio.”

  Schoen shut the door to childish giggles and Dee Dee’s incessant prattle. His gaze fell on his bookshelves, and a collection of sermons by Jonathan Edwards. Doc read godless books full of dark anarchy, books by Dean Koontz and Stephen King.

  “You listening to me?” Doc asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The Torku killed Loretta. I’m sure of it. Killed her boys, too. Time to do something, don’t you think? Ain’t it time we fought back? Listen. Most of the town’s pig-happy with the easy situation we got. But if they know the Torku are guilty of Loretta’s murder, they’ll turn against them.”

  Schoen’s gaze slid to the Bible on the desk.

  “So. You with us or against us?”

  Flipping open the New Concordance at random, Schoen found he had turned to the story of Moses. Coomey had been lost in the desert for six years, thirty-four years less than the Israelites. And deserts were known for their temptations.

  “What sort of music?” Schoen asked.

  “What sort? Hell, I don’t know. You can’t hear much. A note here; a note there. The Line must be filtering most of it out.”

  Schoen nodded. It was obvious to him now what was happening. Granger had tuned to the choraling of Seraphim.

  “Count me in.” He turned, the Bible in his hand.

  God was showing him the road to salvation. Schoen would loose a plague on their captors. A sign in blood must be written on each door. The tribes of Israel had been lost to chaos too, until Moses handed down the Law.

  “Good. I’m glad you’ll join us.”

  Not join you. Doc wanted a temporal solution; Schoen wanted more. From a distance there was serenity. But God’s eyes, like His servant’s, were keen. Schoen could see past flesh, past bone, down to the cramped burrow where the soul hid in shuddering awe of its Maker.

  God had given Schoen the power to make this small man tremble. No, he thought. Not join you at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The bra smoldered. Smoke rose from the trash can in feathery spirals until, at the mouth, a chill breeze whipped it away.

  “We never had a break-in.” Out of the comer of his eye DeWitt saw Bo watching with cautious sympathy.

  “He might have picked it off a clothesline. He could have stolen it from the laundromat, too.”

  DeWitt stirred the flames with a stick.

  “I’ll lock the door, so he won’t know we were here,” Bo said.

  “No. I want to throw him off-stride. If he comes to complain, we’ll know he’s innocent.”

  “You know that’s not fair. He won’t complain, he’s got too much to hide.” Shivering, Bo flapped his arms and stomped around the litter of the yard: the odd planks, flecks of dried paint, balls of concrete.

  “At least we know what he was hiding,” Bo said. “Why he looked guilty when you went to tell him about Loretta’s murder. He probably thought you’d come to arrest him for burglary.”

  “I should.”

  Bo stood hunched, back to the wind, like a steer in rain. “No, Wittie. Just let it be.”

  In the trash barrel, an appliqued heart curled like a fist.

  “I’d like to talk to Loretta’s neighbors,” Bo told him. “Maybe we could run out there before dark.”

&n
bsp; DeWitt jabbed the stick hard into the can. The condom. Evidence that Janet’s lover was a careful man. The pill gave her migraines; she couldn’t tolerate IUDs. Billy wasn’t careful. But Foster was.

  “—think?”

  DeWitt glanced up. “What?”

  “I said, maybe they saw something, you think?”

  “Who?”

  “Loretta’s neighbors. Put the stick down, Wittie. It’s all burned up now.”

  DeWitt looked into the can, where gray ashes swirled. “All right.”

  “I’ll drive.” Bo pried the keys from his fingers.

  On the way through town, DeWitt made Bo stop at the Mobil station. Bo went in and got Cokes for them both. DeWitt walked to the payphone. He jiggled the receiver, got a dial tone, called his house. The phone rang. He wasn’t sure what he’d say.

  The phone rang again.

  Janet would be hurrying in from the yard, her golden hair down, her cheeks high-colored and Summery from her run. Her face would be pink and tender, like a flower in a field of wheat. Janet had a small face, just the size to cup in his hands.

  Hi, he’d say.

  And there would be a long, startled pause. DeWitt didn’t call during the day unless something was very wrong.

  Just thinking about you, he’d tell her, like a note on a Hallmark card. He might sleep with Hattie, but he was always thinking of Janet.

  The phone rang again.

  Nothing he did, nothing he said, seemed to satisfy her any more. The bra had been an anniversary present, bought at a Victoria’s Secret in Dallas before Bomb Day. He couldn’t recall what she’d given him that year.

  He’d made sure of the bra’s size, had taken the time to check her dresser drawers. He’d wanted everything to be perfect. And when he saw it in the store, the red lace and tiny white hearts seemed so much like her.

  She hated the gift. He saw in her face that it was too vulgar or embarrassing or something. When the kids tried to peek into the package, she hid it from them.

  Only Billy had gotten use out of it.