The girl said: “I did. Betty Fordyke. I cover Hearst down here, and I work on the Shopping News, too.” She hesitated. “I can’t give you the picture, because it’s on a roll of half-exposed film, but I can promise not to use it.”
From someplace down in my resilient middle I dredged up a grin: “Okay, Betty. This office doesn’t run to such luxuries as Bibles, so I can’t ask you to swear.” Now I had them, they were all settling into the hard armchairs lined along my wall, getting ready to listen. I said: “You all know my name, and I know Betty’s, and I know you, Bob.”
Bob Myers was one of the kids. He covered high school football games for the only paper surviving in the county seat. The Chandler and Hearst papers in Los Angeles have wiped out most other daily journals in Southern California.
The fat man said he was Hal Freyer, and the blond youngster said he was Jim Kirby.
“I’m going to talk slowly,” I said, “so you can all get this right, but if you prefer, I can get in a police stenographer, and have him make typed statements for you.”
They didn’t know which was right; I hadn’t thought they would. They were very anxious to do what reporters would have done. Finally Betty Fordyke said: “I can take shorthand. If any of you miss anything, check with me.”
We were off. Enough time and enough words had been used up to take the fire out of them. I had dominated the meeting; but I wasn’t very proud of myself. A man of my experience shouldn’t have let it get out of hand in the first place.
“Tonight,” I said, “as you all know, a girl named Nora Patterson was assaulted here in Naranjo Vista. Naturally, all the police of our small force were put on twenty-four hour duty, and we got aid from the county and from the California Highway Patrol, our only state police force. There was a good deal of excitement. A couple of hours after the discovery of Miss Patterson, I encountered a sex deviate in the night; I took him into custody.”
Hal Freyer smoothed his lank locks away from his greasy forehead, and said: “Hold it, lieutenant. Do we get to ask questions now, or wait till you’re through?”
“Shoot, Hal.” Maybe it wasn’t the happiest of locutions.
“You encountered a sex deviate,” he said. “What does that mean?”
“I encountered a man crouching in the dark, watching through a bathroom window while a woman took a shower.”
Betty Fordyke took up the cudgels: “Oh, come now, Lieutenant Bastian. You mean, a man was passing by, saw a naked woman, stopped and looked and so you pinched him? I know men, mister; there isn’t one wouldn’t gawk at a thing like that.”
She had a very nasty way of saying she knew men. But if I lost my patience now, I was certainly in the door-to-door washrag business.
“Miss Fordyke, your analysis of behaviour is correct. I’d stop and look at the spectacle of a woman bathing with the shade up. No doubt you would, too. It’s an eye-catching sort of thing. But to creep between a house and hedge and to peer under a shade raised perhaps one inch from the sill, is somewhat less normal.”
“But not enough to automatically classify a man as a deviate.”
“I’ll continue my statement,” I said. “Naranjo Vista was completed between two and three years ago. I have been on its police force all its life. In that time, we’ve had no sex crimes at all. Now, in one night, we had a criminal assault and then I picked up a peeping Tom, and I don’t mean a high school boy who watches the lady across the street get undressed.”
“All right,” Hal Freyer said, “you’ve made your point.”
“I had strong reason to suspect that I had picked up the man who criminally assaulted Miss Patterson. I secured my prisoner and called my chief, Captain Jack Davis. We gave this suspect a preliminary examination and then brought him to the station here.”
The high school reporter, Bob Myers was frowning. He was a nice kid. I said: “Something troubling you, Bob?”
“Where did you examine the suspect?”
Now. “In my garage,” I said. “It was my wife he was spying on.”
They gasped. This put me right into the case, emotionally. They weren’t good enough to dream up a real mess, but the papers they reported to had rewrite men. And how they had rewrite men!
Betty Fordyke was back in the ring. “Isn’t it unusual not to bring a prisoner right into the station?”
“There was a good deal of local indignation about Miss Patterson being attacked. On the basis of more than twenty years police experience, Captain Davis and I decided to let it cool before subjecting our prisoner to a possible mob scene.” I raised my hand, very judicial, very official. “Not that we couldn’t have handled such a scene. But the mob, if one had formed, would have contained perfectly fine citizens, the pick of Naranjo Vista. It seemed good sense not to have to have trouble with them. It still seems like good sense.”
Bob Myers, the youngest of the four, had the best brain. He said: “You keep referring to the prisoner, the suspect. Did you get his name, lieutenant?”
“John Davis was the name he gave.”
That was really a bombshell. No reason for it, of course. Two John Davises is about as big news as two Tom Browns, two James Smith. But crime and crime news is peculiar. Everybody was scribbling notes like mad.
“In the regiment where I first met Captain Davis,” I said, “three of our officers and eleven of our enlisted men were named Davis. Three of them were named John Davis.” I reached for the Naranjo Vista phone book, thumbed it. “Here are two John Davises and a J. W. Davis, and a J. L. Davis, John W. Davis was candidate for President once. I don’t think he is the man we picked up.”
My audience was not exactly wowed.
“To continue,” I said, “we brought this John Davis into the station. I called the county laboratory, to whom I had turned over various items collected on and about the body of Nora Patterson. Scrapings from under fingernails, the earth on which she lay and so on and so forth.”
“Very delicate,” Betty Fordyke said. “Thanks.”
They were hostile. I had gotten them calmed, but they remained inimical. Nobody really likes a policeman, I had decided years ago, and you give a punk a chance to push a cop around, he’s going to take it. These punks had the chance.
“The county police lab is in the charge – correction, I’m not sure he has over-all charge, but he has this case – of a Sergeant Ernen. Despite the late hour, the sergeant had already done a good deal of work on the specimens I had given him. This work definitely eliminated John Davis as a suspect.”
I stopped and took a deep breath. “The rest you know. I was taking John Davis down the hall to book him as a drunk when Norman Patterson, who had heard that we had picked up his daughter’s assaulter, charged into the station and shot Davis.”
“And you shot Norman Patterson,” Hal Freyer said.
“Mister, any time anybody shoots at a prisoner in my charge, I shoot back.”
At once I knew that my tone had been over-belligerent, too tough. They perked up; amateur newspapermen as they were, they still knew a good quote when they heard it. I’d given them a lulu to use against me.
Betty Fordyke said: “And after shooting, you order the only doctor present to disregard your victim, and take care of your prisoner?”
It was a terrible effort not to lose my temper. I said, conscious of the patient note in my voice, physically unable to remove it: “Dr. Harold Levy went at once to Mr. Patterson. I have shot several times in my military career. I hit where I aim. So I told the doctor to take care of Davis, who had an unassessed wound.”
Bob Myers said: “Lieutenant, I think you’re making too much of an effort to be accurate; the result is that you sound indifferent to the fate of the man you shot. I don’t think you’re doing yourself justice.”
He was half my age, and twice as smart as I. I looked at him gratefully, and said: “Of course, I care. But caring, I’ve found, isn’t worth much; my job is to do what helps and to stay away when I can’t help.”
Hal Fre
yer said: “How many men have you shot in the course of your career, Bastian?” He looked at his fingernails – dirty – and yawned, as though the question bored him.
“Twelve,” I said, as quietly as I could. I watched them jump with surprise. “Seven in the ETO, five in the Orient. Every one of them has been hit in the leg, and except for the very first, I’ve never shattered a bone. I am a professional, and not ashamed of it. When I aim at the fleshy part of the thigh, I stop the man I want to stop, and do him as little damage as possible.”
Betty Fordyke and Hal Freyer were scribbling furiously. Bob Myer was staring at me; it seemed I read pity in his eyes.
Betty Fordyke looked up from the hooks and eyes of her shorthand, and said: “A general question, lieutenant. In England, policemen are not allowed to carry weapons. And yet, England’s a well-policed country. Don’t you think we’d be better off if we took the guns away from our cops?”
We’d also be better off if all bitches were kept in kennels. But I didn’t say so. I took a deep breath, and made my speech. “I’ve never cared for guns. I’ve shot target twice a month for more than twenty years, and I don’t suppose you’ll find anyone more accurate with a sidearm; but I don’t like them. They’re brain robbers. Too many people strap on a gun, and stop thinking; why think when you have all that power on your hip or armpit or wherever? England has laws about owning guns. We don’t. Therefore policemen have to have guns; you can’t handicap cops and let crooks go armed. It’s as simple as that.”
Jim Kirby had said nothing so far. Now he came up with a lulu: “What about the Sullivan Act?”
“A New York statute, Mr. Kirby, hardly applicable to California. I don’t know of any western state that forbids the keeping of a gun in the home or carrying one unconcealed. Sawed-off shotguns and machine guns are forbidden, a statement that hardly applies to the present case. Mr. Patterson had every right to own the .22 Colt he shot John Davis with.”
Jim Kirby was blushing; I’d put him in his place. But Betty Fordyke’s ears were – figuratively – wriggling. She said: “You were twenty feet from Mr. Patterson, lieutenant. Could you tell he was using a .22 from that distance? A Colt?”
As a matter of fact, I probably could have identified it from that distance. But to say so was to evade the issue. I said: “I saw it earlier, in his house. He was going out to hunt for his daughter’s assailant. I persuaded him to leave it to us.”
Hal Freyer stood up, shoved his copy paper in the sagging pocket of his sports coat and said: “I got enough.”
Betty Fordyke stood up, jerked her girdle into place – I was surprised that she bothered to wear one, it certainly was not to make herself more attractive to men – and the two of them walked out without saying thank you, goodbye, or go-to-hell.
Young Jim Kirby said: “Bob . . .”
Bob Myers said: “Hang around, Jim, and I’ll help you with your story. I want to talk to the lieutenant a minute.”
Jim Kirby gave me a grin and started out. He turned in the door, and said: “That was a big blooper about the Sullivan Act.”
“The only people who don’t make mistakes are the ones who don’t do anything.”
He grinned again and walked out.
Bob Myers sat down on the edge of my desk and took a cigarette from my pack. He didn’t light it, though; he juggled it it in open palm. Finaly he said: “Mr. Bastian, you couldn’t have made more of a mess of that interview. Where was Drew Lasley? Isn’t he press officer of your department?”
“We’re a damned small force. Somebody’s got to take the duty tomorrow. Jack Davis sent him home to rest.”
Bob Myers shook his head. “Why did you have to . . . It’s done now. You had a squabble with Bailey Spratt earlier, didn’t you?”
“Never heard of the lad.”
Bob Myers’ hand closed and the cigarette squashed. He dumped it, paper, tobacco and all, on my carpet. “He’s president of the local gun club.”
“Then I did have a squabble with him, as you call it. Over the phone.”
“He’s quite a politician. He belongs to everything – Little Theatre, Episcopal Church, the Opera Guild and the Monthly Beerdrinkers League, for all I know. Lots of friends, lots of influence. He doesn’t push around easy.”
“Cossack Bastian.”
“Exactly, pal. Listen. You need a public relations man. Me, in short.”
“I had another run-in with a posse squad headed by a Joseph Harg.”
“I know him,” the kid said. “He’s a chemist at Thermology. He went home and called Bailey Spratt and resigned from the posse. You were impressive.”
“It sounds like I don’t need a press agent, then.”
Bob Myers shrugged. I had always liked him, but I didn’t like the way he was looking at me now. “Harg’s a salaried man. Bailey Spratt is a big advertiser, for his car agency. You’re going to get crucified.”
I said: “And how much would you charge to make me nailproof?”
He stared at me. He looked mad. “Two hundred a week till this dies down. Then – say – a hundred a month. In three years you’d be head of the Highway Patrol, or any other state police job you wanted. Cities would be competing to get you as chief.”
It was impossible not to laugh. “How old are you, Bob?”
He made a vicious, knifelike motion with the hand that had messed up the cigarette. “What does that have to do with it? I’ll be twenty in a few weeks. I am a sophomore in the junior college. Next year I’m going to U.C.L.A.”
“Plan on making a million before you’re of age?”
He hopped off the desk. “Think it over, lieutenant. If you don’t do something, you won’t even be able to get back into the Army, except as a KP.”
“I don’t have to get back in. I’m in the reserve as a major; all I have to do is apply for active duty.”
“The president is cutting the armed forces, the way I hear it.” He walked out of the office. He’d made his pitch and left the customer to think it over.
I had gotten down to the point where a twenty-year-old boy could blackmail me, I thought, as I left the office myself. I told the sergeant at the desk to call me if anything broke, and went outside; then I remembered I didn’t have my car with me, and had to go back in and radio for a cruiser to come drive me home.
Chapter Nine
Patrolmen James and Sheel were manning the cruiser. They didn’t speak all the way to my house.
After they’d let me out, I wondered whether that was because they had too much respect to bother me, or whether they didn’t think it was worth their time to talk to a lieutenant who was going to be canned any day now.
Watching the tail light of their car go away, I decided it was the latter. I was in a lovely mood. Maybe I ought to sleep in the garage, for fear I’d beat up Olga.
Instead I went in, woke her up, and over a couple of cups of coffee in the kitchen, brought her up to date on events.
She said: “Tomorrow, go to the sporting goods store and buy yourself a collapsible paddle and keep it in your pocket at all times.”
I said: “Huh?” in my most brilliant fashion.
“You are up a deep, murky creek, Andy.”
“You’re very funny.”
My wife shrugged. She waved a hand around. I noticed that the cuff of her bathrobe was frayed. “We’ve got a three-year-old home and a two-year-old car. I’ve got six different changes of clothing, and before I knew you, everything I owned fit in one small suitcase. For a year I’ve been able to concentrate on studying without having to make my living. We’re way ahead.”
“Just so we don’t look back. Somebody’s gaining on us. The house isn’t paid for by twenty-odd years. The car isn’t paid for by twelve month. You’re out of the habit of working, and anyway I don’t feel like letting you support me.”
Olga looked at me, and then she suddenly gave that grin. She got up and walked across the kitchen and opened a cupboard and got out a bottle of brandy we’d bought when we were ha
ving important guests for dinner. Under the bulky flannel bathrobe, I knew that her figure was a little too thin, but otherwise just about perfect; under her usually grave face was always that grin; somewhere inside Olga was more guts than I’d ever encountered inside anybody.
Though I don’t like liquor, I let her pour a slug in my coffee, a larger slug in her own. She didn’t sit down again, but stood beside me, one hand on my shoulder and most of her weight on that hand. The other one held the coffee cup to her lips. “Pal,” she said, “nobody can ever make us forget that we once lived in a three-year-old mansion and drove a great big shiny new car.”
My arm went around her waist and my head rested on her breast, which was always surprisingly softer than it looked. “God help the man who marries a psychologist. I ask for advice and comfort, and I get a dose of Edgar Guest.”
Her chuckle shook my head. “You’re getting the straight dope, my friend. Backed up by years and years of damned expensive education. You’re yourself, Andrew Bastian; you’re not a badge, a gun or a tailored blue serge uniform.”
“In other words, give them hell? Knowing he was right, the boy stood steadfast?”
She laughed again, and again I was jiggled pleasantly. “Most of what you’ve done was wrong,” she said, blandly. “But you did it, and no one else.”
The brandy was warming me, or maybe it was the coffee. “Even Hal Levy called me lucky for putting that bullet where I did. I don’t get credit for marksmanship.”
“Poor little Andy. Does he want a tin medal?”
“Go to hell,” I said. “And talking of that, you and the good doctor Levy are getting mighty chummy.”
She nodded and moved away from me. She fished a cigarette and matches out of her robe pocket and lit up, walked up and down the kitchen, holding her left elbow up with her right palm. “Hal wants me to go into partnership with him when I get my Ph.D.,” she said. “He says it’s the coming thing, one doctor, one psychologist. . . . Without an M.D. I can never give narcosynthesis, shock treatment, a half dozen other things. And he’s not at all qualified to give counselling or analysis.”
A Nice Girl Like You (Lt. Andy Bastian Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
