“Of course,” Ed said.
“One of the duties of the police, Tommy,” Ruddy explained,
“is not only to catch criminals but to keep innocent people who feel guilty from destroying themselves.”
“But what made ’im plead guilty to murder?” Tommy asked insistently.
“He read about the murder in the paper,” Ed said. “He’s something on his mind. Maybe it’s only a memory. But it bothers him. He’s got what’s bothering him all mixed up with the Janet Wilder case. You see, he doesn’t even have the details right.
He knows nothing about what actually happened.”
“But why did he confess to that murder?” Tommy wanted to know.
“Maybe he can’t really remember what he really wanted to confess,” Ed suggested.
“He wants to be punished,” Ruddy said.
“But he’s done nothing,” Tommy insisted.
“We know that,” Ed said. “This happens quite often. Now, people say the police frame people. We wouldn’t hurt that poor devil for anything in this world. He needs help. We could make him sign anything. But he’s not guilty of what he confessed.”
“Do they ever confess something that they really did?”
Tommy asked.
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“Very rarely.” Ruddy smiled sadly.
“It really makes you think, doesn’t it, Tommy?” Ed asked.
“Gee, you really have to understand people to do this job, don’t you?” Tommy asked Ruddy with a note of awe in his voice. “Dad, do you think that some girl really once jilted him?”
Tommy asked in a still, quiet tone.
“We don’t know, Tommy,” Ruddy said, “and maybe it’d take a psychologist six months to find out, if ever.”
“Look, the motive he gave us is not important,” Ed told the boy.
“I once heard a man give five different motives in confessing to a crime he never committed, a crime he could not have committed.”
“We call that ‘shopping’ for motives,” Ruddy said with a forced laugh.
“They why . . . ?” Tommy’s voice trailed off.
“What do you want to ask, Tommy?” Ed prompted the boy.
“I think Tommy’s got a belly full of crime for one day,”
Ruddy tried ever so subtly to stall off his son’s question.
“I was just thinking,” Tommy said, as though speaking to himself.
“Yeah?” Ed echoed.
“Well, why in hell doesn’t he just c-c-commit a crime?” Tommy asked with a stammer and at once blinked in confusion.
A silence fell upon the office. Ed laughed softly, then cocked his head at Tommy.
“You’re getting close to something, son,” Ed said, wagging his head.
“Don’t go confusing that boy,” Ruddy complained. “He’s got too much in his head already.”
“Well, if he feels that guilty, why doesn’t he commit a crime?”
Tommy insisted now, his eyes hard upon his reluctant mentors.
Ed cleared his throat, shot a glance at Ruddy, whom he felt did not wish to prolong the conversation.
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“That happens more times than is imagined,” Ed said softly. “In this particular case, my guess is that Gordon feels too acutely guilty to commit a crime. He’s simply overwhelmed.”
“Then he doesn’t really wish to be punished,” Tommy said in a voice that was half statement and half answer.
“I dare say that he wants to be forgiven,” Ruddy said, entering cautiously into the discussion again. “Most of the people I’ve seen sentenced in court were grateful deep down in them.”
“Something happens to people,” Tommy said, sighing, his eyes vacant with dreamy thought.
“Ha, ha! You sure can say that again,” Ed agreed.
“That man Gordon was trying to steal another man’s crime,” Tommy murmured.
“But he wasn’t bright enough to do it,” Ruddy said meaningfully.
“Stealing other men’s crimes is a thing that can be done well only if it is done collectively,” Ed said in a far-off voice. “It’s done in church every Sunday when a mass is said.”
“All right, all right . . . ha, ha. Ed, now you just get off of my religion,” Ruddy chided, laughing.
“Well, let’s say we all borrow other men’s crimes on Sunday,” Ed amended his original proposition.
“I didn’t know so many people felt so guilty,” Tommy said.
“If they didn’t, we wouldn’t be able to catch ’em all,” Ed stated emphatically.
“Do you suppose there are many who don’t?” Tommy asked directly of Ed now.
“I suspect that men who feel no guilt do not have enough imagination to commit crimes,” Ed said. “Maybe Ruddy wouldn’t agree.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ruddy said, looking off.
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“So we are all kind of in prison,” Tommy said and laughed nervously.
“It’s the memory of the father, son,” Ed said, winking at Ruddy.
“I’ve never been hard on my boy—have I, son?” Ruddy asked.
“No, Dad. You haven’t,” Tommy said.
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Ed said. “I mean we all have a secret ideal which we obey. It’s our image of what is most powerful in the world. Some call it God. Others call it—”
“Superego?” Tommy asked, arching his brows.
“You’re sharp, kid,” Ed said, laughing.
A crackling came from the intercom.
“Yeah?” Ruddy called with relief in his voice.
“This is Mary Jane, sir,” a woman’s voice called. “I’m reporting for work.”
“Get on in here and let’s get a look at you,” Ruddy ordered, laughing.
“Yes, sir.”
Mary Jane entered, smiling, demurely lingering in the middle of the office rug, her pencil and her shorthand notebook poised in her hand.
“Congratulations, sir.”
“Can that,” Ruddy sang. “This is a workhouse. How goes it?”
“Don’t know yet,” Mary Jane said. “But it’s exciting here in Brentwood. It was never like this with Commissioner King.
And the papers . . . the roadblocks . . . and, say, the mayor called.
He wants to see you, sir. Seems that there is a mass meeting tonight.”
“About the Janet Wilder case?” Ruddy asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a big help,” Ruddy sneered.
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“There they go,” Ed said, shrugging.
“When shall I tell the mayor you’ll receive ’im?” Mary Jane wanted to know.
“Oh, hell. Any time. Fix an appointment,” Ruddy said. “I guess he wants to tell me how to run this offi ce, eh?”
“I don’t know,” Mary Jane said.
The phone rang. Ruddy snatched it up.
“Chief Turner speaking.”
“This is Captain Snell, Chief.”
“Yeah. What about that gun part that was found? Anything to it?”
“It looks like it could be from a .38,” the captain said slowly.
“Well, what about finding the rest of it?” Ruddy demanded.
“That’s the problem sir.”
“What’s your problem?” Ruddy asked.
“Well, the cement has been poured and has been placed onto a floor of the new building,” the captain said. “Now, it just may be that there are other bits of that gun in that cement.
What do we do?”
“Well, tell ’em that I want that cement,” Ruddy stated. “Ask
’em to cooperate with us. I suspect that that gun was broken up and put into that sand and cement. If that’s the case, we’ll lose a clue, our only clue so far.”
“What do you suggest?” the captain asked.
“Can’t they break up that cemen
t?”
“Guess so. I’ll ask ’em.”
“Do that. If they don’t want to, tell ’em I’ll get a court order and take the floor of that damned building,” Ruddy threatened.
“Could I ask ’em for the cement that they’ve poured?”
“Sure. We’ll haul it here.”
“I’ll ask and report later, sir.”
“Right. Do that.”
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Ruddy hung up, then swung to Tommy. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to leave us, Tommy. Oh, Mary Jane, this is my son, Tommy.”
“How do you do?”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Tommy looked pleadingly at Ruddy.
“Must I really go? Gosh, this is exciting. You’ve found the gun?”
“Don’t know, son,” Ruddy said, pushing the boy with his voice. “Tell Mama I’ll be along at lunch.”
“Okay. ’Bye, Dad.”
“ ’Bye, son.”
After Tommy had gone, Mary Jane exclaimed, “He’s your very image!”
“Bright boy,” Ed said.
“Yeah, he’s bright all right,” Ruddy said and swung to his desk and pretended to pore over a report. He glanced up at Ed and Mary Janet. “I’m having ’em send the whole floor of that new building over. Get in touch with the city cleaning department and ask ’em to lend us some trucks to haul that cement.
And get some hammers ready. I’m putting this police force to work pounding rocks. We’re going to dig out every bit of metal in that concrete.”
C H A P T E R 1 5
Ruddy felt feverish. Moment by moment a fear and a respect for his son was growing in him. Goddamn, if only Ed wouldn’t egg that boy on. Yet he knew that it was not Ed’s fault. The boy was fastened in his mind and emotions upon that Janet Wilder crime; hell, maybe he’s been fastened on the other crimes too. He’s too damned suggestible.
Ed had gone and Ruddy sat alone. He felt in his pocket for the wad of paper that held the bit of cement that he had pinched off Tommy’s tennis shoes. Well, first, he’d see if that gun was the .38
that had been used in the Janet Wilder case. If it was, then it was a good guess that it had been used in the other three crimes. They would compare the ballistics of all the bullets and then have the experts decide if the bullets were fired from that .38. But, deep in him, Ruddy knew that the .38 buried in the cement was the gun that had been used in all four of the killings, and he knew that the cement he had taken from Tommy’s shoes must have come from that building site. Well, if that were true, what was he waiting on?
Why did he not confront the boy and get the misery over with?
No. He was sure that some excuse would be found, that he was letting his imagination run away with him, that what he had so far
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encountered was a tiny string of amazing coincidences. “That boy wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Ruddy muttered. Yet Ed, for one, felt that intelligence had nothing to do with things of that sort, that the emotions and instincts were what ruled in such actions.
Then suddenly he sat back in his chair and stared at the wall, sighing. Two things were happening: the public was crying for a victim and his son was slowly becoming seemingly enmeshed in this damnable murder plot. And the mayor would be in to see him this morning, and tonight a mass meeting would be held. He had been thrown into a boiling pot of soup—there was no doubt about it. Well, he would leave no stone unturned to catch the murderers. After all, he, unlike all the others who had tried, had a clue, a real hard clue during the fi rst twenty-four hours of his investigation. No one would say that he was placid, was letting any grass grow under his feet. Yet he did not wish to be pushed, pressured, panicked. “Nobody is going to make me make crazy decisions,” he muttered, shaking his head. But the first thing he had to do was to have a showdown with Tommy.
He could not go ahead in this investigation while looking over his shoulder at his own son every five minutes. He would face him and have it out with him. Was it true that a gun had been stolen from the Heard home, and when? Ruddy picked up the phone and told Jock to rush to the Heard home and get a fi nal and definite picture. He called Captain Snell and found out that the building contractor had agreed to tear out the concrete into which it was thought a gun or parts of a gun could be and make a gift of it to the city. Good! As yet, the net of stool pigeons had reported nothing of worth. And the poring over hospital records, case records in mental clinics, or the checking on recently paroled prisoners had yielded nothing. “Our best bet seems to be that gun,” he said. His roadblocks would be continued, mostly for public reassurance. Half an hour later Captain Snell called and
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reported that the slabs of concrete would be in the hands of the city officials that evening. Good! Good!
“Chief?” Mary Jane called him on the intercom.
“Yeah, Mary Jane.”
“The mayor’s on his way to see you. He’ll be in in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Mary Jane.”
He rose, washed his face, and combed his hair. One had to look one’s best for the real big boss. Not that he feared the mayor, but it would do no harm to look one’s best when meeting an important politician for the first time. He had hardly finished changing his shirt when Mary Jane ushered Mayor Warren into his offi ce.
The mayor was of medium height, thin-faced, had a pair of kind, reflective gray eyes, but his dress was flashy; the man was a contradiction—his bearing and manner seemingly indicative of well-born conservatism while his apparel marked him as a sportsman. Ruddy sized him up quickly: a politician and a good one. He knows how to deal with crowds.
“Good morning, Chief,” the mayor boomed, advancing with outstretched hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor.” Ruddy was equally as effusive, pretending to be relaxed while weighing, judging. “Won’t you sit down? This is quite an honor. I hope you didn’t mind my canceling my inaugural ceremony. But I found work here that’s kept me going night and day, and I felt the best service I could give Brentwood Park was to set our law-enforcement machinery into operation and—”
“No explanations are needed, Chief,” the mayor said, waving his right hand, which gleamed with a diamond. “I talked with Bill King, an old, old friend of mine, and he told me all about you.”
“Bill’s a great guy,” Ruddy sang.
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“One of the best,” the mayor chimed in.
Ruddy always felt at ease when he and a stranger found someone whom they could praise mutually, for it seemed to hint that if he and his just-met friend could like a third person, then it argued well that they would get along, with that third person acting as a sort of guardian angel.
“I want personally—and in the name of our city council—to welcome you to Brentwood,” the mayor said.
“That’s very kind of you indeed,” Ruddy said.
“I’m sure that we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days,” the mayor said.
“I’m sure we will,” Ruddy said, relaxing a bit.
“Branden was a wonderful guy,” the mayor said, shaking his head. “What a tragic end he had. . . . His burial next week will be an official event, you know.”
“Oh, yes. Like many of our officers, he went down in the line of duty,” Ruddy murmured.
There was a silence. Ruddy offered the mayor a cigar, which he refused, taking a cigarette instead.
“We tried to build the most modern police headquarters in America here,” the mayor stated.
“You did it; it is the most modern I’ve ever seen,” Ruddy said. “And I’m proud to work in it.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it,” the mayor said. “I hear you’ve a wife and son.”
“That’s right, sir. You just missed my son. He went out fi fteen minutes ago.”
“We must have you over to the house,?
?? the mayor said. “Bill sent me your record—not that that was necessary. You’ve had quite some career.”
“Oh, it was normal, natural.” Ruddy deprecated his work.
“There are a thousand officers with the same record.”
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“Now, don’t be too modest,” the mayor said. “Bill knows a fi rst-rate officer when he sees one. You know, we telephoned Bill and asked him to send us the best man he had, regardless of politics. And he said without hesitation that you were one of the best and—”
“I would have retired in a few months,” Ruddy put in.
“I know, I know,” the mayor said. “All the more wonderful that you consented to come here with us. Your experience makes you more valuable for the job”—the mayor paused, stretched out his legs—“and I think you’ve got a job here, eh?
This crime wave—”
“Well, we don’t call it that,” Ruddy cut him off softly.
“Yes, I know. That’s newspaper stuff,” the mayor agreed.
“I’m glad you put up those road blocks. Impresses the public.
Everybody was struck by it.”
“I suppose Bill told you that we don’t catch crooks with roadblocks—”
“Ha, ha! I’ve been around, Chief.” The mayor laughed. “I know the ropes. By the way, any lead on who killed that Janet Wilder? That was an awful thing.”
“Terrible. Horrible. Cold-blooded murder.” Ruddy under-scored the mayor’s concern. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor, we’ve got a solid clue, and we’re developing the investigation all down the line. We think we’ve got hold of the gun—”
“Really? Now, that’s something. How—?”
“I’ll give you a more detailed account in a few days.”
“Take your time,” the mayor said. “I respect a man’s offi ce, his function. You’ll get no meddling from me, Chief. You just let your force work and we’ll applaud.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”
“Now, look, I wanted to see you to tell you that there will be a mass meeting tonight in the old masonic temple,” the mayor said. “I don’t want you to let that worry you. It was the cham-
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ber of commerce that called it. I tried to head ’em off, but you know there’s a lot of excitement in town. Maybe this meeting won’t be a bad thing. But you must not for a second think that it’s directed against you or the police department.”