Chapter 18
Captain Williams stared at Bernie for a long time and Bernie stared back. It was the captain who finally turned away. He glanced at the white-uniformed guard who stood in the doorway.
"What happened?" the captain said.
"The kid must have slipped it to him," the guard said. He was referring to the miniature jackknife that lay beside Bernie, almost invisible in the shallow pond of blood that crept over the tile floor, spreading almost to the wall. The captain picked up the little knife, wiping it clean with a handkerchief. It was only tin, a key chain ornament, a child's toy.
He moved around to the other side of the body to avoid the blood and crouched down beside Bernie. He extended a hand toward Bernie, then drew it back. He looked at the guard impatiently.
"Well, don't just stand there," he said. "Go find someone to clean up this mess."
The guard obeyed and withdrew.
When they were alone, the captain got up and moved to the window. He stared out for a moment, then turned back and looked at Bernie again.
"You had to do it, didn't you?" he said, and his voice was harsh. "You had to play God!"
He dipped his handkerchief into the plastic basin of water on the night-table beside the bed, then moved back to Bernie. He removed the arm that lay across his face, and began to wipe away the blood that had spilled over it from the little gash on his wrist.
"You damn fool," he whispered, "Did you think you were the only one who had troubles?"
When the guards returned, the captain left the room. He returned to the hospital lobby where he'd left Mike sitting on one of the chairs that were -lined up opposite the main desk.
The captain sat down in the chair next to Mike, who stared straight ahead, his face blank, emotionless, the weight of what had happened clearly visible in his large eyes. His brown hands worked absently over the key ring. The captain watched his hands. Finally he spoke.
"Did you know he was going to do this?"
Mike shook his head.
"Do you want to see him?"
Mike looked at the captain, confused. He opened his mouth to speak, then pressed his lips in a thin line and shook his head again.
The captain stared at Mike uncomfortably. Finally he reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get some coffee."
Mike rose, moving automatically, and followed the captain outside to his car.
When they were in traffic, Captain Williams glanced at Mike through the rear-view mirror. He felt his irritation growing. He gripped the wheel sternly and his foot pushed down hard on the accelerator. Finally he spoke.
"That guy thought a lot of you," he said. "Did you know that?"
"He loved me," Mike said simply.
"Yes," the captain said, "And what about you?"
Mike looked at the captain. The look of confusion was gone from his face.
"I was going away, wasn't I?"
The captain weighed this, then he nodded. "That's true," he said finally, and his foot eased up on the accelerator. "That's certainly true...."
Captain Williams dropped Mike back at the State Hospital parking lot where Bernie's car was parked, then headed back to his office downtown.
"Do you think it was my fault?" Mike had asked the captain. "What Bernie did?"
"Don't even think about that," the captain said sternly. "It had nothing to do with you."
Captain Williams knew this was true. Mike was only an excuse. Bernie's was a crime that had begun a long time ago. It had been planned and rehearsed until it was almost reality, gaining facility each time, becoming less and less a dream, until all it needed to materialize was an excuse, a justification, less than that, a mere means to make the hands actually move and strike out at his enemy-a self he couldn't accept.
The captain thought about Bernie lying on the hospital floor, drained of life, a look of terror behind his eyes, perhaps realizing in his final moments, the horror of what he had done.
"You had to play God," the captain had said and he'd moved to the window, trembling with anger. He had found a truth that Bernie didn't know and had run through the streets like a fool to tell him, even before confirming what he'd found, but knowing it was true.
But Bernie only stared at him. As the captain stared back he felt his fury rise. He'd been made a fool of, and anger scorched his face while he stood at the window regaining his breath and pushing out the excitement-the child-like bubbling enthusiasm that accompanies victory, as he had run up the steps to deliver his news.
But you didn't want the truth, Bernie. You never gave a damn about the truth. That was part of your crime and it was a crime. You knew Mike wasn't guilty of that terrible act upon the big man. You must have known it if you knew Mike at all. But you pretended he did because you wanted to believe it. You needed an excuse for your hands to move and in that way you used him and it was wrong....
But Bernie had demanded sympathy as well as to be put down for his act. The captain was aware of that too. At some point his labors must have ceased to be positive and become instead responses to something that commanded him. When the guilt he'd invented had taken over and come into its own, turning on its creator, then it was no longer sinning but illness, as real as physical illness. Because of that, he had demanded sympathy.
Just as Madge had demanded sympathy ... not only in the end, but when she'd taken her coin and said, "I'm paid." It was more illness than sinning when she had begged for self-destruction, just as she had probably done so many times in the past-grabbing for perversion, using it, with the money only an excuse to strike out and destroy her enemy-an emptiness inside her that couldn't be filled. And because it was illness she demanded sympathy.
There was someone else who demanded sympathy. Even though he'd done wrong, he was neither more nor less guilty than Bernie. The captain was thinking of the man who was waiting for him in one of the detention rooms at the police station.
"Nothing," Jack had said, and the captain had believed him. Because, just as with Madge, the money had only been an excuse to strike out and destroy his enemy-Cy Cartell....
The captain swung his car into the parking area beside the Phoenix Police Department and walked slowly across the soft gravel lot toward the side entrance. He'd been in a hurry when he'd left his office, but there was no reason to rush now. It had become just a sad business-like cleaning up the hospital floor after the tragedy.
Of course, it was Jack. There were no surprises. It had always been Jack just beyond the doorway, standing in the shadows, or at the edge of a crowd, but he had always been there and it was his crime.
The captain might have sensed that when he'd first met the man. It was in his eyes, in his look of contempt and in his smile, a smile of hate, the kind of hate the captain had looked for in Madge, the kind of hate it would have taken to kill Bernie, the kind of hate it took to kill the big man.
The captain might have seen it, but he had been preoccupied with another drama, a separate drama that had nothing to do with Jack. Consequently, Jack had only been a drifter, a small-time thug, a stereotype-just a type.
The captain hadn't confronted him yet and he had no proof-but he knew he was right. He would play a hunch and he would win-because he was right.
Captain Williams entered the station and passed through the mesh gate behind the lobby desk toward Billings' office. He unlocked a large metal cabinet and withdrew Bernie's rifle from among the many items stored there. Then he carefully wrapped his handkerchief around the muzzle, gripping it by that end.
How brilliant can you be, he thought as he headed for the basement room.
He felt some of the excitement returning. It was something he couldn't control nor did he try to. It was part of winning. It had begun at Madge's door. It had been just an idea, a question, and when he had finally answered it, then all the other questions could be answered.
He should have asked it earlier. But he'd been so anxious for one truth he'd let the other slip by unnoticed.
While he'd stood at Madge's door, waiting for an answer from her that would never come, he'd suddenly found himself thinking of Jack. He was remembering something Tony Banderro had related about his night with Madge....
She held the coin in her clenched hand, then threw it at him. "Who wants your goddam money," she said and she laughed....
"What happened between you and Bernie Evans in his apartment?" the captain had asked Jack.
"Nothing." It was the truth. The captain hadn't asked anything after that. It was what he had wanted to learn. So much so that he had let another truth, a more important truth, slip Dy unchallenged. It was the answer to the question he had asked just before it.
"What did the big man pay you?"
"Nothing!" Jack had said, and, in his eyes, he had said, "Who wants your goddam money!" And the Captain knew it was the truth....
What did he want, then? What could he possibly want from the big man if not money? When the captain answered this, he found he could find answers to everything else. At least, possible answers....
The big man thought he had found Jack. Actually, it was Jack who had found the big man.
That was the reason Jack had come to Phoenix. He wasn't a drifter-he was a hunter. He had had but one purpose in mind, to find and destroy his enemy-an enemy he didn't even know.
He'd been released from prison only a week ago-enough time to locate Cy Cartel!, to find out what he looked like, to find out where he could be found. Jack had come to Phoenix. He hung around the bars and the downtown street corners, watching for the big man.
Blind luck had played into his hands. He had spotted the big man as the big man spotted him.
"A man who knows the ropes don't have to look long," Cy had said. What a joke it must have been to Jack as he listened to the big man outlining his plan and offering him his few dollars, pleased that he knew how to find what he was looking for at the price he wanted to pay-never suspecting he was not the villain but the victim, his sentence passed when the gates of a prison in Texas swung open for John William Marshell, a stranger, someone Cy had never seen before and had no came to fear.
The big man's hoax fitted perfectly into Jack's purpose. He could eat the man's food, drink his drinks and sit quietly and grin, because he knew his turn was coming. He could go along with Cy's plan. He could go to the Post Bar, get acquainted with Bernie Evans, then meet Cy at Bernie's apartment. Bernie was a perfect fall guy. When he woke up, drunk, confused, the big man would be dead and Jack, the drifter, would drift on.
How simple-even for a brilliant mind!
He got Bernie home and forced him to drink more. That was all he wanted to do-get Bernie drunk and let him pass out. Then he would wait for Cy Cartell.
That's when the murder was suppose to have taken place ... but Cy Cartell hadn't arrived at the appointed hour. He'd been distracted. He had lingered with a Rose, a willing Rose who had almost made him forget what he had come for.
Jack didn't know why Cartell had failed him. But his instincts told him not to wait, not to chance it. He had found the big man once and he would find him again-this time on his own terms.
Luck was still with him when he got to the Bel-Plaines Motel. He hadn't even had to search out Cy's cabin. There was Bernie's car parked in one of the driveways pointing the way.
It had been a repeat performance-almost identical. He pushed open the door and there was the big man. And there on the floor, passed out-almost as if he hadn't wakened since Jack had left him-lay his fall guy. And on the floor beside him a rifle.
The big man had grinned at a friend and extracted a bill from his wallet. He had looked up, holding out the money to his employee, then suddenly was dead.
That's the way it had happened, the captain thought as he entered the detention room.
Jack looked up at Captain Williams from the bench, then looked at the gun the captain held out toward him.
"Do you want to add some more prints on this," the captain said, "Or do you think we have enough?"
It was a silly game, but the captain played it-just as in the storybooks. Jack looked at the rifle butt thrust at him, then looked at the captain and knew it was over....
How brilliant can you be, the captain thought. Cy might have seen Jack before, but not have recognized him. Without the grin, wearing only a frightened look, he might have been merely one of many at the edge of a crowd.
But Bernie had recognized him. Through the confusion and the shock of what had happened he had recognized Jack in the crowd outside the cabin when he left with the captain. He hadn't stopped to wonder why Jack was there. He only knew that he saw him, as in a dream, and he struck out at the crowd, screaming, plunging into it, to reach him.
"I'll kill you!" Bernie had screamed and it was Jack he was talking to....
"I didn't do anything," Bernie had cried, and it was the night with Jack he was referring to....
The captain wondered. If his hunch were right-if it had been Jack in the crowd, then why had he come back to the cabin-unless to recover something left behind that might prove damaging. He wasn't too bright. His prison record showed that, and the captain wondered what he might have left behind. There was nothing there that could connect him with the crime-except, maybe, his fingerprints on the rifle.
He couldn't have known that Bernie had wiped the rifle clean.
He'd come back to recover them, but he'd come back too late. The police were already there, so he could only slip away. But he knew he was caught. He'd only been waiting in the detention room for the captain to come back. And when he saw the rifle butt thrust at him, he knew it was over.
Captain Williams handed the rifle to the guard at the door, then sat on the bench opposite Jack. He wouldn't tell Jack that Bernie had wiped the rifle clean. He would spare him that. He would let Jack think that the captain was no more nor less brilliant than he.
He reached for his cigarettes, extracted one, then offered one to Jack.
"You want to tell me about it?" he said....
"I'm a man," Jack said. "And there's some things it takes a man to do." He paused. "That's what the big man said, you know. I watched him through the window. Bernie had the gun and the big man was moving on him. 'It takes a man to pull a trigger', he says, 'and I don't see no man around here.' And the son-of-a bitch fainted-fainted dead away."
Jack took a deep drag on his cigarette.
"That's all there was to it, man. I said, 'You owe me ten dollars, mister. I come to collect it. And there's another debt I gotta collect-for Robert Joseph.' And I shot him."
"Robert Joseph?" The captain frowned. "Who the hell is Robert Joseph?"
"Just a name," Jack said. "Just a name on a graveyard marker. But he used to be ... somebody." Jack shook his head. "He was just a little fella, you know. And he used to cry because he was hungry. And I says, Don't cry, Robert Joseph, 'cause Jack'll take care of you.
"I guess I didn't do a very good job. Nope-I got caught. I always get caught, man." Jack smiled sadly. "He was only eleven the last time I went in. That was five years ago. Five years, man! How could I take care of him?
"I'm sittin' there in a cage and I says, 'You wait till I come out, hear?' But he wouldn't wait. In one ear and out the other! He ran all over this ol' country tryin' to do what I was doin'. And that man out there in Georgia wouldn't let him wait for Jack.
"No, man. I'm sittin' there in the middle of Texas and he's layin' in the street with a bullet in his back. Layin' like a clump of dirt in the middle of the street....
"It was an awful big bullet for. that little back," Jack said and the liquid that had been building up in his eyes finally spilled over and he turned out his hands in a futile gesture. "It was an awful big bullet, man! Lots bigger than the one I used!"
Suddenly his fists clenched and a power came into his eyes that made the captain wince.
"Someone gotta pay for Robert Joseph," he said.
"Someone will," the captain said and he moved to the officer who stood at the door.
"Have him booked," he said and left the room....
Captain Williams sat on the window! edge of his office on the second floor of the Municipal Building and watched a familiar bronze-colored car as it slipped into traffic, then headed in the direction of the twin buttes that marked the edge of the city.
His eyes lingered on the buttes, almost purple now in the blazing afternoon sunlight. Ironic, he thought-identical in size and shape, mirrors of one another.
He caught sight of the car again as it disappeared at the end of the block.
He smiled, admitting to himself he was pleased Mike and Sarah had stopped in to say good-by before leaving for Chicago.
What a difference there was between the young man who had just left his office and the street urchin from Chicago's South Side described in Billings' report. It was amazing how much of Bernie had rubbed off on Mike. It was too bad Bernie hadn't been able to see that.
The captain thought of Bernie again, also on his way to Chicago. The body was being shipped at the request of Bernie's mother. That was good, the captain thought. It was as it should be. Sooner or later Bernie had to go home.