“Agreed, sir, and that’s what stopped me, until just a few minutes ago. I know for a fact that he is no longer in Pasadena, at least that was true as of an hour ago.”
Lindholm pondered that piece of information. “That does shift the odds, doesn’t it.”
“Johnny McGuire is only nine years old, but even kids of that age can be remarkably resourceful at times. He’s somehow managed to get a bus ride out of town, or possibly hitchhiked, but the probabilities are well against that. Granted that he could have walked all night, but his chances of doing that without being spotted are very slim.”
Lindholm shook his head. “He spent the night in the Arroyo Seco, that’s what I was going to tell you. I’ve had two men down there making a thorough search; they found his red jacket rolled up under some bushes.”
Virgil was almost afraid to ask the question. “Did they recover the gun?”
“No, they didn’t, and once they found the jacket they checked the area very carefully.”
“I hope to God he’s thrown it away somewhere,” Tibbs said.
“Probably he has, but until we can establish it as a fact, we’ll have to assume that he’s still armed. However, you say he’s out of town-how did you get that?”
“He called his mother on the phone to tell her he was all right. The operator cut in to tell him that his three minutes were up. They don’t do that on local calls, only those where toll charges are involved.”
“About the only place he could go from here by public transportation is into L.A. I’ll alert them immediately.”
“I’d suggest also, sir, that you advise Anaheim and particularly the security people at the stadium. One boy going to the ball game won’t be easy to find, but a boy alone by himself could be a little easier.”
“You think he’ll get that far?”
Virgil shook his head. “You’ll have to polish your own crystal ball on that one. A lot funnier things than that have happened.”
Lindholm sat up. “Agreed, except that if he’s still got his gun with him, things may not be especially funny before they’re over.” He looked up. “Yes?”
Virgil turned to find Bob Nakamura behind him. “Something is starting in Brookside Park,” Bob reported. “At first it didn’t look like much, but it’s snowballing.”
“Is anybody we know leading it?” Lindholm asked.
“I don’t think so, sir, it appears to be more of a spontaneous thing, but it seems to be developing pretty rapidly. Five different patrol cars have called in during the last ten minutes to report a mass movement in that direction. All Negro, but apparently not the hippy types. So far five incidents of rock throwing damage, two store windows broken.”
Lindholm quickly picked up the phone. “I’ll tell the chief. Virgil, I sent Ted Rasmussen down there, but he’s new in his rank and may need some help. You’d better get down there and lend a hand. Call if you need more manpower. As soon as I talk to Chief Addis I’ll call Anaheim.” He dialed.
“Yes, sir,” Tibbs answered and left.
Sergeant Ted Rasmussen set his jaw hard and resolved to do his duty, no matter what. In the back of the station wagon he was driving there was a mobile command post which would enable him to direct the five other men assigned to him, or to communicate with headquarters if necessary.
Brookside Park was the trouble area of Pasadena, he knew that well although almost all of his work to date had been in the field of traffic. Any problems involving moving vehicles he could handle; what he was up against now was something else, but he would have to hack it because the responsibility was his.
A swiftly thrown rock hit hard against the right front fender of his police car. He took no responsive action; he was needed where he was going and he had no time for a probably futile chase on foot of some leggy teen-ager. When he passed a car parked at the curb which had a freshly broken windshield he ignored it too. Ahead of him lay a much greater ugliness.
Essentially a quiet man, Ted Rasmussen was depending on the authority of the law, and the training he had received for his new job, to handle the situation. He knew quite a bit about riots; he had seen a graphic news photo of a policeman, his face streaming blood, who had been caught in the melee of a New Jersey uprising. The memory of that picture steeled him; what had to be done, he would do.
As he neared the park he was surprised by the number of parked vehicles; he guessed immediately that at least some of them had brought people from Los Angeles. Some of them would have come just to see the excitement; others might well be hard-core militants who were ripe for hostile action.
His first glimpse of the crowd which had already gathered hit him like a blow in the abdomen; he had not expected half that many. One quick look around the area told him that more people were streaming in on foot, some even running.
On a raised platform a speaker was haranguing the crowd. He had a loudspeaker system which he was using to augment the natural power of his voice. In the first few words that he caught Rasmussen heard the speaker talking about what a wonderful boy Willie Orthcutt had been.
Ted Rasmussen pulled his station wagon up behind the gathering crowd of listeners and went around immediately to set up his command post. He dropped the tail gate, flipped on the switches of the electronic equipment, then turned to the two men who had been riding with him. “You know what to do,” he said crisply. “Go to the far side of the crowd and stay there. If I have to make an announcement, I want you to be able to testify that it was audible at the furthest point. Keep out of trouble if you can; if you need help, let me know fast.”
The two uniformed officers left together, walking rapidly around the perimeter of the growing mass of humanity. Behind the sergeant the car which had come with him unloaded three more uniformed men.
The police had made great strides in crowd handling since the outbreak of violence in Watts a few years previously and the sergeant had been well briefed. “You had better keep your batons with you. Don’t make a show of them, but if it becomes a question of self-protection, then do whatever is necessary. Avoid an incident if you possibly can.” He nodded toward the speaker. “I don’t know who that man is, but so long as he confines himself to protest, demanding Negro rights, and things like that, he’s within the law. Remember that. If he gets out of line to the point where we’ll have to take action, then I’ll let you know. Now spread out a little, but keep me in sight.”
The three officers followed instructions; it was a case now where their uniforms were their best protection. Although they were armed, against a mob of hundreds, if the crowd broke loose, they would be virtually helpless.
Ted Rasmussen tapped his fingernail against the public address microphone and verified the fact that the system in his station wagon was in working order. Then he picked up his communications mike and reported that he was on the job and had made his initial deployment. He was not able to give an accurate estimate of the size of the crowd, but he asked for reinforcements on the basis of the outsider cars he had spotted while driving in.
He had barely pressed the mike back into its clip when a youth darted out of the crowd, aimed a rock at one of the uniformed men, and then scurried back into the jam of people. Fortunately he missed; Rasmussen saw it and signaled his men not to give pursuit. He tried to sense the feeling of the crowd, the extent to which it had been aroused, and he was not sure of his result. The speaker was well launched into a poignant description and biography of the dead Orthcutt boy; the crowd was responding, but everything that came out of the loudspeakers was well within the law.
The communications set came alive with the message that another six uniformed men were being dispatched. Also Virgil Tibbs was on his way and should arrive at any moment. That was good news for Rasmussen; if things got any worse, Virgil, being both experienced and a Negro, could be a real help.