Farrell realized that certain of Detweiller’s points hadn’t been established; there was no evidence that Bobby had been made to steal the gun, no evidence that the theft was connected in any way with Duke Resnick and Jerry Leuth.
Mrs. Sims gave a little cry of astonishment and fright as Detweiller finished speaking, but he silenced her with an impatient shake of his head. “First thing we do is a don’t,” he said. “We don’t fly off the handle.”
Detweiller paused to light a cigarette; this was an effective bit of theater. The silence deepened significantly as they waited for him to continue. Detweiller, Farrell realized, sensed his control of the group. In the deliberate voice of a man certain of not being interrupted, he said: “Now I don’t know exactly what kind of pressures were brought to bear on our sons. I can guess at them, though — a nine-year-old kid has a lot of fears and worries that a vicious older person could work on.” This brought a gasp from Janey Norton, and Detweiller said, “I’m not trying to shock anybody, I’m just putting the facts out where we can look at them. To go on: I don’t know how many other youngsters in Faircrest have been put through this same sort of wringer, but I intend to find out. But there’s one thing I do know — we’ve got to put a stop to this thing.”
Mr. Sims cleared his throat. “Naturally, Det, the police...”
“I didn’t say anything about the police. I said we’ve got to put a stop to this thing.” Detweiller nodded sharply at Sam Ward. “Sam went to the police. So did John Farrell. So did I. We got precisely nowhere. Sam, maybe you’d better tell them what happened to you.”
“Well, perhaps it wasn’t the cops’ fault,” Ward said, scratching his balding head. “Our kids were too scared to make an identification. But you know, John,” he said, turning to Farrell, “the lieutenant didn’t do very much to make our kids feel safe. I thought about it later. He just pushes them out of his office and says, ‘Well, what about it? Are these the guys or not?’ ”
Detweiller said, “Tell them about the politician, Sam. Go on! There’s the pay-off.”
“Well, after our boys refused to identify these hoodlums some ward-heeler came bursting into the lieutenant’s office demanding that we apologize for the horrible humiliation we had inflicted on these goddamn degenerates. But the most frightening thing to me was that it was obvious who was running that Detective Division — and it wasn’t the men sitting around there with badges and guns. It was the politicians.”
“Well, what are you suggesting?” Wayne Norton asked. “I don’t honestly know what you think we ought to do.”
“I’m suggesting we do the job ourselves.” Detweiller walked across the room and made himself a drink, and his gesture said in effect that he was through talking, that he was relinquishing the floor. The room began to buzz. Cigarettes were lighted, glasses refilled. Farrell sat on the arm of a chair and listened; he was disturbed by the excitement, the giddiness in the air. That Detweillers proposal was being discussed did not bother him, but that it was being discussed with such pleasurable tension did; the talk was dangerous and humorless, it seemed to him, shot through with intemperance and bitterness, egos casting themselves in molds of mutinous swagger.
Wayne Norton was comforting Janey. She had said, “I just can’t believe a thing like this could happen to us,” and he was explaining rather grimly that most decent people felt that way about the evil in the world. “It’s the nice guys, funny-face, who take a beating, because they’re just not expecting it.” She looked as if she might cry and he patted her shoulder and said, “Look, you don’t know your old man very well. I’m a nice guy up to a point. But if anybody insists, well, I can play it the other way, don’t you worry.”
Grace Ward nodded approvingly at him, black eyes snapping. “If what you’ve worked for in life means anything to you you’ll find that you can fight for it by any rules that anybody wants to make up. But I don’t see that Det’s idea is practical.”
Ward said irritably, “It’s practical if we use our common sense. I mean we can do it, don’t ever think we can’t. Hell, set it up like a business problem. We handle tougher things every day in our jobs. The only tiling is, I don’t see how we can establish who’s guilty and who’s responsible. You know what I mean? One of these punks might have planned the whole thing, and the others just trailed along. And there might be some boys in this gang who aren’t involved at all.”
John Sims gave him a wink of elephantine subtlety and said, “Well, you could be reasonably sure they were being punished for something. The odds are against finding any dewey-eyed innocents in that crowd, I should say.”
Detweiller listened to the discussion with an expression very close to complacence. He said: “I didn’t mean to turn this party into a business conference. There’s a man named Malleck I want you all to meet, you men at any rate. That will be the time to talk business. Meanwhile, let’s drink up, everybody.”
Dick Baldwin began to laugh and Detweiller turned on him sharply. “Well, what’s funny?”
“Det, you’ve exceeded all my expectations today. I look to be amused in hallowed old Faircrest, of course. Epigrams, the latest gags and so forth.” Baldwin’s thin smile was as sarcastic as his comment. “But you’ve topped yourself today. You’re not just amusing, you’re hilarious.”
“Now just a second,” Detweiller said in a careful voice. “I’d lay off the needle if I were you. This isn’t any of your business.”
“The man is serious!” Baldwin said, raising his eyes. “I imagine that’s the heart of the joke. All humor is touched with tragedy and vice versa, a cab driver told me yesterday. You’re really going to put on bed sheets and ride out to protect the sanctity of your homes and womenfolk.” Baldwin was still grinning. “Pardon me, Det, I just think it’s funny. I can’t help it.”
“You don’t have a home and you don’t have kids,” Detweiller said, quite obviously trying to control his temper. “You live in a furnished apartment and you probably don’t know the names of your next-door neighbors. If the schools in your area are lousy it doesn’t mean anything to you. If there are no decent playgrounds or parks it couldn’t matter less to you. Do you see what I mean?”
“You’re talking absolute rot,” Baldwin said. “Do you seriously believe that a man’s relationship to this or any other community is defined by whether or not he owns property and has sired children?”
“I didn’t say that. I just mean we’ve got a stake in things that you don’t have.”
“You mean a great deal more than that whether you realize it or not. You believe that owning property and having children makes you an elite group.” Baldwin shook his head with something like impatience. “Seriously, can’t you see that your attitude is not only pretty damned presumptuous, but also about as dangerous as a ticking bomb? Sure you’ve got a nice life out here. Shiny cars, golf clubs, country-squire gimmicks from Abercrombies. It’s the American dream or the American nightmare depending on your tastes, but that’s beside the point. The thing is...”