Dead child. No more to be punished or loved. There was a pink smear of blood on the edge of the sink and the enamel was freshly chipped. He looked at the canisters. Somebody had been looking for something. Danny had come after his money.
He went to the phone, almost on tiptoe. He looked up the police emergency number in the front of the book, dialed it.
“Police Headquarters, Sergeant Foltz.”
“This is Lee Bronson of 1024 Arcadia Street, Brookton. Somebody has killed my wife.” The words, spoken so carefully, sounded insane.
“Don’t touch anything, Mr. Bronson. If there’s anybody with you, don’t let them leave. Officers will be there in a few moments.”
Lee hung up. He stood by the phone. The house was very still. He heard the refrigerator go on. He heard the hiss of bus brakes. Then he heard the thin, oncoming whine of a siren, and he stood without moving until he heard the sound drop to a low growling, and saw the sweep of the spotlight as they picked up house numbers. He turned on the porch lights and opened the door. Two uniformed men came swiftly up the walk and up the steps. One was young and thin and the other was older, short and wide.
“Bronson? Where is it?”
“In... the kitchen. I’d just come home, just a couple of minutes ago, and...”
“Save it, Mr. Bronson. They’ll be coming along to ask you questions in a couple minutes. Take a look, Billy.”
The young one walked heavily through the house. He came back quickly. “No question about this one.”
“You stay with Mr. Bronson. I’ll confirm.” The wide man trotted out to the car.
“Confirm?” Lee said weakly.
“You get some funny calls sometimes. Maybe somebody faints. Maybe somebody’s got a knot on the head. That your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Rough deal, mister.”
“Can I sit down?”
“You better just stay right here. They won’t want nothing messed up in the house. They’ll be along any minute. A whole swarm of them. Homicide Section and lab guys and the coroner and D.A. office guys and the newspapers. You won’t be lonesome.” He took two steps out onto the unscreened part of the porch and yelled, “All right, there. Move along. Nothing to see. Move along. Go on back home. Nothing to see, folks.”
Chapter Nine
Ben Wixler
Sergeant Ben Wixler had worked from eight-thirty to five on Tuesday, the sixteenth of October, and had been driven home by one of the beat cars on the four to twelve which had brought in an early and, for Ben, an opportune D and D they had netted out in his usually circumspect neighborhood. Though he knew that as the acting head of a section he could order up a department sedan and driver, it always made him feel too much as though he was swinging his weight around. It might be different when he made lieutenant, a boost that Matthews had told him was coming up any day now.
The boys let him off in front of his house and as Ben got out he saw Beth looking out the picture window in front. It was a smallish house on a generous lot — a lot that matched the size of the mortgage. Even on such a dismal day the house looked inviting. He’d been very dubious about Beth’s idea of painting it barn red with white trim. He had favored white with green trim. But she had won and he had to admit it looked fine. The outside finish was board and batten, and the stubby chimney was painted white.
She opened the front door for him, her pretty face a mock mask of woe, and said, “And there’s the police bringing your poor father home again, children.”
He kissed her and touched the front of her smock very lightly and said, “Children, indeed! And have you no restraint, woman? If I haven’t lost count, and some days I’m not sure if I haven’t, that will be number four you’re a-carrying. Where are the other monsters?”
“Captivated by television. The same old western. The one they show over and over again.”
“Then there’s no use trying to say hello to them yet.” He hung his coat and hat in the hallway closet and went into the living room. By parental decree the television set had been relegated to the play room in the cellar. Sounds of six-shooters drifted up through the floor.
“I must say,” Beth said, “I could get to like these banker’s hours.”
“Don’t get too used to them. Things are too quiet. Everything will happen at once. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”
“Are you in a good mood? A wonderful mood?”
He scowled at her. “Bash a fender? No. We going out? No.” He looked around the living room. “Hmmm. Somebody’s coming. Oh, my God! That brother of yours!”
Beth perched on the arm of the chair and ran her fingertips through his hair. It was very short black hair, stiff as wire, fitted like a dense black cap to the round hard skull. “Mmmm,” she said. “All scratchy.”
“Don’t try to soothe me, woman.”
“Hank is my brother.”
“I grant that.”
“Hank is a noisy oaf. Hank patronizes you. Hank asks you questions and doesn’t listen to the answer. His darling wife, Eleanor, has all the elfin charm of a coal chute. But, beloved, Hank is my brother.”
“A highly implausible relationship. Hi ho. I can endure it. My face will grow stiff from wearing a horrid grin. I will applaud his triumphs in the lumber business. And I shall keep one pointed ear canted in the direction of the telephone.” He swiveled around to look up at her. “But I swear to God, honey, if he gets off again on that business about maybe I ought to grow up and stop playing cops and robbers and he has a nice opening for me, I’m going to run him right out into the street.”
“I don’t think he’ll try that again. Not after the last time,” she said, and giggled. “Anyway, it isn’t for dinner this time. They’re coming about eight-thirty, and they’ll be gone by midnight. Three and a half hours. Now go make like a water buffalo, darling.”
He went into the bedroom and undressed for a shower. He had treated Hank’s attitude lightly while talking to Beth, but he knew that she guessed how much it disturbed him. Hank’s attitude was far too symptomatic to be comfortable. To too many people the job of a cop was without honor, particularly in the city of Hancock where, over the years, too much publicity had been given to the corrupt police officer — and where the police force had had to make a continual compromise with a strong underworld organization.
Hank would never know what it was like.
Ben Wixler had left college in 1942 at the end of his junior year to enlist in the army. At the end of basic training he had almost inevitably been selected to go to O.C.S., and he had elected the infantry school. At twenty-one he had been much the same sort of man he was at thirty-five. Big, solid, impassive and reliable, a man who in ways unknown to himself could generate loyalty and respect. He could, when faced with incompetence or lethargy, became frighteningly cold and ominous, face expressionless, only the gray eyes alive, shining like broken metal. To those close to him he was able to show a wonderful warmth, an understanding generosity. He was often afraid, but he could control it. By ’44 he was a captain and had his own company. Company B was the one selected for the nasty jobs, such as the clearing of snipers from small shattered towns, the jobs requiring a high order of discipline, a professional regard for risk. Every man in B Company bitched heartily about the assignments given them, but had a high secret pride in the company and in the steady competence and unrelenting fairness of Wixler. Replacements quickly absorbed this special feeling, and the mortality rate of replacements was the lowest in the division.