A Father's Law, Page 3

  “What are you talking about? You just said that you felt he wasn’t guilty; if that’s the case, then what could he confess?”

  “That’s not the point, Dad. The guy wasn’t guilty. I’m convinced of that. The police didn’t believe his alibi, but I did.”

  Tommy sat now, and words poured out, passionate words that held Ruddy spellbound. “That woman told the truth. Of course, she was a drunkard. That’s what made the police reject her story. Thompson was never near that place. . . . Now, Dad, when you get a guy in jail—a guy like Thompson, illiterate and scared—and sentence him to the electric chair, he gets to feel guilty. And Thompson would have confessed to that crime, but he simply didn’t know how to do so.”

  “Aw, Tommy, that’s crazy,” Ruddy rejected the theory with heat. “You just said that he wasn’t guilty—”

  “He wasn’t,” Tommy said. “Dad, I went and talked to that woman. She told the truth and—”

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  “You never told me you talked to her!”

  “I was doing fieldwork one day near her fl at,” Tommy explained. “I went in. I told her I was a social worker. She told me everything. She was scared to death. Thompson was in her fl at when that robbery was taking place—”

  “But what’s this about Thompson wanting to confess and not being able to?” Ruddy asked, blinking.

  “Dad, he wasn’t guilty of that job,” Tommy went on to explain. “But when the law grabbed him, and when he was facing that chair with no hope of getting off, he really wanted to confess to something. Now, you say, at the very end, he tried to confess to some minor jobs in hope of getting the death sentence commuted. You said that the police rejected those confessions. I don’t think he was lying. And if he had really done that murder job, he would have spit it all out. ”

  “Tommy, I don’t know. I don’t follow you, son,” Ruddy mumbled, scratching his head. This is what he did not like.

  This son of his holding forth about the vital heart of his police work and with undaunted authority. This is what had made him demand of Tommy that he never talk like this before his fellow officers, who sometimes came to the apartment. “I just don’t believe that there are people who are crazy enough to confess to something that they never did.” He glanced at his watch, and though he still had plenty of time, he felt like fl eeing the disturbing presence of this strange son of his.

  “Ha, ha . . . I know you don’t get me, Dad,” Tommy said with that cool, superior laugh of his. “We’ll talk about it some other time. I know you got to go now.”

  “See you, Tommy,” Ruddy said, doubling his fist and playfully placing it at his son’s chin.

  “I got you blocked,” Tommy called out, lifting his elbow just in time.

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  “Your reflexes are quick,” Ruddy said, glad to change the subject.

  “You bet,” Tommy sang.

  “See you, boy,” Ruddy called.

  “Okay, Dad,” Tommy said, turning back to his machine.

  As Ruddy went down the stairway, and even when he was upon the rain-wet front steps, he could hear the diminishing whir of Tommy’s typewriter keys. “Goddamn, if that boy’s right, then I’m crazy,” he muttered half-aloud to himself. A man wanting to confess to a crime that he did not commit just because he is in jail and is ignorant. “Goddamn,” he railed at himself and at his strange son. “I wish to hell he wouldn’t talk like that.”

  C H A P T E R 2

  Ruddy was relieved to plunge into the faint drizzle of warm rain that greeted him when he stepped into the street. Hazy blobs of yellow streetlamps gleamed to the left and right of him and not a single soul could be seen. “Quiet neighborhood,” he appraised the quarter in which his two-story stucco house stood, in keeping with his offi cer’s rank.

  Yes, all in all, he—Rudolph Turner, captain of police, colored, Catholic—had made it. His neighbors were white; he did not have to fear hoodlums loitering about his premises. He had at once, as soon as he had purchased his property, joined the neighborhood protective association to guard the interests of all who owned property in the area, and he had been accepted with enthusiasm.

  To his neighbor, Mr. Stonewell Britten, vice-president of the Greenlawn Bank and Loan Association, who had greeted him the morning he had moved in with “We’re damned particular about who lives around here.”

  Ruddy had said heartily: “I’m glad to hear that. Now that I’m here, I’m particular too.”

  Yes, things were all right with him. His son was in the university,

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  and in a few months, Ruddy would retire. Maybe he would join a private detective agency; no fewer than five had already spoken or written to him, offering inducements. Well, he’d decide when the time came. He strode on, feeling his limbs strangely vulnerable in his civilian suit but feeling comforted by the weight of his gun on his right hip. Now, he could take a taxi to police headquarters or he could take the subway. No, he’d call and see if there was a squad car in the area. As a captain of police, he had the right to commandeer squad cars for his transportation, but he had rarely availed himself of the opportunity. Yes, tonight, being summoned at two o’clock in the morning to the commissioner’s offi ce, he felt that he not only had the legal right to command a squad car but the moral imperative to do so. And what the hell does old Commissioner King want with me at two o’clock in the morning? he asked himself as he neared the end of the block and came in sight of a police alarm call box. He should have worn his raincoat, dammit. The thin rain was thickening to strings that gleamed like lead in the glare of the streetlamps.

  And in this rain, I sure would be a fool not to ask for a squad car. A short, thick-necked white youth passed him and threw him a quick glance. Run along, buddy, he mentally advised the man. What could you be doing out in this residential neighborhood alone at this time of night? And he felt the weight of his gun again, nestling against his hip. As he reached the box, the youth went from sight, around a corner. Ruddy jiggled the hook of the telephone and at once heard a sleepy masculine voice: “Police Headquarters, Squad Car Detail.

  Sergeant Simmons speaking.”

  “Sergeant Simmons, this is Captain Turner speaking.”

  “Oh, yes, Captain. What can I do for you?”

  “Is there a squad car prowling about this area?”

  “Just exactly where are you, Captain?”

  “At the corner of Ninety-first and Blue Ridge Avenue.”

  “Lemme check, Captain. I think Jock Weidman ought to be

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  somewhere near there by now,” Sergeant Simmons said. Ruddy noticed with gratitude the respect that had at once crept into Simmons’s voice. He ought to be glad to help me—I endorsed him for promotion. Good boy, that David Simmons. Never hurried, never excited.

  “Hello, Captain.”

  “Right here, Sergeant.”

  “Jock Weidman is about six blocks from you. Shall I call him to pick you up?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll do that. You have an appointment for tonight.”

  “Yeah. I know. What’s it all about?”

  “Wouldn’t know that, Captain.”

  “Say, is it raining in the city?”

  “Not a drop of rain falling here. Is it raining there?”

  “Yes. Just a drizzle, but it’s thickening.”

  “I’ll tell Lt. Jock Weidman to rush over.”

  “No rush. I can wait under an awning.”

  “Won’t be but a minute, Captain.”

  “Righto.”

  He hung up, went to the entrance of a clothing store, sheltered himself under an awning, and lit a cigarette. That was one advantage that plainclothesmen had over those in uniform; they could smoke when and where they pleased. But never in twenty-five years on the police force had he been summoned to see the commissioner of polic
e at two o’clock in the morning.

  What could that man want?

  Was he to be reprimanded? No, hell—if that was the case, why, he’d have got it in writing, as was the usual routine. . . . A decoration? No, he had had six. And by all fair means, he was certainly not due for any more. Then what? The nearer he came to seeing the commissioner, the tenser he got. But there’s nothing to worry

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  about, he told himself. But he worried. Oh, maybe an offi cer had been slain? Yeah, cop killing always got the force all worked up.

  The commissioner always said, “For every cop killed, always kill a crook, no matter how. That’s the only safe way.” And Ruddy agreed with that, for he carried a scar under his right arm where the doctors had to dig out a .38 bullet which a second-story punk had once put into him. “It could have been me,” he muttered aloud each time he remembered that close call of death. He pulled on his cigarette and scanned the streets. Empty. Everything’s quiet. Too quiet. Yeah, they say cops are like mothers: when their children are too quiet, they get more worried than if they were making a lot of noise.

  His ears caught the faint and distant sound of a police siren. Yeah, that’s Jock. What a guy. Who’d ever think a man with a sense of humor like that would be on the police force? And what a tender heart. What a practical joker! I’ll bet Jock’s driving tonight. Jock was a guy who wanted to do everything. He had been married four times. His first wife died, his second ran off, and his third killed herself. And everybody swore that none of it was Jock’s fault. He was still with his fourth wife. “After her, I don’t want no more,” Jock was wont to say, shaking his head and waving his right forefinger. Some guys just have hard luck. And Jock was straight. He was an ideal guy to command. He obeyed orders without question, looking you straight in the eye. If I were ever a commissioner, I’d sure have Jock at my elbow, Ruddy muttered, hearing the wail of the siren’s volume growing and swelling through the rainy air. “Jock, take your men and surround the building. Have your tear gas ready,” Ruddy mentally issued orders to a waiting and eager Jock. “Yes, Captain . . . yes, Commissioner.” A gust of rainy wind swept the budding daydream away.

  Far down the avenue came two gleaming yellow eyes and one red one, seemingly swept along by a sharp siren wail. Ruddy left the

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  awning and stood at the curb ready to toss his cigarette away and step into the car when the door was flung open for him. The car slowed, then a swift and blinding light hit his eyes. “What the hell,” Ruddy muttered, feeling anger rising. Then he saw Wade Williams’s white teeth showing in his black face.

  “Escort the prisoner to the car, men,” Wade ordered, toss-ing back his head and rolling naughty eyes.

  “You bastard,” Ruddy said. “You want me to get soaking wet in this rain?”

  “Hey there, Ruddy?” Wade asked.

  “Hey,” Ruddy said as the rear car door swung open.

  “Get on in here, Gangster,” Jock called.

  “I’m reporting you for this, Officer,” Ruddy said, grinning, edging his long, lean frame into the car. “Well, well, the car’s full tonight. What’s up? Wade, Jock, Bert, and Ed . . . Who are you guys looking for? Dillinger?”

  “Yeah,” Jock said. “And we got ’im. Get on in here. We’re taking you down to headquarters. The commissioner wants to see you.”

  “But, Mister, I was just walking along the street. I ain’t done nothing.”

  “The hell you haven’t. What were you doing coming out of that shop there?” Jock demanded.

  “I just went in there to have my suit repaired.” Ruddy fell into the spirit of play. “I got the receipt here. Want to see it?”

  “Show me,” Jock demanded, flashing his electric lamp full onto Ruddy’s face.

  Ruddy’s left hand went into his inner coat pocket and then it snaked out and he said with a full throat: “BOOM! Got you, cop!”

  The car exploded with laughter.

  “You’re dead, Jock,” Wade yelled.

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  “Jesus Christ, Jock.” Ruddy chuckled, ruffling Jock’s shock of blond hair. “Hell, you fell for the oldest trick in the books.

  Now, lie down there and be dead.”

  “You really got me that time,” Jock admitted. “You see, I wasn’t expecting a guy as well dressed as you to pull a rod on me.”

  “Hell, you’ve got to be careful with all of ’em,” Ed said.

  “Ruddy, we’re taking you to headquarters anyway,” Wade said. “They got the goods on you this time.”

  “What kind of goods?” Ruddy demanded, imitating a surly criminal.

  “We dug up those government bonds you buried in your backyard,” Wade announced triumphantly.

  “I got an ‘out,’” Ruddy threatened.

  “Nothing won’t help you this time, big boy,” Wade cautioned. “You’re going up for twenty years this time.”

  “No. I’m going to turn state’s evidence,” Ruddy said. “You forgot that the other half of those bonds are buried in your backyard.”

  “Aw, nuts,” Wade muttered. “Forgot that.”

  “Well, we’re going to book you anyhow and put you in tomorrow’s lineup,” Ed spoke with mock frustration.

  “You can’t put a finger on me,” Ruddy warned. “I got an alibi.”

  “We got your dame too.” Jock stalled off Ruddy’s confi dence.

  “I ain’t got no dame,” Ruddy told them. “I’m a homo.

  Didn’t you know?”

  The car again roared with laughter.

  “Jesus, you’re clean.” Ed sighed. “Well, we’ll have to hold you on suspicion of bothering minors.”

  “Oh, that,” Ruddy said blithely. “I ain’t really no homo.”

  “But you just said you were,” Jock reminded Ruddy.

  “You stay dead, Jock.” Ruddy sneered. “But when I said I was a homo, you guys didn’t really understand me.”

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  “The hell we didn’t,” Ed said. “We’re witnesses to what you said.”

  “But, Mister, I don’t see my boyfriend but three times a week, and that don’t make you no homo,” Ruddy wailed in mock rage.

  The laughter was so general and spontaneous that the car slowed at a curb.

  “That’s the best one I’ve heard yet,” Jock moaned, lolling his head.

  “But that’s a true one,” Ruddy spoke seriously. “I heard that one last week in the lineup with my own ears.”

  “No kidding?” Ed asked.

  “I swear. You can ask Captain Drake.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Wade murmured. “Those punks’ll say anything.”

  “What’s that down that side street?” Jock leaned forward and pointed.

  The four of them focused their eyes on a dark, slight fi gure carrying a bundle.

  “Aw, that’s only Wang, the Chinese laundryman,” Ruddy explained. “I know ’im.”

  “What’s in that bundle he’s carrying?” Ed asked.

  “Slightly soiled ladies’ drawers, I’d suspect,” Ruddy said.

  “What’s he going to do with ’em?” Wade asked.

  “They usually wash drawers in laundries,” Ruddy said softly.

  “He ain’t going to wash ’em before he’s smelled ’em,” Jock said.

  Once again the car exploded with laughter.

  “Who said that?” Wade asked, peering into the back seat.

  “Who do you think?” Ruddy asked. “Old Jock-strap, of course.”

  Wade stepped on the brake and the car jerked to a halt.

  Laughter roared in the car.

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  “Jock, you’ll never live that down,” Ed predicted.

  “That one hit me between the eyes,” Jock admitted, his body shaking with mirth.

  Ed was now talking softly into the squad
car’s telephone:

  “Squad Car Number 147 reporting. Suspect seized at Ninety-first Street and Blue Ridge Avenue. He’s armed with verbal artil-lery and is dangerous.”

  “Don’t forget to report that you lost one of your offi cers in the first burst of gunfire,” Ruddy said.

  The squad car was now entering traffic and the offi cers grew quiet. Ed lit a cigarette and offered one to Ruddy, who accepted. The tires of the car whirred on the wet asphalt.

  “What’s new?” Ruddy asked in a guttural tone.

  “We’re pulling in the same small fry,” Wade said.

  “How’s that Tommy of yours?” Jock asked, clapping Ruddy on the back.

  “Good. He’s studying hard for his exams,” Ruddy said.

  “Fine chap, that Tommy,” Ed said. “We’ll need him on the force.”

  “I don’t want ’im in the service,” Ruddy growled.

  “Why? That’s the very kind of idealistic chap we do need,”

  Ed was emphatic.

  “He wants a profession,” Wade said. “I don’t blame ’im.”

  “If he turns cop, I’ll shoot ’im,” Ruddy warned darkly.

  “What in hell have you got against cops?” Jock demanded.

  “Guys like me,” Ruddy said.

  “You’re a good officer,” Ed said. “The force draws its best men from the families of offi cers.”

  “I know,” Ruddy said. “But I don’t think Tommy’s mind runs toward our kind of work.”

  “Why not?” Ed demanded.

  Ruddy was silent, thinking, annoyed. The car had now en-

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  tered State Street, and Wade let out the siren in order to make headway.

  “I’m going to let that boy have his head,” Ruddy said. “I don’t want to force ’im.”

  “Nobody’s saying you ought to,” Ed reminded him. “Say, did I tell you that I know Tommy’s professor at the university?”

  Ruddy whirled and stared at Ed. Ed was known as the intel-lectual among the cops, a man who knew ideas and how to make them clear and simple for other officers. Ruddy did not know if Ed was really pulling his leg or paying him a compliment.

  “Really? What does he think of my boy?”

  “He’s great, that Tommy,” Ed said reflectively. “He’s on to the new idea about crime. Ruddy, that boy of yours is ahead of us.”