12

The whole force, except for Blanche Burton, attended Virginia Stuart’s funeral, though not in one group. I had to accompany Mother, who dressed in black, wore a hat and pulled on long black gloves. For all formal occasions and some not so formal, she wore gloves as if, without them, she would be baring something better left covered.

The service took place in the Methodist church, which couldn’t accommodate all those who came. Quite a number stood outside in pleasant sunshine. With the church windows open they could hear most of what went on.

As Mother and I were ushered to seats, I caught a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. A small woman, dressed in mourning, she wore a long overcoat, too heavy for anyone save an invalid. A dark scarf covered half her face. I was put in mind of something coming out of a cocoon. Mr. Stuart sat straight, rigid as angle iron. Near them was Mr. Antonelli, looking sad.

The coffin, covered, rested on a platform just below the pulpit. To one side of the pulpit stood the high school mixed quartet. To the wheezy chords of the organ the long-coated minister came forward and read from the Bible.

“The righteous live forever, and the care of them is with the Most High; with His right hand shall He cover them, and with His arm shall He shield them.”

He bowed his head and began a prayer, “Mighty God, fount of all life …”

His words droned on, lost in my self-concern, lost in my thoughts of the abused and dead girl in the gulley and of my sick horror. As a consequence of that image and my reaction I had been short with Mother, almost quarreled with Anita and been less than courteous to Chick Charleston, my best friend.

The school quartet sang “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere.” It was meant, I supposed, to be heartening. The teacher must have put the singers through an intensive drill, for their performance wasn’t too ragged.

I had to get hold of myself, I said silently. I had to find in myself what I wanted to do. If law enforcement, or aspects of it, repelled me, then what? No purpose in thinking, though. Just sit and be miserable.

The minister was reading again. “Eternal God, Who committest to us the swift and solemn trust of life …”

All the gods of all the faiths couldn’t undo what had been done. What consolation in the thought that Virginia might already be singing in the heavenly choir?

The minister looked away from his Bible and said on his own, “A loved one has been taken away from us for reasons no mortal can understand. The Lord works in mysterious ways for His own purposes. But let us have faith in the divine wisdom. And may the good Lord extend to the sorrowing the healing power of His love.”

There followed the Lord’s Prayer, recited by preacher and audience, and his final words, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, be with you all.”

Most of those present joined in the parade to the cemetery, where the quartet sang “Abide with Me.” On the bare and breezy hillside, against the great silence of the high plains, their voices rose frail and sad and were blown away. The minister went through his final ritual. I thought I could hear the clump of sod on the casket as Mother and I drove away.

She said as we poked along in the car, “Mr. Stuart, I’m sure, is a Presbyterian. I wonder how he felt about John Wesley?”

“In the absence of a Presbyterian church, he had no choice. Are Calvin and Wesley so different then?” I asked. “Anyhow, it’s over.”

I left her at home and went to the office. Ralph Otter, the reporter and ad-hustler for the local Messenger was waiting, along with an older man. Otter introduced him as Sam Worthington, special correspondent from the city. “We hope to have a word with Sheriff Charleston,” Worthington said. In almost the same instant Charleston entered. With him were Doolittle, Cole and Amussen. He told the two reporters to come into the inner office. I didn’t know whether he wanted me there, but I went.

Once we were seated, Worthington said, “I hope you have some fresh copy for us, sheriff.”

“Nothing much to add to what I told you previously. When were you in here?”

“Just yesterday, no, day before. I caught you alone. Remember?”

“Vaguely. Since then we’ve questioned everyone who attended the girl’s final practice and a few others in addition.”

“And?”

“Nothing on the surface. We have to go through the statements again. And then, maybe, again.”

“That’s not much to hang a story on.”

“That’s all there is.”

“No fresh or new directions?”

“Just more questions. Further search.”

“Two murders and no clues, huh?”

Charleston’s tone was sharp. “We’re not filing the cases away.”

Worthington shook his head. Otter kept quiet as if in the presence of greater talent. “The murders were much alike. Violent, death and rape. Do you suspect just one man?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Two, then, one in imitation of the other, a copy-cat crime.”

“Can you imagine we haven’t thought of that?”

“Or perhaps just one man? After one killing others come easier, so they say.”

“I should add you to the force.”

When Worthington stood up, Charleston continued, “You may say we’re going to catch the man or men.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Consult our record, Mr. Worthington.”

To the closing door Charleston said, “Smart people, these newspapermen.”

Doolittle rapped and came in. “Anything for me?”

“Not now. How about lunch?”

I wasn’t hungry and so shook my head. Doolittle said he would eat later. “Hold the fort then,” Charleston told us and left the room.

Doolittle sat down and grinned at me. “Jase, pardon me all to hell, but every time I look at you a piece of a poem runs in my mind. Like this: ‘I am weary of days and hours, blown buds of barren flowers.’ You’re the barren flower, my friend, dead on the stem.”

“What of it?”

“Exercise is what of it. A good workout.”

“Is that so, doctor?”

“Yep. I prescribe two or three rounds to work the poison out.”

“You’re against me, with gloves?”

“Sure. I got it set up.”

“David and Goliath, for God’s sake. I outweigh you what? Forty pounds?”

“Never mind that. It’s the boxer against the puncher. Sometimes I feel sorry for poor old Goliath. Poor bastard didn’t have a friend on earth and none to help him. Next thing, if you’re game, I’m going to feel sorry for you.” He kept grinning at me, a question in his eyes.

I said, “This is crazy.”

“I got it set up with that Lenihan kid. There’s gloves at the high school and a kind of a ring. I bought trunks for both of us, and here’s a stopwatch for the rounds.”

“I can’t punch you around. Not fair.”

“You’re right you can’t punch me around. The question is will you try?”

“You acted pretty damn sure I would. And you’re mighty sure of yourself.”

The whole idea was foolish, but I could use some exercise, and I’d pull my punches. I said, “It’s dumb, but all right.”

At the switchboard Doolittle said, “King, we’ll be at the high school for an hour or less. Anyone asks, tell them we’re pursuing our investigation, besides tuning up for the final push.”

We walked to the high school. Pat Lenihan met us at the door, a wondering eagerness in his eyes. With classes in summer recess, no one else was about.

“All set, kid?” Doolittle asked.

“Sure am. Follow me.” He led us into the gymnasium. There was a ring of sorts in it. “Our phys-ed instructor believed in what he called the manly art of self-defense, but the parents objected to black eyes and headaches, so he got fired.”

Young Lenihan showed us the locker room, where we peeled off our clothes and put on trunks. “I figured we could do without shoes,” Doolittle told me. “Want to punch the bag a little, or jump rope?”

“No need to.”

We walked back to the ring.

“All right, kid,” Doolittle said. “Come and put the gloves on us. Here’s the stopwatch. Three two-minute rounds with a minute between. Understand?”

We climbed into the ring, each in his own corner. After a second or two the kid rang the bell. We came from our corners, ready, and Doolittle landed a light left on my eye. It was a powder-puff punch, and I told myself to go easy. I tried a left and right, missing both. Dancing in, Doolittle tapped me again. He was fast on his feet and fast with his hands. He flitted around me, shifting, dodging, ducking, slipping my punches. And always that left kept flicking. In time it would soften a man up.

The bell ended the round. I was a little winded but couldn’t see that Doolittle was. His grin was merry.

Round two went much like round one, except that in frustration I was punching harder but again without hitting. The damn little dancing master kept flitting in and away and in again, darting out that light left, his head never where it was an instant before. He was as elusive as a loose Ping-Pong ball. I had begun to sweat.

When the round ended, the kid was licking his lips. He said, “Man, oh, man.”

I came out, totally exasperated, at the beginning of round three. I would get him yet. He hit me with a left and a right and slipped under or away from my counters. Yet I knew I was getting closer. Where I had been hitting air, my left grazed his shoulder, my right the top of his head. He couldn’t dodge me forever. The round ended with his fist in my face.

I had the grace to say, “You’re too good for me, Ike.”

“Wrong decision,” he answered. “In another round or two you would have nailed me. I can’t do the polka forever. Three rounds is my limit.”

He went on as we walked to the shower, “I never told you, but I boxed professionally once. In the early rounds I could outbox most of them. Light stuff, you know. I never had much of a punch. One night I went against a sure-enough brawler, and in the sixth round he landed his Sunday punch. For a week I had no more brains than a cabbage. When I came to I said enough. A man’s got better use for his head than to offer it up for a pudding.”

We were slipping into our clothes when he continued, “Don’t give up on yourself, Jase. You’re damn good.”

I wondered how far that reference went.

After we were dressed and had said thanks to the boy, Doolittle asked, “Feel better now, don’t you?”

The fact was I did.