A Time of Predators

He ran down. He had come to hate the stock, pat condolences one invariably was offered, and had been pleased to keep his discussions with Preston limited to reps, sets, poundages, lats, pecs, delts, presses, curls, squats.

But the gym owner surprised him: no sympathy. He merely said, “Must be a hell of an adjustment to make.” His voice was very deep; he had thin lips and a broad sensitive mouth.

Curt finished his workout, stripped, weighed. Down three pounds — most of it, of course, merely water loss from sweating. Driving up El Camino in search of a bearable drive-in supper, he turned his thoughts to Worden for the first time since leaving the university. Would he be given faces to fit on the attackers tomorrow? Perhaps even names? The depth of his own emotion surprised him: he wanted to see them tried, and imprisoned, and the key thrown away. The society which had spawned such predators owed that much to Paula and to Harold Rockwell.

Curt parked on curving Jefferson Street, and walked back through bright May sunshine to the newly completed civic center complex. The sheriff’s office was in a pink stucco building with three floors and a large sign announcing it as the Hall of Justice and Records. A cement mall separated this building from the County Courthouse. Curt entered a glum and drafty hallway and saw a hand-lettered sign directing him to his left. The room had a wooden counter down the center, to Curt’s left, and more hand-painted signs indicating the elevators, the Criminal Division, Corrections, and the Comity Jail.

“Can you direct me to the Detective Bureau?” Curt asked.

Behind the counter was a very large red-headed man in a pale blue shirt with the Sheriff Department’s emblem on the shoulder. He had a two-way radio mike in a right hand that made the mike look small. His sunburned, craggy features wore a slight look of exasperation. At Curt’s question, he gestured toward the ceiling with the mike. “Third floor. Criminal Division.”

Curt thanked him and went on. The elevator was deliberate, moving with the slow majesty of the law; it had an outsized cage which Curt guessed was for the transporting of prisoners between the jail and the courthouse. At the third floor was a reception desk with a small switchboard directly in front of the elevator. The receptionist was a thirtyish blonde with heavy hips and go-to-hell eye make-up.

By contrast, her voice was very subdued. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I have an appointment with Detective-Sergeant Worden.”

“Certainly. If you’ll wait a moment, please, sir.”

The girl, who had a well-filled blue sweater and meaty dimpled knees under a flaring black skirt, took Curt’s card and went through a door directly behind her desk. She shut the door carefully behind her. DETECTIVE BUREAU was painted on the opaque glass.

She returned in less than a minute. “Tins way, Mr. Halstead.”

The Detective Bureau was brutally functional. There were three interrogation cubicles against the rear wall, windows along the right. The left wall was totally without ornament, the way a totally bald man is without hair. There was another door directly beside that through winch Curt had entered; Lieutenant Dorsey was painted in one corner of its glass panel. Inside the cubicle, a thick-bodied man was champing a dead cigar and bending over a littered desk, waiting.

Down the center of the main room was a double row of twelve gray metal desks with three-foot aisles between. On each desk was a telephone and beside each a typewriter stand. There were only four typewriters. Each desk bore an In and Out basket, and a plaque giving the name and rank of the desk’s occupant. Five desks were in use.

“Sergeant Worden is—”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am. I see him.”

Worden’s desk was the fourth one on the left-hand side; he rose as Curt started toward him. On the desk was a small framed photo of a work-faded woman and two towheaded kids. They shook hands and sat.

“Good of you to come, Professor.”

“I appreciate being put in the picture.”

Somehow the conventionally banal exchange was like the crossing of rapier blades. Worden grunted as if skeptical of Curt’s appreciation.

“You’ve lost some weight. Little trouble sleeping, maybe?”

“I’ve started working out at a gym in town,” said Curt.

“Well, we all oughta get more exercise.” He slapped a gut that sounded like an oak tree struck with a club. “Floyd Preston’s place, huh? One tough cookie, that Preston. I remember when he opened up ten, twelve years ago, a lot of the barroom boys tried to pick a fight with him. Not many of them do any more.”

It was the longest digression Curt had ever heard him make, and he wondered if Worden was having trouble getting started. “I see. I’d like to know what your investigation has uncovered to date, Sergeant.”