A Time of Predators

“Yeah. Well.” Worden’s eyes lost their momentary faraway look. “I checked with the local cops on this Rockwell thing. Blew one there; should of remembered that your wife was the witness. It’s messy, okay. The guy’s blinded for life. He saw the guys who jumped him, sure, but he’d never seen ’em before — and sure as hell won’t see ’em again.”

“Does he know why they attacked him, or—”

“Naw. Juveniles. The whole thing took one, maybe two minutes.” He paused to consult a folder. “Two-tone green Chevy station wagon, an older one — that’s from your wife to the Los Feliz cops, Rockwell can’t even give us that much. That’s all we got there. But on your wife’s thing, I got a little break. It seems a Mrs. Anderson called us about her kid. He’d been out to Sears Lake on his bike, and on the way home had the crap scared out of him by four guys near the golf course.”

“This was the Friday night that Paula...”

“Yeah. About eight o’clock. His ma made it sound like dicky-jerking — you know, child molestation — so we talked to the kid. He made most of it up, we find out, to explain gettin’ home late and to keep from gettin’ a spanking. But he did go by four guys just getting outta their car north of the golf course, little turn-around—”

“I know the place.” Curt was gripping the edge of the desk.

“It’s gravel, lots of eucalyptus leaves; no identifiable tire casts, no assurance that what marks we did find were made that Friday night. Interesting thing is, the interior light was on, and the kid says it was a fifty-five or fifty-six Chevy station wagon. He’s sure of that. No description of the guys, of course, just big guys — but to a ten-year-old, anybody over fourteen looks big. One of ’em fat, one of ’em short — like that.”

Curt said thoughtfully, “They would have parked just after dark, walked down the fairway, cut through the ditch to our drive...”

“Yeah. By the fourteenth green. Again, no usable casts, just a place where several guys went across — could of been four.” Worden leaned forward, gesturing with his big, thick hands. “Then we got lucky again. Just for the hell of it, I had the lab boys print that downstairs reading room where we figure the assault took place. Got three clear prints, plus a partial, plus half a palm print, all of the same hand. Not yours, not your wife’s — but we got enough for an ident if we ever have a hand to match ’em up with. Got ’em off the wall behind the sofa, where you might expect a guy to put his hand when he...”

Curt drew a deep ragged breath as Worden stopped. “Well, it sounds to me like you’ve made a good deal of progress, Sergeant. Where do we go from here?”

Worden shifted in his chair. Then he began playing with a ballpoint pen from the desk. When the silence had become oppressive, he looked up at Curt again.

“We don’t go nowhere, Professor.” Seeing the sudden darkening of Curt’s eyes, like the darkening of a pond when the first cat’s paw of wind touches it, he added hurriedly, “Oh, hell, we’ll keep it open. But for all practical purposes, our investigation is finished.”

Curt’s voice rose sharply, as if a knife had just been jammed through the back of his hand. “But you can’t just... just quit!”

Heads turned, but only briefly; raised voices were no novelty in the Detective Bureau.

Worden leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bleak. “Christ, do you think I like it? There’s just two kinds of people in my book, mister: the worms and the human beings. Law-breakers and law-keepers. These four snotty young bastards are worms. I’d like to get ’em alone in an alley for just five minutes, I’d wipe their noses for ’em so they’d never want to touch another woman again. But if I arrested ’em, Professor — then I couldn’t even hold ’em.”

Curt was spluttering. “What the devil do you mean? Why... why, they attacked and blinded a man. And then, because my wife had seen them, they invaded my home, did...” He choked off for a moment; the images flashing across his mental screen were too vivid. “...did some thing to her that was bad enough so she killed herself. And you say you couldn’t hold them if you did find and arrest them?”

“Okay, let’s take the Rockwell assault, Professor. The guy is blind. In court, just how the hell does he identify ’em? Braille?”

“But...”

“Remember, we’re talking about a smart defense attorney being present to cross-examine. Voices? Who the hell was ever convicted on the evidence of voices, except maybe that French dame — Joan of Arc?”

“But my wife was there. She—” Curt stopped abruptly.