God Save the Child

Maguire was small. His grip was hard when he took my hand, and he shook it vigorously. He was dark-skinned with longish black hair carefully layered with a razor cut. Six bucks easy, I thought, for that kind of haircut. I bet the barber wore a black silk coat. He was wearing a form-fitting pale blue denim suit with black stitching along the lapels, blunt-toed, thick-soled black shoes with two-inch heels, a black shirt, and a pale blue figured tie. It must have been his T-Bird outside. BC Law School. Not Harvard, maybe BU, but most likely BC.

“Where’d you go to school?” I said.

“BC,” he said. “Why?”

Ah, Spenser, you can do it all, kid. “No reason,” I said. “Just wondered.”

Healy I knew of. He was chief investigator for the Essex County DA’s office. There were at least two first-run racketeers I knew who stayed out of Essex County because they didn’t want any truck with him.

Healy said, “Didn’t you work for the Suffolk County DA once?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Didn’t they fire you for hot-dogging?”

“I like to call it inner-directed behavior,” I said.

“I’ll bet you do,” Healy said.

He was a medium tall man, maybe 5'10", slim, with very square shoulders. His gray hair was cut in a close crew cut, the sideburns trimmed at the top of the ears. The skin on his face looked tight, finely veined on the cheekbones, and his close-shaved cheeks had the faint bluish tinge of heavy beard. He had on a tan seersucker suit and a white shirt and a brown and yellow striped tie. A short-crowned, snap-brimmed straw hat with a flowery hatband lay on the table before him. His hands were folded perfectly still in his lap as he sat with his chair tilted back slightly. He wore a plain gold wedding ring on his left hand.

“What’s hot-dogging?” Marge Bartlett said.

“He’s not too good about regulations,” Healy answered.

Margery Bartlett said, “Can you get my child back, Mr. Spenser?” She was leaning forward, biting down on her lower lip with her upper teeth. Her eyes were wide and fixed on me. Her right hand was open on her breast, approximately above her heart. There were tears on her cheeks. Donna Reed in Ransom, MGM, 1956. “I don’t care about the money; I just want my baby back.”

Trask leaned over and patted her hand.

“Don’t worry, Marge, we’ll get him back for you. You got my word on it.” John Wayne, The Searchers, Warner Bros. 1956.

I looked at Healy. He was carefully examining the backs of his hands, his lips pursed, whistling silently to himself. The Smithfield cop named Paul was looking closely at the copper switchplate on the wall by the back door.

“What have you got?” I asked Healy.

He handed me a sheet of paper inside a transparent plastic folder. It was a ransom note in the form of a comic strip. The figures were hand-drawn with a red ballpoint pen and showed some skill, like competent graffiti, say. They featured a voluptuous woman in a miniskirt seated on a barstool, leaning on the bar, speaking in voice balloons. “We have your son,” she said in the first panel, “and if you don’t give us $50,000 you’ll never see him again.” In the second panel she was taking a drink and saying nothing. In the third panel she said, “Follow the instructions on the next page exactly or it’s all over.” In the next panel she was lighting a cigarette. In the fifth panel she was full face to the reader and saying, “Be careful.” In the sixth and last panel she had turned back to the bar and only her back was visible. I handed it back to Healy. He gave me the second page, similarly enclosed in clear plastic. It was typewritten, single-spaced, by someone who was inexpert at typing.

“Why the hell did they draw the picture?” Roger Bartlett said. “Why did they have to draw pictures? That don’t make any sense.”

“Take it easy, Rog,” Earl Maguire said.

I started to read the typewritten sheet.

“Way to conceal their identity,” said Trask. “That’s why they’re drawing pictures. Right, Healy?”

“Too early to say,” Healy said.

It was hot and moist in the kitchen. Outside, the rain had started again. I read the instructions.