Come Destroy Me (17 page)

Wyatt tightened his grip on Charlie’s arm. He said, “Well, my God!” and then, suddenly becoming an officer of the law, remembering himself as Patrolman Ed Wyatt, he said, “Come on,” very calmly. “Come on. We’ll take a look.”

Charlie said, “I left my coat there. It’s all bloody.”

They walked along quietly at first and Charlie asked Wyatt if he had a handkerchief. Wyatt gave him one and Charlie wrapped it around his hand. “Don’t want it to get infected,” he explained. Wyatt mumbled something and went faster, pulling Charlie along with him. A few people in the street were staring at the pair. Wyatt kept his eyes in front of him, his face expressionless. Somehow he didn’t believe the boy. Maybe the kid had gone nuts. He said, “Losing much blood?”

“Some. Yes.”

Wyatt was glad when they came to Deel. Charlie told him it was the house at the end of the block. Wyatt remembered Jill Latham well. She was a beauty. Now and then they passed the time of day. His beat took him right past the bookstore.

Charlie said, “Back door,” and they walked down the drive. The crunch of gravel under their feet sounded ominously loud and Wyatt did not hold the kid’s arm any more. The kid said, “Up these steps.”

There was no beauty left on the face of the woman on the floor. The face was contorted with agony. The royal-blue robe was drenched and dark with blood; the white lace was red now. She was still alive. There were hard gasps coughing from her throat, and as Wyatt bent over her, she twisted her head painfully and looked at him.

Wyatt’s insides looped and he said, “Did the kid do it — Charles Wright?”

She stared at Wyatt and said, “Yes.”

“Why did he do it?” Wyatt asked.

“He — didn’t know — I — was a-afraid too.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. She bit her lips and shut her eyes in pain and turned her head back so that it faced up to the ceiling.

Ed Wyatt got up from his knees and looked at Charlie. Charlie was holding his coat over his arm, staring down at her. Wyatt said, “Where’s the phone?” and the kid led him into the hallway and stood beside him while Wyatt called an ambulance, then headquarters. The kid kept watching his hand bleed, knotting the handkerchief tighter around it.

After he hung up he said, “We’ll wait here,” and the kid nodded. Wyatt said, “Why did you do it?” and he felt like taking the kid by the neck and socking the stuffing out of him. But mostly he was bewildered. A murder in Azrael, Vermont. My God. So he just said, “Why did you do it?”

Charlie Wright looked at him. Then he looked down. He shrugged his shoulders.

“You don’t know why?” Wyatt said.

Charlie said, “It’s involved.” It was a plain straight statement, stated as a fact with no emotion in his voice. Then very quietly he held his hand out before Wyatt and said, “I ought to get some iodine or something on this. Don’t want to get infected.”

• • •

Late that night Detective Millard Kahl questioned the boy at police headquarters in Azrael, Vermont. The boy’s arm was bandaged and Kahl had the boy’s statement to Chief Radkit before him. Mrs. Wright, her daughter, and Mr. Russel Lofton were on their way to headquarters for questioning. According to the boy, he had murdered Jill Latham immediately before he had approached Patrolman Wyatt. He had gone directly to the policeman to confess his crime. During the time that he had spent at headquarters, Miss Latham had died in Azrael City Hospital. Upon being informed of this, the boy had seemed indifferent. He had made no comment.

Detective Kahl looked at Charlie Wright carefully. He appeared completely oblivious of the meaning of his act. He answered the questions promptly, with no change in his facial expression. His expression was placid, almost benign.

“You claim you don’t know the reason for it?” Kahl asked. “No.”

“Do you remember doing it?” “Yes.”

“What did you use? What weapon?” “A silver knife.”

“What did you think when you saw her sitting at the table in the kitchen drinking coffee?”

“I remembered that my mother said caffeine was good for headaches. I had a headache.”

“Is that what you thought?”

“That’s what I remember.”

“And the headache was from the gin that you had earlier at her home?” “Yes.”

“And earlier at her home, you say she kissed you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She liked me, I guess.”

“And did you like her?”

“She was all right.”

“Had you visited her before?”

“I wrote all that down. I mean, I told it all.”

“Would you repeat it?”

“I saw her two times before. Once I had a soft drink after I walked her home from the library. I didn’t stay long that time. Another time I went to see her. She played a record and we danced. That was the first time she did it.”

“Did what?”

“I told you,” he said quietly. “Kissed me.”

“And how did you feel?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You went to see her again.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you think of a reason?”

“Yes, but-”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said.

“You know we’re asking you these questions because we’re trying to help you.” “Yes.”

“Your mother and sister are on their way down. And Mr. Lofton.” “They know?”

“Yes,” Kahl said. “They can’t believe it.”

The boy didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a while. Kahl watched the boy. Once or twice the boy looked up and searched Kahl’s face as though he might find a reason for what he had done in Kahl’s expression. Detective Kahl felt sorry for the kid. He didn’t know why. A brutal murder like that. Maybe the Latham girl
was
a screwball, a nympho, a dipso, but to put a knife in her breast!

“You don’t have anything more to say, then?” Detective Kahl said.

“No.” The boy looked down at his bandaged hand. He said, “I suppose I’ll sleep here tonight.”

Kahl said, “That’s right. From now until the trial.”

Charlie Wright nodded. “O.K.,” he answered.

C
HARLIE SAT
in the little room with the barred windows and listened to Dr. Jewitt talk. This room had been his home for three days. His books were there. His mother had brought them to him, her face white, her words hesitant, as though she were afraid to say them; as though she no longer knew him. She had brought the books he requested and sometimes he read from them when he was alone. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Jewitt came all the time to see him and they talked for hours and hours, but most of the time Charlie was alone.

“Why did you grin when I said that?” Dr. Jewitt said.

“Because it struck me as funny for you to want to know all these things. I mean, what do you care?”

“Are you embarrassed to talk about sex?”

“I’m not embarrassed, but why do you want to know?”

“I want to help you.”

“Well, the answer is yes. I never thought whether it was harmful or not. Is it supposed to be unique?” “Certainly not. It’s a part of growing up.” “Then what’s so special?”

“Well,” Dr. Jewitt said, “what you thought when you did it.”

“That’s special?”

“I think it might be.”

“I don’t remember,” Charlie answered. “I thought of other people sometimes. Women. Not pretty ones, either. I didn’t give two cents for pretty ones. What do you make out of that? She was pretty.”

“Who?”

“Miss Latham,” Charlie said. To himself he thought, Jill! She was real pretty, but it was funny. When he saw her on the floor, when he came back with the cop and saw her on the floor, he didn’t even care. She was nothing. Nothing. Bloody and half dead. What had she meant when she said she was afraid too? He thought about that a lot, but not as though it were important. More as though it was something someone had said to him once a long time ago and he had just thought of it again.

“Yes, she was,” Dr. Jewitt answered.

He was a strange little fat man. Charlie was rather amused by him, sitting there in that chair taking notes. All those goddamn notes. Ah, God, he was in trouble. He didn’t believe it, but it was obvious, wasn’t it? He had killed a woman. Him! Charlie Wright!

“Tell me about Mr. Lofton again.”

“I didn’t like him. I suppose I should. He’s going to defend me. My mother always had him around the house. Evie liked him. I don’t know.”

That part was hazy. Like a part in a dream you can’t remember. He was sure Jill Latham said she was going to marry him, but that was crazy. If he said that, that would be crazy. They thought he was some kind of lunatic as it was.

“You told me a few days ago that you saw him at Jill Latham’s house. On the floor.” “I did?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t know what I said. You’ve been in here questioning me twenty-seven thousand times a day.”

“Mr. Lofton explained that he was there to ask Miss Latham to hire your sister. Do you remember my telling you that?”

“I guess so.”

“You said Jill Latham told you she was going to marry him.”

“My big mouth,” Charlie answered. He chuckled. Hell, these psychiatrists had eyes in the back of their heads. O.K., so he was nuts. Call the red wagon.

“Do you remember, son?”

“Sure, sure, sure, sure.”

“Did you get angry when she told you that?”

“I didn’t give a damn,” Charlie said.

Why didn’t they hang him and get it over with?

“Are you tired of talking?”

“I’ve never been much of an orator.”

“Would you like to write about it?”

“I’d like to forget it. Let them give me the chair.”

“You don’t mean that, Charlie. You want to be helped.”

“So I’ll write it.”

“I wish you would. Write it out for me, Charlie. Put it down in writing.”

“I can’t do it all at once.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Dr. Jewitt said. He stood up and reached for his hat. He looked down at Charlie and put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and watched him go. Actually, he thought, he wouldn’t mind writing it at all. He expressed himself well in writing. He was no dumb cluck. It was pretty dramatic, too. He had murdered the woman he loved. He had fallen in love with an older woman and he had murdered her. It was an interesting situation. When would he wake up in his cot in the bungalow with the hills of Azrael outside his window and all of this over? And all of this a crazy blue dream?

“When the eminent psychiatrist Dr. Alvin Thomas Jewitt asked me to write my life history …”

Charlie pushed the pencil across the paper fast. He was amused with what he wrote. The part about the poem was good. He could remember those lines very well. He wrote them down:

He smiled. “Perhaps that says more than anything I can say,” he wrote, “as to my reason for this — crime???”

He paused and bit the tip of his pencil. He wrote:

Charlie felt tired. He threw the pencil down on the blotter and slumped over into the bed. In no time he was asleep.

A
LL DAY
Charlie had been sitting there listening to them talk about him. Dr. Jewitt was sitting beside him, Russel Lofton on the other side; Charlie was in the middle. It was funny that nothing really mattered now. He could not consider any of it real. Once he had to snicker. He had to snicker when Lofton was up before the whole goddamn courtroom explaining his — Charlie Wright’s — life. What did Russel Lofton know? Ah, gee, gee, what did
he
know? And they were listening, the sea of faces surrounding him, they were listening. And were they thinking, Is that so? Oh, is that what this boy’s life has been? Really? Oh? Were they honest-to-God thinking they could know this by listening to free-loader Lofton, always on time for a meal? Charlie had to snicker.