Blunt Darts

SIXTH

– ¦ The desk sergeant blinked twice at me. "What did you say, buddy'?" he asked.

I decided against raising my voice. "I said, could I please see whoever's in charge of Judge Kinnington's son's case."

"Sit down over there." I sat down on a bench seat across the small anteroom. The desk sergeant made an internal call while I gave him one of my best Gaelic smiles.

The desk sergeant clamped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. I hoped he wasn't going to yell anything confidential to me, since you have to cover both ends of the receiver to be sure the other party on the line can't hear what you're saying.

"What's your name?"

"John Francis Cuddy, Sergeant."

He repeated the words into the phone. The sergeant said, "Right" and hung up. "The Chief will be back to me in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Sergeant," I said, and waited. Sergeants in every hierarchy love it when you call them by their title.

Five minutes later, the sergeant's phone rang. He picked it up and said, "Yes, Chief." Just then a young, short, and squat uniformed officer came through the front door. The sergeant hung up.

"Hey, Dexter, show Mr. Cuddy here to the chief's 0ffice."

The short, squat one stopped, nearly came to attention, and motioned to me. "Follow me, sir."

"Thank you, Sergeant," I repeated as I moved into the corridor.

"This is it, sir," said my guide as he gestured to a newly painted door.

"Thank you, Dexter."

"Yes, sir," he beamed, pushing out his chest. I was certain that he was somebody's nephew.

I knocked and heard a near-human growl from behind the door. I entered the office.

There was a nameplate on the desk that said SMOLLETT. No rank or title, just Smollett. The plate was old and worn-looking. I got the impression the chief had bought it when he first came on the force, because he was old and worn-looking too. He had a voice that sounded like a '47 Nash without the mufflers.

"What do you want?" he said. I decided to sit down anyway.

"I want to speak with whoever's looking into Stephen Kinnington's disappearance."

"It's a missing-person case," he said, folding his hands, gnarled by arthritis, in front of him on the desk. "It's been looked into."

"Then can I look at the reports and talk to the investigating officer?"

"Why?" he asked, quite reasonably.

"Because I've been retained to find him," I replied.

"I wanna know who retained you."

"Why?" I asked, quite reasonably.

"Get out," he said, his eyes bulging a bit.

"Look, Chief," I said with some heat, "I've talked with the boy's grandmother, father, and now the chief of police of the town he skipped from. And so far all I'm getting told is to butt out. Now, if this were a criminal case, I could see it. The too-many-cooks theory. But with a missing person, the more knowledgeable people looking, the more likely it is somebody'll find something?

"Get out," he said again, his folded hands trembling a little.

I complied.