Manhunt. Volume 4, Number 6, June, 1956

Circle for Death by Pat Stadley

It wasn’t so much what they did to her, though that was bad enough. The thing was, she was a cop’s wife.

The kid’s drunk, Max thought, or doped. He watched warily while the boy half-danced, half-staggered in front of him. Beyond, he could see the rest of them — twenty or thirty — their faces shadowed in the street lamp light.

He kept his voice normal. “Come on, kid, let’s have the knife.”

“What’s the matter, Fuzz?” the kid jeered. “Is the big copper scared of a little shiv?” He moved a step forward, flashing the blade in a wide arc. There was a murmur behind him; the crowd stirred, flowed outward in a wider circle.

“Can’t let them get behind me,” Max thought. But the car was there with the radio on. If he could stall ’til the patrol came. He could use his gun, but — hell, they were just kids I

The boy hiccuped loudly, giggled. He planted his feet apart, threw his arms wide. “Why’nt you call some more fuzzies? Call all the damn coppers. Tell ’em Sid invites ’em all.” He lost his balance, staggered.

Max moved in quickly. He shoved an open hand into the kid’s face, clamped savagely on the arm holding the knife and twisted.

But the boy was like a cat. He squirmed, kicked, his voice shrieking curses. When he couldn’t break Max’s hold, he bit down savagely.

Max slapped him — hard. The kid’s head snapped back. The crowd was a live thing. It surged inward on them. He knew he had to finish it quickly. He chopped his hand down and the boy slid like a loose sack at his feet. The knife slipped from his fingers, spun out into the night.

The crowd held back. Max wiped a hand across his mouth. “Which of you punks is next?” He sneered at them.

They looked at him from the shadows, pulling their leather jackets tighter around them. There were other knives there, pieces of iron, lead pellets in stockings. There was fear and hatred and indecision, but for the moment he held the upper hand.

Then one of the boys moved forward. He walked slowly, almost swaggering, his shoulders hunched, his long, blond hair touching the edge of his upturned collar. When he reached Sid’s body, he stopped, fingers hooked in his pockets, looking down, then over to Max. His young, hard face showed nothing.

“What’s your beef, copper?” he asked. “You butted into this clambake. Sid’s just a little stoned. Too much beer. You didn’t have to maul him like that.”

“Since when does a clambake include knives?” Max retorted.

“What knife?” the kid said. “I didn’t see no knife.” He turned to the crowd. “You guys see a knife?”

Max took a deep breath. “Cut it,” he said, his voice hard. “There was a knife. Who do you think the captain will believe — you or me?”

The silence grew louder. In the distance a siren wailed. The boys edged away restlessly. Only the one stood his ground.

“You going to tell a story, fuzz? You going to send Sid up?” He shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t do that. No, I wouldn’t do that at all.”

The siren was louder now but the boy’s voice still came clearly. “Some night you’re going home alone. Maybe you get there — maybe you don’t. Maybe there’s a home. Maybe there ain’t. Take your pick!”

The anger came rushing through Max like fire, roaring and eating away at him. And, yet, he had never felt so cold. Laugh, he told himself, sneer, show contempt some way. Instinctively, his hand dropped to his gun. The boy didn’t move.

The siren was on them now and the lights, swinging in, flooded over them. “What’s your name?” Max spoke slowly.

“Reed. Reed Belin. Wanna see my I.D. — copper?”

Max forced himself to relax. The boy at his feet, moved, moaned. He knelt beside him, ran his hands over the lank body, into the blue jean pockets, inside the jacket and all the time he could see the feet and legs of Reed, motionless before him.

“What’s the trouble, Max?” Jeff Barrow had swung from the other car and was standing beside him.

“Just a drunk kid,” Max said. “Pulled a knife on me. Let’s put him in the car.”

He could hear Tom Mallory’s rough, graveled voice. “Okay, break it up, you guys. Anybody give you special trouble, Max?” he asked. “Or shall I send ’em home.”

Max nodded at Reed. “Bring him along,” he said. “He’s got a special interest in Sid here.”

The boy’s eyes flickered, but his face showed nothing. “You booking Sid, copper?” There was no anger in the tone, just a statement of fact.

Max nodded quietly. “I could book you too, Reed. But I’m going to let you off with a warning. I’m going to choose to interpret your threats as just the heat of the moment. Well forget they were said. But I’d suggest you watch yourself. Because I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

“You do that, copper. You keep a real good watch. Then you won’t miss nothing!”

Max looked at him. How did you get through? This was a boy — seventeen — with a boy’s body, not yet grown, not yet a man. Yet speaking full grown words, throwing full blown challenges as if his insides already had matured and hardened. How did you get through to this one? He sighed.

“That’s all, Reed,” he said. “Beat it!”

He was glad when the night was over. He drove home faster than usual. Calm down, he told himself. It’s just a night like all the others — drunks, fights, knifings, crying women, brawling men, punk kids. Hell, a man should get a job where he met some decent people.

It’d be nice to get home to Fran. Lovely, lovable Fran. Soft blonde hair, soft green eyes, soft slim curves. He grinned to himself as he went up the walk. And he didn’t see it until he’d put his key in the lock.

They’d painted the circle carefully right in the middle of his door. A big, round white line of paint that blazed against the brown wood. And he was cold again. And then a greater fear seized him and he threw the door open and went running through the house to the bedroom. She lay curled under the blanket, one arm tucked under the pillow and the other reaching out to where he usually lay.

He stood looking at her until the trembling inside him stopped and then he crept away. He would sleep later, but now he had to wash the paint from the door so that she wouldn’t see it.

Idiot, he called himself. A kid’s prank and you fall apart!

The next morning he bought a dog. A lean, sleek Doberman. Fran was delighted. “He’s beautiful, Max,” she said, hugging them both happily. “But why?”

“He’ll be company,” Max said. “His name is ‘Skip’ and he’s already trained. And I... I won’t worry.”

“Silly,” she said. But her eyes were softer than ever and her kiss lingered.

Sid’s trial didn’t take long. Max looked carefully for Reed among the few spectators in the courtroom. He didn’t show.

Sid, sober and sullen, answered questions in monosyllables and he didn’t watch Max as the latter testified. Only, when the judge sentenced him did he show emotion.

“Stinkin’ fuzz,” he spit at Max.

Jeff joined Max for coffee afterwards. “Captain says for me to ride patrol with you tonight, Max. Maybe the rest of the week.”

Max shrugged. “Thanks, Jeff, but there shouldn’t be any trouble.”

Jeff sipped his coffee slowly. “I’ve been nosing around, Max. That was a rumble between Reed Belin’s gang and the Tankers you broke into. Guess we should have hauled them all in. Put a little holy fear into them.” His spoon rattled against his cup. “Hell, what’s got into kids these days?”

Max couldn’t answer. The picture of his front door with the big, white circle on it lay before him. “I’m going to call home,” he said. “See you in the locker room.”

Fran didn’t answer the phone. He looked at his watch. Maybe he’d have time to go home. No, he couldn’t make it. Hey, what was the matter with him? She was probably at the store — or the neighbors. She had the dog.

He sighed, relieved. Nobody would bother her with that dog around. Should have gotten him a long time ago. He pictured Fran’s happy face, her arms around the dog’s neck. Nobody would touch Fran now. He went whistling to the locker room.

The call came over their radio at ten that night.

“Car 10,” it was Kenny at the switchboard. “Disturbance at 412 Harding. Max, your house. Check into it. I’ll have car 40 cover your beat.”

Max felt the lurch inside himself. He switched the siren on and made a turn, tires screaming.

“My wife—?”

“She’s okay. Made the call herself.”

Fran was sitting on the lawn with Skip’s head pillowed in her lap when Max came. She was sobbing quietly.

“I’d just let him out, Max. He was growling so and then I heard the shot and... and he was dead.” Her voice broke.

“Come on, honey,” Max lifted her up. “Jeff’ll take care of him.” He led her into the house and made her lie down on the couch.

“He was so sweet, Max. He followed me everywhere. Why... why would anyone want to kill him?”

Max tucked a blanket around her. “I’m not sure, darling. It must have been an accident.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Because when I heard the shot, I looked out the door and someone called out my name.”

Fear bit again at Max. “I’ll get you some coffee. Then, I’ll take a look around.”

Jeff was waiting for him in the kitchen. “Come here, Max.” He led him outside to where Skip lay and lifted back the cover. “Look at this!”

Max could see the white collar around the big, dark throat. He touched it and part of it came off on his fingers.

“Somebody took time to paint that on him,” Jeff said. “Now, who would do a fool thing like that?”

“I’m not sure, Jeff. But I’m going to find out. Take care of him, will you?”

He went back into the house. “Fran, I want you to go to bed. I’ll call headquarters and have them put a patrol on the neighborhood.” He kissed her. “Don’t worry, darling. Probably some crazy kids. Took a shot at the dog. Didn’t mean to hit it.”

He rechecked the doors and windows, moved the phone to her side of the bed. “Hear anything — anything at all, call Ken and he’ll send the patrol right in.” He kissed her again, lightly, grinned at her and left.

Jeff was talking to the patrol car when he got outside. He waved at them, there was no time for talk now. Jeff climbed quietly in beside him and they rolled out.

“Max—” Jeff said tentatively.

“They called her by name, Jeff. Even when she was standing in the doorway, they were putting that damn paint on the dog and then they called her.”

“Who?” Jeff asked. “Who was it, Max?”

But he couldn’t answer. The anger in him trembled like a live thing.

They were easy to find. They had picked the biggest, noisiest, splashiest drive-in restaurant to wait. There were eight of them and they were grouped outside their cars, leaning against the fenders. Jeff swung the patrol car so its lights centered on them and Max was out of the car almost before it stopped. Easy, easy, he quieted himself.

The group parted for him, slowly, insolently. He brushed by them. It was Reed he wanted.

The boy waited for him, still leaning against the car, one foot resting against the hubcap.

Max spoke first. “Where have you been the last hour, Reed?”

The boy took the cigarette from his mouth, studied it a moment, then flicked the ashes deliberately.

“Here,” he finally said, “right here.”

“Who was with you?”

Reed looked at him, his face almost sneering. Then he moved a hand at the others. “Tell the copper, boys. Where ya been?”

“Right here, fuzz!” one of them answered. Someone laughed.

Max kept his tone level. “Move away from the car, Reed. Now, turn around. Hands on the roof.”

“Gonna search me, fuzz?” The words came indolently. “Go ahead. Whatcha think you gonna find?”

Max searched rapidly. The boy was clean. But he hadn’t expected it otherwise. He turned to the car. And here he moved more carefully. The boys crowded around.

“Try the seat, copper. Maybe it’s in the trunk. Pick up the floorboards.”

When he turned around, they were grinning widely. “Aw, don’t give up so easy, fuzz. Maybe it’s in the roof, or the tires, or the cigar lighter.” They howled at this. They shoved at each other. Max looked out over them. Jeff was moving closer.

The car-hop quieted them. She came pushing through, both arms loaded with trays. Max watched her fasten them to the car doors, then touched her arm.

“How long’s this car been here?”

The silence came instantly. They stood frozen, tense, waiting. The girl looked at him for a moment, then away. He could see the muscles tighten in her face. She didn’t look at him when she answered.

“An hour or more,” she said, her voice low.

“And you’re just getting around to serving them?”

“They didn’t want anything at first.”

He could see relief seep through them. Somebody shoved. The boy nearly hit him.

“Reed.” Max snapped the word out. They quieted immediately.

Reed was peeling the paper from a hamburger. He didn’t stop. “Yeah?”

Max moved slowly toward him. “Stay away from my house, Reed! Stay clear on the other side of the town.”

Reed laid the sandwich down. He turned so that he faced Max. “You tellin’ me what to do, copper? ’Cause I don’t take that from nobody. Nobody!”

The muscles quivered along Max’s shoulders. He kept his voice clear. “If I catch you anywhere near my house, I’ll put you away Reed-just as far as I can.”

He heard their shock — their quick suck of air. He turned slowly, memorizing each face. “That goes for all of you.”

And then he walked through them, back toward the squad car. A cigarette flicked in front of him. It hit the pavement ahead and lay, its red eye sparking. He deliberately stepped on it as he passed.

A week went by — two. It’s over, he told himself. He relaxed.

It was warmer Thursday night. One of those rare, brilliant nights when everything stood cleanly defined. Rare in its quietness, too. He was patrolling alone, again.

His route took him down his street and he slowed by his house. Fran had a light burning.

And then he saw the paint can. It lay, tipped crazily, on his porch. He could even see the spreading line where the paint spilled.

It took him forever to reach the door. It opened to his touch. He was crazy with fear now. And yet, training held him. He slipped along the hall, his gun in his hand, walking lightly, rapidly. Only the living room was lighted and Fran was there.

They had taped her to a hoop hanging from the ceiling, arms overhead, feet together so that she hung like some Barbary slave girl, her cream white body outlined against the red tapestry curtain. He could see the marks of their fingers, the long angry gash, the thin white line they had painted.

He cut her down gently. She was alive.

Another man put her to bed, cleaned the paint from her, called the doctor. This wasn’t him. He could feel nothing, neither anger nor fear, nor desperation. Somewhere outside Reed waited for him. He was alive only for that purpose.

The doctor brought a nurse with him. It took them forever, Max thought. Forever...

The doctor shook him. “She’s all right, Max. She’ll sleep now.”

He went to the door and looked at her. And still there was no feeling.

The nurse rustled toward him. “I’ll stay the night,” she said.

And he could go!

Outside Jeff waited for him. “The Captain—” He looked at Max’s face and didn’t finish. They climbed into the squad car. Max drove.

They wouldn’t expect him so soon. So they’d go somewhere to celebrate before they scattered. Not a drive-in. Not a joint. There would be too much excitement for that.

So he prowled the parks, the lonely sideroads, the clumps of trees, the flats, lover’s lane and here he found them. Just one car, tucked under the trees, turned towards the road.

He hit the siren early, and the lights. He wanted to flush them. And he did.

They came screaming out on the road towards him. He could see Reed behind the wheel. They laughed at him as they tore past; a bottle crashed against the car.

It was the way he wanted it. He turned and took out after them. Jeff touched a button. “Car 10. In pursuit of 502. Going north on Canyon Crest.”

They were going up the first hill, now, their tires beginning to scream on the curves. He drove them faster, moving irrevocably behind them. They were no longer shouting at him, waving their arms.

It was real now. They knew it. They were settled to the task of losing him. The needle climbed upward. Fifty — sixty — seventy. He felt Jeff tense beside him. But he couldn’t take his eyes from the road and the car ahead.

How about it, Reed, his mind taunted. How much faster can you go — ninety — one hundred? How much longer will your tires take these curves? Feel that, Reed — that sharp skid — the pull on the steering wheel? That was gravel. Arms getting tired, Reed? There’s a trick to these curves — takes strong wrists. Do you have strong wrists, Reed?

There was a rock ahead — a big, massive hunk of granite that hung out into the road. He watched Reed take his car around it — skid sideways — straighten out.

Again the needle climbed.

“They’ll roll,” Jeff said. “Why don’t they slow down. There’s the pass ahead!”

He knew it. It was the reason he’d been coldly happy when they swung north when he’d flushed them. The pass where the road swings like a twisted ribbon out over the canyon and cuts back into the mountain side. The canyon, Reed. It’s deep. You can’t even see the bottom.

Max’s foot pressed harder. The needle touched 100 — wavered — steadied. He was right on them.

“They’ve got to stop.” Jeff’s voice was strangled. “They’ve got to!” He raised his gun, sighted high and fired. The sound mushroomed. “God, Max—. Slow it!”

He didn’t feel his own brakes — he couldn’t hear his own tires as he cut into the turn. There was only Reed ahead of him. He saw the car clearly, like some inflated toy, saw it lurch, slide, watched Reed struggling with the wheel. Then it was over the edge and he could hear it crashing its way downward.

He got out, walked to the edge, waited. There was no sound now. And still he stood motionless until the red flickered against the darkness, caught on and flamed its way up the canyon.

“They could have stopped,” Jeff said. “They could have stopped.”

But Max didn’t hear him. “That was it, Reed,” he was whispering. “I sent you as far as I could send you.”