The Jungle Kids

Kid Kill

It was just a routine call.

I remember. I was sitting around with Ed, talking about a movie we’d both seen when Marelli walked in, a sheet of paper in his hand.

“You want to take this, Art?” he asked.

I looked up, pulled a face, and said, “Who stabbed who now?”

“This is an easy one,” Marelli said, smiling. He smoothed his mustache in an unconscious gesture and added, “Accidental shooting.”

“Then why bother Homicide?”

“Accidental shooting resulting in death,” Marelli said.

I got up, hitched up my trousers, and sighed. “They always pick the coldest goddamn days of the year to play with war souvenirs.” I looked at the frost edging the windows and then turned back to Marelli. “It was a war souvenir, wasn’t it?”

“A Luger,” Marelli said. “Nine m/m with a three and five-eighth-inch barrel. The man on the beat checked it.”

“Was it registered?”

“You tell me.”

“Stupid sons of bitches,” I said. “You’d think the law wasn’t for their own protection.” I sighed again and looked over to where Ed was trying to make himself small. “Come on, Ed, time to work.”

Ed shuffled to his feet. He was a big man with bright red hair, and a nose broken by an escaped con back in ’45. It so happened that the con was a little runt, about five feet high in his Adler elevators, and Ed had taken a lot of ribbing about that broken nose — even though we all knew the con had used a lead pipe.

“Trouble with you, Marelli,” he said in his deep voice, “you take your job too seriously.”

Marelli looked shocked. “Is it my fault some kid accidentally plugs his brother?”

“What?” I asked. I had taken my overcoat from the peg and was shrugging into it now. “What was that, Marelli?”

“It was a kid,” Marelli said. “Ten years old. He was showing his younger brother the Luger when it went off. Hell, you know these things.”

I pulled my muffler tight around my neck and then buttoned my coat. “This is just a waste of time,” I said. “Why do the police always have to horn in on personal tragedies?”

Marelli paused near the table, dropping the paper with the information on it. “Every killing is a personal tragedy for someone,” he said. I stared at him as he walked to the door, waved, and went out.

“Pearls from a flatfoot,” Ed said. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

It was bitter cold, the kind of cold that attacks your ears and your hands, and makes you want to huddle around a potbelly stove. Ed pulled the Mercury up behind the white-topped squad car, and we climbed out, losing the warmth of the car heater. The beat man was standing near the white picket fence that ran around the small house. His uniform collar was pulled high onto the back of his neck, and his eyes and nose were running. He looked as cold as I felt.

Ed and I walked over to him, and he saluted, then began slapping his gloved hands together.

“I been waitin’ for you, sir,” he said. “My name’s Connerly. I put in the call.”

“Detective/First Grade Willis,” I said. “This is my partner, Ed Daley.”

“Hiya,” Ed said.

“Hell of a thing, ain’t it, sir?”

“Sounds routine to me,” Ed put in. “Kid showing off his big brother’s trophy, bang! His little brother is dead. Happens every damned day of the week.”

“Sure, sir, but I mean...”

“Family inside?” I asked.

“Just the mother, sir. That’s what makes it more of a tragedy, you see.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Well, sir, she’s a widow. Three sons. The oldest was killed in the last war. He’s the one sent the Luger home. Now this. Well, sir, you know what I mean.”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s get inside before I get like the brass monkey.”

Connerly led us to the front door, and rapped on it with a gloved hand. Ed stole a glance at me, and I knew he didn’t relish this particular picnic any more than I did.

The door opened immediately, and a small woman with quick blue eyes stood there. She might have been pretty in her youth, but that was a long time ago, and all the beauty had fled from her, leaving a parched, withered shell. Only the eyes remained to testify to what had once been — and they were misted with carefully guarded tears now.

“This is Detective/First Grade Willis and his partner, Mrs. Owens,” Connerly said.

Mrs. Owens nodded faintly, pulling her shawl around her against the wind that shoved its way through the open door.

“May we come in, ma’m?” I asked.

She seemed to remember her manners all at once. “Yes, please,” she said. “Please do.” Her voice was stronger than her body looked, and I wondered if she were really as old as she seemed. A widow, one son killed in the war. Death can sometimes do that to a person. Leave them looking more withered than the corpse.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” I said, feeling foolish as hell, the way I always did in a situation like this. “The law requires us to make a routine check, however, and...”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Willis.” She moved quickly to the couch and straightened the doilies. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Thank you.” I sat down with Ed on my right. Connerly stood near the radiator, his hands behind his back.

Ed took out his pad, and cleared his throat. I took that as my cue and said, “Can you tell us exactly what happened?”

Her lower lip began to tremble, and I saw the tears fighting to spill from her eyes. She bit down on her lip, and lowered her head, and when she raised it again, she’d succeeded in keeping the tears in check.

“Well, I... I don’t really know, exactly. You see, I was in the kitchen baking. This is Wednesday, and I usually bake on Wednesdays. The boys...” She hesitated and bit her lip again. “The boys like pie, and I try to bake one at least once a week.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“I... I was putting the pie into the oven when I heard this — this noise from the attic. I knew the boys were up there playing so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“What are the boys’ names, Mrs. Owens?”

“Jeffry. He’s my oldest. And... and...”

“Yes, ma’m?”

“Ronald.” She choked the word out and ducked her head again. “Ronald was the one — Ronald...”

“Was Ronald the boy who was shot?”

She didn’t answer. She simply nodded her head, and the tears ran freely now. Then she began shaking her head, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. I got up because I was embarrassed as hell, and I began walking around the room. On top of the upright piano, four photos in silver frames beamed up at me. One was of an older man, obviously the dead Mr. Owens. A second was of a young man in an Army uniform, with infantry rifles crossed on his lapel. The other two were of the younger boys.

Mrs. Owens had stopped crying. She blew her nose in a small handkerchief and looked up.

“Which one is Jeffry?” I asked.

“The... the blond boy.”

I looked at the photo. He seemed like a nice kid, with a pleasant smile, and his mother’s light eyes. “Is he in the house?”

“Yes. He’s upstairs in his room.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“All right.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the attic first.”

She seemed about to refuse, and then she nodded. “Certainly.”

“You needn’t come up, Mrs. Owens,” Ed said. “The patrolman can show us the way.”

“Thank you,” she said.

We followed Connerly up the steps, and he whispered, “See what I mean? Jesus, this is a rotten business.”

“Well, what are you gonna do?” Ed philosophized.

The attic had been fixed as a playroom, with plasterboard walls and ceiling. An electric train layout covered one half of the room. In the other half, covered with a sheet, lay young Ronald Owens. I walked over and lifted the sheet, looking down at the boy. He resembled the older Jeffry a great deal, except that his hair was brown. He had the same light eyes, though, staring up at me now, sightless. There was a neat hole between his eyes, and his face was an ugly mixture of blood and powder burns. I put the sheet back.

“Where’s the gun?” I asked Connerly.

“Right here, sir.”

He fished into his pocket and produced the Luger wrapped carefully in his handkerchief. I opened the handkerchief and stared at the German gun.

“Did you break it open, Connerly?”

“Why, no, sir. A patrolman isn’t allowed to...”

“Can it,” I said. “If you broke it open, you’ll save me the trouble.”

Connerly looked abashed. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“Any shells in it?”

“No, sir.”

“Not even in the firing chamber?”

“No, sir.”

“One bullet, then. That’s strange.”

“What’s so strange about it?” Ed wanted to know.

“A Luger’s magazine fed, that’s all,” I said. “Eight slugs in a clip. Strange to find only one.” I shrugged, handing the pistol back to Connerly. “Let’s see what else is around here.”

We started rummaging around the attic, not really looking for anything in particular. I think I was just postponing the talk I had to have with the young kid who’d shot his own brother.

“Bunch of books,” Ed said.

“Mmmm?”

“Yeah. Few scrapbooks. Old newspaper clippings.”

“Here’s something,” Connerly cut in.

“What have you got?”

“Looks like a box of clips, sir.”

“Mmmm? For the Luger?”

“Looks that way, sir.”

I walked over to where Connerly was standing, and took the box from the shelf. He had carefully refrained from touching it. The box was covered with a fine layer of dust. There were two clips in the open box, and they too were covered with dust. I lifted one of the clips out, running my eyes over the cartridges. Eight. The second clip had only seven cartridges in it.

“Only seven here,” I said.

“Yeah,” Connerly said, nodding. “That’s where the bullet came from, all right.”

“One of these is about the older brother,” Ed said, looking up from where he squatted on the floor.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Scrapbook, Art. All about the soldier. He was quite a hero.”

“That right?”

“Lots of stuff on the way he died. Nice collection.”

“Anything else there, Ed?”

“Few other loose newspaper clippings. Nothing really — hey!”

“What’ve you got?”

“Geez, that’s strange as hell,” Ed said.

“What? What is it?”

He got to his feet and walked over to me, holding a clipping in his big hand. “Take a look at this, Art.”

The clipping was scissored from one of the tabloids. It was simply the story of a boy and a girl who’d been playing in their back yard. Playing with a Colt .45 that was a war souvenir. The .45 had gone off, blowing half the girl’s head away. There was a picture of the boy in tears, and a heartrending story of the fatal accident.

“Some coincidence, huh, Art?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Some coincidence.”

I put the box of clips back on the shelf. “I think I’d better talk to the kid now,” I said.

We left the attic, and Connerly whispered something about the way fate sometimes works. He called Mrs. Owens, and she came up to lead me to the boy’s room on the second floor of the house.

She rapped on the door and softly called, “Jeffry?”

I could hear sobbing beyond the door, and then a muffled, “Yes?”

“Some gentlemen would like to talk to you,” she said.

The sobbing stopped, and I heard the sound of bare feet padding to the door. The door opened and Jeffry stood there drying his face. He was thinner than the photograph had shown him, with bright blue eyes and narrow lips. His hair hung over his forehead in unruly strands, and there were streaks under his eyes and down his cheeks.

“You’re policemen, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes, son.”

“We just want to ask a few questions,” Ed said.

“Come in.”

We walked into the room. There were two beds in it, one on either side of the large window. There was one dresser, and I imagined the two boys shared this. Toys were packed neatly in a carton on one side of the room. A high school pennant, and several college pennants decorated the walls, and a model airplane hung from the ceiling.

Mrs. Owens started into the room and Ed gently said, “If we may talk to him alone...”

Her hand went to her mouth, and she murmured, “Oh. Oh, all right.”

Jeffry walked to his bed and sat on it, one leg tucked under him. He stared out of the window, not looking at us.

“Want to tell us how it happened, son?”

“It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do it, honest.”

“We know,” Ed said. “We just want to know how it happened.”

“Well, we were upstairs playing with the trains, and then we got sort of tired. We started kidding around, and then I found Perry’s — that’s my other brother, who was killed in the war — I found Perry’s Luger and we started foolin’ around with that.”

“Is that the first time you saw the gun, son?”

“No, no.” He turned to look me full in the face. “Perry sent it home a long time ago. Before he was killed, even.”

“Um-huh. Go on, son.”

“Well then we found the bullets in the box. I...”

“You didn’t know the bullets were there before this?”

“No.” Again, Jeffry stared at me. “No, we just found them today.”

“Did you know where the gun was?”

“Well — yes.”

“You said you found it, though. You didn’t mean that, did you, son?”

“Well, I knew it was in the attic some place because that’s where Mom put it. I didn’t know just where until I found it today.”

“Oh, I see. Go on, please.” Ed looked at me curiously, and then turned his interest back to the boy.

“We found the bullets, and I took one from one of the magazines, just to fool around. I stuck it into the gun and then all at once the gun went off and... and... Ronnie... Ronnie...”

The kid turned his face away, then threw himself onto the pillow.

“I didn’t mean to do it. Honest, honest. The gun just went off. I didn’t know it would go off. It just did. I loved my brother. I loved my brother. Now there’s just me and Mom, just the two of us. I didn’t want it to happen, I didn’t, I didn’t.”

“Sure, son,” I said. I walked to the bed and sat down beside him. “You liked your brother a lot. I know. I have a brother, too.”

Ed gave me another curious look, but I continued to pat the kid’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Jeffry said, “I did like him. I liked Perry, too, and he was killed. And now — now this. Now there’s just me and Mom. They’re all gone. Dad, and Perry, and... and... Ronnie. Now we’re all alone.” He started bawling again. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to play with that old gun...”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Accidents happen. They happen all the time. No one could possibly blame you for it.”

His tears ebbed slowly, and he finally sat up again. “You know it’s not my fault, don’t you?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes,” I said. “We know.”

He tried to smile, but failed. “It was just an accident,” he repeated.

“Sure,” I said. I picked myself off the bed and said, “Let’s go, Ed. Nothing more for us here.”

At the door, I turned to look at Jeffry once more. He seemed immensely relieved, and he smiled when I winked at him. The smile was still on his mouth and in his eyes when we left him.

It was cold in the Merc, even with the heater going.

We drove in silence for a long time, and finally Ed asked, “All right, what was all that business about?”

“What business?”

“First of all, that brother routine. You know damn well you’re a lousy, spoiled, only child.”

“Sure,” I said. “I wanted to hear the kid tell me how much he loved all his brothers.”

“That’s another thing. Why the hell did you cross-examine the kid? Jesus, he had enough trouble without your...”

“I was just wondering about a few things,” I said. “That’s all.”

“What kind of things?”

“The scrapbook on his older brother, for one. All those pictures on him, and the stories on how he died. Almost like a collection of reviews on a play or a book.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing, probably. But then there was the clipping about the little boy who accidentally killed that girl. Now why do you suppose any kid would save a clipping like that?”

“Hell,” Ed said, “you know how kids are. It probably caught his fancy, that’s all.”

“Probably. Maybe the Luger magazines caught his fancy, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kid said he found those magazines for the first time today. He said he took a cartridge from one of the clips and stuck it into the gun. Tell me how he managed to handle a dust-covered magazine without smearing any of the dust.”

“Why, he...”

“He didn’t, that’s the answer. He took that bullet from the clip a long time ago, Ed. Long enough ago for the box and the magazine to acquire a new coat of dust. This was no spur of the minute job. No, sir, not at all.”

“Hey,” Ed said suddenly. “What the hell are you trying to say? You mean the kid did this on purpose? You mean he actually killed his brother? Murdered him?”

“Just him and Mom now, Ed. Just the two of them. No more Dad, no more big brother, and now no more little brother.” I shook my head, and stared at my own breath as it clouded the windshield.

“But just take it to a judge,” I added. “Just take the whole fantastic thing to a judge and see how fast he kicks you out of court.”

I didn’t say anything else after that, but it was a goddamned cold ride back to the station.

Goddamned cold.