“Did that son of a bitch Cooper swear out a complaint on me?”

“No one has sworn out a complaint. We just want to know what happened that night.”

“It was Cooper’s fault. They tried to throw us out. I was just defending myself.”

“With a knife?”

That stopped him, Shindler thought. He doesn’t know what we know.

“Okay, so I had a knife. That fat bastard that hit me had a broken bottle, so I pulled my knife.”

“Do you have the knife now?”

“The knife? No, I lost the knife.”

“That’s too bad. Where did you lose it?”

“I don’t know. I just lost it.”

“When?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“What did you do after you left Alice Fay’s house?”

“I don’t know. Cruised around, I guess.”

“Who was with you?”

“You know who was with me. You got a dozen eyewitnesses.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

He clammed up again, half turning from Shindler and refocusing on the floor.

“How soon after you left Alice’s house did you cop the wine?”

“Who said I took some wine?”

“We had a long talk with Esther Freemont.”

“Then you know everything, so why waste my time?”

“I like your company.”

Coolidge laughed suddenly.

“You must think I’m really stupid. You expect me to come in here and just admit I stole something. Why don’t you just give me the key to the jail so I can lock myself up, too?”

“We don’t care about the wine, Billy. We care about what happened later.”

“Later?”

“After you and Bobby and Esther drank the wine.”

“Nothing happened later. What are you talking about?”

“You just tell me what you did after you drank the wine and you can go home.”

Coolidge eyed Shindler suspiciously. When he answered, he answered in a slow, even tone. The anger and outrage had disappeared from his voice.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I did after we supposedly drank this wine.”

“That’s not the way we work things around here, Billy. Now I asked you a question and I want an answer.”

Coolidge was staring at Shindler. His eyes were on Shindler’s eyes. Shindler knew that this was high chess. Coolidge was straining to read his mind. Trying to figure out the move that would end the game for him, knowing that the wrong move would be fatal.

Then, Coolidge smiled and relaxed.

“Sure. Why not. You promise none of us will get in any trouble over…Well, let’s say there was some wine. No one would get in trouble over that, would he?”

“No one will get in any trouble over the wine,” Shindler said.

“Okay. Say, I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. It’s just that I’ve been rousted by the cops before and I don’t like it.

“About afterwards. We just sat on a side street and drank the wine. There was a couple of bottles, ’cause we had some in the car already. Then Esther got blotto and we took her home. That’s all.”

“Where was this side street?”

“I don’t remember. It was a couple of blocks from the grocery store where I took the wine. That’s over by Lake and Grant.”

“So you drank some wine and Esther got drunk and you took her straight home.”

“Not straight home. I think we cruised a little downtown. But Esther was feeling pretty bad, so we didn’t stay downtown long.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the hour you were downtown?”

“Sorry, I can’t help you there.”

“We know it didn’t happen that way, Billy.”

“What do you mean? I just told you what happened.”

“I’m afraid you left something out. Think hard.”

Coolidge looked at Shindler. A little of the cool was fading, but the veneer was still there.

“I didn’t leave anything out. We drank the wine, cruised downtown and took Esther home.”

“You left out the park.”

“What park?”

“Lookout Park.”

“What are you talking about? We didn’t go to Lookout Park.”

He was nervous now. There was strain in his voice. Shindler could sense it.

“You can stop pretending, Billy. We found Esther Freemont’s glasses at the park. We know you were there that night.”

Shindler stared at Coolidge. The boy’s eyes were bright with fear and Shindler sensed something alien and hideous in their depth.

“I wasn’t in the park that night,” Coolidge insisted. Coolidge’s breathing had become more rapid and the boy was constantly shifting in his seat.

“You were there, Billy. Telling us about it will make it easier on you.”

“Easier for what? I didn’t do anything and I wasn’t in the park.”

“Did you know Richie Walters and Elaine Murray, Billy?”

Coolidge’s mouth hung open and he stared wide-eyed at the detective.

“Is that what this is all about? You think…I want out of here. Now.”

His voice had risen to a scream.

“You ain’t gonna make me guilty of that. Let me out.”

“I’ll let you out, you little scumbag, when you tell me the truth,” Shindler said in a voice tight with hate. “When you tell me how you stabbed that poor boy and gang-fucked that girl.”

Shindler was standing. His body quivered and he moved slowly toward Coolidge. The boy turned to the policeman with a silent plea for help. His hands were thrust forward, palms out, as if to ward off some invisible blow.

The sight of the boy before him filled Shindler with rage. He could see the girl, naked, pleading in terror for her life. He wanted to smash, to hit. The boy was yelling something. The policeman was looking at Shindler with alarm. Shindler realized where he was. His hand was shaking uncontrollably. He opened the door and left the room.

There was a men’s room in the hallway. He plunged into it. He leaned against the wall. His body shook. His breathing was shallow. The face in the wall mirror frightened him. It was not his face. It was possessed of emotions as alien to him as the acts of the boy. It was the face of the primeval hunter. The killer in man.

He splashed himself with cold water. He sat on a folding chair. Slowly, he gained control. Harvey was on the second floor. He got up and walked downstairs.

Marcus came out at his knock. He looked at Shindler uncertainly.

“What happened?”

Shindler shook his head.

“I lost my temper. It’s okay now. Are you getting anywhere?”

“Lost your temper? What do you mean?” Marcus asked, concerned. He did not like Shindler’s intense interest in the case. He considered it unhealthy and unprofessional.

“It was nothing. How are you doing?”

“I don’t think the kid is involved, Roy.”

“Not involved?”

“He’s been polite and cooperative. He answers all the questions. And he tells the same story as the Freemont girl.”

“You’re wrong, Harvey. You have to be. You didn’t see that little punk. They invented a cover story, that’s all.”

“Or they are telling the truth.”

“No, damn it. It’s them. I know it.”

“Roy, these feelings are all subjective. You don’t have a single piece of evidence tying these boys to the killings. If you want to know, I think you are getting personally involved in this case and it is affecting your judgment. I’m going to release Bobby Coolidge and I think you should do the same with his brother.”

That evening Shindler ate a TV dinner and drank a bottle of beer. Then he took off his shoes and tie and stretched out, still dressed, on his bed. He placed his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He noticed a tiny crack in the ceiling plaster and traced it with his eye. A car hummed by outside. He closed his eyes and listened to his breathing.

Sometimes he felt that he was leaving his sanity behind. Moving so slowly into the world of the mad that he would not notice until it was too late. It was not healthy to encounter violent death so frequently. When death became part of each day, it started to lose its meaning. The next step was for life to lose its value.

Recently he had investigated the murder of a grocer who had been brutally beaten by two men. The face had been obliterated. The grocer had been a good family man with two beautiful children. Shindler had calmly directed the investigation at the scene. He had posed the body for pictures with bored detachment. He had conducted the interviews in a bored monotone. The death had meant nothing to him. When he realized this, hours later, it had shaken him.