"This isn't your job, it's mine. If that poor boy _is_ in there, he
needs a doctor, not a bullet."
"Whatthehell--" Scott sputtered, the phrase emerging as a single word.
"Thornberry's right, Chief Scott, though he's right for the wrong
reason. Clarens is our job."
_Following the tiger had been a simple act of necessity in two ways.
To rid the tiger of the pain it could not remove from itself and to
rid society of the menace the beast had been and would continue to be
until it was destroyed._
With his words to Scott, with that last thought, Bennington shook the
lethargy, the stillness of deep thought that had contained and
enveloped him since the report of this breaking and entering.
Now, as in that dash to the mess hall, he was ready for the fast
sprint, the decisive action.
Before Scott could answer and possibly object, Thornberry had taken
the flashlight from the chief's hand, was fumbling through the open
pane for the lock inside.
"Give me a flashlight, too," Bennington said.
Patrolman Whelton responded.
At the same time, Mosby reversed the grip on the pistol in his right
hand and offered the ivory butt to Bennington.
"What do you think I am, a psychologist?"
Bennington had kept his voice to a whisper, but he had made that
whisper a snarl. He further emphasized that snap in his tone by
pulling out his own pistol, throwing the beam of the flashlight on his
hand, making both the sight and sound of the safety going off clear to
the eyes and ears of those around him.
Then he followed Thornberry into the black cave of the warehouse.
* * * * *
Before them stretched a long aisle formed by big boxes piled fifteen
feet high. Side aisles branched at ten-foot intervals.
They moved slowly, used their lights carefully, in quick flickers on
and off. Each branching from the main corridor had to be approached
cautiously. Each, when checked by a rapid finger of light, showed only
the sides of boxes marked by stenciled words and the blank walls of
the warehouse.
A flash of light, a few steps forward, another flash, a few more
steps ... until they were halfway down the warehouse.
Bennington saw it first and halted Thornberry with a touch on the arm:
the last row of boxes on the left was outlined by a faint glow of
light.
Together they walked rapidly, quietly, toward the glow. When they
reached the end of the aisle, Bennington tried to take the lead. But
Thornberry deliberately shoved himself ahead of the general and turned
the corner first.
The space from the last row of boxes to the front doors of the
warehouse was big enough for a truck and trailer to maneuver in. The
feeble glow of light came from an electric lantern on a small desk.
Beside the desk, leaning his chair against the warehouse wall, a
palefaced young man sat looking down at his hands. His long fingers
played with a knife.
The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadow
bulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of his
light on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmoving
blackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying on
his back, with the slash across the throat standing out clearly.
"Walter."
Thornberry spoke softly, moved slowly, easily toward the young man.
At the sound of his name, Clarens looked up, his face calm and
composed, his posture expressing complete disinterest in the fact that
someone was approaching him.
"Walter: I am Dr. Thornberry. I am a friend of yours. I am here to
help you. You need help. I am here to help you."
As Thornberry spoke, he continued to move forward slowly.
Bennington followed, two strides behind and one to the left of the
psychologist. He kept his point of aim fixed on Walter's face.
"I am your friend. I am here to help you."
"You are my friend?" Walter asked, and there was doubt in his tone.
"You can be sure of that, Walter. I want to help you. I am here to
help you, Walter."
Thornberry, who had stopped when Clarens had spoken, now moved forward
again.
"Put down the knife, Walter. You don't need the knife any more. Put
the knife down and come for a little walk with me. Come out of this
dark place with me. Out of the darkness into the world where you
belong. Let us take a walk together, out of the darkness into the
world where you belong."
Bennington felt his own tense watchfulness relaxing in the smooth flow
of Thornberry's words. Before them, Clarens' disinterest had gradually
become absorbed attention. His hands no longer played with the knife,
but simply held it loosely.
In another minute, he'll put down the knife and come with us,
Bennington decided. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thornberry
take a plastic squeeze-bottle from his pocket.
Without any gathering of facial or body muscle to signal his
intention, Clarens launched himself from his chair. As he jumped, he
shrilled hoarsely, "Not into the light again!"
Only Thornberry's height saved him; Clarens' leap could not quite
reach the psych-expert's scrawny throat. But the doctor did stumble
backwards, did fall on his back with Clarens on top of him.
The killer's right arm swung back. The edge of the knife blade danced
brightly in the dim light.
Bennington took no chances with fancy shooting. He dropped his point
of aim and his first shot smashed into Clarens' chest, driving the
young man back onto his haunches. The general's second and third shots
were also into the body.
Then before Bennington's inner eye two scenes flashed fleetingly, one
of a darkened garage, the other of an almost-as-dark jungle trail. In
both the figure was a weeping mother above a child's still form.
Deliberately, with three carefully-aimed shots through Clarens' head,
Bennington killed the wounded tiger again.
Out of ingrained habit, he reloaded his pistol before moving forward
to help Thornberry to his feet.
But the psychologist was already standing, was turning toward
Bennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice.
"What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguided
boy?"
Bennington looked at his assistant warden and saw that the man was
deadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawled
grotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against the
dead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping the
knife.
I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of
them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the
words to answer this man.
* * * * *
Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's
private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a
shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.
His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many
questions, and a long, long day was still ahead.
Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he was
handwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had done
during his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almost
incoherent co-operation.
The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear than
anyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of the
city search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of the
details of the state search for the errant politician.
Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefully
on one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on his
appointment had also finally agreed to sleep.
Of course they had all assured him of complete concurrence with his
suggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could they
have done?
Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough to
insure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters.
"Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting top
priority."
"Good."
"The AG called, too."
Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had a
cigarette in your ashtray?"
"I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But the
next time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only ones
who need practical training."
Bennington did not hold back his laugh and he stretched out his hand.
"Thanks, Mossback."
"Hell, Jim, I owe you the thanks. That was the best training problem
my men ever had, taught 'em more in one night that they can ever learn
until the real stuff starts whistling around."
Bennington glanced over Mosby's shoulder at the place he was heading
for: the hot seat, Chief Scott's desk chair, bright under the TV
spotlights, the center of every camera focus.
"You've got work to do, I know, so where's that Thornberry?" Mosby
growled. "He should be with you."
"Upstairs, asleep. He said that he was only the assistant warden, then
asked Chief Scott for an empty cell and left me."
"Why?"
"It's very simple: he's still not convinced that I had to shoot
Clarens."
Mosby grunted deep disgust, looked over his shoulder toward the hot
seat, looked again at Bennington. "You should have shaved.
"No, wait a minute, I guess not. Just go the way you are and give 'em
hell."
Bennington rubbed his chin and the bristle of his late-night,
early-morning beard crackled crisply.
The problem he had anticipated was now here, as he had known it would
be. And the answer was nowhere, which equally had been a matter of
foreknowledge.
* * * * *
"What will I say, General Mosby?" Bennington murmured. "Cue me in. You
were always the best public relations officer either of us ever had."
"Jim, from anyone else--" Mosby started, stopped, grinned. "The
trouble is, you're right.
"But this time we don't need any style, this time all we need is the
truth.
"Tell them why the prison wasn't running right, how the riot happened
and why you are where you are tonight, and what the prisons need to
make them run better...."
Mosby stopped again, and this time was very slow in re-starting.
"When you get there, I don't know, Jim. What _are_ you going to tell
them?"
_I wish I could be sure, Mossback._
_I know I can make that hot seat hotter by stating no one else knows
either, because we've never decided what a prison is for ... society's
protection, a place to put people like Clarens, where they won't
affect the lives of normal folk? A deterrent, a threat, a place to
point to as a warning not to break the law? Or, as Thornberry would
have it, the first step to returning people to normal lives as
functioning members of society again?_
_Dare I say that the only thing certain about prisons is that so far they
haven't worked ... that stone walls, iron bars, conditioning and drugs
that take the reason prisoner, none of these have kept men in ... that
they would always try to escape as long as there was hope, hope of
something better on the outside._
* * * * *
As Mosby stepped aside, Bennington considered the reverse of that last
thought.
_Was there an answer here, to ask his fellow-countrymen to face the
immediately, perhaps the forever, impossible, that the only way to
keep a man from hoping and trying to get out, was to build a society
where they never got in?_
Then Bennington remembered Clarens.
_No, let's face facts, that till man is superman, there will always be
people like Clarens, people who will never be redeemed. People, who no
matter how carefully caged or watched, will ever be a potential
threat, if only to their keepers. By what weird accident they came to
life, well, list that among other facts as yet unknown, and consider
only the end result, that there were people whose only pleasure lay in
perpetual destruction._
_Automatically, such people themselves must be destroyed._
He was only vaguely aware of the flash-bulbs popping as he walked to
the chair behind Chief Scott's desk.
_That could be an answer, a new addition to the Decalogue, a new
Commandment specific to the judge giving sentence to a man like
Clarens, an injunction not to jail but to destroy. Simply phrased for
the judge, thou shalt not commit!_
He seated himself and blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the
glare.
_But, beginning with Thornberry, there would be many people who
wouldn't agree, who would never accept such an amendment to the Sacred
Ten, people who never seemed to see that phrase in their newspapers
every time a child was assaulted, "Police are questioning all known
sex offenders."_
Bennington looked thoughtfully around at the men ready to question
him.
He, too, was ready, ready to tell them....
_... Some people are a damn sight better off dead._
* * * * *