Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

The term juvenile delinquent is a general one, applied to those whose behavior troubles their elders... yet for misbehaving adults no such all-embracing phrase has yet been coined.

* * *

Juvenile Officer McMahon telephoned me at the recreation center.

“Pat,” he said glumly, “it’s Sally again.”

“What’s she done this time?”

“She was with three boys who roughed up the manager of a ten-cent store. He caught them shoplifting. We’ve got her at the precinct.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

“We can’t keep her out of court for this sort of thing forever, you know,” he added wearily, hanging up.

I waited a moment and then called my wife.

“Hello, hon. Listen, Sally’s in jail.”

“What for?”

“Same as last time. Hanging around with the wrong friends.”

“Oh, Pat. I think it’s hopeless. That makes four times in the last year. She’s absolutely unmanageable.”

“We’ve got to give her another chance,” I argued. “Any kid who went through what Sally did is bound to be a little haywire. If people like us aren’t willing to help her, she’s lost.”

“All right,” my wife said slowly. “If you say so.”

“Just remember,” I went on. “It isn’t every child that’s orphaned by an axe murderer.”

I left Bill Barlow in charge of the Center. The Welfare Agency had hired him right out of college the year before. Like me, Bill came from this neighborhood, a near-slum inhabited mostly by families of very modest means. That’s the way our agency operates. We want workers who are known and respected by the kids we’re trying to help. Bill had been an all-city halfback, a neighborhood hero, while in high school, and he could get tough kids to confide in him in a way no outsider ever could. I had pitched for the Dodgers once, and that didn’t hurt my standing any either.

I walked the six blocks to the police precinct. It was a hot, humid day, with a layer of muggy clouds throttling the city. On a day much like the one, two years earlier, Sally’s father and stepmother had been hacked to death, when the thick, stifling air could fray even a placid man’s temper and turn anger into blind rage.

Dan McMahon, burly and stoops shouldered and wearing civilian clothes, lounged beside the Sergeant’s desk, his lined face reflecting years of disillusionment in trying to keep kids out of trouble. But for my benefit, he managed a kindly smile.

“Hello, Pat. She’s in the conference room.”

I started toward the back of the station. Then McMahon put a hand on my arm.

“Just a minute. She’s not alone.”

“Who’s with her?”

“That newspaper reporter. Jake Greb. He was here when we brought her in.”

“Great,” I snapped. “That’s all she needs. Somebody trying to get her to talk about the murders at a time like this.”

I brushed by McMahon and strode to the conference room. Greb was there, all right. A pot-bellied little man wearing an ancient Palm Beach suit. The suit didn’t fit him very well and was unpressed and spotted. He looked up and frowned.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said brusquely, “but the interview is over.”

“Hi, Pat,” Sally said, looking down at the table. “I guess I loused us up again, didn’t I?” As usual, her pink sixteen-year-old face was a mask of innocence. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head and in these surroundings she looked frail and out-of-place.

“We’ll get to your current troubles later,” I said. “Right now, Mister Greb is going to leave us.”

“Look, buddy,” Greb began, “you tangle with me...”

“I know. I tangle with you and I tangle with your paper. But this time you’re bluffing. I don’t think your editor will back you up for harassing this girl. I’ve met your editor, at fund-raising dinners for the agency I work for, and he’s not that kind of a man.”

Greb’s manner changed. He tried to smile. “All right. So I asked a few questions. It’s still an unsolved double homicide, you know. Sally was the only person to see the murderer. People are always going to be asking her questions, until the axe maniac is found.”

“Get out,” I snapped.

Greb rose. “I’ll drop over to the Recreation Center,” he said. “I want to talk to you about a story.” He closed the door behind him.

I sat down and took Sally’s hand. “Did he upset you much?”

She shook her head. “I’m used to it,” she said quietly. “Mostly he asked what the others always ask. Did I remember the face? And he wanted to know if I dream about it at night. If I could see the face in my dreams, even though I couldn’t remember it when I was awake.”

“He’s a maniac himself, to badger a child that way.”

“He’s not so bad,” Sally said. “Don’t be mad at him. He was very polite. He called me ‘Miss’. None of the policemen ever do that.”

“What about the policemen? McMahon tells me you’re in here because some friends of yours beat up a dime store manager.”

“They wouldn’t have done it,” Sally replied defensively, “if the man hadn’t tried to push them around.”

“They were stealing merchandise.”