Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Long past midnight Cogan returned to his overheated office and dropped wearily into his swivel chair behind the ancient oak desk. Grateful for the quiet finally brought by night, he grunted when Millis shoved a cup of coffee toward him and mumbled something about the life of a small-town cop.

“Thanks. How’s the kid?”

Millis shrugged. “His mother came to see him. She’s getting him a lawyer. The District Attorney talked with him awhile, and we’ve been giving him his three squares a day. That’s about it.”

“What do you think of the little bastard?”

“You know what I think, sir; I just can’t figure out what gets into a kid like that, from a good home and all. I just can’t figure it.”

“Neither can I, Millis.” The sheriff yawned. “Why don’t you knock off for the night? I’ll cover ‘til Morgan comes on at six.” He wanted to be alone.

The deputy hung his keys on the board, signed the book and trudged out of the office, grateful for an understanding boss.

The kid was reading a girlie magazine, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn’t look up when the sheriff came downstairs and stood before the bars.

“Kid?”

The boy dropped the magazine on the floor and scratched his chin negligently. “What’s up?”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I dunno, Mr. Dillon. Just sort of happened, I reckon.” The boy laughed at his TV-inspired drawl.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No, but sure as hell you do.”

Cogan gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white. “You’re going to hang for this, you know. It isn’t like the car you stole last year or all the other things you’ve done.”

The boy laughed softly, more to himself than to the somber-faced old man staring at him. He said nothing for awhile, just playing with his cigarette.

“It’s not funny!” The words were hard, icey.

“Mr. Dillon, sir; they ain’t agoin’ to hang me; they ain’t.” Another laugh followed, a hollow, self-satisfied one. “A fellow what kills a girl, he gets hung, but a fellow what cuts her up like Martha was... Well.” He swung to his feet and came closer to his captor. He looked him squarely in the face. “I’d say a fellow was sort of nuts to do a thing like that, wouldn’t you?” He tucked his chin into his long hand and tilted his head to one side. “And they don’t hang people who are nuts, now do they?”

Cogan felt a chill across the back of his neck and turned wordlessly away.

He was poring over the lab reports when the phone at his elbow jumped.

“Hello? Cogan here.” He listened intently for several minutes while the voice at the other end spoke in staccato tones that fled past his ear and seemed to fill the small, cluttered office.

“You’re kidding!” he finally said, half believing, half doubting. “He’s sane as can be. You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it!” Cogan ran a heavy hand over his thining, gray hair. He was sweating.

“OK. Thanks.” He slammed the receiver down and buried his head in his hands. No, they wouldn’t hang the little bastard. His mother’s lawyer had already seen Judge Wiznoski and talked him into a quick diagnostic committal to the State Hospital in Farrington. By noon they’d pick him up and by three he’d be under the care of helpful, solicitous doctors and psychiatrists.

Killing someone was one thing, but cutting them up after they were dead... “I’d say a fellow was sort of nuts to do a thing like that, wouldn’t you?” The boy’s words echoed in his head.

Cogan cursed softly and leaned back in his swivel chair to turn on the radio. Perhaps he could drown out his thoughts, drown out the growing knowledge that the killer in the cell below him would probably never see the inside of a prison.

His fingers were at the knob when the chair plunged backwards on its casters. The sheriff clawed for the desk, missed, and crashed hard to the concrete floor.

The blow of his head on the floor made his vision swim, blanking out the present for what seemed like a year. When he finally sat up, he ran an exploratory hand over the back of his head. It came away with an ugly smear of blood that oozed out of a painful, throbbing lump.

He struggled to his feet, righted the chair, and dropped into it cautiously. Suddenly his mind functioned clearly again, and whatever thought pushed its way through brought a broad smile to his ruddy, lined face.

He tugged his revolver from its holster, flipped open the cylinder, and dumped the cartridges into his pocket. Replacing the gun, he lifted the keys off the desk and plodded downstairs.

“Why the hell should I want to escape?” the kid asked warily. “They won’t do anything to me. They’ll be damn nice to me, and all the little old ladies in town will feel sorry for me.”

“You think you can fool a psychiatrist? Don’t you think they’ll see right through you and remand you for trial?”

The boy fingered his magazine, his usual crooked smile darkening into a sullen frown.

The sheriff stood patiently beyond the cell, his heart pounding against the star on his chest. He was careful to say nothing, careful not even to make a sound while the boy thought.