The boy stared at him, for half a minute at least.
Then he said, “You make me laugh.”
“Like Jill laughed at you? Listen, she just about split her sides laughing at you! Know that? That’s a fact! A coon like you—”
“She’d have puked on you.”
“Where were you during Assembly, Kid?”
“I told your Chief.”
“A lot of crap!”
“Ask anybody. Ask Dink. Ask Lennie—”
“They don’t remember.”
UThat's crap.”
“You’re a big strong boy—it wasn’t any trouble at all dragging that girl in there—where did you knock her off? In there, or where? How’d you get her head down there? You thought you’d taken care of the prints, that was a bright move, wasn’t it though—Where’d you learn that? TV? Or maybe you got a record—huh? Right now, we’re
Pretty Maids All in a Row 237 checking up on your whole damn family for records— Know that?”
“Buddy, I believe that.”
“Whaddaya mean by that?”
“That.”
“You black crap! Holy Crap! I have to take this crap? One more flip of that Lip—listen, you’re flat! Flat, flat! We’ll have a little session with that strap—see what a hotshot you are then—How about that? Like that?”
Jim sat quietly.
Grady went on, “Did she used to drive you nuts out there, on that football field? Is that who you played for? You used to see her, all sexed up, leading those cheers— what did you think of that hot cheerleader’s uniform, huh? Some outfit and a half, huh? What about her honey pot? She must have had you off your nut! Holy Hell, How’d you ever play a game? I’d like to know that! Ever take your eyes off her?”
The boy said DQthing,
“Who were you thinking of fixing next time?” Grady went on—“Who’s next on the list? How many more notes did you write?”
The boy sat quietly.
“I’m talking to you, boy!” Grady threw at him.
“I know you are.”
“How’d you get her head down there?”
“Where?”
“I'm Warning you—”
“My lawyer should be here—”
“What about that note you pinned on her? How’d you get that bright idea? Think it was pretty cute?”
“Were my prints on there?”
“You’ll find out in court!”
“You didn’t find a print of mine on there—”
“Wanta bet?”
“Any bet.”
“You think you wiped them all off?”
“Oh Man!” ‘
“What did you use? Prints aren’t that easy to wipe off—know that? I’ll bet you didn’t know that!”
“Christ! I’ll laugh!”
Grady stood there.
At last he said, “Was she already dead—when you shoved her head down there?”
Jim said nothing. He sat there, feeling funny. The way Grady said it, that last one sounded like the title of some weird song. He thought next he would sing it for him. The guy had talent. No doubt. He wanted to laugh, in a crazy way, at the guy. And maybe shout. But he sat there, as Grady pressed on. He glanced at the Captain. And Folio. They just sat there, taking it all in. It was all weird. He wondered when his lawyer would show up. He wondered how he had thought Surcher wasn’t a bad guy. He was nothing but a white prick. Like practically all of them were. What would he try when his turn came up? Jim wondered all this, sitting there, utterly unresponsive now to Grady’s barrage of questioning, flying thick and fast, from all directions.
Surcher listened attentively, and unhappily, not to mention forlornly, to the proceedings unfolding before him. It would be Folio’s turn next, and then, again, he would take over. What the boy wasn’t aware of was that he was being subjected to the special State Police Interrogation Technique known among its practitioners as “Change Up” and also, though not as popularly, “Chinese Indoor Polo.” This technique had been developed some time ago at the State Police Academy, though its origins could probably be traced to much more esoteric sources, somewhere along the line, geographically, and historically. It consisted mainly of a period of “soft questioning" followed by a period of “hard questioning” followed then by a period of “mixed questioning” or “no questioning,” depending on circumstances. It had proved highly successful, especially since its perfection through a long period of use and refinement, by the State Police force. Surcher was all in favor of it, though the “hard questioning” always disturbed him a little bit, especially if the suspect w'as someone he was in sympathy with, to some degree at any rate. This disturbance however was more than offset by his awareness that the technique worked. Sometimes wonders, even. Provided of course they had enough lime. So far, in Surcher’s experience, the record was five days, no less. He sighed, within, knowing he would be lucky to have one day with Jim. He wondered how they had ever got anywhere before its development, the days of crude approaches to the problem, such as a bit
Pretty Maids All in a Row 239 of clubbing or way before that a touch of hot irons, long over, of course, buried in the dim sad past, he fervently hoped. Would he have time enough? That was his main worry. The boy was obviously a tough nut, done or not done it. He would be jerked out of his hands before too long, he knew, unless he got something out of him, or on him. For Surcher just didn’t know. He was in that quandary. He wanted to hold him, and work on him, and if Jim but knew, which obviously he didn’t, much to the Captain’s distress, it had nothing to do with his color. He could have been green, yellow, or any color. The only point was, as far as Surcher was concerned, he happened to be—at the moment at least—his Number One Suspect. Of course, if his other assistants, still busy at the high school, happened to stumble across something else—that would be something. He would release the boy happily, nothing could make him happier. Not even a confession. For he admired the lad, not only for his athletic prowess, but also for his deportment under questioning, especially. Change Up Phase Two, now going on. . . .
“How many times have you jacked off over this girl?” Grady asked, and Surcher winced, within. The unfortunate necessity of the whole thing. . . .
“Where’s my lawyer?” The boy asked, for probably the thirtieth time. Surcher glanced at his watch. He felt a little hungry, to tell the truth, for he had only eaten a very light lunch. Grady had been going for over an hour now. Was it time? This was always a delieate point to judge, Surcher decided to stretch it.
“What really’beats me, Green, what really beats the hell out of me, is why in hell you didn’t lay her—or anyhow, try ramming it into her, when you had hold of her, even after you fixed her—know what I mean? Hell, she must have been still warm, man! Wasn’t she? How come you didn’t?”
The boy said nothing.
Surcher got up, intending to leave the room for a while, see what was doing up front, and grab a cup of coffee, and some food, to boot. A sandwich, at least. He was just opening the door, very quietly of course, when he encountered a Trooper Clerk who as a matter of fact was just about to do the same, from the outside. Surcher stepped out into the hallway with him and closed the door.
“His lawyer’s here,” said the clerk.
Surcher nodded. That was quick. He would see him, talk to him, put him in a good frame of mind—if possible—and stall for time. Time, Time.
“And a lot of other people,” the clerk said.
“What people?” Surcher asked, though of course he knew.
“Reporters. Other people. Couple of his brothers.”