Jansen graced me with a regal nod as I came out the door.
“Your boy’s a strange one,” I said, jerking my chin in the direction Hoffman had disappeared in.
“Rick?” Jansen asked, as if discussing an inconsequential. “He does what’s required of him. He has his uses.”
I wondered how useful Jansen would consider Hoffman's revelation about Kendra. But then again, if Rick was feeding me a line it was probably Jansen’s schemes he was serving.
“You know,” Jansen said. “I understand you better than you think I do.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“Yes. Your hesitance to accept the people’s adulation for that day at the school? No mystery: You sympathized with those men even as you killed them, for you were once much like they were. You feel no pride for laying down dogs that were no madder than you were as a boy. Am I right? No, do not answer; I can see it in your eyes.”
I shook my head. “You’ll have to do better than that if you’re trying to impress anyone here.”
Jansen chuckled. “Suppose I told you I even know why you ran from the cameras, and run from them still?”
“It’d be interesting to hear your theory,” I admitted, glancing down the block and eying Sam’s car longingly.
“No theory,” Jansen said. “I know. And it appears then that I do understand part of you better than yourself. But I am in no hurry to enlighten you. After all,” he quoted as if casting pearls before swine: “’A matter which is explained ceases to concern us. What does that god mean who advised ‘Know Thyself?’ Does that not perhaps mean 'Stop being concerned about yourself!'”
“So I should ‘Become objective,’ eh?” I continued the quote. “Friederich’s ‘Beyond Good and Evil’ – a golden oldie, a blast from the past to be sure.”
It was sweet to see Jansen’s eyes widen. “You know Nietzsche?” he asked, voice flat, not as delighted as you’d think he’d be at meeting a fellow classicist.
I smiled and shrugged. “Maybe ‘Dick and Jane Do Rehab’ was checked out that day, Chief. Besides, I’m surprised you’re unaware how popular Mr. Friederich is in the Big House.”
Jansen’s expression softened, and he tilted his head to the side. “You see my badge and suppose we are opposites. You think me no more than a sheepdog. But can you imagine what it is like to serve people that might as well be livestock?
“Something could be right in front of them staring them in the face and they would not see it. If I ever tried to talk to them about Nietzsche, or anything sublime, anything transcendent? They would never understand the words, they would just bleat. But you are not one of them, Markus,” he said. Was that a hopeful expression on his face now? “You are no sheep. You think I am your enemy but I am not. I wish you well. I hope you bring it all crashing down on them in a Gotterdammerung.”
“Really,” I said, not bothering to hide my incredulity.
“Yes. It means something to you, does it not? And you are a man like me who is hungry for meaning as these others could never be. That is the worst, is it not? To be meaningless?”
I was irritated. “You know exactly what’s what. Screw the razzle-dazzle,” I said, trying to pin him down. “If you really loved the Canon, you wouldn’t be holding still for what’s happening here.”
“Touché,” he said, but he didn’t mean it at all. “Such a curious mixture you are, of perceptiveness and naiveté.” He shook his head and left.
I got back in the Continental and glanced at the left side of the bank entrance, noting the huge sheet of plywood nailed up there to block the hole where the plate glass window had been shot out – like an eye patch, I mused.
As we pulled away from the curb in the direction of the school, Sam asked, “Do you maybe want us to drive around another way?”
“No,” I said. “Keep right on going, full speed ahead.”
The children playing at the school sounded far away and normal again – it didn’t bother me one damn bit. I stared straight at the school as Sam drove past it, my head swiveling to watch as it receded further behind us. I’d walked Sam to it every day once, and that was all I’d allow myself to take away from this place.
Chapter 30
“So what do you know about Hoffman?” I asked Sam.
“Well,” Sam said out the side of his mouth. “You seen for yourself how he was all over the Chief there outside the diner. He does the same with anyone uphill from him; anyone he thinks has any kind of clout.”
He snickered. “It’s like he’s on a mission to keep that kissy-face of his grafted to their ass, you know?”
“How’s about if someone’s downhill from him?” I asked.
Sam looked at me, then back at the road. “Then it’s a different story all right. I figure what’s going on at the Gardens ain’t exactly an unbiased sampling, but I heard me a story a while back.
“See, there’s about a half dozen of these FFA kids, Future Farmers of America. Guess there’s more grant money in FFA than in 4H anymore. Anyways, these kids is old family locals, pure bred Stagger Bay Citizens all the way.
“Like I say, they’re high school kids, and they get some cases of beer and go schwabbin’ down on the river bank in their 4WDs one night. A lot of kids like partying at the river, there’s no one around, you got all the privacy in the world to get a little schwilly, maybe get your freak on, know what I’m saying?
“Anyways, this particular time, with these particular kids, Hoffman comes creeping out the bushes and busts ‘em. Its dark, town’s a long way off, and the six of them is all alone with him. I guess they’re expecting him to make ‘em pour out the beer and maybe cluck his tongue at ‘em, but instead he goes off all nutso. He grabs one kid by the throat; he even slaps a couple of the girls around and tugs at some clothes.
“They’re scared; they ain’t used to being treated like this by no one. Their folks is up in arms when their kids come home all messed up and crying. But someone convinces them it wouldn’t be useful to press the complaint, so they drop it.”
“And who was that someone?”
“That’s a good question, innit?” He shut his mouth, dropping the subject.
But I wasn’t quite ready to let it lie. “Must be nice being a Stagger Bay cop – sounds like you pretty much have a free hand. How’d Hoffman ever pass the psych eval?”
“Who says he did?” Sam asked. “Heard me another story, from Big Moe. Don’t be telling Moe I’m discussing his business, but he plays watchdog for this dominatrix chick sometimes, name of Breena. You know what I’m talking about, right? Moe makes sure her johns behave themselves. Anyways, I guess Hoffman is one of her clients.”
“Pray continue, kid,” I said when he paused.
“Well,” Sam said, a surprisingly prim and prudish look crossing his face. “I guess Hoffman likes Breena to step on his chubby with spike heels on, have her grind around ‘til his boner bleeds. You ask me, I’m saying Hoffman is the Driver.”
Chapter 31
Elaine’s office was on the fourth floor of a brick commercial on the edge of Old Town, with a nice view of the marina and the crab boats. Her miniscule waiting room was empty, and any receptionist had apparently taken the day off.
She sat alone in her office behind her desk, staring at the surface of that polished mahogany slab. When we entered and she saw Sam, relief flooded her face and she ignored me to hurry around her desk to him.
I thought she was alone, that is: As we entered a fluff ball of fur charged me, bristling. It irked me that the mutt didn’t woof at Sam at all.
“Down, Lola,” Elaine yelled at her protective cur. “Down.”