Captain Delaney also noted a few other unusual characteristics of the men on duty: They were unaccountably quiet, with none of the loud talk, boasting and bantering that usually accompanied a job of this type. And they were in no hurry, when relieved, to return to their warm dormitory in the high school gymnasium. Invariably, they hesitated, then wandered once again to the base of Devil’s Needle, to stare upward, mouths open, at the unseen man who lay alone.
He discussed this with Thomas Handry. The reporter had gone out to the roadblocks to interview some of the people being turned back by the troopers.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Handry said, shaking his head. “Hundreds and hundreds of cars. From all over the country. I talked to a family from Ohio and asked them why they drove so far, what they expected to see.”
“What did they say?”
“The man said he had a week off, and it wasn’t long enough to go to Disney world, so they decided to bring the kids here.”
They were organized now: regular shifts with schedules mimeographed daily. There were enough men assigned to cover all the posts around the clock, and the big searchlights and generator truck were up from New York City so Devil’s Needle was washed in light 24 hours a day.
Captain Delaney had a propane stove in his cottage now, and a heavy radio had been installed on the gate-keeper’s counter. The radiomen had little to do and so, to occupy their time, had rigged up a loudspeaker, a timer, and a loop tape, so that every hour on the hour, the message went booming out mechanically: “Daniel Blank…Daniel Blank…come down…come down…” It did no good. By now no one expected it would.
Every morning Chief Forrest brought out bags of mail received at the Chilton Post Office, and Captain Delaney spent hours reading the letters. A few of them contained money sent to Daniel Blank, for what reason he could not guess. Blank also received a surprisingly large number of proposals of marriage from women; some included nude photos of the sender. But most of the letters, from all over the world, were suggestions of how to take Daniel Blank. Get four helicopters, each supporting the corner of a heavy cargo net, and drop the net over the top of Devil’s Needle. Bring in a large group of “sincere religious people” and pray him down. Set up a giant electric fan and blow him off his rock. Most proposed a solution they had already rejected: send up a fighter plane or helicopter and kill him. One suggestion intrigued Captain Delaney: fire gas grenades onto the top of Devil’s Needle and when Daniel Blank was unconscious, send up a climber in a gas mask to bring him down.
Captain Delaney wandered out that evening, telling himself he wanted to discuss the gas grenade proposal with one of the snipers. He walked down the worn path toward Devil’s Needle, turned aside at the sniper’s post. The three pale-faced men had improved their blind. They had dragged over a picnic table with attached benches. From somewhere, they had scrounged three burlap bags of sand-Chief Forrest had helped with that, Delaney guessed-and the bags were used as a bench rest for their rifles. The sniper could sit and be protected from the wind by canvas tarps tied to nearby trees.
The man on duty looked up as Delaney approached.
“Evening, Captain.”
“Evening. How’s it going?”
“Quiet.”
Delaney knew that the three snipers didn’t mix much with the other men. They were pariahs, as much as hangmen or executioners, but apparently it did not affect them, if they were aware of it. All three were tall, thin men, two from Kentucky, one from North Carolina. If Delaney felt any uneasiness with them, it was their laconism rather than their chosen occupation. “Happy New Year,” the sniper said unexpectedly.
Delaney stared at him. “My God, is it?”
“Uh-huh. New Year’s Eve.”
“Well…Happy New Year to you. Forgot all about it.” The man was silent. The Captain glanced at the scope-fitted rifle resting on the sandbags.
“Springfield Oh-three,” Delaney said. “Haven’t seen one in years.”
“Bought it from Army surplus,” the man said, never taking his eyes from Devil’s Needle.
“Sure,” the Captain nodded. “Just like I bought my Colt Forty-five.”
The man made a sound; the Captain hoped it was a laugh. “Listen,” Delaney said, “we got a suggestion, in the mail. You think there’s any chance of putting a gas grenade up there?”
The sniper raised his eyes to the top of Devil’s Needle. “Rifle or mortar?”
“Either.”
“Not mortar. Rifle maybe. But it wouldn’t stick. Skitter off or he’d kick it off.”
“I guess so,” Captain Delaney sighed. “We could clear the area and blanket it with gas, but the wind’s too tricky.”
“Uh-huh.”
The Captain strolled away and only glanced once at that cathedral rock. Was he really up there? He had seen the day’s photos-but could he trust them? The uneasiness returned.
He went back to the cottage, found a heavy envelope of reports a man coming on duty from Chilton had dropped off for him. They were from Sergeant MacDonald, copies of all the interrogations and statements of the people picked up in the continuing investigation. Delaney walked out to the van, got a paper cup of black coffee, brought it back. Then he sat down at his makeshift desk, pulled the gooseneck lamp closer, put on his heavy glasses, began reading the reports slowly.
He was looking for…what? Some explanation or lead or hint. What had turned Daniel G. Blank into a killer? Where and when did it begin? It was the motive he wanted, he needed. It wasn’t good enough to use words like nut, crazy, insane, homosexual, psychopath. Just labels. There had to be more to it than that. There had to be something that could be comprehended, that might explain why this young man had deliberately murdered five people. And four of them strangers.
Because, Delaney thought angrily, if there was no explanation for it, then there was no explanation for anything.
It was almost two in the morning when he pulled on that crazy coat and wandered out again. The compound around the cottage was brilliantly lighted. So was the packed path through the black trees; so was the bleak column of Devil’s Needle. As usual, there were men standing about, heads back, mouths gaping, eyes turned upward. Captain Delaney joined them without shame.
He opened himself to the crisp night, lightly moaning wind, stars that seemed holes punched in a black curtain beyond which shone a dazzling radiance. The shaft of Devil’s Needle rose shimmering in light, smoothed by the glare. Was he up there? Was he really up there?
There came to Captain Edward X. Delaney such a compassion that he must close his mouth, bite his lower lip to keep from wailing aloud. Unbidden, unwanted even, he shared that man’s passion, entered into him, knew his suffering. It was an unwelcome bond, but he could not deny it. The crime, the motive, the reason-all seemed unimportant now. What racked him was that lonely man, torn adrift. He wondered if that was why they all gathered here, at all hours, day and night. Was it to comfort the afflicted as best they might?
A few days later-was it three? It could have been four-late in the afternoon, the daily envelope of aerial photos was delivered to Captain Delaney. Daniel G. Blank was lying naked on his rock, spread-eagled to the sky. The Captain looked, took a deep breath, turned his gaze away. Then, without looking again, he put the photos back into the envelope. He did not post one outside on the cottage wall.
Soon after, Major Samuel Barnes called.
“Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Barnes here. See the photos?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think he can last much longer.”
“No. Want to go up?”
“Not immediately. We’ll check by air another day or so. Temperature’s dropping.”
“I know.”
“No rush. We’re getting a good press. Those bullhorn appeals are doing it. Everyone says we’re doing all we can.”
“Yes. All we can.”