mother, a father, a brother — persons he hadn’t dared
confide his plans to, or bid goodbye, though he never expected to see them again — not in this life.
Clutter — English Vows given in Saturday ceremony: that headline, appearing on the social page
of the Garden City Telegram for November 23, surprised many of its readers. It seemed that
Beverly, the second of Mr. Clutter’s surviving daughters, had married Mr. Vere Edward English,
the young biology student to whom she had long been engaged. Miss Clutter had worn white, and
the wedding, a full-scale affair («Mrs. Leonard Cowan was soloist, and Mrs. Howard Blanchard
organist»), had been «solemnized at the First Methodist Church» — the church in which, three days
earlier, the bride had formally mourned her parents, her brother, and her younger sister.
However, according to the Telegram’s account, «Vere and Beverly had planned to be married at
Christmas time. The invitations were printed and her father had reserved the church for that date.
Due to the unexpected tragedy and because of the many relatives being here from distant places,
the young couple decided to have their wedding Saturday.»
The wedding over, the Clutter kinfolk dispersed. On Monday, the day the last of them left Garden
City, the Telegram featured on its front page a letter written by Mr. Howard Fox, of Oregon,
Illinois, a brother of Bonnie Clutter. The letter, after expressing gratitude to the townspeople for
having opened their «homes and hearts» to the bereaved family, turned into a plea. «There is
much resentment in this community [that is, Garden City],» wrote Mr. Fox. «I have even heard on
more than one occasion that the man, when found, should be hanged from the nearest tree. Let
us not feel this way. The deed is done and taking another life cannot change it. Instead, let us
forgive as God would have us do. It is not right that we should hold a grudge in our hearts. The
doer of this act is going to find it very difficult indeed to live with himself. His only peace of mind
will be when he goes to God for forgiveness. Let us not stand in the way but instead give prayers
that he may find his peace.»
The car was parked on a promontory where Perry and Dick had stopped to picnic. It was noon.
Dick scanned the view through a pair of binoculars. Mountains. Hawks wheeling in a white sky. A
dusty road winding into and out of a white and dusty village. Today was his second day in
Mexico, and so far he liked it fine — even the food. (At this very moment he was eating a cold, oily
tortilla.) They had crossed the border at Laredo, Texas, the morning of November 23, and spent the first night in a San Luis Potosi brothel. They were now two hundred miles north of their next
destination, Mexico City.
«Know what I think?» said Perry. «I think there must be something wrong with us. To do what we
did.»‘
«Did what?»
«Out there.»
Dick dropped the binoculars into a leather case, a luxurious receptacle initialed H.W.C. He was
annoyed. Annoyed as hell. Why the hell couldn’t Perry shut up? Christ Jesus, what damn good
did it do, always dragging the goddam thing up? It really was annoying. Especially since they’d
agreed, sort of, not to talk about the goddam thing. Just forget it.
«There’s got to be something wrong with somebody who’d do a thing like that,» Perry said.
«Deal me out, baby,» Dick said. «I’m a normal.» And Dick meant what he said. He thought himself
as balanced, as sane as anyone — maybe a bit smarter than the average fellow, that’s all. But
Perry — there was, in Dick’s opinion, «something wrong» with Little Perry. To say the least. Last
spring, when they had celled together at Kansas State Penitentiary, he’d learned most of Perry’s
lesser peculiarities: Perry could be «such a kid,» always wetting his bed and crying in his sleep
(«Dad, I been looking everywhere, where you been, Dad?»), and often Dick had seen him «sit for
hours just sucking his thumb and poring over them phony damn treasure guides.» Which was one
side; there were others. In some ways old Perry was «spooky as hell.» Take, for instance, that
temper of his. He could slide into a fury «quicker than ten drunk Indians.» And yet you wouldn’t
know it. «He might be ready to kill you, but you’d never know it, not to look at or listen to,» Dick
once said. For however extreme the inward rage, outwardly Perry remained a cool young tough,
with eyes serene and slightly sleepy. The time had been when Dick had thought he could control,
could regulate the temperature of the sudden cold fevers that burned and chilled his friend, he
had been mistaken, and in the aftermath of that discovery, had grown very unsure of Perry, not at
all certain what to think — except that he felt he ought to be afraid of him, and wondered really why
he wasn’t.
«Deep down,» Perry continued, «way, way rock-bottom, I never thought I could do it. A thing like
that.»
«How about the nigger?» Dick said. Silence. Dick realized that Perry was staring at him. A week
ago, in Kansas City, Perry had bought a pair of dark glasses — fancy ones with silver-lacquered
rims and mirrored lenses. Dick disliked them; he’d told Perry he was ashamed to be seen with
«anyone who’d wear that kind of flit stuff.» Actually, what irked him was the mirrored lenses; it was
unpleasant having Perry’s eyes hidden behind the privacy of those tinted, reflecting surfaces.
«But a nigger,» said Perry. «That’s different.» The comment, the reluctance with which it was
pronounced, made Dick ask, «Or did you? Kill him like you said?» It was a significant question, for
his original interest in Perry, his assessment of Perry’s character and potentialities, was founded
on the story Perry had once told him of how he had beaten a colored man to death.
«Sure I did. Only — a nigger. It’s not the same.» Then Perry said, «Know what it is that really bugs
me? About the other thing? It’s just I don’t believe it — that anyone can get away with a thing like
that. Because I don’t see how it’s possible. To do what we did. And just one hundred percent get
away with it. I mean, that’s what bugs me — I can’t get it out of my head that something’s got to
happen.»
Though as a child he had attended church, Dick had never «come near» a belief in God; nor was
he troubled by superstitions. Unlike Perry, he was not convinced that a broken mirror meant
seven years’ misfortune, or that a young moon if glimpsed through glass portended evil. But
Perry, with his sharp and scratchy intuitions, had hit upon Dick’s one abiding doubt. Dick, too,
suffered moments when that question circled inside his head: Was it possible — were the two of
them «honest to God going to get away with doing a thing like that»? Suddenly, he said to
Perry, «Now, just shut up!» Then he gunned the motor and backed the car off the promontory.
Ahead of him, on the dusty road, he saw a dog trotting along in the warm sunshine.
Mountains. Hawks. Wheeling in a white sky.
When Perry asked Dick, «Know what I think?» he knew he was beginning a conversation that
would displease Dick, and one that, for that matter, he himself would just as soon avoid. He
agreed with Dick: Why go on talking about it? But he could not always stop himself. Spells of helplessness occurred, moments when he «remembered things» — blue light exploding in a black
room, the glass eyes of a big toy bear — and when voices, a particular few words, started nagging
his mind: «Oh, no! Oh, please! No! No! No! No! Don’t! Oh, please don’t, please!» And certain
sounds returned — a silver dollar rolling across a floor, boot steps on hardwood stairs, and the
sounds of breathing, the gasps, the hysterical inhalations of a man with a severed windpipe.
When Perry said, «I think there must be something wrong with us,» he was making an admission
he «hated to make.» After all, it was «painful» to imagine that one might be «not just right» particularly if whatever was wrong was not your own fault but «maybe a thing you were born with.»
Look at his family! Look at what had happened there! His mother, an alcoholic, had strangled to
death on her own vomit. Of her children, two sons and two daughters, only the younger girl,
Barbara, had entered ordinary life, married, begun raising a family. Fern, the other daughter,
jumped out of a window of a San Francisco hotel. (Perry had ever since «tried to believe she
slipped,» for he’d loved Fern. She was «such a sweet person,» so «artistic,» a «terrific» dancer, and
she could sing, too. «If she’d ever had any luck at all, with her looks and all, she could have got
somewhere, been somebody» It was sad to think of her climbing over a window sill and falling
fifteen floors.) And there was Jimmy, the older boy — Jimmy, who had one day driven his wife to
suicide and killed himself the next.
Then he heard Dick say, «Deal me out, baby. I’m a normal.» Wasn’t that a horse’s laugh? But
never mind, let it pass. «Deep down,» Perry continued, «way, way rock-bottom, I never thought I
could do it. A thing like that.» And at once he recognized his error: Dick would, of course, answer
by asking, «How about the nigger?» When he’d told Dick that story, it was because he’d wanted
Dick’s friendship, wanted Dick to «respect» him, think him «hard,» as much «the masculine type» as
he had considered Dick to be. And so one day after they had both read and were discussing a
Reader’s Digest article entitled «How Good a Character Detective Are You?» («As you wait in a
dentist’s office or a railway station, try