do, for it appeared to
him «ludicrously inconsistent» with the magnitude of the crime and the manifest cunning of the
criminals, and «inconceivable» that these men had entered a house expecting to find a moneyfilled safe, and then, not finding it, had thought it expedient to slaughter the family for perhaps a
few dollars and a small portable radio. «Without a confession, we’ll never get a conviction,» he
said. «That’s my opinion. And that’s why we can’t be too cautious. They think they’ve got away
with it. Well, we don’t want them to know any different. The safer they feel, the sooner we’ll grab
them.»
But secrets are an unusual commodity in a town the size of Garden City. Anyone visiting the
sheriff’s office, three under-furnished, overcrowded rooms on the third floor of the county
courthouse, could detect an odd, almost sinister atmosphere. The hurry-scurry, the angry hum of
recent weeks had departed; a quivering stillness now permeated the premises. Mrs. Richardson,
the office secretary and a very down-to-earth person, had acquired overnight a dainty lot of
whispery, tiptoe mannerisms, and the men she served, the sheriff and his staff, Dewey and the
imported team of K.B.I. agents, crept about conversing in hushed tones. It was as though, like
huntsmen hiding in a forest, they were afraid that any abrupt sound or movement would warn
away approaching beasts.
People talked. The Trail Room of the Warren Hotel, a coffee shop that Garden City businessmen
treat as though it were a private club, was a murmuring cave of speculation and rumor. An
eminent citizen, so one heard, was on the point of arrest. Or it was known that the crime was the
work of killers hired by enemies of the Kansas Wheat Growers’ Association, a progressive
organization in which Mr. Clutter had played a large role. Of the many stories circulating, the most
nearly accurate was contributed by a prominent car dealer (who refused to disclose his source):
«Seems there was a man who worked for Herb way back yonder around ’47 or ’48. Ordinary
ranch hand. Seem he went to prison, state prison, and while he was there he got to thinking what
a rich man Herb was. So about a month ago, when they let him loose, the first thing he did was
come on out here to rob and kill those people.»
But seven miles westward, in the village of Holcomb, not a hint was heard of impending
sensations, one reason being that for some while the Clutter tragedy had been a banned topic at both of the community’s principal gossip-dispensaries — the post office and Hartman’s Cafe.
«Myself, I don’t want to hear another word,» said Mrs. Hartman. «I told them, We can’t go on like
this. Distrusting everybody, scaring each other to death. What I say is, if you want to talk about it,
stay out of my place.» Myrt Clare took quite as strong a stand. «Folks come in here to buy a
nickel’s worth of postage and think they can spend the next three hours and thirty-three minutes
turning the Clutters inside out. Pickin’ the wings off other people. Rattlesnakes, that’s all they are.
I don’t have the time to listen. I’m in business — I’m a representative of the government of the
United States. Anyway, it’s morbid. Al Dewey and those hot-shot cops from Topeka and Kansas
City — supposed to be sharp as turpentine. But I don’t know a soul who still thinks they’ve got hell’s
chance of catching the one done it. So I say the sane thing to do is shut up. You live until you die,
and it doesn’t matter how you go; dead’s dead. So why carry on like a sackful of sick cats just
because Herb Clutter got his throat cut? Anyway, it’s morbid. Polly Stringer, from over at the
school-house? Polly Stringer was in here this morning. She said it’s only now, after over a month,
only now those kids are beginning to quiet down. Which made me think: What if they do arrest
somebody? If they do, it’s bound to be somebody everybody knows. And that would fan the fire
for sure, get the pot boiling just when it had started to cool off. Ask me, we’ve had enough
excitement.»
It was early, not yet nine, and Perry was the first customer at the Washateria, a self-service
laundry. He opened his fat straw suitcase, extracted a wad of briefs and socks and shirts (some
his, some Dick’s), tossed them into a washer, and fed the machine a lead slug — one of many
bought in Mexico.
Perry was well acquainted with the workings of such emporiums, having often patronized them,
and happily, since usually he found it «so relaxing» to sit quietly and watch clothes get clean. Not
today. He was too apprehensive. Despite his warnings, Dick had won out. Here they were, back
in Kansas City — dead broke, to boot, and driving a stolen car! All night they had raced the Iowa
Chevrolet through thick rain, stopping twice to siphon gas, both times from vehicles parked on the
empty streets of small sleeping towns. (This was Perry’s job, one at which he judged himself
«absolutely tops. Just a short piece of rubber hose, that’s my cross-country credit card.») On
reaching Kansas City at sunrise, the travelers had gone first to the airport, where in the men’s
lavatory they washed and shaved and brushed their teeth; two hours later, after a nap in the
airport lounge, they returned to the city. It was then that Dick had dropped his partner at the
Washateria, promising to come back for him within the hour.
When the laundry was clean and dry, Perry repacked the suit-case. It was past ten. Dick,
supposedly off somewhere «hanging paper,» was overdue. He sat down to wait, choosing a bench
on which, an arm’s length away, a woman’s purse rested — tempting him to snake his hand around
inside it. But the appearance of its owner, the burliest of several women now employing the
establishment’s facilities, deterred him. Once, when he was a running-wild child in San Francisco,
he and a «Chink kid» (Tommy Chan? Tommy Lee?) had worked together as a «purse-snatching
team.» It amused Perry — cheered him up — to remember some of their escapades. «Like one time
we sneaked up on an old lady, really old, and Tommy grabbed her handbag, but she wouldn’t let
go, she was a regular tiger. The harder he tugged one way, the harder she tugged the other.
Then she saw me, and said, ‘Help me! Help me!’ and I said, ‘Hell, lady, I’m helping him? — and I
bopped her good. Put her on the pavement. Ninety cents was all we got — I remember exactly. We
went to a Chink restaurant and ate ourselves under the table.»
Things hadn’t changed much. Perry was twenty-odd years older and a hundred pounds heavier,
and yet his material situation had improved not at all. He was still (and wasn’t it incredible, a
person of his intelligence, his talents?) an urchin dependent, so to say, on stolen coins.
A clock on the wall kept catching his eye. At half past ten he began to worry; by eleven his legs
were pulsing with pain, which was always, with him, a sign of approaching panic — «bubbles in my
blood.» He ate an aspirin, and tried to blot out — blur, at least — the brilliantly vivid cavalcade gliding
across his mind, a procession of dire visions: Dick in the hands of the law, perhaps arrested while
writing a phony check, or for committing a minor traffic violation (and found to be driving a «hot»
car). Very likely, at this very instant Dick sat trapped inside a circle of red-necked detectives. And
they weren’t discussing trivialities — bad checks or stolen automobiles. Murder, that was the topic,
for somehow the connection that Dick had been so certain no one could make had been made. And right now a carload of Kansas City police were on their way to the Washateria.
But, no, he was imagining too much. Dick would never do that — «spill his guts.» Think of how often
he had heard him say, «They can beat me blind, I’ll never tell them anything.» Of course, Dick was
a «blowhard»; his toughness, as Perry had come to know, existed solely in situations where he
unarguably had the upper hand. Suddenly, gratefully, he thought of a less desperate reason for
Dick’s prolonged absence. He’d gone to visit his parents. A risky thing to do, but Dick was
«devoted» to them, or claimed to be, and last night during the long rainy ride he had told Perry, «I’d
sure like to see my folks. They wouldn’t mention it. I mean, they wouldn’t tell the parole officer do anything to get us into trouble. Only I’m ashamed to. I’m afraid of what my mother would say.
About the checks. And going off like we did. But I wish I could call them, hear how they are.»
However, that was
not possible, for the Hickock home was without a telephone; otherwise, Perry would have rung up
to see if Dick was there.
Another few minutes, and he was again convinced that Dick was under arrest. His leg pains
flared up, flashed through his body, and the laundry odors, the steamy stench, all at once
sickened him, picked him up and propelled him out the door. He stood at the curb retching like «a
drunk with the dry heaves.» Kansas City! Hadn’t he known Kansas City was bad luck, and begged
Dick to keep away? Now, maybe now, Dick was sorry he hadn’t listened. And he wondered: But
what about me, «with a dime or two and a bunch of lead slugs in my pocket»? Where could he
go? Who would help him? Bobo? Fat chance! But her husband might. If Fred Johnson had
followed his own inclination, he would have guaranteed employment for Perry after he left prison,
thus helping him obtain a parole. But Bobo wouldn’t permit it; she had said it would only lead to
trouble, and possibly danger.