have three boys who I will definitely take care of,» he had
written in applying for parole. «My wife is remarried. I have been married twice, only I don’t want
anything to do with my second wife.») But neither Dick’s physique nor the inky gallery adorning it
made as remarkable an impression as his face, which seemed composed of mismatching parts. It
was as though his head had been halved like an apple, then put together a fraction off center.
Something of the kind had happened; the imperfectly aligned features were the outcome of a car
collision in 1950 — an accident that left his long-jawed and narrow face tilted, the left side rather
lower than the right, with the results that the lips were slightly aslant, the nose askew, and his
eyes not only situated at uneven levels but of uneven size, the left eye being truly serpentine, with
venomous, sickly-blue squint that although it was involuntarily acquired, seemed nevertheless to
warn of bitter sediment at the bottom of his nature. But Perry had told him, «The eye doesn’t
matter. Because you have a wonderful smile. One of those smiles really work.» It was true that
the tightening action of a smile contracted his face into its correct proportions, and made it
possible to discern a less unnerving personality — an American-style «good kid» with an outgrown
crew cut, sane enough but not too bright. (Actually, he was very intelligent. An I.Q. test taken in
prison gave him a rating of 130; the average subject, in prison or out, scores between 90 and
110.)
Perry, too, had been maimed, and his injuries, received in a motorcycle wreck, were severer than
Dick’s; he had spent half a year in a State of Washington hospital and another six months on
crutches, and though the accident had occurred in 1952, his chunky, dwarfish legs, broken in five
places and pitifully scarred, still pained him so severely that he had become an aspirin addict.
While he had fewer tattoos than his companion, they were more elaborate — not the self-inflicted
work of an amateur but epics of art contrived by Honolulu and Yokohama masters. Cookie, the
name of a nurse who had been friendly to him when he was hospitalized, was tattooed on his
right biceps. Blue-furred, orange-eyed, red-fanged, a tiger snarled upon his left biceps; a spitting
snake, coiled around a dagger, slithered down his arm; and elsewhere skulls gleamed, a
tombstone loomed, a chrysanthemum flourished.
«O.K., beauty. Put away the comb,» said Dick, dressed now and ready to go. Having discarded
his work uniform, he wore gray khakis, a matching shirt, and, like Perry, ankle-high black boots.
Perry, who could never find trousers to fit his truncated lower half, wore blue jeans rolled up at the
bottom and a leather windbreaker. Scrubbed, combed, as tidy as two dudes setting off on a
double date, they went out to the car.
The distance between Olathe, a suburb of Kansas City, and Holcomb, which might be called a
suburb of Garden City, is approximately four hundred miles.
A town of eleven thousand, Garden City began assembling its founders soon after the Civil War.
An itinerant buffalo hunter, Mr. C. J. (Buffalo) Jones, had much to do with its subsequent
expansion from a collection of huts and hitching posts into an opulent ranching center with razzledazzle saloons, an opera house, and the plushiest hotel anywhere between Kansas City and
Denver — in brief, a specimen of frontier fanciness that rivaled a more famous settlement fifty
miles east of it, Dodge City. Along with Buffalo Jones, who lost his money and then his mind (the
last years of his life were spent haranguing street groups against the wanton extermination of the
beasts he himself had so profitably slaughtered), the glamours of the past are today entombed.
Some souvenirs exist; a moderately colorful row of commercial buildings is known as the Buffalo
Block, and the once splendid Windsor Hotel, with its still splendid high-ceilinged saloon and its
atmosphere of spittoons and potted palms, endures amid the variety stores and supermarkets as
a Main Street landmark — one comparatively un-patronized, for the Windsor’s dark, huge
chambers and echoing hallways, evocative as they are, cannot compete with the air-conditioned
amenities offered at the trim little Hotel Warren, or with the Wheat Lands Motel’s individual
television sets and «Heated Swimming Pool.»
Anyone who has made the coast-to-coast journey across America, whether by train or by car, has
probably passed through Garden City, but it is reasonable to assume that few travelers remember the event. It seems just another fair-sized town in the middle — almost the exact middle — of the
continental United States. Not that the inhabitants would tolerate such an opinion — perhaps
rightly. Though they may overstate the case («Look all over the world, and you won’t find friendlier
people or fresher air or sweeter drinking water,» and «I could go to Denver at triple the salary, but
I’ve got five kids, and I figure there’s no better place to raise kids than right here. Swell schools
with every kind of sport. We even have a junior college,» and «I came out here to practice law. A
temporary thing, I never planned to stay. But when the chance came to move, I thought, Why go?
What the hell for? Maybe it’s not New York — but who wants New York? Good neighbors, people
who care about each other, that’s what counts. And everything else a decent man needs — we’ve
got that, too. Beautiful churches. A golf course»), the newcomer to Garden City, once he has
adjusted to the nightly after eight silence of Main Street, discovers much to support the defensive
boastings of the citizenry: a well run public library, a competent daily newspaper, green-lawned
and shady squares here and there, placid residential streets where animals and children are safe
to run free, a big, rambling park complete with a small menagerie («See the Polar Bears!» «See
Penny the Elephant!»), and a swimming pool that consumes several acres («World’s Largest
FREE Swim-pool!»). Such accessories, and the dust and the winds and the ever calling train
whistles, add up to a «home town» that is probably remembered with nostalgia by those who have
left it, and that for those who have remained, provides a sense of roots and contentment.
Without exception, Garden Citians deny that the population of the town can be socially graded
(«No, sir. Nothing like that here. All equal, regardless of wealth, color, or creed. Everything the
way it ought to be in a democracy; that’s us»), but, of course, class distinctions are as clearly
observed, and as clearly observable, as in any other human hive. A hundred miles west and one
would be out of the «Bible Belt,» that gospel-haunted strip of American territory in which a man
must, if only for business reasons, take his religion with the straightest of faces, but in Finney
County one is still within the Bible Belt borders, and therefore a person’s church affiliation is the
most important factor influencing his class status. A combination of Baptists, Methodists, and
Roman Catholics would account for eighty percent of the county’s devout, yet among the elite the businessmen, bankers, lawyers, physicians, and more prominent ranchers who tenant the top
drawer — Presbyterians and Episcopalians predominate. An occasional Methodist is welcomed,
and once in a while a Democrat infiltrates, but on the whole the Establishment is composed of
right-wing Republicans of the Presbyterian and Episcopalian faiths.
As an educated man successful in his profession, as an eminent Republican and church leader even though of the Methodist church — Mr. Clutter was entitled to rank among the local patricians,
but just as he had never joined the Garden City Country Club, he had never sought to associate
with the reigning coterie. Quite the contrary, for their pleasures were not his; he had no use for
card games, golf, cocktails, or buffet suppers served at ten — or, indeed, for any pastime that he
felt did not «accomplish something.» Which is why, instead of being part of a golfing foursome on
this shining Saturday, Mr. Clutter was acting as chairman of a meeting of the Finney County 4-H
Club. (4-H stands for «Head, Heart, Hands, Health,» and the club motto claims «We learn to do by
doing.» It is a national organization, with overseas branches, whose purpose is to help those living
in rural areas — and the children particularly — develop practical abilities and moral character.
Nancy and Kenyon had been conscientious members from the age of six.) Toward the end of the
meeting, Mr. Clutter said, «Now I have something to say concerning one of our adult members.»
His eyes singled out a chubby Japanese woman surrounded by four chubby Japanese children.
«You all know Mrs. Hulco Ashida. Know how the Ashidas moved here from Colorado — started
farming out to Holcomb two years ago. A fine family, the kind of people Holcomb’s lucky to have.
As anyone will tell you. Anyone who has been sick and had Mrs. Ashida walk nobody can
calculate how many miles to bring them some of the wonderful soups she makes. Or the flowers
she grows where you wouldn’t expect a flower could grow. And last year at the county fair you will
recall how much she contributed to the success of the 4-H exhibits. So I want to suggest we
honor Mrs. Ashida with an award at our Achievement Banquet next Tuesday.»
Her children tugged at her, punched her; the oldest boy shouted, «Hey, Ma, that’s you!» But Mrs.
Ashida was bashful; she rubbed her eyes with her baby-plump hands and laughed. She was the
wife of a tenant farmer; the farm, an especially wind-swept and lonesome one, was halfway
between Garden City and Holcomb. After 4-H conferences, Mr. Clutter usually drove the Ashidas
home, and he did so today. »Gosh, that was a jolt,» said Mrs. Ashida as they rolled along Route 50 in Mr. Clutter’s pickup
truck. «Seems like I’m always thanking you, Herb. But thanks.» She had met him on her second
day in Finney County; it was the day before Halloween, and