Take the Reason Prisoner - John Joseph McGuire (ebook reader below 3000 txt) 📗
- Author: John Joseph McGuire
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"I'd like to." Scott meditated a moment. "But, I can't. I can't even swear them in. They're Federal troops."
"I've just declared martial law," Governor Willoughby emerged from the shadows.
"Thanks, sir." Scott looked like a man with a weight taken from his shoulders. "We'll need cars, of course."
"But we can stop them on the streets. Then have our men drive them home. With your help, General Mosby, we can cover this town like a blanket."
But the blanket was too late to stop the second murder.
The report came in after they had talked to Dalton.
"That's why I gave myself up," the convict said. "I wanted no part of that guy, so I figured my best alibi was a nice, quiet cell."
"How is Clarens dressed?" Scott demanded.
"He picked a double-breasted blue suit from the racks in the truck. Fitted him good, too."
Scott strode into the next room and through the open door Bennington saw the Chief of Police pick up a mike.
"This is important." Thornberry, intent, looking like a lean hound on a hot trail. "What were you told when you were conditioned?"
"I don't remember." Dalton was plainly baffled. "I just don't remember. Something about when a guy threw his tray.... You got me, I don't know."
"All right." The psychologist tried another tack. "What made you leave the others and take Clarens with you?"
"I didn't take him with me." Dalton's voice was weary, edged with anger. "I remember sitting down under the hypno-hood in The Cage. From there on, things are mixed up. I think there was running and yelling and that I ran and yelled, too.
"Then I came to and I was in a building with a lot of guys grabbing guns."
"I should have predicted it," the psychologist said, "that he would be commanded to forget what he had been told while under the hood."
"Can't you remove the block?" Chief Scott had returned in time to hear the last words.
Thornberry pursed his lips, then said, "It would take a very long time. Remember, I know Judkins, I interviewed him and watched him work before we hired him. He is a very, very good hypno-tech. And there's no machine anywhere near except at the prison.
"Let's hear the rest of his story. Go on, Dalton."
"You know my record, guns aren't for me. So I looked around and saw a busted window. This Clarens and another guy—a big fat one—had sort of stuck with me. I guess they didn't like guns either. When I went out the window, they were right behind. Clarens and I ran real fast. The fat guy behind us tried to run as fast, but he wheezed too much.
"Somebody lying on the edge of the moat cut loose with a subgun and Big Belly went down. Then Clarens and I were in the water. The other cons back in the building started shooting at the guy with the subgun. I guess he got too busy ducking to give us any more attention. Anyhow, he didn't swing any tracers after us.
"We ran across a couple of fields, toward Duncannon, and spotted a guy pulling a delivery truck into a farm lane. We sneaked in, found a wrench. When the driver came back, I gave him a gentle tap. Clarens and I stripped the fellow, tied him up and shoved him in one of the big baskets in the truck.
"In the uniform, it was a cinch to fool the troopers. They stopped us only once on the way into town. When we got there, I switched again from the driver's uniform into one of the suits from the racks. We had it made, hands down."
"Why didn't you turn Clarens in when you gave yourself up?" Scott demanded angrily.
"I tried to. Remember, I didn't know who the guy was until after we had looked in the railroad station and seen it full of cops. But when he started admiring the steak knives in the window, his name clicked with me. I said to him, 'I've got to go to the little boy's room—I'll be back in a minute'. I found the nearest cop and turned myself in, but I couldn't make that thickhead believe there was a worse one than me down the street. At least, not until Clarens had got the knives and taken off."
Bennington wondered if he had ever heard anyone speak with such deep disgust.
The call which took them to the Camp Hill area justified Dalton's condemnation.
The hysterical mother had been led away by a couple of consoling neighbors. Bennington, Scott and Thornberry stood looking down at the neatly dismembered body. Behind them General Mosby spoke to three of his soldiers.
"Good work, men. Keep it up and get back on your beats. You know now what you're hunting for. I'm sure you'll hunt even harder."
The slapping sounds of rifles saluting, the clicks of heels, the scrape of boots in an about-face and a scrap of conversation floated to Bennington. "Any mother who lets a kid out as late as this...."
Mosby joined them and picked up where the soldier had left off. "How did it happen, Scott?"
"It's hard to get anything out of the mother right now," Scott replied, "but I got this. They were waiting up for the father—he's on the swing shift—and the kid wanted ice cream. The store's just around the corner and the mother was busy ironing, so she gave the kid a quarter."
The chief of police turned away from the body, turned away from the lines written in blood on the wall—"PLEASE CATCH ME QUICK". He went to his car and switched its radio to one of the local stations.
"Stay off the streets. If you are in your car, do not stop for anything except—and listen carefully—at least three men in army or police uniforms. Do not stop for any man standing alone. Do not leave your home except on the most essential business. If you must leave do not go alone. Repeat: Do not leave the house alone...."
Scott switched back to the police band. "What we just heard is on every radio and TV station covering Harrisburg."
Another police car drifted into the alley, emptied men and equipment.
"We can go," Scott said. "My men will take care of the routine."
All of them were silent as they crossed the Market Street Bridge into the central section of town, deserted except for police and army patrols.
"Belton Hotel," the radio squawked. "Judkins has been picked up at the Belton."
"Now I'll find out what he has told them," Thornberry exulted, "and then we'll have no trouble finding Clarens."
"You know my name, you know my present address, and I'm not saying any more until I see my lawyer." Judkins had been saying that for half an hour and his words had not changed.
Mosby tugged at Bennington's sleeve. Together they moved to a corner of the hotel room, and at Mosby's nod, Scott and Thornberry joined them.
"Get out of here for five minutes. When you come back, he'll be glad to talk."
Mosby wasn't joking.
"I want to do the same thing," Scott said bitterly, "but I can't do it."
"You're under civil law," Mosby stated. "This town is under martial law. I might be able to get away with it."
"Not a chance," Governor Willoughby had joined them. "It would mean your career, general. Even the President couldn't protect you."
"Clarens is out there," Mosby argued, pointing out the window overlooking the city. "Did you see that little girl?"
"No, but I heard about it. And I saw the man," the governor answered.
"I was there," said Thornberry abruptly. "Will you gentlemen let me, just me, alone with Judkins for five minutes?"
All four of them, the two generals, the police chief, the governor, stared at the psychologist.
"Yes," Bennington decided for the group. "We will."
Doughboy....
Bennington stopped after his first step back into the room, was jostled by Mosby following closely behind. He moved forward to where he could see both Judkins and Thornberry.
The hypno-tech sat bolt upright, his face like that of a newly-conditioned prisoner, completely blank.
Thornberry's face radiated pride.
"These technicians are all alike," the psychologist sniffed. "Their work makes them especially sensitive to hypnosis."
Bennington looked at Judkins, then back to Thornberry. "You mean...."
"I mean that I can ask Judkins anything we want to know and he'll give a truthful answer." Another sniff. "I've forgotten more about hypnosis than he'll ever know."
"This won't hold in a court," Chief Scott warned.
"But it may save a life, maybe more than one," Bennington answered. "Thornberry, you did a good job of those guards. You question Judkins."
"Wait a minute," General Mosby said. "How fast can we get a tape recorder?"
"Why waste time?" asked Bennington. "You can't use this in court."
"Hell, Jim, stop thinking about courts-martial; there's more than one court. Let's fry these boys in the court of public opinion. The news services aren't bound by the rules of evidence. We can worry about other courts later."
"I can get you a tape recorder in two minutes," Scott stated. "Our patrol boys always carry them to take statements at accidents, before the victims get over their shock enough to start lying. And we keep one in the office, too."
Thornberry looked at Judkins and a self-satisfied smirk crept over his face. "No need to worry about lies from this one."
Judkins spoke in a low monotone not much louder than the soft hiss of the machine recording his words. Question by question—in Judkins' condition, each query had to be specific, Thornberry said—the pattern emerged.
Basing his request on his position as a member of the prison commission, Senator Giles had invited Judkins to lunch with him. The senator, however, despite his statement that he wanted only to be sure that Duncannon was getting the best personnel, had not confined his questions to Judkins' background.
Was the hypno-tech alone when he conditioned the men? Any set statement to be made? Could Judkins add to the instructions given each convict without the knowledge of the prison authorities?
The following day, both Senator Giles and Representative Culpepper had called upon Judkins at his sister-in-law's home. Bluntly, they offered ten thousand dollars if the technician could guarantee that Rooney would never be able to talk about the income tax racket.
When Judkins had explained that any conditioning he could give would be as easily removed by another tech, the two men had gone into a corner and consulted in whispers.
They had emerged from the corner with this offer: First, they would bargain with the new warden to get Rooney a job as a trusty. If that failed they offered Judkins twenty thousand dollars and a hideout in New York—until they could set him up outside the country—if he would condition a group of prisoners to riot and discredit Bennington immediately.
"What Rooney must be sitting on!" Mosby murmured in Bennington's ear.
"Was sitting on," Bennington said bitterly. "He was the fat belly with Dalton and Clarens, the one who didn't make it."
The story flowed on under Thornberry's skillful questioning.
At noon yesterday, a frightened and angry Giles had called Judkins, had boosted the bribe to thirty thousand and demanded immediate action.
"What did you tell the prisoners?" Thornberry's voice was as even as Judkins'.
"I was their friend and their only friend; every one else was their enemy. I told them they must be quiet and obey all orders until the last man received his coffee in the mess hall. They were then to throw their trays at the people around them. I told them where to go for guns. I told them that then they would forget all that I had said, that they would know how to take care of their enemies."
"Gentlemen, do you realize what this means, in terms of the constitutional psychopathic inferior? I refer to Clarens, not Dalton. Dalton reacted as Judkins directed, including to forget that he had been told everyone was his enemy. Dalton, we know from his record, actually disliked to use weapons even as a threat.
"But we can be sure that Clarens has not forgotten."
"Why not?" Mosby demanded.
"Because the instructions he received
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