says.
The chief turns to the photographer but doesn’t
answer. Half a dozen flashbulbs go off; he straightens slightly, but
offers them no change in expression. In Peter’s experience,
photographers always want you to smile.
When the bulbs have stopped, the chief turns to the
sergeant who has followed him into and out of the place and says
something Peter cannot hear.
The police and the photographers turn together and
survey the cars parked along both sides of the street. "I think
it’s the convertible," somebody says, and the crowd in the
yard separates as the chief and half a dozen of the policemen come
through on the way to the car. The photographers follow the police,
and behind them are the neighbors.
Peter feels something like a tuning fork in his
balls.
The chief gets to Victor Kopec’s car first,
dropping his head even with the window to look inside. He checks both
seats and then he walks straight to the back end and stands still,
looking at the closed trunk. One of the policemen steps in with a
crowbar and wedges it under the lid. There is a popping noise, not
much different than the noise it had made when the boy’s father
opened it with the key, and the trunk comes open.
The flashbulbs explode again—more popping—and the
photographers crush into each other, fighting to hold their places
around the trunk while the policemen push them away and tell them to
get back. The chief stands quietly in the middle of the movement and
noise, looking inside the trunk.
Then he turns and stares again at Peter, and then he
starts across the street.
Peter watches him come. Behind him are the other
policemen, and then the photographers. The neighbors stay in the
street. He hears the sound of the police chief’s polished black
shoes on the sidewalk, the creak of the belt that holds his gun, the
sound of the change in his pocket.
The police chief squats, sitting on his heels, and
looks into his eyes. Peter smells shoe polish.
"Where’s your father?" he says.
Peter shakes his head, and the chief looks over him
toward the house.
"You know where he’s at?"
One of the photographers steps around a policeman and
takes a picture. Peter sees colored circles. The chief turns, still
on his haunches, and says, "Get them people out of here,"
and the other policemen push the photographers back.
"You know where he’s at?" the chief says
again.
Peter shakes his head.
"When he comes home, tell him I want to see him.
Tell him I’ll be back to see him .... "
Peter nods, understanding that he is part of it now.
He stares into the chief’s eyes.
The chief rises slowly and looks at Victor Kopec’s
convertible. It seems to Peter that the chief is going to say
something more, but he reconsiders it and heads back into the street.
The reporters walk backwards, just in front of him, asking their
questions.
"Who’s that kid, Frank?"
The police chief doesn’t answer. "Did the guy
have a family? Frank?"
"Where’s he assigned to?"
"Frank, did the guy have a family?"
The chief of police walks to his car without
answering the questions, then stops a moment before he gets inside.
"Lieutenant Kopec was an excellent police
officer," he says. "Any further statements will come as the
case develops." And then he turns away from the cameras and
drops into the front seat of the police car and points, with one
finger, toward the other side of the park.
The reporters shout more questions, but the car rolls
out across the grass, leaving tire tracks.
The reporters come back to the convertible, the trunk
is still open. A rope barrier has been set up around it, and
investigators in white coats are going through what is inside.
The reporters look at each other and shake their
heads.
"Frank’s pissed," one of them says.
They remember Peter then, and come back across the
yard, smiling. Peter gets up and goes into his house. In a moment, he
hears them knocking on the door. He sits down on the iloor and turns
on the television set, loud
The chief turns to the photographer but doesn’t
answer. Half a dozen flashbulbs go off; he straightens slightly, but
offers them no change in expression. In Peter’s experience,
photographers always want you to smile.
When the bulbs have stopped, the chief turns to the
sergeant who has followed him into and out of the place and says
something Peter cannot hear.
The police and the photographers turn together and
survey the cars parked along both sides of the street. "I think
it’s the convertible," somebody says, and the crowd in the
yard separates as the chief and half a dozen of the policemen come
through on the way to the car. The photographers follow the police,
and behind them are the neighbors.
Peter feels something like a tuning fork in his
balls.
The chief gets to Victor Kopec’s car first,
dropping his head even with the window to look inside. He checks both
seats and then he walks straight to the back end and stands still,
looking at the closed trunk. One of the policemen steps in with a
crowbar and wedges it under the lid. There is a popping noise, not
much different than the noise it had made when the boy’s father
opened it with the key, and the trunk comes open.
The flashbulbs explode again—more popping—and the
photographers crush into each other, fighting to hold their places
around the trunk while the policemen push them away and tell them to
get back. The chief stands quietly in the middle of the movement and
noise, looking inside the trunk.
Then he turns and stares again at Peter, and then he
starts across the street.
Peter watches him come. Behind him are the other
policemen, and then the photographers. The neighbors stay in the
street. He hears the sound of the police chief’s polished black
shoes on the sidewalk, the creak of the belt that holds his gun, the
sound of the change in his pocket.
The police chief squats, sitting on his heels, and
looks into his eyes. Peter smells shoe polish.
"Where’s your father?" he says.
Peter shakes his head, and the chief looks over him
toward the house.
"You know where he’s at?"
One of the photographers steps around a policeman and
takes a picture. Peter sees colored circles. The chief turns, still
on his haunches, and says, "Get them people out of here,"
and the other policemen push the photographers back.
"You know where he’s at?" the chief says
again.
Peter shakes his head.
"When he comes home, tell him I want to see him.
Tell him I’ll be back to see him .... "
Peter nods, understanding that he is part of it now.
He stares into the chief’s eyes.
The chief rises slowly and looks at Victor Kopec’s
convertible. It seems to Peter that the chief is going to say
something more, but he reconsiders it and heads back into the street.
The reporters walk backwards, just in front of him, asking their
questions.
"Who’s that kid, Frank?"
The police chief doesn’t answer. "Did the guy
have a family? Frank?"
"Where’s he assigned to?"
"Frank, did the guy have a family?"
The chief of police walks to his car without
answering the questions, then stops a moment before he gets inside.
"Lieutenant Kopec was an excellent police
officer," he says. "Any further statements will come as the
case develops." And then he turns away from the cameras and
drops into the front seat of the police car and points, with one
finger, toward the other side of the park.
The reporters shout more questions, but the car rolls
out across the grass, leaving tire tracks.
The reporters come back to the convertible, the trunk
is still open. A rope barrier has been set up around it, and
investigators in white coats are going through what is inside.
The reporters look at each other and shake their
heads.
"Frank’s pissed," one of them says.
They remember Peter then, and come back across the
yard, smiling. Peter gets up and goes into his house. In a moment, he
hears them knocking on the door. He sits down on the iloor and turns
on the television set, loud
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