titles in the window, and a coffee shop specializing in espresso, capuccino, and herb teas, a far cry from the usual Midwest coffee shop purveying the kind of diner fare that truckdrivers thrived on. But at least there was no head shop, as one commonly saw in the bigger midwestern towns and cities: no shop selling cigarette papers, pipes, coke spoons and the more exotic paraphernalia of the dope trade. Though Loomis knew that the kids used drugs in these towns, the town governments came down very hard on any overt display of drug cultures.
As Loomis passed a liquor store, he nodded, remembering his teenage son's recent tirade about the hypocrisy of Loomis's generation that punishes drug use but proudly displays its alcoholic orientation as if drinking were a virtue to be encouraged. The boy was right. But it would be another decade before you saw a head shop in Haddonfield, Illinois.
Brackett was just finishing writing up his report and supervising the hasty assembly of a saw-horse barrier around the hardware store. Mr. Nichols put the finishing touches on a wooden Panel to cover the broken window until a glass replacement arrived in the morning. He stepped back to survey his handiwork and examine the rim of the window as if to contemplate the possibility of putting up a locked iron gate. He shook his head sadly. He hated to do that. To put up a gate would not only be ugly, it would symbolize his concession to the growing vandalism that existed in his town.
"May we sit in your car, Sheriff?" Loomis asked.
"Suit yourself, Doctor." They slid into the front seat. Brackett turned the heater on. "Getting a bit chilly. Winter'Il be here any day now."
" Mmm ," Loomis said distractedly, running his fingers down the blue barrels of the sheriff's over-and-under twelve-gauge shotgun propped vertically between the seats. "Have you ever had to use this thing?"
"Can't catch quail with my bare hands," Brackett laughed.
"You know what I mean."
Brackett shook his head. "I've pointed it at one or two 'alleged perpetrators,' as my colleagues like to call them."
"Who do you think perpetrated that? " Loomis asked with a jerk of the head toward the hardware store.
"Kids, most likely. Who else would steal Halloween masks?"
"And knives? And rope? What do kids need with those?"
"Beats the hell out of me . Sometimes they break in and grab whatever's near to hand, just because it's there for the grabbing." He gazed at Loomis, whose face glowed green in the phosphorescent light of the dashboard. "You got any better ideas?"
"I might. Do you remember the Judith Myers case?"'
Brackett's gaze narrowed to a suspicious stare. "Of course I do." There was a silence as Loomis ran his fingers with a scratchy noise through his goatee. Brackett waited impatiently, studying this man whose intrusion into his life had brought with it intimations of grisly horror, a horror made more dreadful because it had happened in this idyllic setting. Over the police channel, staticky squawks proclaimed petty vandalism occurring throughout the area. "Intruders reported on Carter Road around the Gleason farm"; "windows broken by four persons in masks, believed children, Carry house at Post Road near Deller"; "three trespassers reported writing on doors with spray paint . . ."
"What are you saying, Doctor?"
Loomis told him about the escape from the sanitarium last night. Brackett listened with a troubled expression. "The Myers house. Will You take me there?"
Brackett tapped the steering wheel with his nails. "I don't know, Loomis. I got my hands full tonight. Halloween is one of my profession's busy seasons. Can you hear what's coming down?" He turned the radio louder.
Loomis listened stolidly, expressionlessly. "This is all the work of children!" he protested at length. "Harmless pranks!"
"Do you call broken windows and spraypainted doors harmless? Try repairing them sometime. Try paying for them. Across the country the damages amount to millions . Millions!
As Loomis passed a liquor store, he nodded, remembering his teenage son's recent tirade about the hypocrisy of Loomis's generation that punishes drug use but proudly displays its alcoholic orientation as if drinking were a virtue to be encouraged. The boy was right. But it would be another decade before you saw a head shop in Haddonfield, Illinois.
Brackett was just finishing writing up his report and supervising the hasty assembly of a saw-horse barrier around the hardware store. Mr. Nichols put the finishing touches on a wooden Panel to cover the broken window until a glass replacement arrived in the morning. He stepped back to survey his handiwork and examine the rim of the window as if to contemplate the possibility of putting up a locked iron gate. He shook his head sadly. He hated to do that. To put up a gate would not only be ugly, it would symbolize his concession to the growing vandalism that existed in his town.
"May we sit in your car, Sheriff?" Loomis asked.
"Suit yourself, Doctor." They slid into the front seat. Brackett turned the heater on. "Getting a bit chilly. Winter'Il be here any day now."
" Mmm ," Loomis said distractedly, running his fingers down the blue barrels of the sheriff's over-and-under twelve-gauge shotgun propped vertically between the seats. "Have you ever had to use this thing?"
"Can't catch quail with my bare hands," Brackett laughed.
"You know what I mean."
Brackett shook his head. "I've pointed it at one or two 'alleged perpetrators,' as my colleagues like to call them."
"Who do you think perpetrated that? " Loomis asked with a jerk of the head toward the hardware store.
"Kids, most likely. Who else would steal Halloween masks?"
"And knives? And rope? What do kids need with those?"
"Beats the hell out of me . Sometimes they break in and grab whatever's near to hand, just because it's there for the grabbing." He gazed at Loomis, whose face glowed green in the phosphorescent light of the dashboard. "You got any better ideas?"
"I might. Do you remember the Judith Myers case?"'
Brackett's gaze narrowed to a suspicious stare. "Of course I do." There was a silence as Loomis ran his fingers with a scratchy noise through his goatee. Brackett waited impatiently, studying this man whose intrusion into his life had brought with it intimations of grisly horror, a horror made more dreadful because it had happened in this idyllic setting. Over the police channel, staticky squawks proclaimed petty vandalism occurring throughout the area. "Intruders reported on Carter Road around the Gleason farm"; "windows broken by four persons in masks, believed children, Carry house at Post Road near Deller"; "three trespassers reported writing on doors with spray paint . . ."
"What are you saying, Doctor?"
Loomis told him about the escape from the sanitarium last night. Brackett listened with a troubled expression. "The Myers house. Will You take me there?"
Brackett tapped the steering wheel with his nails. "I don't know, Loomis. I got my hands full tonight. Halloween is one of my profession's busy seasons. Can you hear what's coming down?" He turned the radio louder.
Loomis listened stolidly, expressionlessly. "This is all the work of children!" he protested at length. "Harmless pranks!"
"Do you call broken windows and spraypainted doors harmless? Try repairing them sometime. Try paying for them. Across the country the damages amount to millions . Millions!
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