potatoes. There was also orange juice, milk and hot coffee. The biscuits were soft and fluffy and Mulheisen wolfed down more than a half dozen of them with copious butter and homemade rhubarb preserves. “You make these preserves?” he asked the woman.
“Who else gone make ‘em?” the woman replied. She sat across from Mulheisen, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Occasionally she got up to fetch more coffee or more biscuits. Mulheisen couldn't tell if she was surly or was just one of those self-contained, self-sufficient women. He watched her with mild interest. She wasn't cheerful, but shewasn't sullen, either. She wasn't exactly indifferent, but she didn't seem to value Mulheisen's esteem. Irrationally, Mulheisen found himself wanting to be ingratiating, to gain her approval. But smiles and friendliness had no effect on her.
As he finished his coffee he decided that he had detected a family resemblance between her and Benny. He knew that Benny wasn't married, so maybe this was a sister or a cousin. But he hadn't the temerity to ask. He saw that it was ten o'clock, anyway. Time to get moving.
“Well, I've got to be going,” Mulheisen said, standing up. “Thanks for the swell breakfast. I guess Benny isn't up yet?”
“Hunh!” the woman snorted. “Be three o'clock ‘fore Benny gets up. Grown man, sleeping all day!” She huffed off into another part of the house. Mulheisen shrugged and went out, struggling into his coat.
It was a warm, sunny October morning with a high, milky overcast that made the sun weak. All the maples in Pingree Park were brilliant yellow and red, although some of them had already lost most of their leaves. There was the quiet peacefulness of midmorning, when all the working people are gone and few others are abroad. Squirrels raised hell in the piles of raked leaves in the park. Mulheisen suddenly felt very good, despite his lack of sleep and his frustration with the Collins alley affair. Obviously, the shower and the good breakfast had helped, he thought, as he drove downtown. As for the sleep, he wondered if it wasn't true that one only needs a couple hours of sleep, providing it is deep sleep. He had definitely slept well last night. It was only in the waking moments that the dreams had come. He pondered that, as he often had: do dreams really occupy only a few seconds of one's sleep? And then he turned his mind to more immediate matters.
He was due in court at ten-thirty, to testify for the prosecution in The State of Michigan v. Robert Parenteau. In every respect this case was more significant than anything he was now handling. The Parenteau case had been a minor triumph for Mulheisen. And yet he had very little interest in it anymore.He wished it were done with. Logically, he was committed to seeing the case through the justice system, but emotionally, he no longer cared what happened to Bobby Parenteau. For Mulheisen it was enough that he had caught Bobby, even if it wasn't really the killer that he had caught. It was the same boy, all right, and yet it wasn't.
Four years ago a dozen or more high school kids had gathered in the basement recreation room of the Parenteau home on Detroit's East Side. They were celebrating Bobby Parenteau's seventeenth birthday. About an hour after the party began, Bobby left the basement room and returned with his father's World War II souvenir, a smuggled-home Colt .45 automatic pistol. He opened fire from the basement steps and emptied the magazine. One girl of fifteen was killed by a bullet in the head. Four other teenagers were wounded, only one of them seriously—a bullet in the neck destroying part of eighteen-year-old Frank Witt's larynx.
And then Bobby had vanished. He disappeared for four years. Within a very short time the case was effectively dropped, though not officially, for lack of evidence and interest. There were just too many murders and other violent crimes clamoring for attention. And this was no burglar shot in an
“Who else gone make ‘em?” the woman replied. She sat across from Mulheisen, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Occasionally she got up to fetch more coffee or more biscuits. Mulheisen couldn't tell if she was surly or was just one of those self-contained, self-sufficient women. He watched her with mild interest. She wasn't cheerful, but shewasn't sullen, either. She wasn't exactly indifferent, but she didn't seem to value Mulheisen's esteem. Irrationally, Mulheisen found himself wanting to be ingratiating, to gain her approval. But smiles and friendliness had no effect on her.
As he finished his coffee he decided that he had detected a family resemblance between her and Benny. He knew that Benny wasn't married, so maybe this was a sister or a cousin. But he hadn't the temerity to ask. He saw that it was ten o'clock, anyway. Time to get moving.
“Well, I've got to be going,” Mulheisen said, standing up. “Thanks for the swell breakfast. I guess Benny isn't up yet?”
“Hunh!” the woman snorted. “Be three o'clock ‘fore Benny gets up. Grown man, sleeping all day!” She huffed off into another part of the house. Mulheisen shrugged and went out, struggling into his coat.
It was a warm, sunny October morning with a high, milky overcast that made the sun weak. All the maples in Pingree Park were brilliant yellow and red, although some of them had already lost most of their leaves. There was the quiet peacefulness of midmorning, when all the working people are gone and few others are abroad. Squirrels raised hell in the piles of raked leaves in the park. Mulheisen suddenly felt very good, despite his lack of sleep and his frustration with the Collins alley affair. Obviously, the shower and the good breakfast had helped, he thought, as he drove downtown. As for the sleep, he wondered if it wasn't true that one only needs a couple hours of sleep, providing it is deep sleep. He had definitely slept well last night. It was only in the waking moments that the dreams had come. He pondered that, as he often had: do dreams really occupy only a few seconds of one's sleep? And then he turned his mind to more immediate matters.
He was due in court at ten-thirty, to testify for the prosecution in The State of Michigan v. Robert Parenteau. In every respect this case was more significant than anything he was now handling. The Parenteau case had been a minor triumph for Mulheisen. And yet he had very little interest in it anymore.He wished it were done with. Logically, he was committed to seeing the case through the justice system, but emotionally, he no longer cared what happened to Bobby Parenteau. For Mulheisen it was enough that he had caught Bobby, even if it wasn't really the killer that he had caught. It was the same boy, all right, and yet it wasn't.
Four years ago a dozen or more high school kids had gathered in the basement recreation room of the Parenteau home on Detroit's East Side. They were celebrating Bobby Parenteau's seventeenth birthday. About an hour after the party began, Bobby left the basement room and returned with his father's World War II souvenir, a smuggled-home Colt .45 automatic pistol. He opened fire from the basement steps and emptied the magazine. One girl of fifteen was killed by a bullet in the head. Four other teenagers were wounded, only one of them seriously—a bullet in the neck destroying part of eighteen-year-old Frank Witt's larynx.
And then Bobby had vanished. He disappeared for four years. Within a very short time the case was effectively dropped, though not officially, for lack of evidence and interest. There were just too many murders and other violent crimes clamoring for attention. And this was no burglar shot in an
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