‘No, I wouldn’t say so. The kid would be in the limelight for a few days. Most kids would dig that. Picture in the paper, an interview on the evening news, probably a school assembly award for good citizenship.’ Richler laughed. ‘Hell, the kid would probably get a shot on Real People?
‘What’s that?’
‘Never mind,’ Richler said. He had to raise his voice slightly because a ten-wheeler was passing the Nova on either side. Weiskopf looked nervously from one to the other. ‘You don’t want to know. But you’re right about most kids. Most kids.’
‘But not this kid,’ Weiskopf said. ‘This boy, probably by dumb luck alone, penetrates Dussander’s cover. Yet instead of going to his parents or the authorities… he goes to Dussander. Why? You say you don’t care, but I think you do. I think it haunts you just as it does me.’
‘Not blackmail,’ Richler said. ‘That’s for sure. That kid’s got everything a kid could want There was even a dune-buggy in the garage, not to mention an elephant gun on the wall. And even if he wanted to squeeze Dussander just for the thrill of it, Dussander was practically unsqueezable. Except for those few stocks, he didn’t have a pot to piss in.’
‘How sure are you that the boy doesn’t know you’ve found the bodies?’
‘I’m sure. Maybe I’ll go back this afternoon and hit him with that. Right now it looks like our best shot.’ Richler struck the steering wheel lightly. ‘If all of this had come out even one day sooner, I think I would have tried for a search warrant.’
‘The clothes the boy was wearing that night?’
‘Yeah. If we could have found soil samples on his clothes that matched the dirt in Dussander’s cellar, I almost think we could break him. But the clothes he was wearing that night have probably been washed six times since them.’
‘What about the other dead winos? The ones your police department has been finding around the city?’
“Those belong to Dan Bozeman. I don’t think there’s any connection anyhow. Dussander just wasn’t that strong… and more to the point, he had such a neat little racket already worked out. Promise them a drink and a meal, take them home on the city bus — the fucking city bus! — and waste them right in his kitchen.’
Weiskopf said quietly: ‘It wasn’t Dussander I was thinking of.’
‘What do you mean by th -’ Richler began, and then his mouth snapped suddenly closed. There was a long, unbelieving moment of silence, broken only by the drone of the traffic all around them. Then Richler said softly: ‘Hey. Hey, come on now. Give me a fucking br—’
‘As an agent of my government, I am only interested in Bowden because of what, if anything, he may know about Dussander’s remaining contacts with the Nazi underground. But as a human being, I am becoming more and more interested in the boy himself. I’d like to know what makes him tick. I want to know why. And as I try to answer that question to my own satisfaction, I find that more and more I am asking myself What else.’
‘But—’
‘Do you suppose, I ask myself, that the very atrocities in which Dussander took part formed the basis of some attraction between them? That’s an unholy idea, I tell myself. The things that happened in those camps still have power enough to make the stomach flutter with nausea. I fed that way myself, although the only close relative I ever had in the camps was my grandfather, and he died when I was three. But maybe for all of us there is something about what the Germans did that pleases and excites us — something that opens the catacombs of the imagination. Maybe part of our dread and horror comes from a secret knowledge that under the right — or wrong — set of circumstances, we ourselves would be willing to build such places and staff them. Black serendipity. Maybe we know that under the right set of circumstances the things that live in the catacombs would be glad to crawl out And what do you think they would look like? Like mad fuehrers with forelocks and shoe-polish moustaches, heiling all over the place? Like red devils, or demons, or the dragon that floats on its stinking reptile wings?’