Twisted Ones

WHY DID THEY KILL?

These were nice kids, model kids. They didn’t wear leather jackets and roam the streets in “wolf packs”; they didn’t steal and mug for dope. For kids, they were well mannered and quiet. They were attractive and nicely dressed. You’d have welcomed them as next-door neighbors.

Yet …

   one raped
      one murdered
      one killed by fire

What got into them? What dark thoughts tormented them when they were alone at night?

PART ONE

BROCK BROWN

It was perfect. They were both watching him. Dr. Mannerheim from the window of his classroom on the third floor, and Carrie Bates from the rear of the school parking lot. Brock could see
her
out of the corner of his eye as he turned his key in the ignition. She was leaning against Derby Wylie’s old Ford. She was laughing too loudly, with her shining black hair spilling to her shoulders, and the front of her shaking under one of those long, heavy-knit sweaters all the girls at High wore this year. Brock pressed in his radio “On” button and waited for it to warm up. He did not look up at the window where Mannerheim stood smoking his pipe, but he could feel Mannerheim’s eyes on him. Okay, head-shrinker, he thought, make something out of this scene.

One of the boys was giving Carrie a light. To the right of the group assembled there, a couple was doing the fish. She began singing—not words but “Oooh, ew, ew, beedely ah dop ew,” coming on that way, and clapping her hands in rhythm. Moving like she did. Supposed to be sexy or something.

When his radio was tuned in, Brock turned it way up. “Send Me Crazy,” blared. Brock waited a second. He could see the shadow of Mannerheim’s figure above him, without looking up at him, and he knew Carrie was only pretending to ignore him. She was snapping her fingers now and Derby Wylie was shouting “Go” with her beat.

Then Brock stepped on the gas pedal and pressed the horn. He backed out so fast that his wheels squealed when he stopped to shift, and when he went forward, the gravel spun and nicked the fenders of his Chevy. A cloud of smoke poured from his exhaust, and he went down the drive like hell. He looked in the rear view mirror. He could see the figure of Mannerheim vaguely, but he would have to adjust it to see her. He was too cool to play it that dumb, to let either one of them see him fixing the mirror, so he just drove on, imagining the picture they both got of him leaving school that afternoon. Sunglasses. Top down. Music playing. Going like crazy … Brock Brown, boy cat, all shook up.

He was a tall boy with a good build, and a better wardrobe than most guys in the junior class at Sykes High, thanks to his stepmother. He had a handsome face with big dark eyes that were both quiet and wild in their expression. His hair was black and thick, and he liked to wear it cropped close on top, with slight sideburns to the tips of his ears. He dressed meticulously, with a rigid sense of style that he had formulated over the years. Dark against light—that was the core of it; never more than two colors at a time, even in his socks. Today he had on a navy blue flannel shirt and navy trousers, with a white belt, a white nylon zipper-jacket, white wool socks, and white shoes with white rubber heels. It had not been easy to find the shoes. Most of the doeskins had red rubber heels. Brock had searched and searched, and finally he had convinced his stepmother to drive him to Syracuse, twenty-six miles away, and there he had found the kind he wanted.

Brock had not made a fraternity. Carrie Bates was in a sorority; in fact, she was president of the Tri Gams. That was one of the reasons it was hard for him to come on with her. She was always on—with anyone. Every time Brock saw her, Carrie was walking with some guy, grinning up at him with her eyes sparkling; or standing by his locker, touching his sweater with her fingers, or touching his wrist, or a book he was carrying. She had very long nails that tapered to a point, and were always painted the color of blood. Afternoons at Murray’s Luncheonette, where the crowd hung out, the table where Carrie always sat—the one right up front by the jukebox—was always surrounded. It was like she held court there or something, Brock decided. Maybe he really hated her. Maybe he couldn’t stand her or something.

He was torn between two impulses as he drove away from Sykes High on Grant Avenue. One was to head toward Murray’s. The other to go on home. He knew that if he went to Murray’s, he’d only sit up at the fountain by himself nursing a coke and smoking a cigarette, pretending he wasn’t interested in one damn thing going on in the crummy place. After awhile she’d come in with Derby Wylie and the others, and the minute she did, he’d make a point of crushing out his cigarette very emphatically, tossing a dime on the counter, and striding out past her without so much as a glance at her. That was one way of handling it….

Another way was to wait until she sat down at the table. Then he’d get off the stool, walk over to the jukebox, and play H-9. It was classical—the only one on the whole goddam machine that was, and that ought to tell her something about what he thought of her. She was all rock ‘n’ roll and do the fish and come on with anyone in pants, and that ought to shake her up. Then he’d walk back to the counter, take a swallow of coke until he caught her eye, and just when he did, he’d let his mouth tip in a vague, sardonic grin, pull up the collar on his white nylon zipper-jacket, and exit—bang, crazy!

Why the hell hadn’t he tuned in on something classical before he’d cut out back at the school parking lot! Why hadn’t he thought of that? There ought to be something high class on the goddam radio. He began to push the buttons in to try and find something. When he couldn’t, he turned the car radio down, and slowed up. He decided on the lazier impulse—to go on home.

• • •

Dr. Mannerheim was a smart cat. Brock wondered what Mannerheim thought of him. Brock was flunking his course, but hell, he
knew
the stuff! He knew what Mannerheim was driving at. Psychology was very damn fascinating, but learning it for Brock was like trying to remember a name, or a familiar face, or something that had happened a long time ago. It was there, but Brock couldn’t get at it. It was like trying to remember last night’s dream. There was that peculiar sensation that you’d participated in something, felt something, said and listened to something, but what was it? It was crazy and evasive, that’s all.

The whole hour Brock sat in Mannerheim’s class, he had the feeling that in just a second the goddam clouds would part, and he’d see everything as clearly as day, and then he’d know—know everything Mannerheim was trying to get across; but it never quite happened. Why was that?

Sometimes Brock had the idea that Mannerheim was talking only to Brock during the hour; that Mannerheim was trying his best to get something across to Brock. Whenever that happened, Brock would smile and nod, or purse his lips and frown solemnly, as though the message was clear and he understood it. To impress Mannerheim, Brock often checked out very pedantic books on psychology from the school library. After class he’d take one of them up to Mannerheim’s desk and point to a sentence.

“I wonder if you could clarify this, sir,” he would say.

He was very careful to say “sir,” and to be sure his hands were scrubbed clean. They were rarely dirty, but on days when he would do this, he would scrub them until they were red just before his psych hour.

Once Mannerheim said to Brock, “I didn’t know you were so interested in psychology.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” said Brock.

“Don’t you think you ought to master the assigned textbook before you do outside reading?” Mannerheim said.

That had really cut.

Brock wouldn’t look at Mannerheim for about five days after that. Then he forgave him. He didn’t exactly forgive him. He simply decided Mannerheim was right. If Mannerheim didn’t know how to spot a phony by now, what kind of a head-shrinker was he, for Christ’s sake? The experience made Brock respect Mannerheim more.

One day Brock would have a talk with Dr. Mannerheim. He’d like to get his opinion on a few things. Not bad things he’d ever done; he’d really never done bad things. His attitude toward Carrie Bates was proof of that, wasn’t it? He didn’t give two cents for any of that crowd, or whatever the hell they did on their goddam dates, and he could just imagine. Brock was more mature. He’d like to get Mannerheim’s opinions on some psychological questions that had nothing to do with sex.

• • •

It was almost hot, for a day in early May, in upstate New York. Brock played with the idea of pulling over and slipping off his jacket. A lot of guys would have tried to take off their jacket while they were driving and maybe killed someone in the deal. But Brock wasn’t that kind. He hated to think of anyone being hurt. Sometimes when he read those books about what the Nazis had done to Jewish women during the war, he actually felt like bawling. He was never able to get the tears out, and it was terrible—like being constipated or something. After he read one of those books he’d rip and pull at it in blind rage, and then he’d pray. Not
for
anything. He would say long prayers of thanks. Thanks for his car, his eyesight, his clothes, his hearing—thanks for everything.

• • •

Brock drove along debating whether or not to succumb to the heat and remove his jacket. Who the hell would see him between here and home that he cared about? Besides, his car was white, and he’d still look good wearing the navy blue shirt against the car’s colors. But the collar of the shirt did not stand up the way his jacket collar did…. He decided he could bear the heat.

Maybe on his way home, he’d drive past the Bates place. He knew Carrie’s mother to speak to, because he’d had a paper route when he was a kid, and Friday nights when he collected, Mrs. Bates always paid him personally. He had an idea she rather liked him. He had an idea that she felt sorry about his mother dying. Mrs. Bates and his mother had been friends, as girls, way before his mother had ever married Robert Brown. “Brock” was his mother’s maiden name. One thing he could always remember was his mother saying, “You’re a Brock, son. Don’t ever forget that. The Browns weren’t anything, but the Brocks were The Ones in Sykes.”

Brock always believed that Mrs. Bates thought of him as one of The Ones, and he usually tried to behave humbly before her, as though he was aware of it but not in any way conceited.

He imagined that if he drove by the Bates’, and Mrs. Bates saw him, and they were to wave at one another, no doubt she’d say to Carrie that night: “Brock Brown drove by this afternoon. He’s such a nice boy.”

That ought to show Carrie Bates.

Brock glanced at his watch, whipping his arm up smartly to do it—a quick flip of the wrist like that, and then back on the wheel. He gunned the car a little, as though he had noticed it was very late for some appointment he had, and he must hurry. He looked in the rear view mirror, but actually there was no one around to see him that he cared about. He felt suddenly depressed and sleepy.

He wasn’t late for anywhere, but it was three forty-five. If he went directly home, instead of going by the Bates’, his father could have the car to go to work. It was Brock’s car, but he liked to lend it to his dad. He had a piece of tarpaulin in the back, so that his father didn’t get grease on the slipcovers. He felt sorry for his father sometimes. He wasn’t embarrassed by him or anything like that. Hadn’t he stopped in at the garage time and time again and called out: “Hi, dad!” for anyone to see? It was just that it was too bad that happened to be what his father did. He ran a goddam garage, that’s all, and a man who did that always looked dirty.

His father was a great guy, and Brock was even glad that he’d married Clara. Clara couldn’t help the way she was. Sometimes, though, Brock wished she would act her age. Sure, she was younger than his dad, but she was twenty-seven, for Christ’s sake, and Brock wished she’d cut out all the lovey-dovey stuff. Poise was what Clara lacked. Mrs. Bates had it, and Brock’s mother had had it, but Clara came on like she thought she was Marilyn Monroe sometimes. There was another thing about Clara Brock didn’t like. If he didn’t have such a good grip on himself, Clara could sure screw him up, pow! whamo!—in no time. He knew she only did it because she thought he needed self-confidence—he knew
that
much about psychology—but if he hadn’t known that, he might have gotten all sorts of crazy ideas from Clara. Only last night, for example; last night right smack in the middle of the Ed Sullivan Show.

“Brock?”

“What, Clara?”

“Are you going to the prom?”

“I don’t know, Clara.”

“Why don’t you ask Carrie Bates to the prom?”

“Are you crazy?”

“You’re always talking about her. Why don’t you ask her to the prom?”

“Do you know anything at all about Carrie Bates, Clara? Anything at all?”

“I’ve seen her. She’s very pretty.”

“Oh sure, pretty. Pretty. But do you know anything about her?”

“What do I need to know about her?”

“Do you realize you could get me in a whole big crazy pack of trouble if I didn’t know right from wrong, Clara?”

“What are you talking about, Brock?”

“I’m talking about Carrie Bates.”

“Go on.”

“Well, nothing. Nothing. Except she’s fast. Whizz! Bang!”

“Brock!” Clara laughed. “Are you afraid to ask her? Afraid she’ll turn you down?”

“Now listen, Clara, I’m telling you she’s fast! She’s fast! F-A-S-T! Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“All right, Brock. All right.”

“You just better get the facts, Clara, before you make a suggestion like that.”

“Okay, Brock. Okay.”

“I mean, Jay-Zeus, Clara, you just better know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, honey, forget it. It was just a suggestion.”

“Some suggestion!”

“Brock?”

“Huh?”

“Do you know you’re beautiful?”

“Clare-ra!”

“I mean it, Brock. You can have anything or anyone you want in this world. Look! You belong in the movies!”

“I know. Brock Hudson, boy movie star.”

“You mustn’t tear yourself down all the time.”

“What do you want from me, Clara? I’m trying to watch Ed Sullivan, and you come on this way.”

“I just want you to be happy, Brock.”

“So? I’m happy.”

“You ought to go out more. Make friends, that’s all, Brock. You’re a very attractive young man. Remember that.”

“You remind me from time to time, Clara. Promise?”

Brock Brown had never had a date with any girl. Last year when the new English teacher had asked all the students to write a short biography at the beginning of the Fall term, Brock had started his with the sentence: “At fifteen, I, Brock Brown, boy cat and all shook up, have had no sexual experience.”