lead the way in. I do not have visitors, so there is no extra chair. I see Mr. Stacy looking at all the twinklies, the spin spirals and pinwheels and other decorations. I do not know what he thinks about it. Mr. Aldrin speaks softly to Mr. Stacy and leaves. I do not sit down because it is not polite to sit when other people have to stand, unless you are their boss. Mr. Aldrin comes in with a chair that I recognize from the kitchenette. He puts it down in the space between my desk and the files. Then he stands by the door.
“And you are?” Mr. Stacy asks, turning to him.
“Pete Aldrin ; I’m Lou’s immediate supervisor. I don’t know if you understand—” Mr. Aldrin gives me a look that I am not sure of, and Mr. Stacy nods.
“I’ve interviewed Mr. Arrendale before,” he says. Once more I am astonished at how they do it, the way they pass information from one to another without words. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“But… but I think he needs—”
“Mr. Aldrin, Mr. Arrendale here isn’t in trouble. We’re trying to help him, keep this nutcase from hurting him. Now if you’ve got a safe place for him to stay for a few days, while we try to track this person down, that would be a help, but otherwise—I don’t think he needs baby-sitting while I chat with him. Though it’s up to him…” The policeman looks at me. I see something in his face that I think may be laughter, but I am not sure. It is very subtle.
“Lou is very capable,” Mr. Aldrin says. “We value him highly. I just wanted—”
“To be sure he would get fair treatment. I understand. But it’s up to him.”
They are both looking at me; I feel impaled on their gaze like one of those exhibits at the museums. I know Mr. Aldrin wants me to say he should stay, but he wants it for the wrong reason and I do not want him to stay. “I will be all right,” I say. “I will call you if anything happens.”
“Be sure you do,” he says. He gives Mr. Stacy a long look and then leaves. I can hear his footsteps going down the hall and then the scrape of the other chair in the kitchenette and the plink and clunk of money going into the drink machine and a can of something landing down below. I wonder what he chose. I wonder if he will stay there in case I want him.
The policeman closes the door to my office,then sits in the chair Mr. Aldrin placed for him. I sit down behind my desk. He is looking around the room.
“You like things that turn around, don’t you?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. I wonder how long he will stay. I will have to make up the time.
“Let me explain about vandals,” he says. “There’s several kinds. The person—usually a kid—who just likes to make a little trouble. They may spike a tire or break a windshield or steal a stop sign—they do it for the excitement, as much as anything, and they don’t know, or care, who they’re doing it to. Then there’s what we call spillover. There’s a fight in a bar, and it continues outside, and there’s breaking windshields in the parking lot. There’s a crowd in the street, someone gets rowdy, and the next thing you know they’re breaking windows and stealing stuff. Now some of these people are the kind that aren’t usually violent—they shock themselves with how they act in a crowd.” He pauses, looking at me, and I nod. I know he wants some response.
“You’re saying that some vandals aren’t doing it to hurt particular people.”
“Exactly. There’s the individual who likes making messes but doesn’t know the victim. There’s the individual who doesn’t usually make messes but is involved in something else where the violence spills over. Now when we first get an example of vandalism—as with your tires—that clearly isn’t spillover, we first think of the random individual. That’s the commonest form. If another couple cars got their tires slashed in the same neighborhood—or on the same transit route—in the next few weeks, we’d just assume we had a bad boy thumbing his nose at the cops. Annoying, but not dangerous.”
“Expensive,” I say. “To the people with the cars, anyway.”
“True,which is why it’s a crime. But there’s a third kind of vandal, and that’s the dangerous kind. The one who