SQUEALER John D. MacDonald When Browden came off duty he stopped by the hospital on his way home to find out how the boy and the girl were doing. It was not out of his way. The girl’s father was near the main desk, and Browden was trapped. They crossed the lobby and sat on a bench to talk. The father was named Nichols and he was an accountant. There was a sickness in his eyes.
“Sergeant, I don’t understand how a thing like this can happen,” he said. “They gave Betty Lee a sedative. She’s asleep now. Her mother’s with her.”
“Do you know how the boy is?”
“I don’t care how that damn Reilly boy is,” Nichols said hotly.
“Maybe you should care. I saw his hands. He put up a good scrap. There were three of them. He did what he could. They put him out by hitting him with a tire iron or something.”
“He shouldn’t have taken Betty Lee there.”
“Maybe it wasn’t smart. But they’re kids. He has a car. They go to a place to park. That’s normal. They go to the place where other high school kids go. You don’t get anywhere blaming the Reilly kid.”
Nichols looked down at his tensely clasped hands. “All right. I’m sorry. I heard he’s okay. Maybe a concussion. And he lost some teeth. How can a thing like this happen?” Browden felt tired. It was a question he had heard many times. It was a question that never failed to move him. How can this happen to me? How can this darkness come into my life?
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