John Ball - Johnny Get Your Gun

“With Mr. Tibbs’s permission I want to say something right here,” Hotchkiss said. “As soon as we are through here, Billy, you and I are going out to buy a new radio for the McGuire boy. It’s going to be a good one and you’re going to have to pay for it out of your own money. Then together we’re going to call on the McGuires. You have a very big apology to make and it’s going to be tonight.”

The words had the wrong effect. The boy who a moment before had been contrite and submissive was transformed; his hands tightened into fists and he drew his feet back under himself as though he wanted to leap away-to seek shelter somewhere and hide. “No!” he exploded. “You don’t understand. Johnny McGuire wants to kill me!”

Ralph Hotchkiss tightened his arm across his son’s shoulders. “Take it easy, Billy,” he cautioned. “You’re getting much too excited. How old did you say that Johnny McGuire is?”

“Nine, maybe…”

“All right then, he’s a little boy-smaller than you are, you said that yourself. I don’t think that we need to worry too much about his trying to do something desperate.”

Billy grew icy cold and made a determined effort to be believed. “Dad, you don’t understand. Johnny’s father’s got a gun, he keeps it loaded in the house.”

Hotchkiss looked quickly at Tibbs. The officer nodded his head grimly. “It’s very common,” he said. “We advise citizens to register their guns for their own protection, but the great majority don’t bother. There are hundreds of accidental shootings every year. And a lot more that aren’t accidental.”

“By children?” Hotchkiss asked, incredulity in his voice.

“Normally no, but an angry or badly upset child who has access to a loaded gun…” The sentence hung in the air.

Quietly and calmly Virgil Tibbs continued the thread of the interrogation. “Billy, I want to ask you two or three things and I want you to answer me as carefully and as accurately as you can, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tibbs knew then that the persistent barrier which his race often imposed in his work was not present here. He went on, simply a plainclothes policeman talking to a very upset young boy.

“Have you ever been to Johnny McGuire’s home?”

“No. He doesn’t have a home; they live in an apartment.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just know, that’s all.”

“Does Johnny know where you live?”

“Yes.” Virgil detected a downward inflection and took note of it.

“Has he ever been here?”

“Once.” The tinge of guilt was still present.

“Did you invite him over?”

“Yes.” It was more pronounced now.

“This is very important, Billy, and I want you to give me a truthful answer, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you invite Johnny McGuire to come here?”

Billy hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just invited him.”

“A little while ago you told me that he hadn’t any friends because he was ‘funny,’” Virgil said, speaking very clearly. “You implied, if you know what that word means, that you didn’t want to be his friend either, for the same reason. Yet you invited him to your home.”

Dead silence.

Tibbs waited until the full meaning had sunk in, then he continued with calculated quiet and clarity. “Billy, you have a very beautiful home here-a much better than average home. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy knew that he had been trapped.

“Did you bring him here just to tease him a little-to show him how much better your home was than the place where he lives?”

Billy’s answer was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Ralph Hotchkiss stirred in his seat, but was wise enough this time to remain silent.

“Billy,” Tibbs looked at him steadily, “did you ever try to be a friend to Johnny McGuire? Any time at all?”

“I guess not.”

Tibbs eased the pressure. “That’s all right, there’s no reason why you should if you didn’t want to. It’s your privilege to choose your own friends. But Johnny McGuire has been here and does know where you live.”

“Yes, I remember now-when he was here he said that there’s only one bathroom in his apartment. That’s how I found out about that.”

“Good, I’m glad that you remembered. Now why do you think that you are in physical danger from Johnny McGuire?”

Billy responded to the letup in pressure as Virgil had intended he should. He felt that he could talk and be believed.

“Johnny called me up on the phone. I don’t know how he got the number, but he called. Then he said a funny thing-he said that I had killed his radio. That’s what he said, ‘killed.’ Then he said that he was going to kill me.”

“A lot of children say things like that.”

Billy lifted his face and revealed that tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks. “But he means it, Mr. Tibbs. He told me that he was coming to get me.”

He stopped to be sure that everyone understood.

“He said that he was going to kill me.” The tears came now in a torrent. “He said that he had taken his father’s gun, and that he had it with him.”

Virgil Tibbs knew, to his sorrow, that such a thing was entirely possible. He hoped fervently that it was not the case this time, but he could not afford to take any chances. “May I use the phone?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hotchkiss answered him. “If you would like privacy, there’s an extension in my den.” He got quickly to his feet, showed him the way, and then carefully closed the door of the study behind him as he left.

The atmosphere in the living room remained still and tense until Virgil reappeared. “I’ve made some arrangements,” he announced. “Officer Rothberg is going to remain here with you for a little while if you don’t mind. I think it’s desirable.”

“So do I,” Hotchkiss agreed.

“After I find out where he lives I’m going over to see the McGuire boy; it’s getting close to the dinner hour and I expect that will bring him home. As soon as I have any definite information, I’ll phone you here.”

“Let me give you the number,” Hotchkiss volunteered, reaching for his wallet.

“I already have it, thank you. Officer Rothberg will be responsible in the meantime; I suggest that you follow any instructions that he may give you.”

“We will,” Estelle Hotchkiss promised.

When Mike McGuire arrived home that evening he was in a dark and silent mood. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly and then returned to sit wrapped in his own thoughts in the small living room. When his wife came to tell him that his dinner was ready and waiting, he responded mechanically. As she set his plate in front of him he did not even appear to see his food. “Where’s Johnny?” he asked.

“He went out to play,” Maggie answered. “He hasn’t come back yet.”

The two of them sat down to the business of eating, but there was no sense of companionship and no attempt at conversation. Maggie had no idea what might be wrong, but ten years of marriage to this man had taught her not to probe. She waited several minutes for him to break the silence. “I don’t like the kid bein’ out like this,” he said at last. “He oughta be home eatin’ his dinner.”

“He can’t be long,” Maggie said. “He’s usually always here when he should be.”

“He come home from school all right?” Mike asked.

She nodded. “He stayed a little while and then went out again.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

Mike pondered for a moment. “Probably the Angels lost. He’s nuts about that ball team.”