The Thanatos Syndrome

Hugh Bob, shoot him in the head?”
    â€œJust his ear,” says the uncle, not displeased.
    â€œWhat in the hell—check that shotgun, Huval,” he says to the younger, balder deputy.
    Huval checks the Purdy. “Two shells, one recently fired.”
    â€œWhere else did you shoot him?” asks the sheriff, moving the game table back and stepping past Mrs. Cheney to get a good look at Coach.
    â€œHi, Cooter,” says Mrs. Cheney, giving him a pat as he passes.
    â€œDid that man shoot you?” he asks Coach.
    Coach pooches his lips in and out and says, “Hoo hoo hoo.”
    â€œThis sucker has brain damage,” muses the sheriff. “Thanks to you, Hugh.”
    Across the table, Mr. Brunette begins to stamp with one foot.
    â€œWhat in the hell did you do to him, Hugh Bob?”
    â€œI had to shoot him,” says the uncle, beginning to hop again. “He was coming at me and he would have gotten away.”
    â€œWhat—in—the—hell—” begins the sheriff, turning first to me, then, thinking better of it, beseeches Van Dorn, who is still sitting, rocking to and fro, on the top step.
    â€œSheriff Sharp,” I say, rising, “I can explain everything. But right now I really think it would be a good idea if you would arrest all these people, examine the evidence, both these photographs and Dr. Lipscomb’s medical evidence of abuse before any more children are harmed, in which case I hold you responsible. In fact, I insist on it.”
    The sheriff slowly rounds on me, stepping clear of the table— Mrs. Cheney gives him another pat as he passes—plants feet apart, hand on hips. “You demand of me.” He cups an ear. “Doctor, did I hear you say that you demand of me?”
    â€œI didn’t say demand.” Now he does look straight at me, all the Western cantering-posse geniality suddenly sloughed—we’re back to his old, flat-eyed, bulged-vein sheriff’s anger. He hates my guts! We’re back in the sixties, where we’ve always been, he the true Southerner, I the fake Southern liberal—the worst kind. He could be right.
    â€œLet me just remind you, Doctor, of two little facts, one of which you may be aware of, the other you are evidently not.”
    â€œAll right.” Nothing is more menacing than an old-style, soft-voiced Southern sheriff.
    â€œYou’re the felon here, Doctor, not them, you heah me? You’re the one I arrested and convicted two years ago of selling drugs. You the one went to jail, not them. Two.” He holds two not fat but big and long fingers in my face. “I have a telex in my office as of last night from the ATFA people to pick you up on the parole violation. You heah me, Doctor?” The cold rage of lawmen is never not present and never less than astounding. I’ve never seen even enraged paranoiacs get as angry as policemen. Slowly he folds his fingers, making a fist with a Masonic ring as big as a brass knuckle. He could easily hit me. Slowly the fist descends until his thumb hooks on to his Texas belt. “So I tell you what let’s me and you do, Doctor. Let’s you and me go on out to my car and go up the road a piece to Angola. Then we’ll see about your old friend Hugh Bob here and take care these other good people—if I can find out what you done to them.”
    â€œSheriff, I ask you for the last time and in your own best interests to arrest these people and hold them at least for investigation. Otherwise I fear I know what is going to happen. As for the warrant to pick me up, I’ve already been to Angola and am presently out on a pass. If you like, please call Warden Elmo Jenkins in the federal detention unit.”
    â€œIf I like—You fear—You mocking me?” Smiling, he comes close. He hates everything I do. He hates my seriousness more than sass, the hatefulness translating into a kind of familiarity. He comes up close as a lover, actually touching me with his stomach, like an enraged coach bumping an umpire—but more erotically. “If I like—I’ll tell you what I like, Doctor. I’d like it if you would get going right through that door.” He reaches for the door.
    â€œWhoa!” says the uncle, not attempting to block the sheriff at the door but craning past him. “Look ahere, Cooter,” says the uncle, hopping from one foot to the other. “Let me tell