by W. H. Clark
“I’m fine, Helen. Thanks. It’s just… I need to finish.”
McNeely said, “Finish the case?”
Newton said, “Just finish. I don’t know.”
“We’ll catch this guy. Don’t we always?” And McNeely realized what she had said a moment too late. She cringed inside and looked at Newton, who just stared at the board and said nothing. McNeely said “fuck it” over and over in her head. And then Newton turned to McNeely and said, “Yes, we will,” and he walked over to the door, grabbed his coat from the stand, and strode out of the station, leaving McNeely standing there, searching the evidence board for something. Anything.
50
Ward read his notebook and scratched at his head with his good hand. The swelling on his Troy-damaged hand had gone down but the bruising was coming out and Ward grimaced when he noticed it as he turned pages. He had scribbled notes down from his meeting with Larsson and he looked for his next move. Decided it would be to talk to the crazy old man who’d witnessed something. Something strange. It was a long time ago and he didn’t expect to get anything from him but he hadn’t a great deal else to do and his suspension meant he had to follow the quiet leads that wouldn’t get noticed.
He called Newton and got the address. Newton had the case memorized and knew everyone who had provided a statement by name and address. He gave him the Novak address too. Newton was on his way driving somewhere but he didn’t say where. Ward didn’t press him. He just grabbed his hat and coat and hurried out to his car. They’d taken his badge and weapon but the car was his own. He was grateful for that.
He drove the few miles out to where Ryan Novak had lived unhappily with his parents and grandpa. He stopped in front of the house and a gust of wind blew a spiral of tiny snow crystals around the car and up into the sky, which was so low it seemed to crowd out daylight. A decent snowfall would lighten things a little from the ground upwards at least. The car’s headlights shone upon the house and showed it to be empty and the wooden shell was bleached out like a skeleton left out in the desert. The place looked bandaged up in parts and the front screen door slapped sluggishly at its frame. An ancient realtor’s sign leaned untidily against a cherry tree which had forgotten its leaves and looked like it yearned for sunlight and warmth. The screeching sound of the tree’s trunk rubbing against the signpost seemed like a keen for the little boy who had planted it.
Then Ward thought he saw someone looking through one of the windows and he straightened up in his seat. But as soon as he had seen them they disappeared. He stepped out of the car and opened the scabbed front gate to the property and he walked up to the house. A gust of wind tried to take his hat but he hung on to it and peered through the window where he thought he’d seen somebody but the room was empty save for dusty memories of the previous occupants. He walked around the outside of the house and looked through all the windows but saw nothing. Then, from inside the house, he heard a bang. Sounded like a door slamming shut. He scuttled around to where he thought the sound had come from but the door was open. Again he checked all the rooms but all the doors were open. He shook out a shiver and returned to the car.
The crazy man’s house was a half mile away – four streets and a couple of acres of scrub wasteland and scattered pines. The house stood alone on the quiet street, set back from the roadside and a thicker collection of planted trees shielded it left and right but opened up to the road at the front like a theater curtain. The field of vision to the road was narrow but somebody positioned in one of the two front windows would get a good view of any activity outside the house even when the deciduous trees were in full leaf. And somebody did today. Ward saw a figure at the window. He climbed out of the car and walked past the realtor’s sign that told that the house had been sold and he stepped slowly up to the front door. Before he could knock, a woman of forty or some years appeared at the door.
The woman said, “Can I help you there?” Her voice was snatchy but amiable.
Ward said, “Well, maybe you can and I appreciate any help you can give me. I’m looking for a Mitch—” Before he could say the last name she said it for him.
“Filmore. That’s my father.”
“Would Mr. Filmore be—”
“Should say was my father. He passed this last year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, sir. Say, who are you?”
“Sorry, I’m Ward. Detective. And this sure was a long shot and I’m sorry to have taken your time. Again, condolences for your loss.” He turned to walk back towards his car.
“Only time police have been to this house was when the little boy was missing.”
Ward turned.
“Come in, detective.”
He followed her into the house and he saw that her stay was coming to an end. Open, half-packed boxes. Black garbage bags full and tied off and piled up in a corner in the hallway and spilling into another room.
“Just getting rid of a few things. Now it’s sold I got to clean it out. House has been empty since Dad died. Empty apart from all this. He kept things you and me would consider unnecessary clutter.”
In the main living room the old furniture was covered with dust sheets and she pulled back one which concealed a sofa and invited Ward to sit. She sat next to him.
“I lived with him back then. I was his caregiver, you might say. But I had to move away. Heartless as it sounds I couldn’t cope no longer. He was difficult. A handful. You might say crazy. I bet that’s how Detective… Newton described him to you.” She smiled at that and Ward smiled an apology on Newton’s behalf. “I guess you’re looking at the case again. I saw his grandfather died.”
“Yes, we’re taking a fresh look.”
“Well, if I can help, then I will.”
“Do you recall what your father saw that day? I know what it says in the report but I wondered if—”
“I can. In fact, I can do better than just tell you.” She got up and walked over to the pile of garbage bags. “I only just threw them away. Now, which bag was it?” She untied the knot in the top of one of the bags and she fished around inside. “Not this one.” But the second one yielded what she was looking for. A handful of papers. She handed them to Ward and he turned them over one by one. There were drawings on all of them.
“You ask me if he drank, I’d say he favored whiskey, cheaper the better. You ask me if he’d been drinking that night I’d say most likely definitely. Can’t recall a day he didn’t. You ask me if these drawings are the work of a crazy man, I’d have to agree with Detective Newton on that score. All I can do is show you and you make your own mind up.”
Each drawing was a depiction of the same event. The old man, Filmore, had drawn stick figures for people and one of the figures was small and was carried by a taller figure. There were three other figures standing watching. Maybe talking. They were all tall and the old crazy man had drawn them with large heads. Typical alien shape with large eyes. They were standing beside two interstellar vehicles. Spaceships. He had taken colored pens to draw on lights around and underneath the spacecraft. What struck Ward was that neither were in the air, flying. Ward turned to the woman and he smiled.
She said, “Crazy, huh.”
Ward flicked through the pictures. They were all variations on a theme.
“He’d draw them pictures for years after the boy had gone. I would find them and throw them away but I guess he stashed a few.”
Ward said, “These seem to back up his statement at least.”
“Nobody paid him no heed. Probably rightly so. But he was adamant he’d seen what he saw. He would sit in the window and look out most nights while knocking back his drink and he’d fall asleep there and once he was asleep there was no shifting him. He had a big middle and was heavy.” She laughed and Ward laughed with her. “I’d be pleased to help you more but that’s about all there is.”
“No, that’s fine. Really helpful, ma’am.”
“You’re from somewhere down in t
he South, aren’t you?”
“Texas.”
“Don’t you mind the cold?”
“No, ma’am. It’s mostly manageable.”
She nodded. “It mostly is I guess.” She stood and Ward did too.
“Thank you again for your help. Do you mind if I…”
She waved a hand and said, “Take them. They’re yours. If I come across anything more I’ll send them on to you. You can take the rest of these bags while you’re at it if you want.”
Ward smiled and reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad and a pen. He scribbled his phone number down and tore the page and handed it to the woman. “You can get me here.”
She studied the piece of paper. “You have a first name?”
Ward said, “Ward will do. It’s what everybody calls me.”
“Well, Ward, it was nice to meet you.” She held out her hand to shake. Ward shook it gently and his hand passed the test.
“You too.”
As he went back out into the cold her last words followed him.
“He wasn’t loco perdido, you know. He held down a hundred and one jobs. Some for days at a time.” Her smile was infectious and Ward returned to his car with the makings of a grin.
In the car Ward turned the heat on full blast and studied the drawings. Drawings from a crazy old man of an alien abduction. And he got the feeling that this was probably the most significant evidence in the entire case. The only eyewitness account from a crazy old man. He just had to figure out what the hell it meant.
51
Newton pulled up outside Alice White’s house. The place glowed with lights lit in all rooms. He sat there in his vehicle a while and then got out and walked up to the door. He paused. Didn’t want to knock. But he knocked.
It took a few moments for Alice to answer, but when she did there was no surprise on her face. She asked him in.
In the living room there were two cups set out for tea and a plate piled high with cookies. Her own. The house smelled of baking. She poured two cups of tea and Newton took one and sipped. He reached for a cookie and Alice smiled at him. He noticed the tear on her cheek and he wanted to wipe it.
The tea was hot but he knocked back a pill and took a gulp of hot liquid, which seared his throat.
“You seen a back prodder?” Alice White said.
Newton said, “I’ve seen two.”
“Maybe it’s time to try something else. Something more spiritual. I can recommend someone.”
“Maybe some other time. Thank you.”
He sipped the tea and chomped on a cookie and it tasted as sweet as any cookie he’d ever tasted.
“Snow’s coming,” Alice White said.
“I see it,” Newton said.
“It sure is cold.”
“It sure is.”
They sat there without speaking any more words for five minutes. Newton looked at his hands. He looked out the window. Alice sat there and hummed a tune, almost inaudibly. Newton felt he could fall asleep. Alice smiled at him. He smiled back. He took another cookie and ate it in two bites. Alice smiled bigger. Newton stood and went over to the dresser where there were a dozen pictures of children. He picked one up and studied it. He put it down and picked up the photograph album which sat on the bookcase. He flicked through it. He sat down again. Finished off his tea. Alice made to pour some more but Newton held his hand up and he stood.
“Wisht my husband had made your age,” Alice said. “The Lord had other plans for him unfortunately. Your wife is a lucky lady. She knows it. Do you?”
Newton was in the doorway with his back to her. He paused and then turned to briefly look into Alice’s watery eyes and then he left.
Tommy’s Bar was empty apart from two men who looked like they’d been at work but probably hadn’t. Newton ordered a beer and immediately made a call on his cell phone.
The big bear of a man with the full salt-and-pepper beard arrived thirty minutes later after telephone negotiation had failed. Newton hadn’t touched the beer. He’d swiveled the bottle a thousand times and peeled back the label and scrunched it into a perfect ball. And then he’d shaped it into a cube and continued to work at it until his sponsor arrived. But he hadn’t taken a solitary swig. The bartender had eyed him peripherally once or twice. Newton left the bar with the man and then he got in his car and drove off.
The call he got from the warden at the Montana State Prison came as he was driving to nowhere.
52
Ward was surprised that School Principal Leon Taylor at Meriwether Elementary School hadn’t retired or moved on. He was even more surprised to see that he was only in his midfifties. He had taken up the position at the age of twenty-five – the youngest school principal in the county at the time. He greeted Ward with an open hand and an open face. His mop of runaway black hair still strangled out any attempts at grayness. Ward was impressed. He guessed that came from working with kids. Detectives were mainly gray or bald or both by that age. Or dead.
Ward thought he’d seen him before but couldn’t place where.
He heard a classroom singing discordantly as the principal led him down corridors which seemed designed for fairytale dwarves. A miniature world decorated with children’s drawings. A nostalgic smell of crayons colored the air. They passed another classroom and Ward couldn’t help but look inside and he saw small groups of children gathered around tables, all seemingly enthralled by something he couldn’t see. He instinctively placed a hand on his chest, where the tattoo of the little girl sat amongst dragons.
The principal had been in a hurry to talk as fast as he walked.
“In fact we both started here ’round about the same time,” Principal Taylor said. “I’d been here a matter of weeks before. I was on the interview panel. In case you’re wondering we did all the proper checks. I know the history behind the Ryan Novak case and the interest that the police paid to Bill. We knew it was all baloney. Knew it was. Bill was a very popular member of our staff. We got lucky with him, certainly.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He was a good man. More than a janitor. He kept this school running through thick and thin. Never complained. No job was ever too much for him. He was very good with his hands. The place would have fallen apart were it not for Bill. But he was more than that, as I say. He was a part of the school. How can I explain?” He stopped walking and tapped a finger on his lips. “He was always there. First to arrive in the morning. Last to leave at night, no matter how late someone was working. The school really is a community and he was the center of our little universe. It might sound trite but that’s how it was. I wish he was still with us. We all do.”
“Was there anything in his character that might make you uncomfortable about him being around children?”
Principal Taylor stiffened. He got that “now look here” stance but Ward headed him off.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask these questions. I mean no offense to Mr. O’Donnell’s memory.”
“He was fine around children and never gave off any signals that would make anybody doubt that he was suitable to work with them. It’s a ludicrous suggestion.” Ward had managed to take the venom out of that last sentence.
“I understand,” Ward said, and the principal reverted to his demeanor at their initial handshake. The handshake that had made Ward wince.
“He didn’t have any formal education himself. You know he was a woodsman?”
Ward nodded.
“His wife died and he walked out of the woods with his daughter.” And then the principal laughed. “You know, he would take home books. Children’s textbooks. He never asked, just took them. Maybe he was embarrassed. I think he took them to practice his reading and his math.”
Ward said, “How many did he take?”
The principal said, “He took lots. Over a period of three or four years, I guess. Like I said, he always brought them back. I wish he was still here. We could use a man like that with all the building work.�
�
“A new science wing, right?”
“That’s right. We want to introduce science and computing to our pupils at an earlier age. The new facility will be splendid. At the moment it just seems like demolition rather than building.”
“That I see. When do you expect to open the new wing?”
“Next school year, all being well.”
“Did you know Ryan well?”
Principal Taylor’s face slid. “I knew him well. He gave cause for some concern.”
“Concern how?”
“He was a very withdrawn and quiet child.”
“Quiet enough for Social Services to be called?”
“We considered it. But it’s always a tricky business. We try to engage the parents in most cases. Try to get to the bottom of what’s troubling the child. It was always difficult with Ryan’s parents. They were boozers, both. Gee, I feel like I’m speaking ill of the dead here. Let’s just say they didn’t come across as model parents.”
“Okay.”
“It’s hard to know what to say.”
“I think what you’ve said is very helpful.”
“Well, I only hope so. I only hope so.”
Ward wanted to ignore his cell phone and ask a few more questions. Didn’t think he was done. But when he looked he saw that it was Newton, and he excused himself from the principal like a naughty schoolboy and answered.
His farewell to the principal was a nod and then he was almost running to his car as he took Newton’s news.
53
It was a fifty-minute drive and Newton drove.
“I’m suspended. I shouldn’t be here,” Ward said.
“To hell with that,” Newton said. “You’re here as my guest.”
The deputy warden met them and got them signed in. Newton checked in his weapon and took a voucher.
“He spoke to me. Said he had something he’d been meaning to get off his chest for a while. Twenty-five years, in fact. Kinda unusual to get a confession so long after the crime.”