“How old are you, Joey?” I asked.
“Fifteen. Sixteen in May. I got held back in the third grade. How old are you, Ellie?”
Joey Figlio had no concept of propriety. He lacked discretion and placed no limitations on his speech. He would boldly ask you uncomfortable questions or bare his soul without invitation, no matter how personal or unwanted the information was. He was a naïf, a child—and perhaps a slow-witted one—fiercely proud of his high passions and unafraid to cut off his nose to spite his face, as my mother used to say. I couldn’t decide if he was retarded or wildly intelligent, but he had a flair for theatrics.
“I understand you write poetry,” I said. “Would you show me your poems about Darleen?”
“I asked you how old you are,” he repeated.
“Twenty-four,” I answered tentatively. “Now about your poetry. Would you show it to me?”
“No,” he said. “That’s private between me and Darleen.”
“I won’t tell anyone, promise. I love poetry. Maybe I could give you a critique.”
He just stared at me, his eyes almost dead, emotionless. He was truly odd.
“When did you last see Darleen?” I asked, changing gears.
“That’s two questions in a row,” he said.
“You can ask me one next. When did you last see Darleen?”
“The last time was about a month ago. They sent me up here on December fifth.”
I tried to look him in the eye, but he was focused on something else again.
“I heard you broke out of here the day before she disappeared. Did you see her then?”
“My turn. What kind of car do you drive?” he asked.
Okay, I knew the drill now.
“A Dodge Royal Lancer. Red and black,” I said. “Did you see Darleen during the two days you were on the lam?”
“Yeah, I saw her. I was lying to you. I hitchhiked to New Holland then took a bus over to the South Side and walked five miles to Darleen’s place. Hid out in her stepfather’s barn for two nights before that old crank caught me. But Darleen brought me some beef and macaroni before that. It sure was good, but not enough. They don’t give us beef here. How did you manage to get such a nice car? Is your dad rich or something?”
That took me by surprise. Just the mention of my father could still knock the wind out of me. I tried to bury it. “Company car,” I croaked. “Did you see her the day she disappeared?”
“Where do you live?”
“I’m not telling you that. You seem to be quite good at slipping your jailers here, and I don’t have any beef and macaroni to offer you. Besides, it’s my turn to ask the question. Did you see her the day she disappeared?”
He thought a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I saw her. She came to the barn and gave me some bread and butter and milk, then she said she had to go. She said she’d bring me some gum or something from Canajoharie. Of course, she never came back. Then her father caught me about eight o’clock that night and called the cops. They brought me back here. You got a boyfriend or are you married?”
“Neither. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary that day? Was Darleen upset about anything?”
“She was okay, in a good mood. Nothing strange, except that weird neighbor of hers.”
“Bobby Karl?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“What about him?” I asked, realizing I’d just managed two questions in row.
“He was watching her from the fence when she went to catch her bus. I don’t think Darleen knew he was there, but I saw him. His shadow anyways.”
Then he asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend.
“You’re pretty,” he said. “Are you some kind of prude or something?”
“I have dates, but no one steady,” I answered. Prude, indeed. “Did Darleen ever mention this Bobby Karl to you?”
“Lots of times. She said he stared at her a lot from across the fence. One time, when her ma gave her a haircut, Darleen said he stole some of her hair before she could sweep it up. She saw him through the screen door as he was taking it.”
I remembered the lock of hair tied up with yellow ribbon that I’d seen on Bobby Karl’s queer collage and wondered if it might have been Darleen’s.
Before leaving, I had a word with the principal, Dr. Arnold Dienst, about Joey Figlio. Dienst was a tall man of about fifty, with an equine face and large, probing eyes, homely but kind. Dienst told me Joey was an unusual boy, even for Fulton.
“He’s a loner. Hasn’t bonded with any of the boys here at the school. And he won’t take any tests, so we don’t know anything about his intelligence, though I suspect he’s an imbecile, perhaps even an idiot.”
“I heard he writes poetry,” I said. “Do you know if he keeps it here?”
“That’s news to me,” said Dienst. “I’m not sure he knows which side of a pencil to write with, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“Can you search his belongings for it?”
“That’s rather irregular, Miss Stone. What do you hope to find anyway?”
I said I didn’t know. “He won’t tell me much. I was thinking maybe his poetry might be more illuminating.”
Dienst scribbled something into a pad on his desk, squinting sideways to focus better as he wrote. His eyeglasses must have been for distance, not reading.
“I can’t search his things without good cause. But if anything were to come to light, I would reconsider the question,” he said.
“What did he do to land up here anyway?” I asked.
“The first time he stole a car,” said the principal, whose nameplate identified him as a PhD. He struck me as a caring, intelligent man. How had he ended up in this forsaken backwater? “Then he started a fire somewhere or other. Thankfully, no one was hurt. I’d like to bring him out of his shell, but he’s resisting me. Some specialists have recommended electric shock therapy, but I am not a believer in such barbaric methods. I prefer a more humanistic approach. That’s where I disagree strongly with the board here. They’re either for corporal punishment or psychotherapy. The causes of juvenile delinquency and its treatment are both poorly understood, even in the institutions and research centers across the country. It’s not a facile matter of beating discipline and good behavior into a child. Nor should we be tempted to spare the rod in the name of progress. Some juvenile delinquents are born, but I suspect many more are made. And I believe the child can ultimately decide for himself what behavior is most advantageous to him, provided we give him that opportunity. What’s sure, at any rate, is that a child gone wrong is never a lost cause. That’s why we encourage arts and crafts, music, and education here at Fulton.”
“That’s progressive,” I said. “Have you observed positive results in your students? Is it working?”
Dienst smiled and shook his head. “It’s not so simple. We have thieves, arsonists, forgers, what have you. Even sexual deviants. That’s a problem exacerbated by grouping teenage boys together with no outlet for their sexual urges. Sex is, after all, a normal human function. But we must guard against perversion and unhealthy behaviors.”
Why was he telling me this? All I’d asked was if it was working.
“Each case is different, you see,” he continued. “So to formulate conclusions and categorize them so broadly and vaguely as success or failure is a sophistic exercise.”
I took that as a no.
“Do you know anything about what Joey Figlio did when he escaped?” I asked, deciding not to share my other thoughts.
Dr. Dienst harrumphed. “Which time?”
I retrieved my camera and billfold from the guard, then braced myself at the door, pulled my collar tight, and made a dash for my car. The cold hit me like a slap, stinging my eyes and blistering my lips. I heard the guard laughing at me as I hurried through the snow, but at least I didn’t slip. The car door handle crackled stiffly from the frost but opened after two sharp yanks, and I ducked inside. The Dodge groaned to life, and I rubbed my gloved h
ands together for warmth before gunning the engine and driving off. I wanted to shake the dust of the Fulton Reform School from my heels as soon as possible. Depressing hole. Plus, the faster you drive, the sooner the heat kicks in.
I swung onto Kendall Road and headed toward Route 5, about six miles ahead. My City Desk meeting was at 11:00, and my watch showed 10:40. No problem, I thought. Plenty of time. And I had a good trick ready for Georgie Porgie, too: a clever scheme involving George’s new Pontiac and three boxes of wet cotton balls. He’d be driving around in a white cloud until the spring thaw. I had a good chuckle just thinking about it. Then I felt something cold on the right side of my neck. And it was sharp.
“Just keep driving,” said the voice behind me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I gasped and nearly drove off the road, but a hand slipped around my clavicle and held me steady. Once I’d come down from the ceiling, I began panting furiously, my mind careering in search of an out. The pressure on my throat caused me to gag, and my passenger ordered me to stay calm. Why hadn’t I locked my doors? Better still, why had I taunted a pack of poorly supervised juvenile delinquents? I pictured myself plunging over the shoulder of the road in a spectacular, fiery, cartwheel of doom, coming to a tortuous, painful end: me slumped over the steering wheel, my jugular sliced clear through, as the car eventually scraped slowly to a halt against a snow bank beside the road. I knew without looking that it was that mutant, Frankie Football Mustache, holding the blade to my throat.
Imagine my relief when I glanced in the rearview mirror and discovered that my stowaway was actually Joey Figlio and not Frankie or one of his inbred chums.
Employing an abundance of caution and attention to his feelings, and staring straight down the icy road as I drew deep, calming breaths, I asked Joey to take the shank away from my neck.
He eased the pressure slightly and informed me that it was a knife, not a shank.
“Where would I get a shank?” he asked. “I took a knife from the cafeteria.”
“Take it off my neck, Joey!”
He complied but then told me to pull over up ahead.
“Pull over? What for?”
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to steal your car.”
I told him I had no intention of pulling over, and he stuck the knife against my neck again, this time a little harder. I sensed it was only a butter knife, but he could still cut my throat with it.
“Pull over now,” he said and he meant it.
I rolled to a stop and yanked the parking brake.
“Now get out,” said Joey.
I reeled around to look at him, sure that he was joking. But he looked annoyed.
“Come on, hurry up,” he said, shooing me with his free hand. “I got to get out of here.”
The heater had just started working its magic, so I wasn’t keen on leaving the warmth of the car.
“It’s ten degrees outside,” I said, but he wasn’t moved.
He climbed over the seat from the back and landed next to me with a heavy bounce. Before I could react, he’d reached past me and pushed open the door, inviting a blast of arctic air inside. Then, the rotten little thug shoved me out onto the ground. The very cold, hard ground. I rolled a few feet into the road, righted myself, and scrambled back to the car on my knees. I reached out for the door handle, intent on fighting for my warm car, and managed to grab hold of it just as Joey pulled the door shut. The engine roared, louder than I would have imagined possible, and the tires spun on the frozen shoulder, firing gravel and ice like buckshot behind them. The wheels soon found their traction, though, and the car shot forward, taking me with it.
God knows what I was thinking, but I held fast to the door for about twenty yards, skidding along through the frozen slurry of snow, salt, and dirt covering the road, tearing my stockings and skinning my knees as I went. I’d seen plenty of local kids skitching in the frozen streets. After a cold snowfall, they’d lie in wait along the side of the street until a slow-moving car rounded the corner. Then they’d dart into the road, grab the rear bumper, and crouch down low, knees bent, boots skating over the snowy surface. It looked like fun. Too bad I was wearing heels, one of which had fallen off when Joey hit the gas.
Once I’d accepted the bitter fact that Joey had no intention of redressing his ungentlemanly conduct and inviting me back inside, I let go of the door handle and tumbled several rotations before rolling to a stop in the middle of the road. I’d nearly been run over by my own car and had a tire track on the tail of my overcoat and a black scuff on my forearm to prove it. Now, lying on the frozen pavement with only one shoe, torn stockings, and scraped knees, I watched the taillights recede into the white distance, a blowing mist of snow swirling behind my warm car as it disappeared. I dusted myself off and, sitting on my frozen rear end, cursed the little JD who had quizzed me about my driving, asked me the make and model of my car, then stolen it out from under me as if performing a tablecloth trick.
It was bitter cold. I hadn’t seen so much as a barn since driving away from the reform school, let alone a house or a filling station. And the school was at least three miles back. I struggled to my feet and examined the sorry state of my person: bloodied knees soaking through sagging, torn stockings; white gloves tattered and soiled with slush, about a shovelful of which had been forced down my collar as the car dragged me and was now melting down my back; and one broken shoe in the middle of the road some sixty feet behind me. I limped and hopped back down the road to retrieve the shoe, soaking my foot in the process. Then I started to worry about frostbite. I rubbed my right foot furiously, but the sopping stocking meant my efforts were futile. Now my gloves were wet, and my fingers stung from the cold. I sat down beside the road and cursed Joey Figlio.
I huddled in my overcoat for warmth, pulling my head and feet inside, as I debated whether to wait where I sat or hobble three miles ahead to Route 5 and potential salvation. Either way, it was even money that I would die where I sat or somewhere further on up the road. For, make no mistake, if the cavalry didn’t arrive soon, I would freeze to death with one shoe on and one shoe off. My greatest regret was that I wouldn’t be able to drag Joey Figlio to hell with me. I tucked my chin into my chest and shivered, my rear end already turning numb. And then I heard the crunch of rubber tires on frozen snow and the crackle of a two-way radio.
I poked my head out of my coat to see the headlights of a sheriff’s cruiser staring dumbly at me from fifteen feet away. The door popped open, and Stan Pulaski stepped out looking like Randolph Scott climbing off his horse.
“Ellie!” he called once he’d recognized me. “What happened to you?”
I struggled to my feet and limped toward him. He made a move to receive me in his arms, but I tacked to the left and the passenger-side door of his cruiser instead. In a trice, I was inside the humming car, propping my right foot against the heat vent on the floor for warmth.
“What the heck happened?” asked Stan once he’d joined me inside the car.
“God . . . damn . . . Joey . . . Figlio . . . stole . . . my . . . car,” I chattered. “He’s got a ten-minute head start. Go!”
Stan threw the car into gear and swerved into the road, gaining speed as he floored it.
“Sheriff Olney was right to have me follow you,” said Stan, eyes fixed on the straight, white road. “He told you to stay away from Fulton.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “Get on the radio and tell Frank to meet us at the junior high school.”
Stan threw a quick look at me before shifting his attention back to the slippery road. “The junior high? What for?”
“Joey Figlio’s going to kill a music teacher named Mr. Russell if Frank doesn’t get there first.”
Stan plucked the mic from its perch and radioed headquarters. Pat Halvey answered, chewing on something, and Stan started to explain in cop-talk that a perp was heading south on Kendall Road in a stolen vehicle. I’d heard enough and snatched the mic from his hand.
�
��Pat, this is Ellie Stone. Put Frank on the horn now!” I said.
After a few moments, the sheriff’s booming voice came over the radio.
“What the hell’s going on, Ellie?”
I didn’t have time to explain about my car. I told him to get down to the junior high school before a fifteen-year-old juvenile delinquent killed a music teacher with a butter knife. Frank tried to ask for clarification, but I assured him a man would be dead within twenty minutes if he didn’t move fast.
I replaced the mic in its cradle just as Stan veered onto Route 5 and hit the gas. My right foot was still freezing, despite the heater’s best efforts. Stan’s eyes were still fixed on the road, so I shimmied down in the seat, raised my skirt to mid-thigh, and rolled the right stocking down and off my leg. Then I removed the left one and tossed them both to the floor. Sure enough, Stan stole a glimpse and nearly drove off the road.
“I need a favor from you,” I said to Stan as I examined the scrapes on my knees. Not too bad. They looked worse than they were.
“Anything for you, Ellie,” he said, glancing again at my bare legs.
“When we get to the junior high, give me your gun. I’m going to shoot Joey Figlio between the eyes.”
We skidded to a stop in front of the junior high school fifteen minutes later. Three county cruisers and four city black-and-whites surrounded the building’s exits. My red-and-black Dodge was sitting innocently next to the main entrance on Division Street, the driver’s side door opened wide with four cops milling about, doing little more than freezing in the cold.
“I see you’ve found my car,” I said to be friendly. They just stared at me quizzically. “The kid stole my car,” I explained. “This is it. I’d like to take it when I’ve finished here.”
“You’ll have to talk to the chief, Miss Stone,” said one of the men in blue. I’d seen him a few times before. Tall and nice looking. I’ve got a thing for cops.
“You know my name?” I asked.
He smiled. “Your press card is in the glove box.”
Inside the school, I found Frank Olney and Patrick Finn, New Holland police chief, holed up with the ancient principal, Clarence Endicott, Louis Brossard, and a fifth man I didn’t know. Frank acknowledged me from across the room with a short nod then turned his attention back to the conference. I was waiting quietly near the door for the huddle to break, when the secretary, Mrs. Worth, motioned for me to join her at her desk.
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