“That’s not mine,” he stammered. “You can’t prove it’s mine.”
“I’m not the police,” I said. “I don’t care if you were drinking on the job, although the parents of your passengers might have something to say about that. But we’re about a hundred yards from where Darleen Hicks’s lunch box was found. Now, do you want to tell me the truth or would you rather I have a talk with your dispatcher about the flat tire?”
He thought about it, probably wondering if I might really rat him out. In the end, he chose to play it safe and admitted the bottle was his.
“If I were to dig around here, would I find more empties?”
He hung his head and grunted yes.
I gazed up at the snow hills again, gauging their height. The tallest peaks were easily fifteen or twenty feet high. Could a sixty-year-old drunk scale the hills carrying a girl over his shoulder? I doubted it, but Gus Arnold was a large man. And what about the lunch box? It seemed possible that he could have lost track of it while scrambling over slippery snow.
“Did you climb through the hills that day?” I asked, just to cover my bases.
“Are you crazy? Of course not. I don’t have any reason to climb over the hills.”
He sounded sincere, but how could I be sure?
I looked back to where I’d found the empty bottle, and I realized I hadn’t considered the woods properly. They bordered the hills, with the snow piled right up against the trees. I made my way over to the nearest thicket and waded in a few feet. One could easily weave through the woods and reach the other side, I figured. Sure, the path was tight with sharp, brittle branches to navigate, but it seemed possible. Certainly easier than carrying a body over the snow hills.
“And you didn’t go through the woods either?”
“No. I sat in the bus drinking till the bottle was gone. I was here twenty or thirty minutes. Why do you got to ask me such things?”
“It’s not an accusation,” I said.
“I didn’t kill that little girl,” he said. “I swear I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else here that day? Another car, perhaps?”
He shook his head firmly. “I didn’t see no one.”
“What can I do for you today, Miss Stone?” asked Arnold Dienst, leaning toward me at his large, oak desk. Some Stravinsky pulsed at a low but distinct volume from a hi-fi in a wooden cabinet behind him. I recognized the “Concerto in D for Strings”; my father was an admirer of Stravinsky’s, and I knew this piece well, having heard it countless times since it was first recorded in the late forties. The first movement sounded like the score to a suspense film.
“Do you like Stravinsky, Dr. Dienst?” I asked.
He mugged an expression of mild satisfaction. “I think the better question is how is it that you know Stravinsky?”
I blushed, now wishing I hadn’t mentioned it. Yes, I had been showing off a little. “Never mind. I meant to ask if you found this music conducive to your work here. It’s not always soothing.”
“I find modern music stimulating and inspirational. That creates a peaceful satisfaction in my mind, no matter how frenetic or dissonant the music. I conduct therapy sessions with the boys once a week, always with music playing. Everything from Webern to Schoenberg, Janacek, Hindemith, Ravel. And if I want to pander to the boys’ tastes, I play something they’ll like. Copland, for instance.”
“Really? They go for Copland?”
He pondered my question for a moment, possibly reconsidering his choice of words. Perhaps “like” was an exaggeration.
“Yes,” he granted reluctantly, “the boys would probably rather listen to their rock-around-the-clock music.”
Dr. Dienst noticed my grin despite my best efforts to swallow it. He smiled awkwardly, covering his large teeth with his stretched lips, but his eyes betrayed a vague awareness that he’d said something wrong.
“Do the boys like the modern music you play?” I asked, wanting to put him back at his ease. I was certain I knew the answer.
“They hate it, of course,” he said with a good-natured smile that parted his lips and showed the long teeth he’d been trying to hide moments before. “But the music provokes strong emotional responses in them without the accompanying physical violence. I believe that to be a salubrious exercise.”
“What about Joey Figlio? How does he react to Stravinsky?”
Dienst sat back in his chair and rocked, aiming his penetrating stare at me, trying to understand what made me tick. His wasn’t a lecherous gaze but a curious one.
“Joey Figlio sticks his fingers into his ears,” he said. “And when he’s feeling particularly industrious, he plugs his ears with wads of paper.”
He watched me a while longer, as the energetic first movement ended and gave way to the lighter second.
“Why are you here, Miss Stone?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Darleen Hicks,” I said.
“Yes, I get that. But you’re talking to me about Stravinsky and beating around the bush. I know you’re not in love with Joey Figlio, as he claimed in court. So what exactly do you want, Miss Stone?”
Dienst was a smart man. He’d seen through my circling and stalling, the conversational chairs I’d upended as diversions to trip and delay him while I worked my way around to asking the real questions. A cheap tactic on my part, to be sure, and not particularly clever. Sometimes outright flirting worked better. But with a man like Arnold Dienst, my charms—such as they were—and trickery proved equally ineffective.
“What I really want is to search Joey Figlio’s belongings,” I said finally. “I think he may have messages or notes from Darleen Hicks in his possession. They may provide clues as to what happened.”
“This may be a reformatory, Miss Stone,” he said with a gentle smile, “but we try to respect the privacy of our boys to the extent possible. Now, if you were to obtain a warrant from a court of law, we would, of course, comply. But I cannot let you root through Joey Figlio’s possessions.”
That’s the answer I’d expected and why, frankly, I had been beating around the bush. But I hoped Dienst still might provide some kernel of information for me.
“Joey Figlio had a handwritten note, addressed to Darleen from a man named Ted. He was hiding it somewhere here at Fulton, and he gave it to Frankie Ralston to give to me.”
Dienst swiveled toward the window and looked off into the distance as the third movement began, buzzing like wasps. He rocked in his chair.
“The last time you were here, Miss Stone, you asked me to search Joey Figlio’s belongings as well.” I said nothing. It wasn’t a question. “When he left the facility without permission and stole your car, I felt it was justified under the circumstances.”
“You felt what was justified?” I asked.
He swung his chair around, folded his hands on the desk before him, and looked me in the eye. “I searched his room and locker,” he said. “While he was missing and then again when I brought him back here after the hearing. I needed to be sure he wasn’t bringing contraband into the school.”
“Contraband?” I asked.
“Cigarettes, alcohol, chewing gum, soda pop, weapons. I believe that in order to cure the juvenile delinquent, we must nourish the body and mind. A boy must be provided a nutritious diet, or he will make no progress toward rehabilitation and, in fact, will recidivate. That means no candy or smoking or fizzy soft drinks here. We only allow drinks such as wheatgrass, carrot, and orange juice. Milk, of course, though I’m trying to replace it with yogurt. And distilled water. No chlorination permitted in our diet here. And I believe margarine is superior to butter in every way.”
“Not taste,” I said.
“No, not taste,” he granted with a disapproving look. “I met the violinist Yehudi Menuhin in Switzerland three years ago, and he impressed upon me the benefits of the vegetarian lifestyle and yoga. No meat has passed my lips since that month in Gstaad. Of course, the board of directors here insists
that we provide meat to the boys, but I have faith that one day I’ll win them over, once the research proves the benefits of a meatless diet.”
“And the yoga?” I asked.
“I haven’t been able to find a yogi anywhere north of Greenwich Village, I’m afraid. But I’ll keep searching.”
“I’m sure the boys appreciate these efforts,” I said, scolding myself silently for cracking wise with such an earnest man.
“One would think,” he said. “But not really. I instituted the new regimen when I arrived two years ago. Meat only on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. Fish on Friday—we have our share of Catholic boys,” he said in a dramatized whisper, which included cupping his large hand to one side of his equally large mouth. “But I feel that fish is a healthful option, religious edicts aside. And the rest of the week we serve vegetarian fare.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When you searched Joey Figlio’s belongings, did you find anything interesting?”
“No poems, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”
“I’m casting a wide net,” I said. “I’m interested in anything that little JD might have squirreled away under his mattress.”
“There was nothing written at all,” said Dienst. “As I’ve said before, I’m not entirely convinced he knows how to read and write.”
I cocked my head. “But there was something.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Miss Stone,” he said just as the Stravinsky came to an end. The needle scratched round and round, bumping against the paper label. Dienst stood and switched off the hi-fi. “There was nothing out of the ordinary. Just his dirty clothes, a transistor radio—stolen, surely—twenty-three cents, and his thermos bottle.”
“He brought back a thermos, or was it already here?” I asked.
Dr. Dienst looked alarmed. Had he overlooked an important detail? “It was already among his things when he escaped and stole your car,” he mumbled. “Just a run-of-the-mill thermos bottle. Red-and-black plaid.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dr. Dienst called Frank Olney to give him the news. I watched him silently as he clutched the receiver tightly in his hand, explaining how he had discovered the thermos among Joey’s possessions.
“Miss Stone says the girl’s mother mentioned a missing thermos from the lunch box you found in the snow,” said Dienst. “I thought it wise to inform you immediately in the unlikely event that Joey has the girl’s thermos and not his own.”
Frank said something on the other end of the line, and Dienst nodded. “Of course. I’ll confiscate it immediately and hold it here until you arrive.”
He replaced the receiver and gave me a sheepish shrug.
While Dienst’s went to recover the thermos, I waited outside his office and reviewed the new information in my head. By his own admission, Joey Figlio had been caught in the Metzger barn by Darleen’s stepfather well after dark on the evening she’d disappeared. He was—seemingly—in possession of her missing thermos. A thermos Irene Metzger had filled and placed in her daughter’s lunch box that very morning. Did that mean Joey Figlio was a killer? He’d threatened me twice with a knife and left me to die on a frozen stretch of desolate county highway. And he’d definitely tried to murder Ted Russell. He was a deeply disturbed boy, at least by my reckoning, and I had no doubts he could kill. But could he kill Darleen? Did he love her as much as he claimed? And would that even matter? Perhaps his love justified murder in his twisted mind. He had written on the back of his photograph that if he couldn’t have Darleen, no one else would. I recalled the envelope in Darleen’s locker. The one with the money, the phony driver’s license—a good enough forgery to get the underage girl married—and the letter from Wilbur Burch, outlining their plans for a secret and illegal elopement to Arizona. If Joey Figlio had learned of the plan, could he have carried out his threat and killed the girl he loved? I wasn’t sure, but the pallor of Dr. Arnold Dienst’s large, horselike face told me where his worst fears lay.
“It is you!” a voice startled me from behind. “I knew you’d come.”
“Frankie,” I said. “You nearly scared me to death.”
“I could never do that, Ellie. I’m in love with you.”
“Stop it, Frankie. You’re not in love with me. And I’m not here to see you. I came about Joey.”
“You’re not in love with him, are you?” he asked. “That’s what he’s been telling everyone ever since he got back. ‘I’m in love with Joey Figlio,’” he said in a falsetto voice and made an accompanying cross-eyed, palsied gesture to indicate some form of besotted infatuation. I couldn’t be sure if the pantomime was meant to ape Joey or me.
“I’m not in love with him or you, Frankie,” I said, and that appeased him.
“Well, good,” he said. “I don’t mind if you don’t know you love me yet, but if you were in love with him, I’d kill that backstabbing son of bitch, I swear it. I’d kill him for you.”
“Cool your jets, space cadet,” I said. “And mind your language. You’re not killing anybody. Besides, Joey has bigger worries than threats from you just now. The sheriff's on his way, probably to arrest him on suspicion of Darleen Hicks’s murder.”
“I doubt it,” he said, staring into my eyes. “Joey lit out about an hour ago. Said this place wasn’t going to stop him from slitting that teacher’s throat.”
“One of the boys told Joey that Miss Stone was here talking to me,” Dienst said to Frank Olney. We were all three sitting in the principal’s office, reviewing the events of the past two hours. “That spooked him, the boy said. Joey suspected her visit somehow spelled bad news for him, and he escaped the school grounds.”
“Check the backseat of my car,” I said, and Frank glowered at me.
“This isn’t the time for humor, Ellie,” he said.
“Who’s joking? Check the backseat of my car. I’m not leaving here until someone assures me he’s not lying in wait for me.”
“The thermos looks like it was Darleen’s,” said Frank, ignoring my pleas. “I’ve sent a deputy over to the Metzger place with it for the mother to confirm, but I think it’s the one. Now we’re going to have to locate this Joey Figlio. Any idea where he might run?”
Dienst shrugged. “His parents’ house, perhaps?”
“He doesn’t get along with his father,” I volunteered. “Although he is close to his mother. But I doubt he’ll go there. Too obvious.”
“Then where do you think we should look?” asked Frank.
“I already told you. My car.”
“Okay,” said Frank, turning back to Dr. Dienst. “We’ll inspect Miss Stone’s car then we’ll go from there. We know he’s after the teacher, Russell, so we’ll post a deputy at the junior high and at his house in Cranesville. Joey’s not the smartest criminal I’ve come across. Maybe we’ll nab him sooner rather than later.”
“And you promised to watch my place,” I said to admonish him. “Last Sunday, remember?”
“Yes, we’ll make sure you’re safe,” said Frank with impatience. “I’ve already asked Chief Finn if his boys could help, and he said he’d police his own town.”
“That’s comforting,” I said.
“Take it easy. He might be a goon, but he’s not going to put up with trouble in his backyard. He’ll gripe about it and make a show about not doing anything, but I guarantee the city police are keeping an eye on you.”
Feeling no more confident of my safety, I let it go. Frank called the DA, the Thin Man, Don Czerulniak, to ask for some advice. Don suggested questioning the boy if he was found, but not to arrest him yet.
“Prove to me that she’s dead,” Don told Frank, “and find this little delinquent. Then we’ll talk about an arrest.”
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 11, 1961
The temperatures continued to defy the season, with the mercury reaching fifty-six degrees on the giant thermometer outside the Mohawk Savings Bank. I had an 8:30 meeting with Charlie Reese
to review some stories he’d assigned me, including the one on Teddy J. There was a home game Friday night, which I was scheduled to cover, and I promised I’d drop in on a practice before then to finish up the feature.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to tell you, Ellie,” Charlie said, adjusting himself in his seat. “Artie Short managed to wire George and intercept him at St. Louis. He’ll be back late tomorrow night.”
“Well, we knew it was too good to last,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“It sure was a lucky thing that you didn’t publish that story on the bus ticket,” he said, and I nodded. “Otherwise, it might have been you on that bus to Arizona.”
Charlie stared at me for a long while, holding my gaze with his. I think he wanted to accuse me of concealing information, but he didn’t dare. I thought about my pact with Frank Olney, that we’d agreed to keep the unused ticket and the love note from Ted Russell secret for the time being. But now I was in danger of missing my own scoop. I wasn’t listening to Charlie suddenly but was planning my discussion with the sheriff: the one where I would tell him I needed to publish my story whether he wanted me to or not. I had a job to do, just as he did, and I hoped my decision wouldn’t damage our relationship; I needed the sheriff on my side.
“Ellie?” asked Charlie, pulling me back into the room.
“Yes?”
“I said fine. You don’t have to cover the Laundromat ribbon-cutting. I’ll find someone else. But finish up that Teddy J. story for me. It’ll help keep Short off my back.” He looked me in the eye again. “And yours.”
“I’ve already blown the entire year’s snow budget on this thing,” grumbled Frank Olney. “And we haven’t towed off even a quarter of the stuff.”
I was in his office, a little past ten, sipping a cup of tea across the table from him.
“You haven’t found any trace of her there?” I asked.
“We recovered a pair of gloves in the snow last night,” he said. “Dark-blue wool gloves. Darleen’s mother says they’re hers. The father’s not sure.”
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