Loonies

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “And by police, you don’t mean Noah?”

  He shook his head. “I wish. He’s not experienced enough to deal with this kind of thing, though. Investigations are not his expertise. Steem and Wickwire are running the show. They’re having a press conference outside the police station later today.”

  She stood and took her bowl to the counter. “And there will be more press than just you? Like when we found the trunk?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Two murders in a week, in a small town like Smokey Hollow. That’s bound to attract some outside attention. The dailies, the wire services, the state TV station, who knows, maybe even news outlets from Boston.” The thought was annoying. This was his town. No one else cared about it. Hell, he barely did. He watched Darcie scrape the remains of her oatmeal into the garbage.

  “You need to be eating well,” he said.

  “I know,” she answered, almost an apology. “Just not this morning. I might go down to Wibbels later and get some fresh fruit.”

  Brian brought his dishes to the sink. He paused and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’re fine.”

  She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “It’s just things seem so rotten in this town all of a sudden.” She opened her eyes, drawing close to him. “And it feels like it’s our fault.”

  “Why would you think like that?” He took her in his arms.

  “If we hadn’t opened that stupid trunk, maybe none of this would be happening.”

  “We can’t change that.” He reflected for a moment. “Besides, maybe it was a good thing we found it, before someone came looking for it.”

  She pulled back, her brow furrowing. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  He hugged her. “Shush. And you know, bad things happened in Smokey Hollow before this. Remember that Timmy Birtch disappeared more than two decades ago. And that rib cage the fisherman found in the pound. They don’t know who that belonged to. And no one is trying to find out.”

  She burrowed against him. “You’re not helping.”

  “I’m just saying, bad things happen, and it’s not because of anything we did.” He stroked her hair. “Now, I have to go to the office and get ready for that press conference. Though I’m not sure what the point will be. Steem isn’t going to say a lot. Hopefully, they will have identified the body. Not that it matters, since I can’t publish anything about it for almost a week. By then, everyone will probably have lost interest.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I wonder how the owners would feel if I suggested turning the paper into a daily.”

  Darcie laughed, and it felt good to hear that sound coming from her, even if it was at his expense. “There isn’t enough news in Smokey Hollow for that,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “There seems to be an awful lot lately.”

  At the office, Brian wrote up a base file for the Town Pound murder story. He had hoped to talk to Noah before the press conference and get some inside information, but Noah was off doing chiefly duties, whatever they were. Before the authorities had taken the body away that night, Brian had asked Noah if they had established an identity once the pillowcase had been removed from the woman’s head. Noah had told him the body was too bloated to be recognizable and that there was nothing on the remains to identify the person.

  He wished he knew some people who were acquainted with Ruth Snethen that he could interview about the woman, in case it was her body, but he didn’t know anybody. He thought he might talk to Leo Wibbels again, since he had handled selling her house. There must be something he knew about her.

  Looking out his office, Brian could see a van from the state TV station setting up in front of the police station. His stomach roiled and he grabbed a bottle of antacid tablets from his top desk drawer, popping a couple in his mouth and crunching them. He washed the chalky remains down his throat with the last of the black coffee in his mug. It was lukewarm, and he stepped out of his office to the coffee maker near the reception area.

  He smiled at Beverly as he poured another cup. In the back, Isaac was pecking away at his keyboard, probably writing about the latest softball-league happenings. A sports reporter Brian could never be. Talk about mundane.

  “Don’t forget this afternoon you’re meeting with Selectman Winch about the Dump Fest,” Bev said, almost as if she were reading his mind and reminding him that his job wasn’t devoid of monotony.

  “Of course,” he said, sipping coffee that burned hot in his mouth.

  He retreated into his office, thinking about the annual festival scheduled for the following weekend. It wasn’t actually held at the dump but on the grounds where the dump had once been, now just an open field on Blackberry Road north of Fogg Lane. It was the town’s big summer celebration, with food, crafts, and carnival-type games and activities. He needed to preview it, and that one definitely had to go on the front page. Dealing with Mrs. Picklesmeir was one thing, but this was run by the town selectmen.

  He sat at his desk and was preparing to head to the press conference when Beverly buzzed him on his extension.

  “What is it, Bev?”

  “I have a call for you.”

  “Who is it? I’m just getting ready to head out.”

  “A woman, but she won’t give her name. She said she needs to talk to you.”

  Needs? Brian thought. Not wants, but needs.

  “Patch her through,” Brian said, curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Hello,” he answered.

  There was a pause on the other end, and he wondered if Beverly had screwed up the transfer, but that wouldn’t be like her. Finally a voice spoke in a hushed tone. “Is this Mr. Keays?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Brian Keays, editor of The Hollow News.”

  “I know that,” the woman said, irritated. “I know what you do; I just wanted to make sure it was you.”

  Brian was annoyed, but knew he had to treat the public with respect. “And who am I speaking with?”

  Again another pause on the other end. Brian kept an eye on the clock. The press conference would be starting soon.

  “Will this conversation be kept private?”

  An odd question he thought at first, till he remembered the notes he had been receiving. Could this be The Silhouette, though he had assumed it was a man?

  “It will be kept private, but I need to know who I am speaking with.” He waited, worried that the woman might hang up.

  “Okay,” she said. “I will take a chance.”

  “Good. You can trust me.”

  “Oh, I don’t trust anybody.” There was fear in the woman’s voice.

  “I need to know your name,” Brian tried not to sound desperate, but he was afraid of losing the woman. He heard a deep breath from the other end of the line.

  “My name is Ruth Snethen.”

  Brian had been certain the body found at the Town Pound was the missing retired nurse, but now he had her on the phone.

  “Is this for real,” he managed.

  “Of course I know who the hell I am,” she spat.

  He was worried he’d lose her. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I—”

  At that he stopped, realizing that he was about to tell her he thought she was dead. But how would she react to that? Not very well, he assumed. “I didn’t think—”

  “I was alive?”

  “N-no,” he stammered. “It’s not that. I just wasn’t expecting –”

  “You thought that was me they found at the Town Pound?”

  He heard a touch of levity in her tone.

  “I don’t know what I thought,” he admitted, throwing in the towel. “It’s been so crazy around here.”

  “Well, it could have easily been me.”

  “Where have you been,” Brian said. “The police are looking for you.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been hiding.”

  “Why?” Though he thought he knew the answer.

&n
bsp; “I’m afraid.” Short and simple.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Can’t you see what’s going on?”

  “Let’s get together and talk,” he said, trying to sound soothing.

  “I don’t know,” she said, hesitant. “I don’t know who to trust.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.” He decided to ask the big question. “What do you know about the trunk I found in your house?” He could hear breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Not on the phone,” she said, her voice hushed. “Someone could be listening.”

  “Can you meet me somewhere?”

  Again, silence. For a second he thought she was gone. Then he heard another breath.

  “Meet me tonight.” She paused. “Alone.”

  “Where?” he said, heart racing. “When?”

  She paused, and he was again afraid she had hung up.

  “Sunset,” she finally answered. “At the old train station.”

  “Okay,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm. “I’ll be there.”

  “And don’t bring anyone with you.” She was emphatic. “I mean it.” He knew she did. He heard fear in her voice.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll—”

  There was a click and the line was dead.

  Brian sank back in his chair, his heart pounding. Wow, he thought. Ruth Snethen was alive and still out there somewhere. He had the urge to tell someone but knew he couldn’t. This was a source he definitely had to keep to himself. He couldn’t even tell Noah, and certainly not Capt. Steem. They hadn’t been able to find her, but he had. Not really. She had found him. But it didn’t matter. She was a big part of the puzzle, and maybe now some of the pieces would fall into place.

  Brian smiled.

  He gathered his camera and notebooks and headed for the door, stopped by his secretary.

  “Who was that?”

  He just smiled at her and left the building.

  On the opposite side of Hemlock Avenue, a small crowd had gathered before a podium set up outside the police station. Half of the crowd was reporters from daily newspapers in the bigger cities. And there were the television crews. The rest of the crowd was curious citizens of Smokey Hollow. Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch stood next to Leo Wibbels. Rolfe Krimmer was near the back, leaning on his Boston Post Cane. Mrs. Picklesmeir stood beside the old man and glared at Brian. Next to her was Jonas Fitchen, the taxidermist. The older woman with the youthful hair Brian had seen around town was there as well, this time wearing a chestnut wig curled to her shoulders. Hale Cullumber stepped out of his pub and leaned against the doorjamb. Brian wondered if the town’s shopkeepers had all closed to hear the press conference.

  Brian heard a hum and saw the man in the motorized wheelchair maneuver down the sidewalk and stop near the front of the crowd. He was wearing his white Panama hat, which on a hot sunny day like this was probably a good idea. Brian already felt sweat beading on his scalp.

  He glanced toward Main Street, his eyes drawn upwards to the hill beyond. Maybe because it was hot and the coffee he’d been drinking had left his throat warm and dry, his gaze fell upon the water tower overlooking the town. Or it could have been that he sensed what he now saw, a figure up on the tower. He could only guess that it was the same man he’d seen on the tower the day he’d visited the Mustard House. It was hard to tell, since the figure was small and indistinguishable in the distance. Once again, the man stood there looking down at the town, so he didn’t give Brian the impression he was a city worker. Maybe he could ask Eldon Winch about the man when he went to interview him about the upcoming Dump Fest.

  The doors to the police station opened, quieting the murmuring onlookers as their attention was drawn to the four men approaching the podium. Capt. Steem stood in front of the microphone. To his right was Sgt. Wickwire; to his left Chief Treece. In the background stood the fourth man, the county attorney.

  Since Ruth Snethen was alive and still in hiding, Brian could pretty much guess who the murdered woman in the Town Pound was. He doubted any of the other reporters had a clue, and that made him smirk.

  Steem’s eyes scanned the crowd as he stood before the podium, a folder of papers in his hand. He seemed to be waiting for the television camera crew to give him his cue before starting. That figures, Brian thought, thinking he’d never get that kind of courtesy.

  Steem cleared his throat, which reverberated in the microphone.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I won’t keep you long.”

  Of course not, Brian said, not really expecting much information. He snapped a couple of pictures of the trio of law enforcement officers and then zoomed in on the captain.

  “As you may be aware,” he continued, “there has been another murder in Smokey Hollow. The body of a middle-aged woman was found inside the Town Pound on Fogg Road.” He paused, looking up from his notes. “The victim’s family has been notified, so we are allowed to release the name. The victim has been identified as Hettie Gritton, who worked as a housekeeper at the Wymbs Institute.”

  There were some gasps and more murmurs from the crowd. It was as Brian had anticipated. The police had been unable to locate her after the night of the fire and now Brian knew why. Besides, he remembered Steem telling him she lived on Fogg Road.

  “The medical examiner has ruled the cause of death as asphyxiation from strangulation.”

  Gasps again, and even an “Oh no,” from a woman, maybe Mrs. Picklesmeir.

  “At this time we are not linking the crime to the murder of Dr. Milton Wymbs a week ago, as it is too early in the investigations. But law enforcement personnel will be looking into all leads in both murder investigations.”

  By that, he meant him and Wickwire, Brian told himself.

  “We are asking that anyone who may have any information about either of these cases contact the State Police.” He recited the phone number and then repeated it. “Any information anyone might have about either of these two victims could be helpful, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

  That sounded like desperation, Brian thought. It meant they had zero leads.

  “We’ll take a few questions,” Steem continued. “But there is not much more information we can release.” He paused, waiting for a barrage from the reporters.

  “Do these murders have any connection to the trunk of skeletons found recently in town?” one of the newspaper reporters asked. Brian felt that question was the main reason most of the media were here. That was the hook that reeled everyone in.

  Steem hesitated. “There has been no determination that the discovery of that trunk has any bearing on these murder cases. That is a separate investigation.”

  Sure, Brian thought.

  “Are there any persons of interest?” This came from the television reporter.

  “Not at this moment,” Steem answered.

  “Any idea when the murder took place?” another reporter asked.

  “The medical examiner has yet to determine the time of death.”

  Brian knew Noah had told him the body was bloated, so it had been there at least a few days. For that reason, Brian knew a question to ask that the others didn’t.

  “Is former Assistant Fire Chief Simon Runck considered a suspect in Hettie Gritton’s death?”

  Steem’s lips tightened.

  “Or Dr. Wymbs’ slaying?” another reporter yelled.

  Steem leaned into the mic. “Simon Runck has only been charged with arson at this moment. There are no identified suspects in the two murders at this point.”

  “What happened to the patients at the Wymbs Institute?” someone asked.

  “We have no confirmation there were any patients at the institute.”

  A buzz ran through the crowd.

  Brian considered the possibility that there was maybe one patient at the asylum, the one who strangled Dr. Wymbs the night of the fire. And no one asked the obvious follow-up question: Where was the institute staff? But maybe he could find
out when he met with Snethen. Though she had retired, she should know who else worked there.

  There was another question Brian wanted answered, but he didn’t dare ask it in front of the crowd. He was sure the police would keep quiet about Hettie’s head being covered with a pillowcase, but he had seen it, so that made him the only journalist who knew and he wasn’t about to bring it up in a public forum. He would ask Steem about it privately.

  “Are we in danger?” someone called from the back. It didn’t come from a reporter. It came from Mrs. Picklesmeir. “Should we be worried?”

  Steem braced himself before answering. “We don’t believe there is any danger to the public. We don’t believe these murders were random.”

  “Why not?” someone yelled.

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss that information at this time. And that is all the time we have for questions.” The captain stepped back from the microphone, examining the crowd with steely eyes.

  Brian looked at the people around him. Was the captain wondering if the murderer could be here watching? Brian looked from face to face. Besides the reporters, the crowd was town folk. But it made him wonder. He looked up over the rooftops of the businesses downtown to the water tower and the man who stood there, staring down.

  Chapter 11

  A SECRET RENDEZVOUS

  Brian sat patiently inside the police station, waiting to get a word with Capt. Steem, who was conferring with Noah in the chief’s office. After a while he was permitted to enter, though Steem seemed less than enthusiastic about his presence.

  “We gave all the information outside at the press conference that we intend to give,” Steem said, seated in a chair in front of Noah’s desk. Wickwire stood silently behind him.

  Brian leaned against the glass interior window of the office.

  “That was why we held the press conference,” Steem continued, “so media could all have the same information.”

  Brian chuckled. “Well, all the media doesn’t have the same information,” he said.

  Steem’s lips tightened. “Meaning what?”