Loonies

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “The pillowcase covering Hettie Gritton’s head.”

  Steem’s brow furrowed and he glanced at Noah.

  “The chief didn’t tell me,” Brian said. “I saw it for myself that night.”

  Steem sucked in a deep breath, and his lips cracked into something that could almost qualify as a smile, but not quite. “Here’s where we stand,” he said, leaning forward. “There are always details of a crime the police like to keep quiet. It often goes a long way in helping identify the eventual perpetrator, or at the very least, eliminate potential kooks who like to confess to random crimes.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The pillowcase is one of those details. The police know, the killer knows—”

  “And I know.”

  “But the public doesn’t. We’d like to keep it that way.”

  “So you’re asking me not to write anything about it?”

  Steem sighed. “I’d like to tell you not to, but I don’t have the authority to.”

  Brian glanced from Steem to Noah and back. “Listen, I’ve got quite a few days before I put out another issue of The Hollow News. Everyone else will have all kinds of stories to print and broadcast before I get my chance.” He waited for reaction from the captain, but there was no impact. “This is the one thing I have.”

  Steem stared at him. “I understand the situation you’re in. But my main concern is this investigation and finding the culprit responsible.”

  “Culprit? So you think one person committed both murders?”

  Steem’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

  Brian thought about something that had bothered him since the night of the fire. “When Dr. Wymbs’ body was pulled out of the fire, something was removed from his face.” He waited for a reaction, but Steem’s expression was stone. “It looked like a piece of cloth.” Still no movement. “Could there also have been a pillowcase covering his head?” Maybe a tremor in Steem’s lower lip, but definitely some color on his face.

  “Off the record,” Steem said, “that item is being analyzed. But given the circumstances surrounding the condition of Gritton’s body, our best guess is, yes, a pillowcase was most likely covering Wymbs’ head.”

  “Was Gritton smothered to death by the pillowcase?”

  “No. The medical examiner confirmed that. There were marks on her neck. She appears to have been strangled with bare hands. We don’t know what purpose the pillowcase served, but we still don’t want anything in the press about it.”

  “That doesn’t really help me,” Brian said, “if I can’t put anything in the paper about it.”

  “My job isn’t to help you.”

  “But it does mean you are focused on one culprit for both murders.”

  Steem shrugged. “You can go as far as to print that. But don’t attribute it to me.”

  “Sure,” Brian said, nodding. “Just ‘police sources say.’”

  “Fair enough,” Steem said, rising. “Now we have work to do.” He turned to Treece. “Chief, we’ll be in touch if we need anything more from you.”

  “Sure thing,” Noah said, standing and looking as if he were going to extend his hand but realizing that the captain wasn’t expecting a handshake.

  Steem and Wickwire left the office.

  Brian looked at Noah, who had sat back down.

  “Such a cheerful man,” he said to the chief.

  Noah laughed. “His job doesn’t come with a lot of cheer. Not like mine.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Not as much stress with your position.”

  Noah’s grin faded. “I can’t help the way things are handled around here. I just follow protocol.”

  Brian looked at Noah, thinking he should be grateful the chief shared as much with him as he did. He didn’t have to, and Brian appreciated that. He almost wished he could tell him about his call from Ruth Snethen but knew it wasn’t the wise thing to do. This was a secret source that could lead to some valuable information.

  He had sensed the concern in the woman’s voice and hoped she would not back out of their secret meeting. He wished he could bring Noah with him, but knew that would frighten her away. Hopefully, after he got whatever information she was willing to divulge, he could convince her to see the chief. That way, she might feel safe, and Noah could get credited with finding an elusive piece to this puzzle.

  But first, Brian needed to hear what the woman had to say about the trunk with the skeletons and its connection to the Wymbs Institute.

  At the Town Hall, in the second-floor office of Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch, Brian met with him and Leo Wibbels, both on the organizing committee for Dump Festival. Brian and Wibbels sat in large padded chairs in front of a big oak desk, behind which Winch sat in a high-backed leather chair.

  On the walls in the large office were photographs of the town, taken when it was a bit more vibrant. It reminded Brian of the pictures gracing the walls of Cully’s Pub. There was one of the movie theater, though from where he sat he could not see the title of the movie on the marquee, but there was a line of people at the box office waiting to get their tickets. From the appearance of their clothes, the photo must have been taken about thirty or forty years ago.

  Another photo on the wall was of the train station, with people lined up on the platform to board. The wooden siding on the depot was bright red, the shingled roof black. This photo looked even older than the one of the movie theater, once again based on the subjects’ dress. Brian thought about going to that place later this evening, and the anticipation made him fidget. He wanted to get the day over with so he could be ready…and he feared that Ruth Snethen would change her mind and not show up. It made him edgy and his stomach twitchy.

  Winch twirled the end of his mustache with his right hand before placing both palms on the desk. “I can’t tell you,” he began, “how important the Dump Fest is to this community. It’s something people look forward to in the summer.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Brian said.

  “The economy has made it tough for a lot of folks in town. This festival gives them a chance to relax and enjoy a simple day of celebration.”

  “It’s inexpensive, too,” Wibbels chimed in.

  “Yes,” said Winch. “It’s an event for the whole family. People bring their kids—it’s a fun time for everyone. And with the terrible events lately, people need an escape.”

  “These things couldn’t be happening at a worst time,” Wibbels said.

  “There never is a good time for murder,” Brian said, though he couldn’t disagree more. At least for him, this was all happening when he needed something to bring him out of his doldrums.

  “I’m glad the State Police said there is no reason for people to be afraid. I think that put a lot of minds at ease,” Winch said.

  “It did my wife’s,” Wibbels added.

  “It does appear the killer has targeted specific people,” Brian said.

  “Hopefully they will catch the culprit and be done with this nasty business, maybe before the festival,” Winch said.

  “That would be a blessing,” Wibbels agreed. The real estate agent had a folder in his hands and extracted a paper from it. “Here’s a list of the vendors that will be at the festival,” he said, handing Brian the sheet. “We want you to make sure you don’t leave anyone out.”

  Brian took it, glancing at it without comment.

  “And we will have lots of activities—balloon rides, a petting zoo, a carousel, games, and contests,” Winch said.

  “Oh, and the cow-pie roulette,” Wibbels emphasized.

  “Cow-pie roulette?” Brian couldn’t even imagine what that was.

  “Oh, yes,” Wibbels said. “It’s one of the most popular events. A field adjacent to the festival grounds is fenced off and lined with numbered squares, and people purchase a ticket that corresponds to a number. Then a cow is released into the field, and if the cow craps on your square, you win.”

  Brian glances at the two smiling men. “You’ve got to be kidd
ing?”

  “Oh, no,” Winch said, leaning back in his chair and letting loose a guffaw. “It’s a real hoot.”

  “Everyone squeals with anticipation, watching the cow wander the field, cheering her on.” Wibbels said. “It’s a gas.”

  “And a good fundraiser,” Winch added in a more serious tone, pointing his finger at Brian as if to emphasize how seriously he should take this.

  Brian shook his head. “And what are the funds for?”

  “Well,” Winch said. “Most of the money ends up going back into the town coffers for next year’s festival.”

  “I see,” Brian said.

  “And a portion goes to the church,” Wibbels pointed out.

  “Yes,” Winch said. “Don’t forget that. That is important to note. The church is an active participant.”

  Wibbels handed Brian a couple more sheets of paper.

  “Here is a list of all the activities and sponsors of the festival.”

  “You can’t forget to mention the sponsors.” Winch emphasized.

  “I’ll be sure not to,” Brian said.

  Winch leaned forward. “And I can’t stress enough that you must promote this on the front page of next week’s edition.”

  “Well, if you haven’t noticed, there has been a lot of pretty important news lately.”

  “I don’t disagree. But people don’t want to just read the nasty stuff.”

  Brian disagreed.

  “This is our big town event,” Winch said. “It is important to everyone in Smokey Hollow. It must get its proper attention.”

  Brian waved his hand. “Okay. I get the point. I will make sure it gets on the front page.” He had expected that all along, but drew a little pleasure in making the duo uncomfortable.

  “Hopefully,” Winch said, “people will forget about these unfortunate events.”

  As the sun set behind the water tower, dusk enveloped Smokey Hollow. Brian sat in his car in the lot at the old shoe factory across from the abandoned train station. He had arrived just before sunset, wanting to get there before Ruth Snethen, but not wanting to park at the depot. He was trying not to attract attention to himself and thought the parking lot at the deserted factory would be better. A low brick wall with iron fencing along its top separated the parking lot from the road. Parked behind the wall, his car wouldn’t be immediately visible to passersby. His view over the top of the wall was enough that he should see anyone approach the train station.

  He chewed an antacid tablet, washing the gritty remnants down with hot coffee from his thermos. His stomach churned and his palms sweated. He lit up a cigarette and cranked his window down all the way. The setting sun did little to drag away the heat from the summer day. He drew on the cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. It was a good thing Darcie never rode in his car.

  He watched the building across the street, wondering when the retired nurse would show up. He had so many questions swirling in his brain, and he was excited to get some answers. But he was afraid she would back out. He wished she would have let him meet with her when she called. She had too much time to change her mind.

  He also wished he could have brought Noah, but that would be too much of a risk.

  Brian wondered how Ruth would get to the station. Would she come by car? Walk? How was she getting around these days? The police hadn’t been able to find her. Where was she hiding? A thought occurred to him. Maybe she was already here.

  She could have been hiding in the station all along, and that’s why the authorities hadn’t been able to locate her. That could be why she picked this spot. But she had called him from somewhere. Surely there was no electricity or phone service at the depot. She could be shacking out in the woods behind the station, near Thrasher Pond. That made him think of the Knackerman’s pot of bones. He lit up another cigarette.

  If she was there already, she might not wait long for him. Brian grabbed his flashlight from his glove compartment and got out of his car, closing the door gently. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crunched it out under his shoe, wiping his sweaty palms on his shirt.

  There was a clunking behind him and he whirled around, his heart leaping.

  The dark hulk of the shoe factory loomed over him, four stories high, with rows of tall windows lining each floor. None were boarded up, but only jigsaw pieces of glass remained in most. A tall smokestack at the right rose higher than the building. Some bricks at the top were missing, giving the smokestack a turret-like appearance.

  Brian turned on his flashlight and shined it along the dark windows of the upper floor. Maybe this was where Ruth was hiding. There was a flapping sound, probably a bird or bat. He kept expecting the flashlight beam to catch a shadow beyond the empty windows, but he was glad it didn’t. But still, before he turned to cross the street, he couldn’t help but feel someone watching him from behind those windows.

  He kept the flashlight off while crossing the street, not wanting to draw unneeded attention but also not realizing how dark it was out here. The nearest street light was out, and the next one was at least a hundred yards away. It made Brian remember that one of the resolutions the town selectmen passed to cut the town budget was to turn off every other streetlight. It seemed unfortunate that the one by the train station was the odd pole out.

  The fact that the night was cloudy, obscuring what moonlight there would have been, didn’t help. A large bank of gray clouds hovered over this end of Main Street. The clouds didn’t look dark enough to be thunderheads, which was too bad, because some rain would cool the summer heat.

  A few cars drifted by on Route 113, the whooshing of their tires on the night pavement reassuring Brian that he wasn’t alone—till he realized that he might not be alone anyway.

  He stepped onto the wooden platform in front of the depot, its wooden planks creaking beneath his shoes. Brian stopped. If she were inside, she would now know he had arrived. He turned on his flashlight, pointing the beam along the platform to its edge by the lonely tracks. Even by what little light the flashlight beam cast, he could see the brush growing up between rusty rails. Tracks to nowhere, he thought.

  Brian shifted the beam to the front door. One step at a time, each followed by a creak, he approached the door. Should I knock? he wondered. It wasn’t like this was her home, or maybe it was. Regardless, she was expecting him. He grabbed the wooden knob and pulled. The door was wedged shut, most likely swollen from the summer heat, and it took him a couple strenuous tugs before it lurched open, almost striking him in the face.

  A whoosh of stale air escaped the interior of the dark station like some trapped spirit being released.

  “Hello?” he called softly, as if afraid of waking somebody. “Ms. Snethen?” Was she Miss, Ms., or Mrs.? He didn’t know. He recalled she lived alone at the house he had bought from her. “Anyone home?” He thought it odd to phrase it that way. This wasn’t anyone’s home, just a dilapidated old structure from a bygone era, whose usefulness had long passed, no matter what plans the selectmen intended for it.

  He stepped inside.

  Broken glass crunched beneath his shoe and he stopped, just inside the doorway. The flashlight struggled to penetrate the interior, thick with dust that danced in the path of the beam. He probed the four corners. Nobody—though the floor showed disturbances in the dust that covered it. Someone at least had been here.

  Brian’s mouth was dry from tasting the dust in the air, and he licked his lips. He wanted to spit but thought it would be rude to do so. His nerves, which had tightened, relaxed a bit…he was alone. But he was also disappointed, thinking maybe Ruth Snethen had changed her mind and retreated back into hiding. He scanned the flashlight beam around.

  The light caught something.

  He was not alone.

  A ticket booth protruded from the front wall, its rectangular window partly covered by steel bars open at the bottom. The flashlight beam partially lit up a shadowy figure in the booth.

  Brian’s breath caught
in his throat, and his stomach tightened.

  “Uh,” he started to say, but could not find words. He raised the beam a little higher and realized that the person could not hear him.

  The light caught the top of the figure and the pillowcase covering its head.

  “God,” Brian said, blowing dust from his lips as he spoke. He took a step toward the booth, pausing before the barred ticket window. The light shined brighter now, and he could tell the person was a woman. The cloth clung to the face, outlining its features, the indentations of the eyes, the protuberance of the nose, and the shape of a mouth open in what could have been an attempt to cry out before its scream was cut off. He knew whose face was beneath that pillowcase, a face he had only seen in that picture he took the night of the Mustard House fire. “Damn.”

  Don’t touch anything, he told himself, now that it dawned on him that he was in the middle of a crime scene. He actually had to glance at his hands to make sure they weren’t in contact with any part of the station. The only thing they had touched was the flashlight now gripped so tightly in his hand that he could see the white along his knuckles, even in this darkness.

  He looked back at the figure perched on some kind of stool and leaning against the back wall. If the bars of the ticket window weren’t separating him from it, he might not have been unable to resist the urge to reach through the window and pull the pillowcase off. He had never been this close to violent death. Sure, he had been at many crime scenes, but he was always separated by crime tape and a uniformed presence.

  Here it was just him and a dead body.

  And nothing else.

  Unless.…

  He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, not wanting to turn around. How long ago had the killer been in here, maybe standing where he was right now? Brian felt helpless and knew he should get out of this building and call Chief Treece. But his feet felt frozen in place, as if stuck to the dust on the floor.

  Move, he told himself, but he couldn’t. There was one thing he thought he should do first, before bolting out the door.

  Brian’s left hand dropped to the camera at his waist. Take a picture, he thought. Not because it was something he’d ever be able to publish in the newspaper, but because he could. There was no one here to shield him from this gruesome scene. No one to stick a hand in front of his lens or block his view. Take a picture.