Loonies

by Gregory Bastianelli

  Brian gave his wife a kiss. “That’s nice.”

  “It was nice to have company while you’re at work. I can’t live by shopping and chores alone, you know.” She smiled. “And speaking of that, I’m in the middle of finishing laundry.” She headed to the room off the kitchen where the washer and dryer were kept. He followed her.

  “Is it hard?” he asked.

  She looked up at him while pulling clothes out of the dryer. “Is what hard?”

  “Being home alone?”

  She started to fold a pair of pants and then stopped. “Sometimes,” she said. “I keep wondering about what happened here.” She didn’t say what, but pointed her finger at the ceiling. He knew what she meant.

  “Whatever happened,” he said, “didn’t necessarily happen here.” He tried to sound reassuring.

  “But it ended here,” was her response as she continued folding.

  He only wished that were true, but it wasn’t.

  “Oh, and how many times have I told you to empty your pockets before putting your clothes in the hamper?” She handed him a folded piece of paper that was on top of the dryer. “I didn’t know if this was important.”

  He unfolded it and saw it was the flier from the chimney sweep. “Kind of,” he said. Then he noticed something at the bottom of the paper that he hadn’t before. He repeated himself. “Kind of.”

  The call on the scanner came before 11 p.m., just as Brian was getting ready for bed. Darcie was half asleep already. There was a request for the medical examiner and the State Police. Here we go again, Brian thought. It had been quiet for too long. He had almost felt relaxed. He should have known something was lurking just around the corner. The thing with Hester Pigott’s ducks indicated that. Whoever was doing this was not finished.

  Brian kissed Darcie on the check. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.” He hoped she would be able to sleep. He hated leaving her alone at night. He knew she felt uncomfortable, maybe even scared. But he had to go.

  Whatever had happened had taken place at Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate. There was the usual assortment of emergency and law enforcement vehicles out front. Brian patiently waited outside for someone to let him know what was going on. It was a long and boring wait, with nothing to do except take some shots of the exterior of the store and the police vehicles in front of it.

  He looked up and down Main Street and marveled at how quiet the rest of the downtown block was. The storefronts were all dark. The only other light came from two businesses, the Odd Fellows Hall and Cully’s Pub. The rest of the town was asleep. The letter “Y” still clung to the movie marquee along with the “C”. Brian spent the time waiting trying to make up movie titles that those letters could belong to. It helped pass the time.

  A three-quarter moon in the clear star-filled sky helped illuminate the ruins of the Mustard House on the ridge. Brian thought how much had happened since that fire.

  Finally, Police Chief Treece exited the store, talked to Night Shift Alvin for a bit, and spotted Brian. There was no smile to accompany the greeting when he came over. Brian was leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette when Noah leaned up beside him, head lowered, looking at the curb.

  “What is it this time?” Brian asked. “Or rather, who is it?”

  Chief Treece told him the story.

  Noah had been making one last round downtown before retiring for the night, just as Chief Pfefferkorn had done years before him. He walked down the sidewalk checking doors. When he got to Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate, the door was ajar. Not much, just a few inches. It wasn’t like Leo to forget to close and lock his door. In fact, in the years Noah had been performing this nightly ritual, he had never come across an unlocked door.

  Never mind an open one.

  He took out his flashlight, clicked it on, pointed the beam at the crack, and pushed the door further open. The light darted inside the store, grazing the bins of fruits and vegetables lining the aisles.

  “Hello,” Noah called. “Anybody in here?” There was no answer, only the hum from the refrigeration system cooling the bins of fruit. Noah thought about drawing his gun, a thought that had never occurred to him before. But then, murders hadn’t happened in Smokey Hollow before. At least, not for a very long time.

  He switched the flashlight from right hand to left, just in case he needed to reach for his holster, and stepped inside. His right foot landed on something soft and squishy, and he pulled away, shining his light down at his feet. He had stepped on a pickle. The floor was covered in a pool of pickle juice, with several gherkins scattered throughout.

  He shifted his light to the wooden pickle barrel a few feet away. Its lid was on but the outside of the barrel was wet. He walked across the sticky floor, careful not to slip, and stopped before the barrel. Noah gripped the flashlight tight, reached out with a trembling left hand, lifted the lid, and shone the light inside.

  He saw the top of a man’s head, submerged in the pickle juice.

  Noah knew he shouldn’t touch anything. He was a law-enforcement officer, the chief of police in fact. But he was also human and couldn’t resist what he did next.

  Holding the now shaky flashlight, he grabbed the hair on the top of the head and pulled up, the body rising out of the container of pickles till the face broke the surface.

  Noah stared into the eyes of Leo Wibbels. The eyes no longer squinted; they were wide open, as was his mouth. He let go of the clump of hair and the body sank back down into the barrel, pickle juice flowing into the open mouth of the dead man.

  Chapter 18

  STEPPING OUT OF THE SHADOWS

  There was no pillowcase on his head.

  That’s what was troubling Brian the next morning as he went to the scene of the crime where the State Police had returned to further examine the site. Day Shift Alvin stood outside the entrance of Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate. The front was marked off with police caution tape. At this rate, Brian figured the department would have to put in a budget request for extra rolls.

  The town was shocked by the death of Leo Wibbels. While standing on the sidewalk waiting to talk to Capt. Steem or Chief Treece, curious onlookers had come by, some even laying flowers near the store. The other murders had been people with a fringe connection to the town, but Leo Wibbels was one of Smokey Hollow’s prominent citizens. Not only had people in town bought their fruit from the smiling, talkative businessman, but as a real-estate agent he had probably sold many of them their homes.

  Even Mrs. Picklesmeir came out of her shop with a bouquet of orchids, laying them on the sidewalk with the others and glancing reluctantly at Brian. He could only imagine what those eyes were hinting at. He was the one who started this, she probably thought. He and his wife opened that damned trunk and released madness and mayhem on the town. They were outsiders and look what they had wrought. She turned and walked away, not saying a word.

  People who had stopped to glimpse the goings-on inside the market gradually dispersed, leaving Brian alone on the sidewalk, except for Alvin. But it wasn’t long before he was joined by someone else—Father Scrimsher.

  “Hello,” the priest said. “Such a sad day for our community.”

  “Yes, tragic,” Brian responded, but was also thinking that he now had his lead story for this week’s edition. Just when he thought he would have to make do with the festival and the dead ducks.

  “I just came from visiting his widow.”

  Brian thought he too should pay Mrs. Wibbels a visit to give her a chance to comment on her husband. It was a thankless, yet necessary task of his job. The one he hated the most.

  “Hopefully, faith will help her stay strong,” Father Scrimsher said. “He was a pillar of the community and a devoted servant of God. Never missed a Sunday Mass.”

  “And sold some really nice fruit,” Brian added.

  “It’s the devil’s work in Smokey Hollow. Only the Lord can put a stop to it.”

  Not if Capt
. Steem has his way, Brian thought, but he kept that to himself. Scrimsher left, and Brian was once again alone except for the silent officer. Downtown Smokey Hollow resumed its daily routine.

  Noah came out of the store, ducking under the police tape, and joined Brian on the sidewalk.

  “You holding up okay?” Brian asked, thinking of how traumatic the man’s experience must have been. Even though Noah was in law enforcement, Brian was sure the man had never experienced anything like this.

  “I’m doing all right,” Noah said. “Now I know how you felt the other night.”

  Brian nodded. Finally, Capt. Steem and Sgt. Wickwire came out of the market, and Brian got to ask the question that had been bugging him.

  “There was no pillowcase on his head, correct?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Steem said, his stern tone matching the look in his eyes. He looked up and down the street.

  Brian didn’t think it mattered. Everyone else had gone about their business. “Why change his M.O.?”

  Steem shook his head. “Hard to say. Maybe this one wasn’t as planned out as the others. Maybe, for whatever reason, it was more impulsive.”

  Brian wondered if Steem really believed that. “Why do you think the body was put in the pickle barrel?” Brian asked. “Some lame attempt to hide it?”

  “Doubtful,” Steem said. “More likely it was some form of staging.”

  “Kind of like Snethen propped up in the train-station ticket window,” Noah added.

  “Exactly. This killer seems to have a flair for the dramatic.”

  “Has a cause of death been determined?” Brian asked. “Was it strangulation, at least?”

  “That’s also different from the others. It appears he was struck in the back of the head with a blunt object.”

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “There was a crowbar on a shelf with a blood stain and hair specimens on it.”

  “So, killed by a blow to the head.” Brian jotted this down in his notepad.

  “Not quite,” Steem said.

  Brian looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “The blow to the head most likely just knocked him unconscious. His lungs were filled with pickle juice. He drowned in that barrel.”

  Brian looked up from his pad. “But his eyes were open?”

  “The poor guy must have come to in the barrel right at the end,” Steem said. “Or when the killer held his head under.”

  The Board of Selectmen’s meeting went on as scheduled that night, despite the previous evening’s events. The plan was still to honor Chairman Eldon Winch’s forty years of service to the town. Brian felt the honor would be diminished with the sudden death of Winch’s close friend. It would tarnish the ceremony.

  Brian took his usual front row seat. At most selectmen meetings, there would be dozen or so in attendance, unless there was a major topic on the agenda, and that had rarely happened in the few months Brian had been living in Smokey Hollow. Tonight, though, it was standing room only. That could attest to the popularity of Chairman Winch, but Brian thought it was more likely that Leo Wibbels’ disturbing death had brought the crowd for comfort and support. It was as if people didn’t want to be home alone; they wanted to be amongst their fellow citizens and sought stability from the town leaders.

  Brian wasn’t sure they’d get it here.

  Brian looked around the crowd. He spotted Beverly Crump, Rolfe Krimmer, Father Scrimsher, Mrs. Picklesmeir, and Nyle Potash. There was also the woman who owned Wigland, wearing long, auburn locks. To begin the meeting, Eldon Winch spoke a few words about Leo Wibbels, then called on Father Scrimsher, who led a brief prayer and moment of silence for the fallen citizen.

  The rest of the meeting was eventless, per usual selectmen meetings. Brian rarely got more than a dozen inches in the paper out of one of these affairs. It was hardly worth his effort, but he had to attend every one, along with each school- and planning-board meeting. Brian jotted down the brief notes as the three selectmen went through the agenda, starting with how much money the Dump Festival had made and ending with a reading of the proposal to request Historic Building status for the old train station.

  Since Ruth Snethen’s murder, there was probably less enthusiasm for that project than before. Brian actually shivered as the image of her hooded face rose up before him. No, most people in town now thought it best to tear that eyesore down. The sooner it was forgotten, the better. Only Rolfe Krimmer stood and spoke out in favor of saving the depot. He cited his many years riding the rails and the importance of trains linking communities, and argued that the town shouldn’t lose such a cherished landmark.

  Once Krimmer finished, the floor was open for general comments. Everyone was silent. Brian looked at the crowd seated behind him. No one offered to come forward. It was like a flock willing to sit quietly and let their leader speak. They might be too stunned to say anything.

  After a moment, the panel moved to the final item of the night. Selectman Burton Slane stood and began to talk about Eldon Winch. It was mostly what Brian had heard from Winch the day before, about how he had run for selectman as a young man with a desire to serve the community. Slane talked about the many achievements Winch had made, all for the betterment of Smokey Hollow. When he was finished, he presented Winch with a plaque.

  Brian stood and moved forward to take a photograph. He focused as a smiling Eldon Winch accepted the honor from Selectman Slane. Brian viewed the two men through the camera view finder, snapping a couple of pictures. He had zoomed in for a close-up of Winch when he heard a commotion behind him—the chamber door opening and footsteps approaching. A murmur swept through the crowd.

  Brian never moved his eye from the view finder and thus saw the smile fade from Winch’s face, to be replaced by a frown. A lone bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and trailed down the left side of his face. Brian turned to look behind him.

  Capt. Steem, Sgt. Wickwire, Police Chief Treece, and a couple of uniformed State Police officers were approaching the council podium.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Winch said.

  Steem held up a piece of paper in the air. “Sorry for the interruption,” the captain said, though he didn’t really sound sorry. In fact, Brian thought he detected a hint of delight in Steem’s voice. “I have an arrest warrant.”

  “For whom?” Burton Slane asked as the noise in the crowd increased with the captain’s announcement.

  “It’s an arrest warrant for Eldon Winch,” Steem said, and the crowd gasped. “On a charge of homicide.”

  “This whole town’s gone nuts,” Brian said to himself in his office the next day. He had spent most of the night after the meeting in Chief Treece’s office. Chairman Winch’s arrest had sent shockwaves through everybody, and Brian could tell it even stunned Noah. Steem wasn’t able (or willing, more likely) to release any information on the arrest, so Brian went to see Chief Treece to find out what he could glean from him.

  Brian could hear Winch in the holding cells, hollering about speaking to his lawyer and how outrageously he was being treated. He kept yelling, “But I’m the chairman!” Brian didn’t think that would get him far. The State Police eventually escorted him from the station to the county jail. Only when that was taken care of did Brian get some answers from the chief.

  “Unbelievable,” he had said to an obviously exhausted Noah Treece, who was slumped in his chair behind his desk.

  “Just when I think things can’t get any weirder,” Noah said.

  “What do they have, Noah? You have to give me something. I’ve got one shot tomorrow to get something in this week’s edition. I can’t wait for Steem to dance around things.”

  Noah released a sigh of exhaustion or capitulation, it was hard to tell which. “We have a witness who said Eldon went to see Leo before the market closed for the night.”

  “A witness?”

  “I can’t, or shouldn’t, divulge who.”

  Brian thought for a moment. “The clerk? Nyle P
otash?”

  Noah nodded. “He and Leo were about to lock up when Eldon arrived. Nyle said there was an argument in Leo’s office. He didn’t hear any particulars, but Leo came out for a moment and sent Nyle home, said he’d take care of locking up.”

  “So, he didn’t really see anything?” Didn’t sound like too much of an eyewitness.

  “No, but that left Eldon as the last known person to be seen with Leo. So the State Police ran some prints found on the crowbar. Eldon’s prints were on it. An exact match.”

  “Why are Eldon’s prints on file? Does he have a record.”

  “No,” Noah said. “All town employees are fingerprinted. Standard policy.”

  That made sense. Darcie had been fingerprinted when she worked as a school teacher. “Did the State Police talk to Eldon about being at the market?”

  “Steem and Wickwire interviewed him. They didn’t disclose to me what he said, but something must have sounded off, or maybe he just acted suspiciously. But once the prints matched, they requested a warrant.”

  “What was their rush?” It wasn’t like Winch was going anywhere. He was one of the most prominent men in town. It would have been easy to keep an eye on him. He certainly wasn’t inconspicuous.

  “This was the first big break in the case,” Noah said, shrugging. “I don’t think they wanted to waste time. People have been scared these past couple of weeks. They wanted results.”

  Brian leaned forward in his chair. “They’re only charging Winch with Wibbels’ murder, right?”

  “That’s all for now,” Noah said. “That will give them time to look at the others from a different perspective.”

  “Do they think Winch is The Pillowcase?”

  Noah sat upright in his chair. “You’re the only one I know who thinks The Pillowcase committed these murders. I don’t think Steem is even considering that possibility.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely a serial killer would start up again after forty-something years.”

  “Unless he’s been living a respectable life as a town selectman for all that time. Or unless he’s been locked up in the Mustard House all those years until he escaped the night of the fire.”