“So what are you saying?”
Brian thought for a moment. What the hell was he saying? “I don’t know. Maybe Winch killed Wibbels, but what if he had nothing to do with the other murders? After all, there was no pillowcase on Leo’s head. It wasn’t like the other murders.”
Noah rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Well, that’s what the State Police will have to find out.”
By the time Brian got home that night, it was so late he decided to crash on the couch. He was only going to sleep for a few hours anyway. No sense disturbing Darcie. He wanted to get up early and into the office as soon as possible. It was going to be a busy day, readying the new developments before this week’s edition went to press later in the day. And to think that a few days ago he was wondering what his lead story would be. It was funny how things turned out. And he didn’t have to worry about where he covered the Dump Festival in the paper. Neither Eldon Winch nor Leo Wibbels could complain.
Darcie was put off that he hadn’t come to bed.
“I don’t care what’s going on in your world,” she said before he left. “I always want you there beside me.”
She simmered down once he told her what that had happened.
“Oh my god,” she said, her face pale. Then a look of relief came over her face. “Does this mean it’s over?”
Brian shook his head. “I really don’t think so.” And he didn’t. There were too many unknowns.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t explain. And I really have to run to the office and redo my front page.”
As he was heading out the door, he turned to her. “Oh, I have a chimney sweep coming over later this afternoon.”
She put her hands on her hips. “And when were you going to tell me?”
“Right now,” he said with a smile. “I just made the appointment yesterday. But I want to be here before he leaves, so call me when he gets here.”
“Okay.”
At the office, Brian tried to piece the front page together, chugging cups of coffee as he sorted everything out. As expected, he hadn’t gotten much new from Capt. Steem, only that Winch was charged in Wibbels’ murder. The captain wouldn’t even go out on a limb as to whether Winch was under consideration as a person of interest in the other murders.
Brian kept the duck killings and the theft of the pot of bones separate from his murder package. He still wasn’t sure there was any connection. Once he had those pieces laid out on his front page, he was able to still make a pretty good layout from the Dump Festival article and photos. He couldn’t imagine who would be remotely interested in reading about that with all the other goings-on on the front page, but maybe Winch would get a chance to read a copy in his cell.
Once everything was done and sent to the printer, Brian felt an immense sense of satisfaction. The last two days had been exhilarating. He stepped out the rear door to have a cigarette and relax. It wasn’t long before Beverly Crump came out to tell him Darcie was on the phone.
“Hello, honey,” he said, once he was back in his office.
“That chimney sweep guy is here,” his wife said. “He’s all dressed up in a vintage black coat and tails, and he’s wearing a top hat.”
He could sense her delight and was glad. He didn’t think he had left her feeling too reassured this morning, and he worried about that. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be honest with her.
“I know,” he told her. “That’s his regular get-up for the job. He’s supposed to look like those old-fashioned chimney sweeps, you know, like in that kids movie, what’s it called?” He could never remember the names of things like that, but she knew what he was talking about.
“I think it’s cute,” she said. “Are you going to be home soon?”
“Yes. I’m all wrapped up here. I need to make one last call to the printer, double check that they got the last couple pages okay, and then I’ll be home.”
When he did arrive home, the chimney sweep’s van was parked by the curb. Up on the roof, the man straddled the peak near the chimney, the long handle of his brush thrust down its throat. Brian waved, but the man was preoccupied.
As he entered the house, Darcie was heading out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m running over to Gwen Husk’s place. I shouldn’t be long.”
“But what about dinner?” He was famished.
“You can find yourself something or wait till I get back. Promise I’ll be quick.”
And just like that she was off.
He wasn’t too disappointed. He was glad to be alone. As he crossed through the living room toward the kitchen, he could hear brushing sounds from the fireplace and shifting footsteps on the roof above. In the kitchen, Brian went out through the back door. An aluminum extension ladder leaned against the side of the house.
Brian looked at the dying maple in the middle of the yard. He had time for at least one cigarette before Darcie returned. He approached the tree, reaching into the hole and feeling for his stash.
His fingers touched something else—something flat and stiff.
He grasped and pulled his hand out of the opening. His first thought was that Darcie had discovered his secret hiding spot; this was going to be an angry note telling him she knew what he had been up to. His heart sank.
Once he saw the white envelope, however, he knew what it was.
He looked around, even to the house behind his. Its backyard was empty, as were all the others around his house. He studied the envelope and the black ink lettering on it, wondering how long the note had been hidden in the tree and trying to remember the last time he had reached into the hole for his cigarettes. Just the other day, he thought.
He forgot about the cigarettes and took the note to the back steps, sitting down and opening it. The note reminded him of the first one he had received, only it went further:
Have you figured out the secret of Smokey Hollow?
The Silhouette
This time, though, the paper was folded in half, and as he unfolded it, The Silhouette answered his own question:
They’re all Loonies
He stared at the message, at first feeling insulted because the Silhouette obviously didn’t expect Brian to figure out the answer for himself. But when he saw a black smudge at the bottom, like the ones he had mistaken for ink smears on previous notes and one other place, he was pleased that he had at least figured out one thing without any assistance.
Brian put the piece of paper in his pocket and stood, speaking before he even turned around.
“Can we drop the charade and talk face to face now?” He turned around to see the chimney sweep on the edge of the roof, looking down at him.
Chapter 19
THE ART OF EAVESDROPPING
Corwin Dudle lived on Horseshoe Lane, a U-shaped road connecting with Cricket Lane, in a small, red-brick Colonial with black shutters. Unlocking the front door and leading Brian inside, he flicked a few light switches, illuminating a tidy room. There wasn’t a lot of clutter on the walls, and the furniture was sparse.
“How does one become a chimney sweep?” Brian asked.
“In my case,” Dudle said, “I inherited it from my pop. I don’t think I ever had any other career opportunities.” He removed his top hat and black coat, hanging them on a coat rack. “I started young, assisting him while I was in high school, and just continued from there. I think my pop just assumed I’d take over the family business. And I was his only son.”
“Did you want to do anything else?”
Dudle paused, showing a slight smile and even a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “Of course. We all have dreams, don’t we?” He winked at Brian. “But sometimes our paths are laid out before us and there’s no opportunity to veer.”
He went into the kitchen and Brian followed.
“You said you had something to show me?” Brian said.
Dudle turned to face him. “I think you will find it interesting. But first,
I need to wash up.” He held up his sooty palms before going over to the kitchen sink and scrubbing up.
“That’s how I figured it was you,” Brian said. “The soot. There were smudge marks on your notes. At first I thought they were ink smears. But then I saw the same marks on the flier you handed me at the festival. That’s when I knew.”
Dudle dried his hands on a dish towel hanging. “It’s hard in this profession to keep clean.” He approached Brian and held up his hands, backs toward him. “See my nails?”
Brian examined them. Black lines showed beneath each fingernail.
“I haven’t been able to keep my hands completely clean in years. I just accept it. Maybe it’s why I never got married. Who’d want to hold hands with these?” He winked again and smiled.
Brian laughed. He liked this guy. His cheery attitude reminded him of Noah Treece’s, but was more jovial.
“So what do you want to show me?”
“Right this way,” Dudle said, leading him to a door. He opened it, revealing stairs descending into the basement. Dudle flicked a light switch at the top and extended his hand. “After you.”
Brian looked at the smiling sweep, and a horrible thought came to him. He was alone with a man he didn’t know, a man who had sent anonymous notes with information few other people had. Brian had a sudden thought that maybe he had willingly walked into a trap. Did this smiling, kind man hold the darkest secret yet?
No one knew he was here. Sure, he had left Darcie a note, but who knew when she’d be home to see it. Now this man was directing him down into his basement. Brian had often wondered if the killer himself had been sending those notes. It wouldn’t be the first time a madman had toyed with a local newspaper. Jack the Ripper wrote to the press, taunting them. Countless other killers had done the same.
What were you thinking? Go down those stairs, and they may be the last steps you take. And who would suspect the smiling chimney sweep who lived alone and minded his own business, who had no girlfriends and sat alone at the bar? Damn you, Brian. You have a baby on the way.
“Don’t be afraid,” Dudle said, the smile diminishing, as if he understood what was going on in Brian’s brain. “I promise you it will be worth your while.”
What was in that basement? Maybe there was some clue that would piece this whole puzzle together. That was something the reporter in him couldn’t resist. “Sure,” he said. Just be on your guard. “After you.”
Dudle’s smile widened. “Of course. But I want to make it clear, that whatever I tell you and show you is—what is it you say in the business—‘off the record.’”
Brian hated that. What was the point of telling him anything if he couldn’t use it? But he was tempted by what this man wanted to show him, so he reluctantly agreed.
Dudle started down and Brian followed.
At the bottom, the sweep led him through a door on the right and flicked another light switch. Florescent bulbs illuminated the front half of the room. It helped ease whatever creepy vibes Brian felt. The other half of the room was still shadowed.
A large bookcase stood on his right. The top shelves were jammed with paperback novels, the bindings cracked and yellowed. From the titles, they were mostly murder and detective stories. The lower shelves were filled with piles of pulp fiction and detective magazines. They too were old. The covers depicted scantily clad women in immediate danger.
That was not a good sign.
“I’m a big fan of pulp stories.”
“The Silhouette?”
Now Dudle dipped his head and his face grew flushed. “Too corny?” He laughed. “Most of those I also inherited from my father,” he said, pointing at the bookcase. “I would devour all those detective novels and pulp-hero mags. I loved them. Maybe it was an escape.”
“From what?”
Dudle shrugged. “You asked me if I ever thought of another career. Well, there it is.” He pointed at the magazines. “I wanted to be a pulp hero. The Spider, The Phantom, Secret Agent X, The Black Bat. I loved them all. I wanted to be like one of them.”
Brian nodded. “So you became The Silhouette.”
Dudle nodded. “It seemed appropriate, considering the logo on my van. Not to mention that I’m usually covered in soot.” He paused. “Besides, people in town don’t generally see me anyway.”
Brian watched the smile disappear and sensed the man’s loneliness.
“So you’re trying to be a crime-solver.”
The smile was back. “Let me tell you one of the nuances of my curious occupation. Chimneys have a unique way of funneling sound, specifically voices. When I’m on someone’s roof, leaning over the chimney, it’s like being on the other end of a telephone. And not just chimneys…duct vents too. I can hear people’s conversations. Not always every word, but enough to understand what they are talking about.”
Brian was fascinated. “What did you hear?”
“Thirty years ago, I was cleaning the chimney on the church rectory, the one for Father Scrimsher’s front parlor. He had a visitor that day. The priest had asked the man to stop by to discuss something important.”
“Who was it?”
Dudle smiled. “Dr. Wymbs.” The chimney sweep paused for a reaction, his eyes and smile showing he was pleased by the results. “Father Scrimsher told the doctor that he had had a recent visitor in the confessional, someone who had been a patient at the Wymbs Institute. Apparently the man told him that he had been treated as a patient for some time, and that the doctor had eventually released him.”
Brian was hanging on every word. It didn’t even occur to him to take notes. He doubted he would have trouble remembering what the chimney sweep was telling him.
“Upon his release, this man felt the need to confess the acts he had committed before he had sought treatment at the Mustard House.” Dudle ran his tongue along his upper lip. “Father Scrimsher told Dr. Wymbs that the man confessed to being The Pillowcase.”
The revelation came like a blow. “The Pillowcase?”
Dudle nodded.
“Who was it?”
“They never mentioned the name.”
Brian’s excitement dimmed. “And Dr. Wymbs released him?”
“Over thirty years ago.”
“Why would Wymbs do that?”
“Why indeed?” Dudle said. “Maybe he figured he’d cured the man.”
Brian tried to assimilate this in his mind, but it was confusing. “How did Wymbs react to this?”
“He got very agitated,” Dudle said. “I could hear him pacing in the room, stuttering as he tried to explain his methods.”
“And?”
“I don’t think Father Scrimsher was concerned about that. The Pillowcase had confessed his sins, and the priest absolved him of his wicked deeds.”
“Then what did Scrimsher want, if not to turn the man in?”
“What’s said in the confessional is sacred. He couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Then what did he want from Dr. Wymbs.”
Dudle took a deep breath. “He assured Wymbs that he would keep the secret safe. But he wanted a favor in return.”
“A favor? What kind of favor?” Brian’s palms were sweaty and he had a sudden urge for a cigarette, but he figured a man who spent every day around soot and ashes would not appreciate him lighting one up.
Dudle frowned. “At that point, unfortunately, their voices got very low, and I wasn’t able to hear much more. But whatever it was, the doctor agreed.”
“What choice did he have?” Brian said. “Let it be known he let a serial killer free in the town?”
“Whatever Scrimsher wanted,” Dudle said, “it was mutually beneficial.”
“And what did you do?”
Corwin Dudle threw his head back and laughed. It was a giddy sound. “That was when I decided my amateur sleuthing career would begin.”
“So you became The Silhouette.”
“My first case was to try to discover the identity of The Pillowcase.”
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“And what have you found out?” Brian asked.
“That’s what I brought you here to show you.” Dudle moved to the side wall near the darkened back half of the room and flicked another light switch. A row of ceiling lights came on, lighting up the back wall.
Brian stood in stunned silence, staring.
Chapter 20
WALL OF MADNESS
“Welcome to Loonyville.”
Brian opened his mouth but couldn’t find anything to say. His eyes were too busy taking in the wall. A crude map of Smokey Hollow had been drawn on the wall in black marker. Photographs and newspaper clippings were taped all over the map, and notes and comments, names and dates were scribbled on it.
“What the hell am I looking at, Corwin?” There was a small desk and chair before the wall, facing it. On the desk were stacks of notebooks.
“This is thirty years of investigating,” Dudle said. He pointed to the chair, and Brian took a seat. “Everything I’ve been able to uncover, decipher, overhear, and research.”
Brian scanned the wall, his eyes jumping from spot to spot. It almost made him dizzy. He wasn’t sure what to focus on. It was a big, jumbled jigsaw puzzle, and he couldn’t make out the picture.
Dudle stepped to the wall. “I started with this,” he said, pointing to a photo of the Mustard House. A picture of Dr. Wymbs was next to it, along with some newspaper clippings. One article was about the opening of the institute, the other was Brian’s article about its destruction by fire.
“Do you know why there were no patients at the Mustard House?” Dudle asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because they had all been released. Not at once, but over time Wymbs released the patients into society. I guess it would be more accurate to say he re-introduced them into society. Just like with The Pillowcase, he felt that he had treated their disorders sufficiently that they no longer needed to be institutionalized.” He stepped back and spread his hands, encompassing the map. “So they all became productive citizens of Smokey Hollow.”
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