Loonies

by Gregory Bastianelli

  The priest laughed. “Assisting? Mr. Keays, I don’t quite know why you’d think anything like that. How on earth do you think I was assisting Dr. Wymbs?”

  Brian shrugged. “I thought it could be possible you were counseling patients in a spiritual way. Maybe even hearing confessions.”

  Scrimsher chewed this over before answering. “I hear lots of confessions from my parishioners.”

  “Of course,” Brian said. “And maybe even people who might not be from your parish. Maybe people from the institute who needed to cleanse themselves of their sins.” He worried he was laying it on too thick.

  “We all sin, Mr. Keays. It’s part of human nature.”

  “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

  “I’m not quite sure what you are looking for,” Scrimsher said. “But I have a feeling I haven’t been able to provide any answers.” His lips spread in a cheerful smile.

  “Maybe I’m just looking in all the wrong places.” Brian got up, thanking the priest for his time.

  Scrimsher struggled to pull his weight out of the chair, reaching a hand to his back. “Aging is never graceful,” he said with a smile. “When I first came to this parish, I was a young man, and quite fit and handsome, mind you.”

  “No one gets younger.”

  “And forgive me if I can’t quite remember things from a long time ago. The past gets further away every day.”

  He led Brian to the front door. As Brian stepped outside, he turned back to the priest.

  “The vacant building out back used to be an old-folks’ home right?”

  “Yes,” Scrimsher said. “The church ran it for many years, but then funds got tight and the place was shut down. That too was a very long time ago. It was already closed by the time I joined this parish.”

  “And it hasn’t been used since?”

  “About thirty years ago, it was used as a haven for troubled teen girls, mostly runaways. Sister Bernice helped run the place.” Scrimsher pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat off his brow. “It only lasted a few years, and then it too shut down. The economy even affects the church, believe it or not.”

  “I see,” Brian said.

  “Why the interest?”

  He shook his head. “Just too bad to see a fine piece of architecture going to waste.” He smiled. “That’s all.”

  He bid the priest goodbye and returned to the newspaper office.

  Later in the afternoon, Brian pondered what to do with all the information he had learned the past couple of days. What he needed to do was convince Corwin Dudle to let him share some of the knowledge with Noah Treece. Even though the police chief wasn’t half the detective that The Silhouette was, he’d rather Noah get credit for breaking the case than Steem and his henchman, Wickwire.

  His head and stomach hurt thinking about it, and he stepped out the back door to smoke a cigarette by the dumpster. The smoke going into his lungs was soothing. It helped him think more clearly. And what he was thinking of was the wall in Dudle’s basement. Even though the chimney sweep had provided valuable information, it doesn’t mean Brian wouldn’t have found any of it out for himself eventually. If anything, The Silhouette had just accelerated the process. And the interviews Brian had conducted with the former inhabitants of the Mustard House, all his doing, had contributed some valuable pieces to the puzzle. He could certainly go to Noah with that. That wouldn’t be breaking his word to Dudle.

  After all, the man had been providing him clues since the beginning. What was the point of that if he couldn’t do anything with it? He understood Dudle had concerns about who to trust in this town. Who wouldn’t, considering how many residents of Smokey Hollow might not be quite right. Certainly one wasn’t, no matter what the late Dr. Wymbs had thought. But the chimney sweep had entrusted Brian with his discoveries, so it was really up to him to act before something else happened.

  The back door to the newspaper office opened, and Isaac Monck poked his head out.

  “Bev says there something on the scanner you’d want to hear,” he said.

  Too late, Brian thought, something must have already happened.

  He stubbed his cigarette onto the side of the dumpster and tossed the butt into the container before rushing back into the office, nearly shoving Monck out of the way. Beverly Crump was standing beside the police scanner in his office. She adjusted her glasses as if to hear better. She looked at him as he entered. He didn’t say a word for fear of talking over a vital dispatch. At the moment, the scanner was quiet. He looked at her with querying eyes.

  “They’ve called the medical examiner to Cricket Lane,” she said.

  “Did you hear an address?”

  She shook her head.

  It didn’t matter. He’d drive down the street and look for police vehicles. He grabbed his camera and portable scanner off his desk and bolted out the front door. He drove down Main Street faster than he should have and barely halted at the stop sign at the end before turning onto Fogg Road. When he approached Cricket Lane, his tires squealed as the car cornered onto the street, slowing down once he was on the residential road. He passed the house he had gone to on the Women’s Garden Club tour, thinking how long ago that day seemed.

  Up ahead he saw the usual assortment of vehicles, police, fire, ambulance, and, of course, State Police. The medical examiner’s car wasn’t there, so that meant it hadn’t been too long since whatever happened had been discovered. He pulled to the curb, parking far enough back so as not to be in the way. He could feel the excitement in his body as he got out of the car. Even though he was coming into something that was most likely awful, it fueled his adrenaline and he could feel the beat in his heart.

  He walked down the sidewalk toward a white gambrel house with cranberry shutters and a large brick center chimney. He spotted Day Shift Alvin posted outside the front door of the home. There were two vehicles in the home’s driveway, and as Brian realized who one of them belonged to, his pace slowed, as did his heart. He stopped at the end of the driveway, looking up at the house.

  “Oh god, no.”

  Stuck in the gutter along the front edge of the house’s roof was a black top hat.

  Chapter 24

  WITNESS FROM ABOVE

  Brian got his camera out. Even though something crawled in his stomach, sickening him, he looked through the viewfinder at the hat on the roof and snapped a couple pictures. He knew it would be a dramatic shot. It didn’t matter at that moment what the hat represented, what he knew it meant. He was a journalist, and he had to set aside the prickling feeling inside and take the damn picture.

  He despised that feeling.

  But he took the damn picture anyway.

  After that, he didn’t think his feet would move. They adhered to the driveway, as if the tar had liquefied in this stifling summer heat and swallowed his shoes. But he had to know for sure what was going on in that house, so he got his legs going and approached Alvin at the door.

  “Hi, Alvin,” he said.

  “Mr. Keays.”

  “I’ve got some important info they’re going to want in there.”

  “You know the drill,” Alvin replied.

  “You don’t understand,” he pleaded. “This is stuff related to what I think happened in there. They need to know this.”

  Maybe it was the distressed tone of his voice or something Alvin saw in his face, but the cop went inside, leaving Brian by the front steps. He looked around the neighborhood. No one was about, and it felt lonely. I don’t want to be alone out here, Brian thought. Don’t leave me alone. It seemed to take forever. But then Brian realized he wasn’t quite alone. Up on the hill, he spotted a man on the water tower, the same man he had been seeing up there all summer…and now he knew who it was.

  The front door opened and Alvin came out with Noah.

  “Hey, Brian,” the chief said. “You got something?”

  “It’s Corwin Dudle dead in there, right?”

  “Yeah,” Noah said
, putting his hands on his hips. “Stuck in the chimney.”

  Brian grimaced. Maybe this wasn’t what he thought. Maybe this was just a mishap, the sweep slipping and falling into the chimney and breaking his neck. “An accident?” he asked, hoping but doubtful.

  Noah shook his head. “He’s at the bottom of the chimney. Owner came home and found him. We can see his body through the open flue.” He paused. “There’s a pillowcase over his head.” The chief looked down.

  “Damn,” Brian said, and he felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. “I know why he was killed.”

  The chief looked up. “What?”

  “Dudle was The Silhouette.”

  The chief’s eyes grew wide. “When did you find that out?”

  “The other day,” Brian said, not trying to be too specific. He spotted disappointment in the chief’s eyes.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I promised him I’d keep it to myself. He didn’t want to come forward.” Sure, keep telling yourself that, he thought. “But there’s more. Lot’s more. And Steem’s going to want to hear it.”

  Noah led him into the house, to the living room where a crowd of officers were gathered. Steem looked at him, and he flushed.

  “What the hell is he doing in here?” the captain yelled.

  “He’s got some valuable information,” Noah said.

  All eyes were upon him, but he couldn’t speak at first. His eyes were drawn to the fireplace. Dangling out of the flue, above the grate, was Corwin Dudle’s arm. Its hand was open, blackened by soot, fingernails forever dirty. Maybe the mortician would finally be able to get them clean for the man’s wake. But considering Dudle’s profession, he’d probably wanted to be cremated.

  “Well,” Steem said. “What is it?”

  Brian snapped out of his trance and told Steem everything he knew. He talked about the work Dudle had been doing all these years as The Silhouette, starting with the discovery that The Pillowcase was a former patient at the Mustard House and that Dr. Wymbs had released him. He described the basement at Dudle’s house, just around the corner from here. He gave them all the details the chimney sweep had gathered, about other former patients who were now citizens of Smokey Hollow. Brian described his interviews with some of those patients, telling them about Ivy Mockler hearing babies crying at night, and Sherman Thurk spotting someone taking away a live baby.

  When Brian was finished, the looks on Steem’s face ranged from amazement to anger. Even Wickwire’s usual stolid face became animated as Brian had spun his tale. Noah just looked frustrated.

  Steem turned to Wickwire. “Get on the horn,” he said to his subordinate. “I want a warrant to enter the victim’s house.” Wickwire left the room.

  Steem turned back to Brian, looking like he was about spew some vitriol at him, but then changed his mind and clamped his mouth shut. He probably figured it would be a waste of time.

  “Step outside for now,” Steem said to him. “But don’t go anywhere.”

  Brian waited out by the driveway with Alvin.

  “What time do they think this happened?” he asked the officer.

  “The homeowner said he had made an appointment for the chimney sweep to come over between noon and five. The owner came home around four o’clock.”

  “Broad daylight,” Brian said. The Pillowcase was getting brazen. The other murders had been committed under the cover of darkness. He looked up at the roof. God, the killer must have climbed the ladder and strangled Dudle right up there before stuffing him down the chimney like Santa’s sack of toys.

  “Hard to believe no one saw anything in the middle of the day,” Alvin said, as if reading his mind.

  Brian looked up and down the street. He spotted at least half a dozen “For Sale” signs in front yards on both sides of Cricket Lane. All the signs had a picture of a beaming Leo Wibbels.

  “Yeah, hard to believe,” he said, looking up at the man on the water tower.

  They entered Corwin Dudle’s house on Horseshoe Lane. Brian felt eerie being in the dead man’s house, even more so than on his last visit. In the basement he flicked on the light to illuminate the room, especially The Silhouette’s masterpiece on the back wall.

  “Wow,” Noah exclaimed in wonder like a young boy.

  Steem and Wickwire were silent. The captain approached the back wall and stopped, his eyes taking it all in. He put his hand on his chin, tapping his index finger against the side of his head. Furrows ridged along his bald scalp.

  Brian didn’t say anything, just let The Silhouette’s wall speak for itself, since the dead man couldn’t. He was forever in the shadows now.

  “This is incredible,” Noah said, breaking the silence.

  It was, Brian thought, thinking about all the work that had been put into it. He looked at the wall, at the pictures of the people he had spoken to, the newspaper clippings, the locations where certain events had occurred—St. John’s church, where Father Scrimsher spoke to Dr. Wymbs about his secret, Thrasher Pond, where the rib cage was pulled up by the fisherman; Timmy Birtch’s house, where the poor young boy was taken in the middle of the night; the sites of the recent strangulations; and Brian and Darcie’s house, where the trunk of baby skeletons was opened. Babies that he now knew had been at the Mustard House.

  Steem turned to Wickwire. “I want photos taken of this wall, and we need to catalogue all this information.” He looked back at the wall. “And then we are going to talk to some of these people.”

  Noah left the house with Brian, while the two State Police detectives remained behind. Brian was grateful to be out of that basement. The place seemed lonely without Dudle. He deserved better than his fate for all the work he had put into his pet project.

  “I wished you had come to me,” Noah said. “You could have trusted me.”

  Brian felt bad. “I know. I was trying to protect my source.” He thought about Dudle’s body in the chimney. “I guess I screwed that up pretty bad.”

  “You can’t fault yourself for that,” Noah said. “Don’t worry. We’re getting closer on this thing.”

  We? Brian thought. Maybe this would help the case for Steem and Wickwire, but he doubted it would make much difference for the police chief.

  “I’m going to go,” Brian said.

  “Keep in touch,” Noah said. “Don’t leave me in the dark.”

  “I won’t.” But he didn’t tell the chief what his next stop would be.

  He drove down Cemetery Road and took a right onto Breakneck Hill Road. His car lugged a bit on the steep upgrade but settled once the road leveled off at the top. When he got to the water tower, he parked and got out. He looked up, putting his right hand on his forehead, trying to shield his eyes from the sun.

  “Hello,” he called out, squinting up at the man on the water tower, Nyle Potash.

  “Hi,” the little man said, looking down at him. “What brings you up here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Brian said.

  Potash laughed. “This is kind of therapy for me.”

  “I see.” Brian looked at the town below. It was a reverse image of the view he had had a few weeks back from the Mustard House on the other side of the hollow, same downtown storefronts, just from the opposite side. He looked back up at Potash. “I was wondering if I could chat for a minute.”

  The man shrugged. “Sure. Come on up.”

  That wasn’t quite what Brian had in mind. He looked at the metal ladder reluctantly. It had rust spots and loose flakes of paint. He stepped over to it, grabbing onto a rung, and began climbing. Brian never had a fear of heights like Potash, but still the thought of falling wasn’t reassuring. He kept his eyes ahead, focusing on each rung as he grasped it, not releasing one hand until made sure the other one had a firm grip on the next rung. Before he knew it, he was at the railed catwalk ringing the tower.

  “Quite a view,” he said as he sidled up to Potash at the railing.

  “Yes, it is,” Pot
ash said. “I come here quite often.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you up here, though I didn’t realize it was you at first.”

  “Dr. Wymbs suggested it as a way to face my fear.” He smiled. “I feel a bit safer on this than in the hot air balloon at the Dump Fest.”

  “This thing is a bit steadier,” Brian said, though he had some doubt about its sturdiness, considering the rust. “Have you been up here quite a while today?”

  The man nodded. “Most of the day. I have a lot more free time now that the fruit market is closed.” He frowned. “I suppose I could make better use of my time by looking for a new job.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad. I’m sure something will turn up.”

  “Times are tough.” He looked at Brian and his smile was back. “Of course, I guess I can save some money by not paying my landlord, since he’s in jail.”

  Brian laughed. Then the two men were silent for a bit.

  “So what is it you wanted?” Potash asked.

  “I was wondering if you saw anything while you were up here?”

  Potash’s eyes from behind his glasses glared back. “Anything?”

  Brian scanned the roads below, trying to get his bearings, looking at the rooftops. When he spied Cricket Lane and the house with a ladder leaning against the back, he pointed. “There.”

  Potash followed his finger but said nothing.

  “A man was murdered on that roof a few hours ago. A pillowcase was put over his head and his dead body was shoved down the chimney.”

  Potash’s face whitened, and he grimaced.

  “Did you see it?”

  Potash didn’t look at him, gazing toward the house on Cricket Lane. Finally, the man nodded. “Yes,” he said, almost a whisper.

  “What did you see?”

  He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with his fingers before putting them back on. “Just like you said. I saw the chimney sweep on the roof, standing over the chimney, running his brush down inside it. I could even hear him whistling, the sound carried all the way up here.” He paused. “And then I saw another man climb up the ladder. I thought at first he was a helper…he had something in his hand.” Potash’s voice started to shake. “And then—he crept up behind the chimney sweep. The poor bastard didn’t even know anyone was behind him. Maybe the whistling covered the sound. The chimney sweep turned around at the last second, but as he did the man put a pillowcase over his head and began choking him.” Potash took a deep, strained breath and looked at Brian. “I yelled out. I screamed for him to stop.” Potash’s hands gripped the railing, knuckles turning white. “I don’t know if he heard me or if he just didn’t care. Then the sweep’s body went limp, and the man picked him up and put him head first down the chimney.” He released his grip on the railing and bowed his head. “If he wasn’t already dead, I’m sure the fall down the chimney killed him.” He shook his head. “It was horrible. But that wasn’t the worst part.”