The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1)

by A. J. Flynn

  “Fear not,” Mrs. Shepherd assured her as they walked together to the door. “A good clubwoman appreciates a job well done.”

  They shook hands, and McPherson left and started towards the Rogers’ home.

  X

  Mr. Rogers sat in an old overstuffed chair. As he sat he knitted steadily. The slight sensation of his muscles moving gave him a deep feeling of peace. True, they had said he would be bedridden before long, completely paralyzed, but the movement gave him a sense of hope that they might be wrong.

  Most of every single day he spent tucked away in the old comfortable armchair, with a black-and-green afghan draped over his knees. The afghan had been one of his very first knitting projects.

  From his chair he could see out through the large front window of his house and watch people going about their daily activities, but most of his enjoyment came from the passing children.

  Every morning on school days they would gather along the corner to wait for the bus and indulge in pushing, shouting and teasing one another, as children do. It always amused him to watch them walk to the corner, washed and scrubbed, only to climb aboard the bus a little while later caked in dirt.

  The youngest members of the neighborhood would join the school-age group and watch with envy as the lucky ones hurried onto the bus. The year or two they were fated to wait for their turn must have seemed infinite in their young minds.

  The months Mr. Rogers spent watching allowed him keen insight into the personality of each child, but the Fitts children were his favorites.

  Little Jade was just a few months over seven, and a beautiful little girl. Her eyes were deep blue and shone with a lively zest, and her hair was dark mahogany, with a slight curl.

  Each morning she could be counted on to grab a scarf or book, or whatever else she could get her hands on, and run with it. She was always caught whenever she stole them from the older children, but that was part of the fun.

  Her brother, Teddy, was nearing ten, and tried to act mature. He seemed to feel a real sense of responsibility towards his little sister, even to the extent of accepting his turn as the butt of her teasing, without animosity. Whenever he felt someone had been a bit too rough with her, he would step in with a sharp word or, if called for, a well-placed fist. Other than this, he waited patiently, as did most of the boys his age, feeling that it was beneath his dignity to indulge in the younger children’s pranks.

  The Turner boys had always confused Rogers, because they were so different.

  Seth was big for his age and, as sometimes happens, was a bully. Whenever there was a rain puddle, it was nearly certain that at least one child would flee home in tears to have their wet clothing changed because of Seth. There had been a great deal of complaints, and a few punishments for the boy, none of which seemed to have made an impression on him.

  If someone could hate a child enough to murder, though the thought alone was baffling to Rogers, he would have expected it to be Seth, not his shy quiet brother Charlie.

  Charlie was slightly built and wore heavy glasses. Judging by the sheer quantity of books he carried, Rogers thought his bad eyesight might have been caused by too much studying.

  Charlie always stood far away from the group, clutching his books and his violin. Rogers understood that he played second violin for the school orchestra, but fortunately he lived far enough away from the Turner house not to have to listen to his practicing.

  Charlie almost always wore a knitted hat and a heavy jacket with an upturned collar. Perhaps he was susceptible to colds, but the outfit made him look more like a little old man than a boy. Actually, none of his features or mannerisms stood out much, so he always seemed to blend into the background.

  The old man set his knitting aside, stretched his hands and stared out at the quiet street. In a few of the houses the curtains were still drawn, even though it was nearing afternoon. The only person he could make out was a police officer, sitting alone in a parked patrol car along the curb. The unaccustomed silence sank him into a deep depression. So, with a heavy effort he heaved himself up out of the chair and made his labored way to the kitchen.

  “Rose,” he said as he lowered himself into a new chair, “have you brewed any coffee?”

  Rose Rogers turned around from the sink where she was peeling potatoes.

  “Settle in. I’ll heat it up for you.”

  She was an enormous woman, but she moved with quick grace and a light step. Even at the age of fifty-three, there wasn’t a single trace of grey in her satined, straight black hair, and her glowing olive skin was unlined.

  A woman without the slightest suggestion of emotion, she was extremely fastidious about her person. Never a day passed by where she missed her bath, and whenever the weather was warm she often took two.

  Brushing her hair was her daily ritual. Ten minutes each morning, during which she applied pomade to guarantee absolute smoothness to the heavy braids she fashioned into a coronet placed high on her head, then another ten minutes at night.

  It seemed to Mr. Rogers that the reason she devoted so much of her time to her appearance was to compensate for his own untidiness. As much as he might try, his undependable muscles seldom allowed him to give himself a close shave, and oftentimes his food would slip from his fork, leaving grease stains dripping down his clothes. It was unavoidable, although nevertheless unpleasant.

  “There’s a police car parked outside the Shepherds’,” he remarked, as Rose busied herself at the stove. “They’ll most likely come here, too.”

  “Why? We already told them all we knew last night.” From her tone it was obvious she felt that she’d done her duty and no longer expected to be bothered.

  “Police investigations don’t work like that, Rose. The men who stopped by last night were just officers. But we’ll eventually have to speak with the detectives they charged with the case. That’s how it works, especially in murder cases.”

  “I’m prepared to do my duty as a citizen, of course, but I don’t intend to have policemen coming in and out of my house whenever they feel like it.”

  “Now, Rose,” he said mildly, and busied himself with the coffee she’d set down in front of him.

  She returned to the sink and let out an exclamation of annoyance. “I suppose you’re right. She’s walking toward our house right now.”

  “We’ll help her all we can. You want to see the murderer caught, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she agreed wryly. She had just finished drying her hands and was idly waiting when McPherson rang the doorbell.

  “Yes, how can I help you?” Mrs. Rogers asked through a partially opened door.

  McPherson had always seen brown as a warm color, but the brown eyes looking back at her were harder and colder than she’d ever thought possible. And the tone of the woman’s voice did nothing to soften her icy inquiry.

  “I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson from police headquarters,” she said, flashing her credentials. “I’d like to speak with you and Mr. Rogers about the murder of Charlie Turner.”

  “We had a discussion with your guys last night. There’s nothing else for us to add.”

  “The investigators have found that it’s more advantageous to have more than one person overhear a statement. As you might imagine, it lessens the likelihood of mistakes. May I please come inside?”

  The request was superfluous. Her manner said that come hell or high water she would have her way.

  “If you wish,” the woman replied ungraciously, and held open the door.

  “Hello, ma’am.” Mr. Rogers had returned to his chair and held a trembling hand out to McPherson.

  “Mr. Rogers. I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson.”

  “Yes, I heard you speaking at the door. Take a seat and tell us what we can do for you.”

  McPherson took her seat on a sun-faded couch. The room gave one the impression that everything in it, including the Rogers, had been transferred here by means of a time capsule.

  The furniture was ove
rstuffed, and everything was covered in some drab shade of beige or brown. All of the wood pieces were oak, with the same fit and finish she had often seen in libraries. The only hint of color was the vibrant green in the robe Rogers had placed over his legs.

  Set against the modern, light-colored background, the entire thing looked out of place.

  “I would like to speak to you and Mrs. Rogers about the murder of Charlie Turner.”

  Mr. Rogers sank back into his chair. It almost looked like he was personally bereaved.

  “It’s a thing that’s quite beyond my understanding. I simply can’t imagine a person capable of killing a child.”

  “It’s hard for us all, but tell me what did you know about the boy? Were you two well acquainted?”

  “Not very. I’ve spoken to him a few times. One night in particular, I was out walking and I dropped my pipe. It’s difficult for me to bend over, and Charlie passed by just as I was trying to pick it up. He got it for me and then asked if he should join me in my walk. I told him I’d be glad for his company, but if he had other things to do I’d be all right on my own. We didn’t say much to each other, but he followed me all the way back to the house. I thought it showed rare kindness in a person so young.”

  McPherson nodded in agreement then turned to Rose Rogers, who was sitting up rigidly in a straight-backed chair.

  “How about you, Mrs. Rogers. Did you know Charlie?”

  “I have better things to do than waste my time chatting with strange children.”

  “Rosa,” Lester said sadly, “you don’t mean that the way it came out.”

  “You can be as sentimental as you want, Lester, but I find the children around here to be both destructive and noisy. There’s no reason for me to lie about it.”

  McPherson turned away from the woman. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to conceal her distaste.

  “Then you don’t know any reason why the boy would be out at that time of night?”

  “None, Lieutenant. I know all the children around here, but not that well. We talk, but I don’t know much about their lives.”

  McPherson rose to her feet. There was nothing further to gain. Mr. Rogers might be able to walk the distance to where Charlie had been found, but he didn’t seem capable of carrying him.

  Mrs. Rogers was strong enough to do it, but she could already tell that the woman wouldn’t even bother giving her the time of day, let alone proof that she did it.

  “I’ll be going then. Here’s my card. If you can think of anything that might help, I’d appreciate it if you called me.”

  By the time McPherson had handed the card to Lester, Rose was already at the door, holding it wide open for her. McPherson shook hands with the man then walked by Rose as if she didn’t exist. When it came to showing bad manners, McPherson never took a back seat to anyone.

  Back at the car, Taylor told her two local shoe repairmen suspected the work on the heel could have been theirs, but they didn’t remember who’d brought it in. The detectives were gathering whatever pictures they could of the people involved, in hopes of obtaining an identification. There was nothing found on the tires.

  “Well, I guess that’s something. I’m gonna head over to see what Mrs. Johnson has to say, then we can take a trip down to the school.”

  “OK.,” Taylor said. “I’ll keep in close touch with headquarters.”

  XI

  Colleen Johnson was relieved to find her husband gone when she woke up. The scene from the night before was still fresh in her memory, and as she prepared her morning coffee she couldn’t help but wonder about him.

  She began pulling some of the many pins from her hair as she made her way to her dressing table and sat down in front of the mirror. Robb eventually slipped from her mind as she gave her face its daily morning scrutiny for possible wrinkles. The new cream she bought seemed to be doing her skin a lot of good.

  Once satisfied, she continued pulling out pins as her thoughts drifted back to her husband.

  There was no way he could have done it, of course, but he hadn’t given her any explanation for his whereabouts during the time the boy had been killed, and the violent action he’d shown by destroying the porcelain figure made her think back to how he would sometimes act toward children.

  Not having any children of their own had always been a great disappointment, though Lord knows she had tolerated Robb’s persistence often enough to have made it possible.

  She and Robb had very little in the way of companionship, but she firmly believed the presence of a child in their house would solve all of their problems.

  It was a desperate effort for her to relive her very real and deep-seated lack of fulfillment that prompted her to call the children to come inside so often, baiting them with cookies and cakes as a bribe for their company.

  Robb had never understood this side of her. He’d been nasty about allowing them into the house on those rare occasions when he came home early to dinner.

  “You refuse to learn to entertain my friends properly, but you expect me to trip over a pile of brats every time I come home,” he had raged.

  It wasn’t true, of course. She’d tried again and again to please his whims, but nothing was ever good enough for him.

  She didn’t see anything odd about serving cream-cheese-and-pineapple sandwiches and angel-food cake during a cocktail party. It was good food, well served, and was always acceptable in its presentation, and if Robb’s guests didn’t want to eat it, it wasn’t her fault.

  It was true that she didn’t know very much about cocktail parties; as a matter of fact, she didn’t even like them, but he somehow found fault with everything she did, even going so far as to find fault with her dinners on the few occasions he’d asked her to entertain for him. One thing she knew for sure was that if there was anything she could do well, it was cook.

  Everyone who showed up either seemed to be on a diet or suffering from stomach trouble. Whipped mashed potatoes and rich cream gravy were always eaten sparingly, or passed up entirely, until it began to seem like everyone she catered to lived on steak and green salad.

  While she waited for the coffee to drip, she got dressed and arranged the many curls she’d affected. Once finished, she poured a small ladle of heavy cream over a bowl of cereal and started her toast. Then she walked out to the mailbox. She preferred to read the morning paper while she ate.

  “No confirmed motive,” the black headlines read. She permitted herself a ladylike shudder, and began avidly reading the published account.

  It read that there were no mutilations, that the boy had been strangled, and that they knew of no reason for him leaving his home so late at night.

  The police were working tirelessly around the clock and were expecting a break in the case to come soon.

  She knew they were lying, of course. It was only reasonable that it must have been the work of a man with a deranged mind. Robb’s reaction when she’d voiced her opinion had only served to embolden her confidence. There was nothing wrong with Robb’s mind, but even he had to agree that he was a man of nearly uncontrollable passions, and she knew from personal first-hand experience that some men sought out the company of a woman for nothing more than pleasant conversation, and the restful feeling they could provide, away from the restless bustle of the outside world.

  Robb wouldn’t care to admit it even to himself, but the vivid memory of shock and disgust she’d felt when he’d shown that bestial side of his nature stuck with her.

  To this day, she could still look at him and feel the same revulsion she’d felt during those horrible nights when they had first married.

  For some reason she’d never been able to fully understand, Robb had blamed her for the way he acted, but she had soon made it clear that she was not the sort of woman to tolerate such nonsense, and he finally left her alone.

  He was never home, but she was perfectly content with her hobbies, and her neighbors. She had a position as a married woman with few responsibilities, and so
she was close to being completely content.

  Once she had finished her coffee, she drew back the curtains. It was a beautiful day outside, but the street was completely deserted. Usually, she could make out wives trimming their roses or setting out for the store, but this morning the desolation gave her a lonely feeling. It seemed important for her to talk to someone, so she dialed Marla’s number.

  The phone rang several times before a voice finally answered. There was strain in it, and something like fear.

  “This is Colleen, dear. Why don’t you come on over, and we can have some coffee? I’ve been feeling lonely all morning.”

  There was a brief pause, then Marla said quickly, “I can’t right now, Colleen. I have too much to take care of,” and hung up.

  Colleen’s breath hitched at the rebuff. They had always been great friends, going out shopping and visiting each other almost every day. It was difficult for her to understand such treatment.

  She hung up slowly then looked out again at the deserted street. The lonely feeling she had was nearly physical. With heavy steps she checked over the locks, then gathered up her housekeeping equipment. The vacuum was hooked up and ready to go, when the doorbell chimed.

  She paused at the door, then called out loudly, “Who is it?”

  “Lieutenant Emma McPherson from the police department. I’d like to talk to you. May I please come in?”

  After unlocking the door, Mrs. Johnson pushed it open a crack and peered out. The badge, pinned to the woman’s billfold, was clearly visible, so she opened the door further.

  “I’m sorry to seem so inhospitable, but after a murder like this, one can’t be too careful. Please come inside, Lieutenant.”

  McPherson took off her coat and entered. “I can see why you would be nervous.”

  As she stepped into the room she was taken aback by the clutter. The lady of the house had more curls than she cared to count, more make-up than she thought anyone would have cared to pay for, and every spare surface in the room was covered with doilies, miniature figurines and house plants. Her first thought was that it must be a chore to keep dusted.