The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin

by Josh Berk

  For some reason, in that moment, several things become clear. It is clear that if I stay at Carbon High or not, Mom and Dad will respect my choice. And it is clear, though I am not sure how or even why, that I have to reveal what I know of the twin mysteries of Dummy Halpin and the death of Pat Chambers. I have to shine the light of truth on two guys lost in the bottom of that mine. But, first, time to go to bed.

  I sleep better than I have in a long, long time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Back at school on Tuesday, I am greeted by a massive amount of Chambers tributes that had been left around the halls of Carbon High as part of the vigil the previous afternoon. There are signs, cards, even teddy bears for some reason. Outside Pat’s locker, there are crosses made out of flowers, although I doubt he was a very religious guy. There are also football-shaped bouquets, which make way more sense. Someone had printed copies of his picture on red paper and stuck them on lockers, windows, doorways, and everywhere else they could reach. I guess it is supposed to make us feel better to express ourselves, but it creeps me out—his scarlet face smirking from beyond the grave.

  Strangest of all, however, is the homemade T-shirt made by, you guessed it, Kevin Planders. Planders had taken an old white shirt and used Magic Markers to write COALERS on the front and CHAMBERS 45 on the back. Then, on the sleeve, he tried to write RIP and the date Pat died, but it is hard to tell because he apparently got caught in the morning’s rain.

  The grief counselors are gone, but there is still a police presence in the school. As I walked through the parking lot with Devon in the morning, we noted unmarked cop cars. Devon signed, “I H-O -P-E H-A -W-L-E-Y I-S N-O-T H-E -R-E. T-H -A-T G-U-Y H-A-S I-T I-N F-O-R M-E.”

  Classes were supposed to return to normal, to “let the healing begin,” but who are they kidding? It is way too soon to think about school. Even Arterberry is distracted. We are supposed to be learning about World War I, but he just assigns silent reading and stares out the window. What is he thinking? From the furrowing of his brow, it is clear that unpleasant thoughts are racing across his mind. Does he suspect that he is teaching a murderer in this very class? Or is he simply bummed about the disturbing revelations regarding his friend Miss Prefontaine?

  I break out my little notebook. Besides for general spying on my classmates, I’ve been using it to sketch out my theories—even a map—of what happened at the mine. The thing is, see, I already know who killed Pat Chambers. Even if I don’t want to admit it to anyone. Least of all myself.

  Though such devices are prohibited in school, I crack out my Crony just on the off chance that one of those police cars belonged to Melody and she is sending me an e-mail to alert me of her presence. No such luck. What I do get, a minute after logging in, is an IM.

  Smiley_Man3000: Hey, what are you doing on?

  HamburgerHalpin: i could ask you the same thing

  Smiley_Man3000: I don’t feel like doing silent reading. Besides, Arterberry isn’t even looking.

  HamburgerHalpin: he seems troubled

  Smiley_Man3000: I guess none of us can concentrate.

  HamburgerHalpin: these are dark days for us coalers

  Smiley_Man3000: You got that right. Think The Dolphin was our pusher?

  HamburgerHalpin: i really don’t think so. i mean obviously they were involved but she seemed really distraught when he died

  Smiley_Man3000: But remember how mad she was when she thought he was off with Leigha? Maybe it was an act of jealousy.

  HamburgerHalpin: yeah but she didn’t think he was off with leigha until after he was already down

  Smiley_Man3000: True. What about the whole CIA angle, then? It is quite a coincidence that Pat’s dad was linked to something so big just as his son gets killed.

  HamburgerHalpin: yeah but I think it’s just that: a coincidence. the great detective said that complicated solutions rarely solve the puzzle. “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”

  Smiley_Man3000: What great detective was that? Encyclopedia Brown?

  HamburgerHalpin: srsly devon what r u in third grade?

  Smiley_Man3000: No, I get it. You’re saying people usually kill for simple reasons. Back to the playing cards, then … and A.J. Pat gave the ace to Escapone just to further twist the knife, just to be, like, “Hey, even this weirdo can come, but you can’t.”

  HamburgerHalpin: i thought that 2 but i’m pretty sure that escapone was just invited because he can get beer

  Smiley_Man3000: Escapone does look at least 45.

  HamburgerHalpin: srsly. hey–what about dwight carlson? what was he doing down in the basement that day? what do we know about him at all? plus he is weak! fits your calculations!

  Smiley_Man3000: Oh, didn’t I tell you? My mom knows the Carlsons. She said that Dwight is actually Lucille the janitor’s grandson. Lucille probably sent him to pick something up.

  HamburgerHalpin: why do u keep forgetting to tell me these important things?!

  Smiley_Man3000: Sorry. I didn’t think it mattered. I never really suspected Carlson. If lack of physical strength was the main thing we were going on, we’d have to say it was probably you.

  HamburgerHalpin: or you!

  Smiley_Man3000: I’m wiry!

  HamburgerHalpin: u r a noodle

  Smiley_Man3000: Speaking of the so-called weaker sex (you), who is to say that girls can’t be killers? I have looked into the eyes of Purple Phimmul and seen a stone-hearted assassin waiting to happen.

  HamburgerHalpin: she might not be that bad …

  Smiley_Man3000: Why are you defending Purple? Are you in love with her?

  HamburgerHalpin: what? no. just … there might be more going on there than first meets the eye

  Smiley_Man3000: You totally love her. I, on the other hand, remain coolly detached. We’re on a murder investigation. Everyone is a suspect.

  HamburgerHalpin: even purple?

  Smiley_Man3000: She would do anything for Leigha.

  HamburgerHalpin: murder? i’m dubious frank

  Smiley_Man3000: What about Marie Stepcoat? Or Gabby Myers or Teresa Lockhart or somebody? We haven’t talked about them in a while. And Kevin Planders clearly has the makings of a homicidal stalker!

  HamburgerHalpin: does he when you get right down to it?

  I am not paying attention to the clock and am glad Devon sends me a message saying the bell has rung. We walk down the hall to math, sending a few more secret messages about potential suspects as we wind through the masses. Then he sends a little message saying “Look to your right” just as a cute senior bends over at her locker. Nice.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Math class. It is sort of impossible to believe that instead of standing there “teaching” us about angles, Miss Prefontaine is at this very moment in a jail cell. It is hard to imagine her feeling scared, and weirder still because only Devon and I know who really brought her to that point.

  Our sub for the day is not Mr. Tough Guy but rather an odd-looking woman that Principal Kroener must’ve hired as an anti-Prefontaine.

  “Hello, my wonderful students,” she says after staring at us with a glassy-eyed smile for several confusing minutes. “I am Mrs. Faulk, and you can call me … Mrs. Faulk.”

  What can I say about Mrs. Faulk? A wildebeest in a lime green pants suit. Lipstick smeared on thicker than tar on a country road, and enough rouge to choke a horse. Isn’t that what it’s called? Rouge? As I try to catch Dev’s eye, I catch someone else’s.

  Hawley, that mustached hulk of a detective, is taking up most of the doorway and looking around the room with a fierce determination. No one else has seen him yet. I alone watch him looming there like a dark troll guarding his bridge. He stares around the room, rakes his chin with giant fingers, and wrinkles his nose as though something smells very bad. And then he finds his man. He is staring right at Devon with a look that could melt steel.

  But Devon is just zoning out. I note that he is
doodling some dolphins, for nostalgia’s sake. Hawley coughs, and Devon looks over at him. He motions with two fingers on his left hand that Devon should come with him. Devon looks at me and does that move where you pull your collar in mock fear—trying to make a joke of it. But as he passes by, his face goes a few shades paler.

  Faulk blathers and everyone whispers, speculating on Devon and the detective. What to do, what to do? Suddenly a fully formed plan, one worthy of the Smileyman himself, comes to mind.

  First, I write a note to Mrs. Faulk describing a sudden onset of some unnamed illness that requires an immediate trip to Nurse Weaver. Then I write a second note, which I fold and put into my pocket. I raise my hand and bring the first note to the teacher’s desk. Mrs. Faulk reads it and, as expected, seems very concerned. A softie. She gestures that I should hurry along, winking at me the whole time. Does she know what I am really up to? I head straight for the boys’ bathroom, take a huge bunch of paper towels, and stuff them into one of the grungy toilets. I keep stuffing paper into the toilet, more and more, like a looter filling a sack. Then I flush.

  The water begins to back up. I take out the second note I had written in math class. It says, in a panicked scrawl, “EMERGENCY! THE TOILET IS FLOODING! CALL THE JANITOR!” I run into the classroom across the hall from the bathroom, where a freshman math class is in progress with a teacher whose name I don’t know. He looks a little baffled by my sudden presence at his door. He reads the note and immediately goes to the classroom phone to page Lucille. I rub my fingers and make a devious evil genius smile. Then I realize I am still standing in front of the freshman math class.

  I run out and head to the back stairwell, which leads to the building’s basement. A grumpy-looking Lucille passes me carrying a bucket and a mop. The janitor’s office is now empty, and I will have at least a few minutes alone down there. Still, I am nervous. As I stride quickly toward the door, I look over my shoulder every two seconds—maybe more—fearful that someone will see me. I have no idea how I will explain myself if anyone catches me. Am I still new enough at school that I can pretend to be lost? Will they suspect me of starting the toilet volcano? Nah. Maybe being the newcomer-weirdo has some advantages? If everyone underestimates you, you can either sink to their level or take joy in proving them wrong. I’m going for number two.

  I am trying to remember what I learned in my one day with Smiley Security Services. I need to see what Devon is saying to Detective Hawley in Kroener’s office.

  I head down the stairwell and descend once again into the darkness. The unnerving smell of sweaty socks wafts toward me. I wish the Black Rose could be here. But there is no Frank, no Black Rose. Just Chet. Deaf guy on a solo mission.

  Inside the janitor’s room, that dank little cave, the T1300 surveillance system is turned on. There on the screen is just what I want to see: Devon and Detective Hawley in the middle of an intense conversation.

  I can see Dev pretty well and have an easy time lip-reading what he is saying, but I can’t see Hawley. Still, it is pretty obvious how the conversation is going: not well. Devon keeps wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Hawley then presents Devon with a plastic bag. It holds his handkerchief, clearly bagged as evidence.

  “Hey, I wondered where that went,” Devon says. And then, after a pause, he adds, “That doesn’t prove anything.” And then he looks annoyed and adds, “That doesn’t prove anything either. So what if I was separated from my buddy? So what if I actually hated Pat? And so what if you found my handkerchief in the janitor’s office? This is all (something) at best. Proves nothing.” It is hard to lip-read this last part, since Devon is getting agitated, but I am pretty sure the word I missed was actually “circumstantial.” Isn’t that what they say on all those cop shows? And then he says something I know they say on those shows all the time: “I want a lawyer.”

  Apparently, to Detective Hawley this request is as good as an admission of guilt. He jumps up and grabs Devon. I can’t see what is happening now; their backs are to the camera. But I am pretty sure that I see something that looks a lot like the glint of fluorescent light on a pair of handcuffs.

  I run up the stairwell. It is easier today, possibly because of the adrenaline, or possibly because I am getting used to running. Devon was right, you get pretty fit playing detective, searching for hidden gold, climbing Skull Mountain, et crapera. I sprint into the hallway and join the students from Prefontaine’s—or rather Faulk’s—room emerging into the hall in a slow trickle. Other classes are emptying too, a wave of bodies. Then the normally chaotic scene of halls filling with students and teachers suddenly goes orderly and still.

  Hawley has Devon in handcuffs.

  I look around the halls in a panicky sweep. Some people are saying things like “I knew it!” and “Burn in hell, Smiley!” Some are confused, asking each other, “What is going on?” I feel like I’m going to choke, like a cloud of poison gas had been released into the hallway.

  A bunch of people whip out their cell phones and start taking pictures, wanting to capture Devon’s perp walk. Dwight Carlson, always out of step with everything, has a regular camera for some reason. His flash lights the hall, briefly throwing strange shadows on the gawking faces.

  I try to catch Devon’s eye, but his head is down. Even if I had made eye contact, what could I do? How can we talk? His hands are bound tightly behind his back as he shuffles down the hall. I had been starting to put the pieces of the whole thing together, biding my time to make my theory fully gel. I know I have some answers and that I can help, but then this happens: they get the wrong guy.

  I push through the crowd. I am not a ghost. I am made of flesh and muscle, and I can be pretty strong when I need to be. I shove people out of the way, step in front of Detective Hawley, and stand my ground. He pauses like he hadn’t expected this. And then I do something that no one expects.

  I scream.

  It has been a while since I’ve used my vocal cords, but I think they still work pretty well. It sure seems that way. Everyone stops and stares at me, including Devon and Detective Hawley. I sign, just hoping the point will somehow get across, chopping my hands violently. A long, puzzled moment hangs in the hall.

  Purple Phimmul steps up, emerging through the crowd. “I know what he’s saying,” she says. Heads turn away from me and toward her like satellite dishes simultaneously tuning in the same signal.

  “That’s the sign for ‘stop,’ “ she announces to everyone, her normally bored eyes ablaze. She adds, “You guys. He’s saying, ‘Stop, you guys.’ “

  I chop my hand a few more times, then nod to her. “And then,” she says, “I think, I think … that’s the sign for ‘wrong.’ Either that or ‘accident.’ It can mean both.” I nod. I did intend it to mean both. I make the sign for “innocent.” I remember being back at Camp Arrowhead learning this sign. They instructed us to move our hands down as if we had nothing to hide. Though somebody does.

  “Innocent?” Purple asks me. “Devon is innocent?”

  I nod.

  “He says Devon is innocent.”

  Why is she helping me? Was I wrong about Miss Phimmul all along?

  And then she signs to me, while speaking to the crowd, the detectives, Devon, and everybody. “How do you know?”

  “Because,” I sign, “I know who really did it.”

  I’ve had my suspicions for a while. But my theory was clinched the second I saw that flash. That flash went through my eyes, illuminating another flash: the one from Devon’s camera when he took his stupid picture of the dark. I saw someone. At the edge of the mine. Next to Pat. Emerging from the wall.

  My hands start to sweat and my head starts to spin. My stomach feels like it is filled with a thousand lunches of fried ravioli. I can’t let the real killer go free, even though I really don’t want to be responsible for what will happen next. I spell out the name with shaking hands.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The buzz in the hallway is so strong that I swear I can actually feel t
he vibration of the sound waves bouncing off my skin. There is just an intense energy of shock, confusion, surprise, and utter bewilderment.

  Devon is shouting. “We can explain it all! Just let me out of these handcuffs so I can talk to Will.” Hawley doesn’t want to do this, but Principal Kroener gives the head nod that says, “Do it, buddy.” The detective slides a key into the lock and pops the handcuffs. Devon shakes his shoulders and rubs his wrists.

  Then he immediately signs, “I trust you.” I nod. And then he finger-spells a question: “P-R-O-O-F?”

  I nod again. I sort of do have proof. But how can I explain? It will take forever. Hawley paces and gestures wildly, muttering to himself. “Has to be the Smiley kid … Returned to the scene of the crime … He was picked on by that Pat! He lied about being friends with him! … Messed with the surveillance tapes … Handkerchief.”