Carry hit him with one of her pillows. “I told you, pretty much all my poetry is depressing.”
“Fine, let me read it.” And so, Jonathon did:
DEAD ENDS
Night settles in like frost on a hillside
The moon’s a steel blade in the sky
Surrounded by a twisted band of headlights
Roaming the streets
Each one throws a shadow as you walk
Searching for that little bag of gold
Passing by those who came before
The unlucky ones
The ones you’ll never really know
Because you don’t even get close enough
Except
Your shadow’s not that long
Check where the lines on your palm intersect
One runs north like Interstate 5
The other east like Route 66
But both
Eventually stop
At dead ends
“You definitely have a knack for writing poetry to kill kittens by,” Jonathon said.
Carry hit him with her pillow again. “That’s not nice.”
“No, actually I think you’re very talented. Maybe you should just try writing something happy for a change.”
“Okay,” Carry said. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll write you a poem.”
“I’d like that. Maybe somethin’ about how fantastic I am.” He smiled.
Carry slammed the pillow into his head one more time.
CHAPTER 41
Me and Dewey brought the bloody leaf back to my house. We had been very careful to break the branch and not touch the leaf and to package it properly, the way the book had explained.
We had a slight argument as to whose initials should go on the evidence, mine or Dewey’s, on account of he actually found the blood but I was the one who figured out it was probably the most important piece of evidence left at the entire crime scene.
“Okay,” Dewey said. “So, what do we do now?”
I got my forensics book from where it was lying on the table beside my bed. “First thing we need to do is test it to see if it’s real blood.”
“How do we do that?”
“Something called a ‘Luminol Chemiluminescence Test’,” I said, reading from the book. I tripped badly over that second word.
“Sounds complicated.”
“Actually, it’s not. We just take a very small piece of the sample and spray it with one of the fluids that came with the forensics kit. If it’s blood, it will glow with a bluish color for thirty seconds or so.”
Dewey was picking through the kit that sat on the table we’d set up. “Which liquid?”
I pulled out the empty spray container. “We need to mix a few liquids into the spray bottle.” I read the list from Understanding Forensics while he got them all ready.
“Okay, now we just need to use the eyedropper to mix ’em,” I said after Dewey had extracted them all from the box. “Then we spray a small sample of the blood we found.”
Luckily, the leaf had a lot of blood on it, so we were able to just tear off a little piece without disturbing the rest. I carefully mixed the solution in the small spray bottle before turning off my bedroom light and drawing my curtains.
“Whatcha doin’ all that for?” Dewey asked.
“We need to be able to see it glow,” I answered. “Reckon that’s easier to do with the lights off.”
I moistened a small pad with another chemical from the kit, and we placed the blood sample on it before spraying it. Sure enough, I saw a faint glowing bluish color. “Dewey! Do you see that? It really is blood!”
“What did you ’spect it would be, Abe? Of course it’s blood.”
I suppose he had a point, but still, this was our first attempt at using the stuff from the kit for any sort of serious detective work. It felt good to know something I learned had turned out to be of some importance.
Now a new thought formed in my mind: How were we going to present this bloody leaf to my mother without getting in trouble for investigating an active crime scene? I would be forced to tell her I’d read her files.
Dewey must’ve had the same thought. “We gotta give it to your ma,” he said.
I frowned. “I know. I just don’t know . . . What we need to do next is harder than any forensic work I can think of.”
“What’s that?”
“Sellin’ this story to my mom. She’s not going to be happy with us.”
“But we found a major piece of evidence.”
“Doesn’t matter. We still went somewhere I’m pretty sure we weren’t s’posed to. Not to mention I went through her files. She won’t like that one bit.”
“But—I don’t—”
I cut him off. “Don’t try too hard to figure it out, Dewey,” I said. “It don’t make sense and it won’t make sense. That’s how it is sometimes when it comes to grown-ups.”
CHAPTER 42
It had been two days since Leah found the body of Samantha Hughes on the southern edge of the ravine where the Anikawa ran dark and deep, and the image of the woman’s backwardly bent body staked into the riverbank still haunted her. For the past two nights, she’d woken up in sweats, the nightmare lingering like an abandoned cat looking for food.
She’d lost another one, and this one happened right in her search area. Unlike Abilene Williams, victim number ten, Leah couldn’t blame anyone else for not stopping the killer. She’d only been moments away from the scene when the Stickman dumped the body.
Moments.
So much can happen in so little time.
Now she sat at her desk, lost in these thoughts, as her eyes roamed the small scene of Main Street she could see out the window on this clear, blue day.
She’d gotten into work around eight this morning, deciding not to even try and go back to sleep when she woke up early. Sleep was the place where dead bodies lay to be found, where killers snatched the lives of victims just before Leah had the chance to catch them.
Sleep made her relive that Independence Day murder. Over and over.
She decided not to give it another chance. And so, she got up, got ready to go, and came to work.
Now it was nine-thirty, and the echoes of her nightmares still refused to stop snapping at her. She felt helpless and useless, like the weight of all the victims fell squarely on her shoulders and, even if this wasn’t true, she definitely had to take responsibility for Samantha Hughes.
She had been so close to catching the Stickman. So close, she saw the dust kicked up by his automobile.
But she might as well have been miles away for the good it did her.
The door to the station opened and Chris came inside, his black cropped hair shiny with sweat. “Damn, it’s hot out there already,” Chris said with a smile. “Not that I’m complainin’. I’ll take this over all that rain any day.” He saw Leah’s face and obviously noticed the detached look in her eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothin’, not really.” Yesterday she’d been the same, but she had gotten into work late and left early. The whole time, Chris had been busy on the phone and on the computer. She hadn’t had any idea what he was working on, nor did she care. Like today, her thoughts had just been consumed by the discovery of Samantha Hughes.
Chris poured a coffee and took his seat. Reaching to a small stack of papers on the other side of his keyboard, he passed it over to her. “Here you go,” he said. “Just like you asked.”
It took a minute for Leah to pull herself from her dark reverie. “What?” she asked. “What is this?”
He frowned. “Seriously? You don’t even remember the things you call on me to do with my ‘special talents’? I’m hurt.”
She looked at the top page. It was a report on Stanley Bishop. Right. Now it came back to her. She had asked him to get everything he could possibly dig up on the man who called himself “Duck.”
“Anythin’ interesting?” she asked Chris after clearin
g the nightmares from her mind.
“Most of it I reckon was already in his file,” Chris said. “The things that you’re probably most interested in I’ve gone ahead and highlighted. Everything that happened since the report you gave me was pulled. That consists of a couple of run-ins with the police, the most recent resulting in his being put in Talladega.”
Leah flipped through the pages, quickly scanning everything Chris had highlighted in yellow. None of it seemed to apply to the Stickman murders from fifteen years ago, although it was mentioned that he was questioned in regard to the case. Most of the details were left out, though, but she’d already read them in the file her pa had made. “So, nothing came up as being anything suspicious?” she asked Chris, disappointed.
“Well, I reckon there’s one thing that’ll give you pause,” he answered.
“What’s that?” She went to the next page. Again, nothing she hadn’t expected in the details.
“Look on the last page,” Chris said. “Remember my gift for unearthing juvie records?”
Leah looked up from the reports and gave him a questioning raise of her eyebrow.
“I reckon if you check out that history, you might find a little something that’ll make you at least a mite happy. In fact, it might even make you wanna take a trip out to the Talladega Correctional Institute today rather than waiting any longer.”
With a slight increase to the tempo of her pulse, she turned to the last page to see what the hell Chris was talking about. It took her a few seconds to process what it was she was looking at. When she did, two words came to her lips.
“Holy shit,” she said.
Chris smiled. “I figured that’s what you’d say.”
CHAPTER 43
“So, Mr. Bishop,” Leah said, setting the manila folder on the steel table in front of her. It contained all the information Chris had dug up on Duck. She had left the station less than an hour after Chris had presented her with his findings, quickly throwing together a photo lineup to show Duck, consisting of the five potential suspects Chris gave her from the Grell Memorial list. Despite what Chris had said about the one not being capable of any recent murders due to his incarceration, Leah saw no harm in including the mug shot anyway. To these, she added two more faces, those being shots of Tommy Stork and Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw—her two Toms. She had a strange feeling in her gut about both of them.
When she’d left for work early this morning, Dan had still been snoring on the sofa, and once she’d made the decision to come out to Talladega, she went back and forth in her mind about whether or not she should call him. She knew if she did, he would insist on tagging along and, although he’d proven useful in the case since coming down, at times he seemed to add needless contention, especially when it came to Gary Carmichael or Duck. In the end, though, her conscience got the best of her and she decided not calling him was lying. Of course he insisted on joining her. Only now, sitting in the interview room with Duck on one side of her and Dan on the other, she kind of wished she’d refrained from phoning and had just let Dan sleep in.
“I’m back, just as I said I would be,” Leah said to Duck.
“I’m fuckin’ touched,” Duck replied. His hands were cuffed behind his back, just like last time. Only, the comradery Leah had felt last time was gone. Whatever points she’d won by insulting Gary Carmichael had been used up. Or maybe Dan’s presence was the reason for Duck’s change in disposition. “What’s with the asshole bein’ here?” Duck asked. “I thought we went over this already?”
“He’s my partner,” Leah said, purposely not glancing away from Duck’s eyes. “I’m afraid he’s part of the package.”
“Well, he wasn’t part of my fuckin’ package. I read the small print.”
Leah sighed. “You said you’d look at some photos for me.”
“And you said you’d leave Pencil Dick at home.”
Leah’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Actually, no. I never said anythin’ about Pencil Dick.”
In her periphery, Leah saw Dan glance her way as his hands spread apart on the table. His mouth opened, but she was quick to cut off any words he had planned to come out with. “Just ignore him,” Leah said. “You’re in here with me. He’s just here to watch.”
Her eyes shot briefly to Dan, and she saw him close his mouth. Good, she thought. Just keep it shut. This time, it’s my interview. Leah felt on fairly steady ground with Duck. Basically, she figured, the key was to pretend to not like everyone he didn’t like. Somehow that ingratiated her to him.
Duck laughed, looking at Dan. “What? Pencil Dick finally has no words? I’m impressed. I thought your lips would never stop flappin’. Anyway, I reckon we’re done here.”
He looked up and Leah knew the drill: He was about to whistle for the guard. She yawned, faking boredom. The yawn was real, mind you. She hadn’t got much sleep last night with the horrible dreams and all. “Duck,” she said. “We’ve been down this road. I’ve got the T-shirt back at the station. Now, you gave your word you’d look at photos for me. You aren’t one of those fucking guys who goes against his word, are you?”
Duck just stared at her. Leah tried her best to hold his gaze without blinking. Finally, Duck said, “Seriously? You think using the F word’s goin’ to make me do what you want? It doesn’t even sound natural comin’ out of your mouth.”
Dan opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Duck cut a hard glance his way. “Don’t! Not a fuckin’ word! I know you can say the F word, no problemo. You can say lots of things. I’ve heard you. Your mouth never stops movin’ once it’s started, so I think the key here is, don’t start! I’ll tell you what”—he looked back to Leah—“you keep a collar on him and he stays silent, and I’ll look at your pictures. But the moment he makes a sound”—he nodded toward Dan—“I’m outta here.”
With a deep breath, Leah looked sternly at Dan. “Okay . . . Stanley. I reckon we can do that. Right, Detective Truitt?”
Duck’s eyes fixed on Dan. “Don’t even answer,” he said. “I don’t wanna hear a thing come out of your mouth.”
Dan just kept his gaze locked on Duck. Leah was happy he only nodded—slowly—and didn’t actually say yes.
“Okay. Mr. Bish—” Leah stumbled. “I mean, Stanley, I—”
“Call me Duck. What’s with this ‘Mr. Bishop’ or ‘Stanley’ bullshit? Lady, you don’t know me. That’s why you brought up the shit ’bout me keepin’ my word. Fact is, I actually have a whole slew of principles I live by. One even happens to be keepin’ my freakin’ word. But it only applies when I’m not in the presence of pencil dicks like your partner.”
“Well, then,” Leah said patiently. “I’m glad you’ve decided to honor your word this time, Mr.—Duck. Here.” She took the photo lineup she’d put together from the folder on the table and spun it 180 degrees before pushing it across the table to Duck. Then she opened it, revealing the eight photos on the colored Xerox page within. “Can you carefully look over these headshots and tell me if any match the person you met at Grell Memorial? Actually, I’d be happy to know if any look familiar at all, you never—”
Duck was way ahead of her, going through the sheet, nodding at each image. “Never seen him. Never seen him. Never seen him. Never seen her. Never seen her. Never—” And he stopped at the second-to-last photo, the picture of Tommy Stork.
Duck’s eyes slowly rose from the table until they met Leah’s. “What kind of shit is this?”
“What do you mean?” Leah gave Dan a confused look. Dan just kept watching Duck.
“Why the hell is there a picture of Harry Stork in this? I told you. Stork was not the Stickman. You guys fucked it all up.” He looked back down at the photo and seemed to really examine it for the first time. “What’s with the scar on Stork’s face? I never saw a—I mean, I seen a lot of pictures of Harry Stork back when he was bein’ hunted down. For like a month, pictures were in the paper, on the TV, everywhere. But I ain’t never seen one with his face all scarr
ed.”
Leah narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what to make of this reaction. Obviously, her pa had kept things pretty quiet about Stork having an identical twin brother. “That’s not Harry Stork,” she said at last.
“Fuckin’ hell, it ain’t. That’s Harry Stork if I ever saw Harry Stork.” Duck fumbled a bit and then said, “All them pictures. I remember Harry Stork. That’s his hair. That’s his face. Only I ain’t never seen no scar across it like that. Somebody cut him bad. Almost got his eye.” He looked back up at Leah. “This picture was from around that same time, wasn’t it? Durin’ all the original Stickman killin’s?”
“Yeah, that picture was taken in 1974.” Leah looked to Dan, slightly furrowing her brow. She knew why Duck was stumbling. She’d told Dan about it on the drive here. Harry had been locked up for a year in the Mobile County Youth Correctional Institution on May 20, 1959, after being caught breaking and entering a second time, while still on probation for the first. What Chris had discovered and what Duck didn’t know Leah knew was that he had been tossed into that same institution on March 30 of the same year. Leah had immediately added these points to her timeline directly above Harry’s youth incarceration:
Mar 30, 1959—Duck Sentenced a Year and a Half in Juvie
• Sentenced to Mobile County Youth Correctional Institution
• Duck and Harry were together from May 20, 1959–May 20, 1960
Duck knew Harry. What Leah didn’t yet know was what bearing this factoid had in the Stickman case. It obviously had some importance, as Duck was going out of his way to make sure he didn’t mention ever having any personal involvement with Harry Stork.
She wondered what Dan was reading from Duck’s reaction to Tommy’s picture. If he had deciphered anything, Dan was staying thankfully silent. She pulled her eyes away from Dan and looked back into those of Duck. “But let me assure you, Duck, in all honesty that’s not a picture of Harry Stork.” She swallowed and decided to push on. “It’s his brother.”
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