by Kevin Wright
“Sid’s right, sorta. Not everybody knows you, but enough regulars.” Ringo closed his eyes. “Hmmmm. Brudnoy … Brudnoy sent me to find you. Says I owe you.”
“What?” Peter asked. “Look, Ringo, don’t talk, relax. Rest. Besides, I owe you.”
“Yeah … owe you … for you not eating me,” Ringo murmured.
Peter just frowned. “He said he was the one that was going to eat you.”
“Yeah … but he hasn’t … yet … I think,” Ringo said.
“Why the hell do you go there at all?” Peter asked.
“Oh … hardly ever eats anyone … anymore,” Ringo said, laughing. Then he shivered. “There was a time, though…”
“Just rest.” Peter sat back, but suddenly started, “You said they have my dad!”
“Oh, yeah. Shit … sorry, Pete,” Ringo said, barely able to lift his head now. “Reason … reason I came to find you … got nabbed last night … from Benson Manor.”
“Nabbed? What’s that mean? I mean, who, or why?” In his pocket, Peter’s hand found the handle of the gun.
“The enemy, Pete … whatever … you call her, it, them … she … Pussywillow, I think it was,” Ringo murmured.
“Pussywillow? But why?” Peter grabbed Ringo’s shoulder, his fingers digging in deep. His other hand squeezed the gun. “Is he dead? Did they…?”
“Cause they want you, Pete. Don’t want you to leave. Ease up on the grip, would you?” Ringo patted Peter’s hand. “Don’t know if he’s dead. Sorry.”
“Where is he now? How’d you find out? Shit. Punch it, Sid.”
“Ringo! Ringo?”
Chapter 28.
HANDS CLASPED behind his back, Detective Winters strolled through the classroom admiring the many pictures tacked up. Deeply, he inhaled through his nose as he walked. The room was filled with rows of desks, the scent of crayons and markers, paste. A thick book lay at the top left-hand corner of each little desk … spelling.
Tacked to the walls were pictures of purple dinosaurs, blue dogs, Barbie dolls, golden hamsters, red cars, green beetles, and everything else a little boy or girl in the third grade might draw. Outside the windows, hundreds of children laughed and screamed … recess. Detective Winters glanced casually outside for a second before resuming his tour. One picture struck him suddenly. He stopped for a moment, studying it.
It was a picture of a tenement apartment building by night, drawn on black paper in blue crayon. A blue crescent moon hung in the sky. Outside the tenement played stick-figure children. A car with three wheels was parked next to the building. There were fourteen windows on the side of the building depicted. Inside some were faces.
Detective Winters pulled a magnifying glass from within his coat pocket and peered closer. It was the face staring out of one of the basement windows of the tenement that caught him. A sharp orange zigzag ran through the mouth of the face. The zigzag gave the appearance of sharp, orange teeth. It was the only color in the picture not blue or black, and the face was so small in the picture that it would have been very difficult to notice unless one were looking for it. Which Detective Winters was.
It was a ghoul, and below its crooked orange teeth, it was wearing a bowtie.
“Hmmm? Hello, Bob.” Detective Winters scratched his chin. “It has been a long while.”
The name at the bottom of the picture was Tommy Johnson; it was entitled, ‘My House.’
Detective Winters began rifling through the teacher’s desk. A crystal with a flat side had the name ‘Miss Higgens’ etched into it. On top of the desk, under a pile of papers, Detective Winters found the seating chart. He searched through the drawers and found Tommy Johnson’s address. “Ten Minnefield Road. Apartment 302.”
He went to Tommy’s desk. He rifled through that, too.
“EXCUSE ME!” A young woman said as she marched into the classroom. In one arm, held tight against her chest, she carried an armload of books. In her other hand, she carried a cup of steaming coffee. She didn’t say anything other than that for a few seconds. If she could have put her hands on her hips, she would have.
Detective Winters continued rifling through Tommy Johnson’s desk.
“EXCUSE ME!” The woman placed her books and coffee on the nearest desk then stood there with hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? I’m calling security.”
“I am security,” Detective Winters picked up a notebook and fanned its pages, “in the purest sense.”
At that, the woman walked over to the desk and picked up an old green rotary phone. She started dialing.
Detective Winters glared up at the young woman. “You can hang that up, Miss Higgens.” Detective Winters strolled over to her desk, notebook in one hand.
She pointed her free hand at him as she yanked away on the rotary phone, “Don’t come any closer!”
“I am an officer of the law.” Detective Winters placed his badge down on her desk and walked back to Tommy Johnson’s desk. “My name is Detective Joshua Winters. I am conducting an investigation.”
Miss Higgens, maybe against her better judgment, stopped dialing and glanced at the badge. She picked it up. Peering at it, she flicked it with her fingernail. Satisfied, she put it down. Slowly then, she hung up the phone. She marched over and yanked the notebook out of his hands.
“Being on a case doesn’t give you the right to invade Tommy’s privacy, Mister, Officer—”
“Detective.”
“The constitution is still in effect, I presume, detective?”
“Parts of it.” Detective Winters pulled papers from Tommy’s desk.
“Stop it!” Miss Higgens barked, dropping the notebook and pulling the papers from Detective Winters’s grasp. “Put them back!”
“How much do you know about this Tommy Johnson?” Detective Winters knelt and studied the graffiti etched into the desktop. He pulled hardbound schoolbooks from inside the desk and stacked them on top. Each was covered with a brown paper supermarket bag. Graffiti covered the books as well.
“Has he done something wrong, officer?”
“Detective, not that I am aware of. Have you met his parents?”
“Yes, I have. Why are you here?”
“I am conducting an investigation.”
“You said that already.”
“Yes, I did. You are quite astute,” Detective Winters said. “What subject do you teach?”
“All of them, this is only the third grade.”
“Of course.”
“Why are you here, detective?”
“This is where I go sometimes when I am stuck on a case, when my leads have all dried up, and blown away,” Detective Winters said.
“You come to my classroom, detective?”
Detective Winters lifted one eyebrow sarcastically but said nothing for a moment. He turned a book over in his hand then opened the cover.
“I go to any classroom in the area where my investigation is centered. A wealth of untapped knowledge resides on the walls and in the desks of these schools. Invaluable knowledge. One of the greatest resources to a man in my line of work.”
“Really? How so?” Miss Higgens asked.
“See these books?” Detective Winters splayed his hand out over the whole desk area, pointing at the book on each table.
Miss Higgens nodded.
“Each book is covered with a brown paper bag to protect it, to preserve it. On each cover is, initially, a large blank spot. Now, any child that sees a blank spot sees a place to draw, or write. They idly write or draw whatever comes to mind while they sit in class. Each one is a psychological fingerprint, if you will, of its owner. This is not a paper to be read and graded and judged by some adult, and so the child does not hold back. By reading and interpreting the interplay of the artwork and script on each book cover, one can discern a great deal about the mental health of not only the child but of his or her entire social structure. Particularly the inside cover portions, where whatever the child draws or writes lies hidden. The su
bconscious.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Miss Higgens scoffed, rubbing her neck.
Detective Winters began walking up and down the rows of desks, picking up each individual book, turning over, studying it a moment, and saying, “Bully. Nerd. Middle child. Homosexual. Parents are divorced. Hmmm? Potential serial killer.” Detective Winters pulled a notepad from his pocket and began scribbling. “What is this child’s name?”
Miss Higgens took a step back, her hands on her hips again. “Those, those are Danny’s things.”
“Danny who?”
“Leave them alone! What are you writing? You’re telling me he’s a serial killer? He’s nine years old.”
“All serial killers are nine years old, at some point.” Detective Winters pulled things from Danny’s desk and studied them. “He is probably not a serial killer. Yet. He simply exhibits some traits common to serial killers. For instance, Danny has a hyper-dominant mother.” It wasn’t a question.
“Danny is one of the sweetest kids.” Miss Higgens puffed up in defense. “He loves animals. He’s good with the other kids. I’ve met his mother. She is a bit … overbearing.”
“Right. He has had numerous pets,” Detective Winters said, “and many of them die or disappear, some mysteriously. Everyone just writes it off. No one sees it.”
“Well, his dog ran away about a month ago.” Miss Higgens pulled on her lower lip; it was a fine lower lip.
“Hmmm.” Detective Winters nodded, scribbling.
“That doesn’t make him a serial killer, though,” Miss Higgens said.
“No, no it does not,” Detective Winters said. “I merely stated that he exhibits many of the traits that fit the serial killer profile. Keep an eye on him, perhaps you can help him before I have to.”
“O-okay…” Miss Higgens said.
“I would also like to see more of Tommy’s work,” Detective Winters said, “and speak to him.”
“Well, of course, I’ll have to notify his parents and the principal,” Miss Higgens said.
Detective Winters glanced at his watch. “No time. When is recess over?”
“About ten minutes,” Miss Higgens said.
“That will be enough.”
“Wha-well, I can’t just let, well…”
“Miss Higgens,” Detective Winters said, “there is a veneer gilded over this city. A cheap, two-penny façade. Everyone knows this is a bad town. They take it for granted. They avoid the worst sections. They lock their doors at night. Some go to church and pray to their gods to protect them, to save them. They do not know it, Miss Higgens, but when they kneel in those pews of their old stone churches and pray to God, they pray to me. Now I am here today, Miss Higgens, because I am at the end of my rope on an investigation. I do not admit that to many people. I have a dossier on every monster in the city, but I am missing pieces. Big pieces. Pieces I need to fill. Gaps, holes, fast, tonight. I am here and I am telling you this because it is a matter of life and death, and sometimes the only thing you can rely on is luck. Dumb luck. As we speak, there is a man out there, a young man, cursed. Cursed by what he carries in his hand and in his heart. He is on the cusp of becoming a killer, and I aim to stop him. One way or another.”
“Are you trying to catch him, detective?” Miss Higgens asked.
“No, Miss Higgens, I am going to catch him,” Detective Winters said. “But it is not only about him. Events have been set in motion, Miss Higgens, and something big is going to happen. For good or for ill. In times like this, the world needs men not only who know but men who will act.”
“And are you a man who will act, Detective Winters?” Miss Higgens clutching at the front of her blouse.
“You’re damn right I am, Miss Higgens,” Detective Winters said. “Now get me Tommy Johnson.”
Chapter 29.
“C’MON, SID, GRAB HIS LEGS,” Peter grunted as he dragged Ringo from the back seat.
Ringo was pale, sweaty, limp, unconscious. His pulse was still jumping hard and fast. Tough bastard. “Sid, grab him.”
Fumbling, Sid grasped Ringo behind the knees and followed Peter, who carried Ringo from behind, under the armpits and over the wrists.
“Pete, you think this’ll be long? Magnum’s almost on.”
“Shut it, Sid.”
The automatic door opened as Peter and Sid hauled Ringo into the emergency department waiting room. Ringo felt lighter to Peter as soon as they entered the building.
The woman behind a desk marked ‘registration’ frowned as they pulled Ringo up. “Does he have any health insurance?” the woman asked, pulling out a pen and writing on a form. “Does he have a co-pay?”
Peter looked at Sid, who shrugged.
“Lady, he’s lost a lot of blood,” Peter said. “He’s in shock, unconscious, he needs help. Fast.”
“Now, I know you’re not using that tone of voice with me.” The woman lifted her pen. “If you—”
At that moment a woman in nurse scrubs stepped out of the doorway marked ‘triage.’ “Bring him right through here.” She pointed to a door which she opened. Then she called down the hall, “Hey, Doris, grab a stretcher, will you?”
The nurse held the door open as they dragged Ringo through. “What happened?”
Peter and Sid wrestled Ringo onto the stretcher.
Without pause, and with complete confidence, Peter said, “He was, ah … bitten. Bitten by a dog, a big dog, I think.” He looked to Sid for corroboration, but Sid was too busy staring at the nurse’s panty line showing through her scrubs.
The nurse pushed the stretcher into a trauma room, lit with fantastic lights and cluttered neatly with stainless steel equipment.
Peter and Sid followed.
“A dog?” Doris raised an eyebrow while cutting away Ringo’s pants. More people flooded the room, one jabbing Ringo with needles, another taking his blood pressure while another hooked him up to a heart monitor and one more checked his pupils. Still, others just stood by watching; one might have been a janitor.
Peter and Sid stood huddled in the corner, answering whatever questions were barked at them, surrounded people in many colored scrubs, all pastels. Peter answered all the questions he could, as truthfully as he could, but couldn’t quite come clean as to exactly how Ringo had sustained the injuries. Yeah, it was a lawn gnome, a lawn gnome with huge fucking teeth and metal claws.
“It was a dog, a big dog,” Peter repeated lamely, as he edged his way towards the curtain door. He slid out and made for the exit.
At the exit, Peter froze.
Carmine was pushing a stretcher in with one hand and doing chest compressions on an old man with his other. Shotgun followed, ventilating the old man with a bag-valve-mask.
“Shit.” Peter turned, took a left, then stood with his back to a door as Carmine and Shotgun whisked by, pumping and squeezing.
Sid appeared by his side.
“I’ve got to get out of here, Sid,” Peter said.
“Where to?”
“First, to grab a bite to eat, cause I’m starving. Then to find a nice cool, dark place to rest, cause I’m beat,” Peter said, putting on his sunglasses and making his way towards the exit. “Then I’m going to the Gin Dingo for a social tonight, and I’m going to find Pussywillow, and find my dad.”
* * * *
Carmine wrote his run report on ambulance fourteen’s hood:
‘On arrival at thirteen Willoughby St., second floor, crew found sixty-five-year-old male, lying on the floor in a puddle of shit and piss. Patient was comatose, blue, cool, and very sweaty. Family was screaming, useless. No pulses found on patient. Size 8 oral airway placed, CPR started with bag-valve-mask at twenty-five liters of O2. Automatic external defibrillator applied, CPR stopped while AED analyzed, shock advised, patient shocked three times, CPR continued.’
“Hey, Carmine.” Shotgun propped a long-board against the ambulance bay wall; it was covered with dried blood. “Wasn’t that your boy Peter? When we came in?”
C
armine stopped writing. “In the hospital?”
“Yeah, you were doing compressions. Had your back to him, I think,” Shotgun said. He sprayed the backboard down with disinfectant and watched it fizz. “Pretty sure it was him. He took off, though. Didn’t see him when we came out.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
“He’s changing, man.” Shotgun shrugged. “Maybe he figured out why he’s so hungry, and nothing’ll satisfy him? Blood bank, maybe? He was out in the sun, though, so he hasn’t changed, yet. Looking pale, though. Real pale. When was he bit?”
“Thursday,” Carmine said, his eyes still on his report.
“Four days.” Shotgun leaned against the ambulance. “You know what we got to do, man.”
Carmine’s pen clicked.
“Hey, I don’t like it any better than you.” Shotgun raised his hands and stepped back. “Winters was right. You know he’ll come calling. Tonight. Tomorrow. One of these days.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I know he’s a good kid, man. That’s why we got to do it.”
Carmine pocketed his pen, crumpled his report, and stomped off.
“Carmine.” Shotgun followed.
“Hey, Doris!” Carmine called out, stepping into the emergency room. Nurses from all corners of the ER glared at him.
“They love you,” Shotgun said.
“There’s a lot to love,” Carmine said. “Hey, Doris, there was a kid in here a couple minutes ago.”
“Yeah? We’ve got a lot of kids in here today.” Doris flipped a page back on her clipboard. “It’s a pedi-day.” She shook her head. “Sucks.”
“Yeah, well, this kid, he’s actually about twenty or so.”
“A kid.” She nodded.
“He was wearing a, um…” Carmine looked to Shotgun for help.
“He was with a midget,” Shotgun said.
“Oh,” Doris said, eyes on her clipboard. “Yeah, I took him in.”
“He okay?”
Doris shrugged. “It was for his friend, actually.”
“What’d he come in for?” asked Carmine.
“Patient confidentiality, Carmine.” Doris slammed her notes closed. “Are you related?”