"MCIS?"
"Sorry. It is the Museum Collection Item Sheet. The background information relative to the piece: owner, date it was added to the collection, approximate worth - for insurance and collection valuation purposes, an identification number, etc."
"I see. Prescott should have asked if the collection may include paper from the 1920s."
"Newspaper or some other type?"
"I forget the official term he used but I guess - typewriter paper would be my best description."
"Oh, well I guess that would make sense." Hilda laughed at herself.
Bo and Lancaster both smiled at her amusement and the easy way about her.
"Let me have a look-see here," she said. She started typing on a keyboard. "I love this new computer system and database program. It makes things so much easier."
"Right," Bo said.
"You police folks must love them too - being able to store all kind of information on criminals and do searches and such."
"It seems like we get another one every week or two in the office," Lancaster said. "I don't understand them myself."
"No? They're excellent tools. I'm certain if you took the time you'd master them in no time a'tall."
"I'm not so certain."
"I'll tell you, they're the future."
"Then I guess the future is here," Bo quipped.
"Indeed," Hilda said standing to collect the papers, "And here is our list of paper supplies from the 1920s. Four entries." She stepped around the desk.
"I hope you had fun doing that," said Bo.
Hilda traced Bo's eyes to the cast on her right leg then back to him. "Oh dear I wish I could say I had - did it falling up the stairs I'm afraid."
"Down the stairs you mean, you fell down the stairs? People don't fall up stairs," Lancaster said.
Hilda folded the pages and tapped Lancaster on the nose with them. "Detective I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I guess I'm not most people for I surely fell up the stairs, the concrete ones right out front here. I can show you the very spot if you’d like."
Bo snickered as Lancaster blushed.
"Where would you like to start?" she asked.
"The typewriters please."
"As you wish." She hobbled for the door then stopped. "Do you need to see where the paper is kept or just inspect it?"
Bo considered her wounded leg. "I'd love to have a sample of each if possible."
"Ohhh," her face scrunched, "With the rarity of the paper, I'm afraid it won't."
"Could you have someone inventory the paper to see if any is missing?"
"Absolutely can," she said. "Jenny, Jen-ny?"
"Yes," a young woman with short jet-black hair and vivid orange temples walked from behind a gray office partition. She reminded Bo of an Oriole.
"Could you inventory these items?" Hilda handed four MCIS sheets to Jenny.
The girl took the pages and flew through the office door.
You often find enough is more.
Bo watched Hilda.
"Okay then," she said gathering a deep breath.
"Oh," Bo raised a finger.
Hilda stuttered to a stop.
"Are we able to type a sample from each typewriter?"
Hilda considered the request. "I suppose it would be alright." She pointed to her desk "Would you mind terribly, there's paper in the right drawer."
Lancaster was closest so he walked over.
"Second one down. Yep there you are. That's it. A smidge should do." Her fingers pinched at the air.
Lancaster showed her what he grabbed.
She nodded, agreeing with his selection. "This way gentlemen."
Bo and Lancaster followed her staggered pace.
"We'll go to the one on display first," she said as they walked. "It'll be in the next room, up ahead."
They continued on. Inside the room, Hilda stopped and scanned the space. "There it is," she pointed to the far left corner. The typewriter sat on a podium like a fine piece of sculpture. The technical side of Bo recognized and admired the mechanical art.
"No case?" Bo said.
"No." She smashed her lips together and shook her head. "Would you encase a Michelangelo or a Rodin? This is art by design."
"You call that art?" Lancaster asked pointing at the typewriter.
"If you could use a Rodin to create a fake ransom note I would," Bo thought. "I certainly get the design ascetic but anyone visiting the museum could use it."
Lancaster realized he was the third wheel and stepped away to let the two talk.
"I suppose so. Of course anyone caught doing so would be stopped and likely asked to leave."
"Would something like that be reported to Security?"
"Possible but I doubt it. Do you have a timeframe as to when it would have been used?"
"Sixteenth, Seventeenth."
"I will have the Security Director ask the guards and see if they may have any surveillance footage they can review."
"Thank you."
Hilda loaded a sheet of paper into the typewriter. She stepped away and motioned for Bo to type his sample.
He typed the name "GEORGE JOHNSON" in all capital letters on the first line. On the second line, he worked his way across the keyboard typing one of each character.
A Security Guard approached. "Sir. Sir, I'm sorry but you - oh sorry, I didn't realize it was you Missus."
Bo stopped typing.
"It’s okay Clarence, they're with me. How are you today?"
"Oh I'm just fine ma'am, just fine. Thank you for asking."
"Clarence, do you recall catching anyone else using this typewriter in the last two weeks?"
"No. No ma'am, can't say I do. Of course I don't always work this area."
Bo returned to the process of collecting a sample of each character. When he finished every key, he repeated the process with the shift key depressed. He then rolled the sheet of paper from the machine. Taking the ink pen from his shirt pocket he wrote, "Typewriter 1."
He asked Hilda for the collection identification number for the unit. She read the series of numbers and letters from the papers in her hands. Bo transcribed them on the sample. "The second one," he said.
"It's in storage. This way." Hilda started for an unassuming door marked, "Museum Staff Only."
"You know some days I think I should clog around with a shouldered parrot and demand everyone call me Captain."
They all chuckled.
"And an eye patch," Bo said.
"Oh my yes," she grabbed Bo's arm, "I couldn't forget the eye patch now could I?" She squeezed Bo's arm a second time noticing his muscular build before releasing him somewhat embarrassed for having done so.
"Aye Captain."
Hilda broke into a full laugh.
"There's always Halloween," Lancaster said from behind.
"What's that Detective?" Hilda asked.
"Halloween, if you're still in your cast."
Hilda stopped and turned back. "It’s the perfect time actually. It comes off the week after." She started walking again. "Guess I need to get my costume together." She started reading locations aloud as she traced her way to the second typewriter. "Here we are." She tapped at a plastic storage bin.
Bo moved forward offering to handle the item. Hilda stepped aside. Bo grabbed the bin and pulled. It was lighter than he expected. He slid it out enough to lift the lid. "It's empty," he said confirming his suspicion.
"Is there a card there?" Hilda asked.
Bo pulled the bin from the rack, placed it on the floor and removed the lid. A small yellow index card sat In the bottom.
"Sometimes we loan items out," Hilda said.
Bo removed the card and handed it to her.
"Must be one of those movie companies," she said reading the card. "It was borrowed by G. Johnson with Franks and Beans Productions."
Bo eyes questioned her words.
Hilda verified the notation. "That's what it says." She flashed the card at Bo then read it again. "That
's odd - it was borrowed two years ago and hasn't been returned. For production companies we typically only do thirty days at a time. See." She tapped at the card. "This is where a computer can be beneficial. When items are borrowed we will be able to put in a return date."
The Oriole fluttered toward them.
"Jenny?" Hilda said.
"Almost done."
"Almost done? Then why are you here?"
"The last location." Jenny pointed, "It's right here."
"Oh. I'm sorry," she said to Jenny. "Could you put this back?" she asked Bo pointing to the storage bin.
While he returned the bin, Hilda turned her attention back to Jenny. "Any discrepancies on the first three?"
"All there."
Hilda took the MCIS sheets and a pair of white gloves from Jenny. She read the location, turned to Bo and tapped the bin immediately below the empty he had replaced.
Bo pulled the bin from the shelf. It had more weight than the previous one. He lifted the lid.
"There should be a, there it is, the cardboard box, right."
Bo lifted the box and based upon the weight, he shook it. Something inside knocked against the cardboard.
Hilda's eye grew focused and her head turned questioning the sound.
Bo separated the two parts of the box and showed the contents to Hilda - another yellow index card.
"What the dickens?" she asked retrieving the card. She read it. "I'm afraid the plot thickens." She turned the card to Bo. "G. Johnson again."
"I thought you didn't."
"We don't,'' she interrupted, “I need to find the contact sheet for this G. Johnson and figure out who this employee is."
"Employee?"
"The employee who pulls the item signs the card here." She showed Bo. "And puts their employee number here." Her teeth scratched against one another as her lower jaw worked back and forth.
The Oriole disappeared. Hilda took the paper box and had Bo return the bin to the shelf. They worked their way back to the office. When they got back to Hilda's desk, she worked at the computer. Bo made copies of the two index cards.
"According to the computer those items are here. There is no contact information for either G. Johnson or Beans and Franks Productions."
"I didn't figure there would be," said Bo.
"Why so?"
"The name George Johnson is tied to the case we're investigating. It's fictional, not an actual person."
"I understand the term fictional."
Bo snorted a sudden laugh, "Of course, my apologies."
She patted his hand leaning on her desk.
"What about the employee number?" he asked, his head motioning toward the computer screen.
"Right," she said and started typing again. "As I suspected, invalid, didn't think it seemed right when I saw it."
"Of course," Bo smirked. "And they were loaned out two years ago?"
"Almost two and a half, May 21, 1980."
"Right. Although if everything else is a lie then why would we believe the date?"
"True."
"Maybe we should dust the bins for fingerprints?" Bo said to Lancaster.
"It's not uncommon for bins to go years without being touched. But - most people wear gloves when handling the items."
"Nothing ventured," said Bo.
"Nothing gained," Hilda finished.
"I'm on it," said Lancaster.
Bo wrote his home number on the back of a business card and handed it to her.
"I told you, I'm married," she joked.
Bo smiled. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain."
Hilda giggled and promised to continue researching. Lancaster stayed, waiting on the crime lab technician. Bo headed for Indiana.
The truth setting you free is a boldfaced lie, it imprisons you in reality.
To be honest, I did not want to be free: free of my life, free of Walter, free of killing Harold. In the moments between everything else, the memories of Harold haunted me. The cries, the pleas, the blood, I understood why Walter taped their mouths and used the shotgun - quiet efficiency.
The one thing I regretted was not being able to thank Harold for bringing Walter and I closer. We held the other's secret. In my eyes that made us equal. I liked my new status. After the Maine trip, the news moved from Harold to another boy, John Henry Kane. I missed seeing Harold's picture on the television. Somehow, it gave him a life beyond his own. I had made him more. In a way, that was my thanks.
His replacement attended another school and lived elsewhere. I half-wondered if Walter had it done to direct suspicion elsewhere because of the necklace. I did not realize it was missing until the morning after. I was not certain of where I had lost it.
The police provided that information. At the crime scene, they said. Walter’s boys made no scene - had no scene. They disappeared. Even in death, wealthy white boys were more, had more, meant more than all others.
My tale of someone stealing the necklace before Harold went missing was a stroke of genius. It was my Oscar winning performance. Walter was right - the police were idiots.
If it was not Walter's doing then I wondered who. Who would copy a copycat and what would you call them - a copycopycat? If I had somehow started a trend of killing rich kids, it might become necessary for me to watch my own ass.
Still, I wanted to peer into Walter’s eyes and ask the question. Mostly, I wanted to stare into his eyes. So deep, so blue I could lie beneath them and allow them to become my sky, my universe. I wanted to be the sun to his sky to keep the evil that haunted his soul from darkening those eyes.
After being embarrassed about the police summoning them to the station, my parents began showing more interest in my comings and goings. It was not of any concern for me but solely their reputation in mind. When asked, they would say they were, "helping the police with the investigation.” Helping should be their last thought for doing so could uncover the greatest embarrassment.
Until I returned from Maine, the police had been following me. They were even there, in Maine. I saw them – their common suits, their common stares, their common cars so plain they could not stand out more. If the goal was to blend in, they failed on every account. Idiots.
By the time dinner was done, I was desperate to see Walter so I concocted a story about needing to study. Mother and Father ate it like a fine dessert. I phoned Walter's private number to let him know I was coming. He said he wanted to get away so I should sneak in the back door of the garage. He would be waiting there.
I bathed myself in his favorite cologne and left. Running most the way I was panting upon arrival. Unaware of whether anyone else was present, I remained nonchalant.
"Let's go," he said sporting super-tight black Calvin Klein jeans, a form fitting navy blue tee and a Bears cap. I knew instantly what I wanted to eat for dessert. Walter walked past the four cars and opened the door to the larger, storage garage. More a museum of antique and ultra high-priced sports cars, his head bobbed to the side encouraging me on. I followed like a puppy heeling his master.
Inside the spacious warehouse, he headed for the soft-topped, Nantucket Blue '57 Thunderbird. It was pristine and sexy as fuck. Walter opened the door and slid behind the wheel. I climbed in the other side. He popped the catches and flipped the button. My face turned confused.
"I need to cool off a bit," he said.
"Well you certainly do look hot." My hand brushed his leg.
We watched the top lift and fold back. He pressed the controller and a breeze flooded in beneath the opening door. I rubbed at my exposed arms. Walter started the car and began to pull out.
"Put your head down, I don't want anyone seeing you," he said.
I processed the words and examined the available space wondering where exactly he expected me to put it. It would not fit in the glove box.
"Head down," he said again. His hand wrapped around my neck and pulled my head into his lap.
"Oh, right," I said nuzzling myself into his hiding spot.
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His arm lay along my side and trailed onto my thigh. He pulled onto the street and stomped the gas pedal. The wind rushed about me like a frantic woman having a tantrum. With the temperature in the lower fifties, the convertible made it feel more like the twenties.
He slowed to a stop at a light.
"You staying there?" he asked casting those blue eyes upon me.
"I'm good." I nuzzled.
He smiled broad and proud. Walter's hand traced the length of me until it found my face. I licked a finger into my mouth and suckled it. I felt his reaction. He shook his head at my playful badness. Crooking his finger, he pulled my cheek out like a fish on a hook. He pulled and pulled, lifting me from my perch.
I sat up and pushed his hand away as if I were angry with him. He laughed and stomped the gas. The rush threw me back and pinned me against the seat, the kick of a fine, expensive automobile. My head surrendered to the speed and fell back. I howled like a wolf at the waxing moon, "Ah-Ah-Eww! Ah-Ew! Ah-Ew! Ah-Ew! Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ewwww!"
Walter drove to the planetarium and we parked in a quiet spot. The adrenaline of the speed and clowning around gone, I grew cold fast. With no one around, I moved close to Walter and wrapped his arm around me. We sat, looking at the stars and the darkness that was the lake. It resembled a black fog enveloping everything crossing its path.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything." He combed the back of my head with his fingers.
"You have anything to do with the other boy?" I watched him.
"What boy?"
"The Kane boy." I pulled away. "The one they found at the lake where I left Harold?"
His lips pushed together and his head rattled soft side to side. "No," he said without casting his eyes in my direction.
I grabbed his face and turned him to me. "Walter - I'm serious. Did you?"
His left hand rose swatting my arm clear as his face turned stern. The hand came to rest on my cheek, his thumb stroked my jaw. "No," he said again with more certainty. "Why would I?"
"That day, at the house, when I told you about Harold you said you would do anything - to protect me."
"I would."
"I couldn't help but wonder if you found somebody to take another boy. The timing could not have been better."
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 13
