Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Nodding, I relayed the instructions, gave Culligan our destination, and signed off.

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” Friedman said, opening his door and laboriously swinging his chubby legs free. “Let’s see who owns a pair of missing pruning shears.”

  Marge Fisher answered the doorbell on the first ring. In contrast to the slacks and denim apron she wore, her face was carefully made up, her hair meticulously groomed. Even doing her housework, she would keep up appearances.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.” As she said it, she fell back a step. Her hand was tightly clutching the apron; her eyes were fearful.

  Were the frantic, furtive gestures studied or involuntary? Did her wide eyes mirror actual fear—or a quickly contrived counterfeit?

  I couldn’t decide.

  “Is your brother-in-law in, Mrs. Fisher?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Can we speak to him?”

  She cleared her throat—once, twice.

  Was she stalling? Giving Fisher time? Beside me, I felt Friedman moving toward the door.

  “Where is he, Mrs. Fisher?” Friedman was asking.

  “He—he’s in back. With David.”

  “In the potting shed?”

  She nodded.

  “How long has he been there?”

  “I—I don’t know. I…” She broke off. Retreating another uncertain step, she stood with hands clasped at her waist. Her eyes moved spasmodically between the two of us. She was blinking rapidly, swallowing repeatedly. She flushed, then paled. She was going into mild shock.

  “Have you been here all afternoon?” I asked.

  “N—no. I—I went to the store.”

  “When did you leave for the store?”

  “Ab—ab—” Mouth working helplessly, she could only stare at me.

  “What time, Mrs. Fisher?” It was Friedman’s voice, gently insistent.

  Turning toward him, she said, “About two, I think.”

  “You left for the store at two?”

  She nodded, eying Friedman with a kind of rapt, reluctant fixity.

  “What time did you get back?”

  “I—just a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s four o’clock now. Have you been back for fifteen minutes?”

  “I—yes. Just about.”

  “All right. Good.” Friedman’s voice had deepened to an easy, almost affable encouragement. “Now, was James home when you left?”

  She nodded.

  “Was he here when you arrived back home?”

  “Y—yes.”

  “Where was he when you returned?” I asked.

  She licked at her lips as she turned back to me, frowning now. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Was he in the potting shed?”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “Aren’t you sure, Mrs. Fisher?”

  “Well, I—I’m not really sure. Except that every day he always waits for David there. In the potting shed. David always comes home down the alley and goes to the potting shed first before he comes into the house. So I—” She shrugged helplessly.

  “What time does David get home from school?”

  “About three-thirty.”

  “Is he in the potting shed now? Are they together?”

  “I—I—Yes, I guess so. Is—is something wrong?” As she said it she twisted suddenly to look back over her shoulder.

  Friedman stepped forward. “There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Fisher. But we have to talk to James. How do we get to the potting shed?”

  Unclasping her hands, she pointed back through the house. “You can go through the kitchen.”

  We walked quickly through the house. Standing on the back porch, we paused, looking at the small shingled shed.

  Like everything the Fishers owned, the potting shed was immaculately conceived: an outsized playhouse, studied, contrived. From inside the shed, through the small, picturesque window, I caught a flicker of movement.

  “He’s in there,” I said softly.

  “Someone’s in there, anyhow. I wish to hell we had those shears.”

  “We can get them later.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Pacing slowly side by side, we walked across the golf-green grass, ignoring the neat flagstone pathway. As we walked I glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering in the west. During the night it would surely rain.

  “The first thing,” Friedman said, “let’s get rid of the kid. Send him into the house so he won’t pick up any cues from Uncle James.”

  “Right.”

  “You go first.”

  I moved ahead, turning the shingled corner. The clapboard door, with its ostentatiously old-fashioned hardware, faced a six-foot cyclone fence separating the Fishers’ lot from the alleyway. The alley, I knew, led directly to the back of the Miller house, a block and a half away. The alleyway gate was directly in back of the potting shed, concealed from the Fisher house.

  “This is a setup,” Friedman whispered. “From the house, no one could see him leave. He could’ve gotten into the alley, over to the Millers’ and back—all in a few minutes. No one inside the house would be the wiser, providing they didn’t come out into the backyard.”

  Nodding, unbuttoning my jacket, I knocked on the picture-book door. Friedman stood to one side, listening intently. As the latch clicked, I tensed, crouching, ready.

  The boy stood in the open doorway, looking up at me with his refugee’s eyes. The uncle stood behind the boy, motionless. I was again struck by the similarity of the two faces: pale, narrow, and sad, with somber dark eyes and wide, vulnerable mouths.

  I looked down at the boy. “Your mother would like to see you in the house, David.”

  “B—but—”

  I stepped aside, making room for him to pass. “Hurry up, David. She’s waiting.”

  Moving one single, reluctant step at a time, he edged past me, only to stop, turn back, and stand looking up at his uncle. Slowly the man nodded to the boy, moving his head toward the house. The man’s mouth stirred in a slight, wistful smile. Finally the boy turned silently away.

  It was yesterday’s tableau, repeated.

  I let Friedman go inside, then closed the door behind us. Like the house and the boy’s room, the potting shed was immaculate, compulsively ordered. Clay pots were stacked by size and shape. Several large plastic bins were filled with dirt, sand, leaf mold, and peat moss, all neatly labeled. Half of one wall was covered by a pegboard tool rack. The pegboard was painted a light green. Each tool was meticulously outlined in red.

  A handsaw was missing.

  And a small pair of pruning shears.

  Catching Friedman’s eye, I moved my head toward the tool rack. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Together we turned toward James Fisher.

  He stood with his back to a low bench, hands braced wide to either side, fingers resting on the bench. Yet his posture wasn’t fearful or rigid. He seemed relaxed, at ease. His expression was almost quizzical.

  I pointed to the rack. “Do you mind telling me where I could find that pair of pruning shears, Mr. Fisher? The pair that’s missing.”

  He looked puzzled. “I can’t tell you, Lieutenant. All day they’ve been missing. I’ve looked for them.”

  “Would you describe the shears for us?” Friedman asked.

  “They’re about twelve inches long,” Fisher answered readily, “with a black handle. Why? Did you find them?” His dark, pensive eyes were guileless as he turned toward Friedman.

  “We may have,” Friedman said. “When did they turn up missing?”

  “Today,” Fisher replied. “Just today.”

  “In the afternoon or the morning?”

  “About lunchtime, I’d say. I came here after lunch. I was going to trim the junipers. And I—I couldn’t find the shears.”

  “Did the shears have the letter ‘F’ scratched on the handle?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  I allowed a moment of silence to pass as we both watc
hed the suspect’s reaction, expecting him to query us further concerning our knowledge of the shears.

  “What about the saw?” I finally asked. “What happened to that?”

  Fisher’s inscrutable gaze moved hesitantly to meet mine. “It’s being sharpened.” Now he was vaguely troubled. “It’s been gone for two days, at least.”

  “So only the pruning shears are unaccounted for. We know what happened to the saw. Is that right?”

  Slowly he nodded.

  “Is the potting shed kept locked?”

  Again he nodded—still meeting my eyes, unblinking.

  “Is it locked during the day? Or just at night?”

  “It’s locked all the time.”

  “Who has a key, besides yourself?”

  His lips moved in a wry, regretful smile. “I don’t have a key, Lieutenant. Only my brother and sister-in-law have keys.”

  “How do you get into the shed, then?”

  “David and I use the so-called ‘secret key.’ It’s kept on a nail hammered into the plum tree. David and I share it.”

  “Have you been at home all day?” Friedman asked.

  “Yes. All day.”

  “Out here, most of the time? In the potting shed?”

  “Since lunch, yes.”

  “During the time you were out here, did you see anyone?”

  Fisher frowned, perplexed. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I want to know,” Friedman said, “whether you saw anyone from, say, two o’clock until now. Did you speak to anyone? Did anyone speak to you?”

  “Just David. He—” Fisher hesitated. His eyes were clouding; he was staring at Friedman with sad disbelief. His voice dropped to a low, deadened monotone as he said, “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

  Exchanging a glance with Friedman, I said quietly, “We’ve got to have an account of your movements from two o’clock until now, Mr. Fisher. Your sister-in-law can’t help us. Neither can David, apparently. Is there anyone else?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “I told you yesterday, Lieutenant: time isn’t the same for me as it is for—for other people. I—I can’t keep track of it. Time is my enemy.”

  “Time is everyone’s enemy,” Friedman muttered.

  Nodding in tentative, timid overture, Fisher said, “You know, then. You know about time.”

  Friedman said dryly, “Everyone over forty knows, Mr. Fisher. It’s no secret.”

  “You’re good men,” Fisher said softly. “You’re not like the others—the ones before. You’re good men. You—you understand what you’re doing. You understand what it means—how you make people feel.” He spoke as if he were pronouncing a benediction. His eyes were soft, regretful.

  Friedman’s expression was impassive.

  “But you’ve come to arrest me,” Fisher said finally. “You’re going to take me to a small room. And then you’ll lock me up. First you’ll question me. Then you’ll lock me up.”

  I heard Friedman sigh deeply. But his eyes were still impassively steady as he said, “Yes, Mr. Fisher. We’ve got to take you downtown with us. We’ve got to question you, at least. And we’ve got to conduct some examinations. But before we do, we want you to know that you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to…”

  “I know,” Fisher interrupted gently. “Lieutenant Hastings told me that yesterday.”

  “Were you wearing those clothes all day?” I asked.

  Fisher dropped his eyes, looking down at his clothing. He nodded. Then he asked, “Can we go out through the alleyway, Lieutenant? If we go out through the front, the children will see us. And they’ll tease David. They’ll…”

  Behind me, the door came open. David stood in the doorway. His mother was behind him. Plainly, she’d tried to restrain him, unsuccessfully. I heard Friedman mutter something, swearing under his breath.

  Momentarily no one spoke. Then, standing with legs braced wide, fists clenched at his sides, the boy said, “I hate you. Both of you. You’re both just—just bullies.” His voice was high, cracked. His eyes were very bright. His chin was trembling. Behind him, the mother was plucking at the boy. Her hands were fretful on his shoulder.

  I heard the uncle whisper, “They’re not bullies, David. They—they just want to talk to me. It’ll be all right. I promise you.”

  “I didn’t lie about Sunday. They say I did. But I didn’t. I didn’t.”

  “It’s not about Sunday, David. It’s about today. Something happened today. And they want to talk to me about it. That’s all.”

  “What happened today? What was it?”

  Exchanging a glance with Friedman, I realized that I was thankful for his presence—and for his senior rank. The responsibility for the next minutes was his.

  Moving with heavy deliberation, Friedman beckoned the woman and the boy inside and pulled the door closed. I watched David run to his uncle’s side. On the workbench, the man’s long, quiet fingers covered the boy’s hand. David looked up into his uncle’s face, then quickly away, swallowing painfully. Standing apart, the mother watched the boy with bright, baleful eyes.

  “About an hour ago,” Friedman said, “a teen-ager named Kent Miller was murdered, just a block and a half from here. He was June Towers’ boyfriend, so we’re almost certain the two murders are connected. A pair of pruning shears were found beside the body.” He pointed to the green pegboard. “The description of those shears matches the description of yours. And nobody here can tell me why those shears are missing.” He turned to face Marge Fisher. “Can you tell me, Mrs. Fisher?”

  “N—no.”

  “Can you, David?”

  The boy was mutely shaking his head. His eyes seemed unfocused. He was obviously thinking feverishly.

  “Then you all know as much as we do.” Friedman’s voice was brisk, businesslike. Addressing the woman, he said, “We’ve already explained Mr. Fisher’s constitutional rights to him. I’m sure you’ll want to contact your husband and arrange for a lawyer. In the meantime, we’ve got no alternative but to take Mr. Fisher downtown for questioning. Partly, it’s for his own good. We’ll examine his clothes for, ah, physical evidence, and we’ll examine the pruning shears. When we’ve done that, we’ll all know better where we stand. One thing is for sure, though: without conducting these examinations, we can’t clear him. Not now. So, in a way, it’s better for all concerned that…”

  “I saw the man in the white car,” the boy was saying softly. “Just this morning, I saw him. In the alley.”

  With his eyes, wearily, Friedman indicated that it was my turn.

  “What time this morning, David?” My voice, I knew, was toneless. I found myself avoiding his dark, anxious eyes.

  “I was just going to school. I always go out the back gate—out through the alley. But then—” He paused in his headlong word-rush. “But then, just after I got around the corner, I remembered that I’d left my notebook in the potting shed, from the night before. So I—I had to come back and get it. And so I—” Glancing from me to Friedman, transparently calculating the effect of his story, he licked at his lips. “I came back to get the book. And that’s when I saw him.”

  “Was he in the same white car?”

  “No. He was walking. But he was the same man. I—I recognized him right off. I—I think I’ve even seen him around here before. Even before I saw him in the park. I know I did.”

  “How did you recognize him?” I asked quietly.

  He swallowed. “How?”

  “Yes. Was he wearing the same clothes?”

  Watching me warily, he said cautiously. “I—I think so.”

  “What was he wearing today?” I asked.

  “A—a jacket. A brown jacket.”

  “What kind of pants?”

  “They were brown, too. A darker brown.”

  “And he was wearing the same jacket when you saw him Sunday, in the park. Is that right?”

  “Yes. It was the same. Exactly the same.”

  “How ab
out the pants? Were they the same, too?”

  He nodded.

  For a long, silent moment I stood looking down at him. Then, almost regretfully, I asked, “Did the man get out of the car on Sunday, David?”

  He began to shake his head, then quickly arrested the movement. Now he stood rigidly, small fists clenched at his sides. He’d discovered the trap.

  “He didn’t get out of the car on Sunday, did he, David?”

  His lower lip was trembling. “I saw him,” he whispered fiercely. “And you can’t make me say I didn’t. I saw him both days. And this morning I know what he did. I know it. He—he watched me get my books from the shed. He saw me get the key. And then he went in and stole the shears. I—I know that’s what happened.”

  “How do you know it, David?”

  “Because th—that’s the only way it could’ve happened. When I got my—my books, the shears were there. I—I saw them.”

  I turned toward the pegboard, silently compelling him to turn with me. I could sense my own laggard reluctance as I said, “How about the saw, David? Was that there, too?”

  Licking his lips, he was staring at the empty space. Finally: “Yes. That was there, too.”

  I looked from the boy to the man. Head bowed, James Fisher was shaking his head slowly, hopelessly.

  I finished the job: “They were both there this morning, then—both the saw and the shears. You’re sure of it.”

  The boy nodded desperately. His eyes were locked with mine pleadingly. I looked away, toward Friedman. In response, Friedman stepped forward. His beefy arms were half raised, herding the boy and the mother outside.

  “We’ve got to be going,” Friedman was saying. “We’ve got a homicide that’s not much more than an hour old.”

  Marge Fisher took the boy’s elbow, turning him toward the door. “Come on, David. We can…”

  Suddenly whirling wildly away, the boy hurled himself at the door. The impact sprung the latch; the door swung open. Off balance, the boy stumbled to his knees in the doorway. Scrabbling, he turned in the dirt to face us, at bay. As his mother reached down for him, he fiercely pulled away, sobbing. Eyes wild, he screamed up at her, “You did it. I know you did. It—it’s all your fault. I know it’s all your fault. You’ve hated James, always. And you won’t help him. You’re going to let them lock him up, just like you did before. And this time he—he’ll die. They’ll kill him, this time. They’ll…”