by Joe Meno
Holding her hands over her ears, Effie said, “I’m not even here right now, I’m at the North Pole.” She picked up the shards of her glasses and ran away quick.
It should be noted that Mr. Buttons, the bunny whose head has gone missing, had been part of Effie Mumford’s science experiment for the upcoming school science fair. Like nearly all of Effie Mumford’s recent experiments, it concerned the nature of evil. For nearly three months, Effie Mumford had placed a record player beside Mr. Button’s cage and would then note the general effects different kinds of music, speeches, and songs had on his nervous system, reflexes, and social responsiveness.
Other experiments Effie Mumford had recently attempted: the establishment of a connection between serial killers and corrupt world leaders based on the shapes of their heads, hands, and feet; a scientific evaluation of the effects of rudeness in daily conversation; and an exploration to locate the gland in the human body which produces evil, a hypothesis which was impossible to prove without the procurement of a fresh cadaver.
The evidence thus far in her most recent experiment, before the unplanned murder of her test subject: In a clear case of environmental stimulus having a profound effect on a creature’s day-to-day existence, the bunny seemed to enjoy most kinds of music, specifically big band jazz, which correlated with a much lower blood pressure, faster reflexes, and a greater level of human-rabbit affection. When a vinyl recording of real-life war sounds from Germany or an inaugural speech by President Nixon was introduced, the bunny became unresponsive, unaffectionate, uncoordinated, and sad, sometimes becoming so enraged as to bite Effie’s hand. Perhaps Effie Mumford was only trying to prove something she already knew: that, like all animals, she was at the whim of the general disorder and unimaginative meanness of the world surrounding her.
FOUR
In the pale green hallway of Shady Glens, the boy detective is busy counting the number of steps to his room, so that if he is kidnapped and blindfolded, he will know how many paces it will be to safety. The answer is thirty-seven. He whispers “Thirty-seven” out loud.
This is what a boy detective does: He is always counting, estimating, recording. He cannot stop himself and simply let one moment move into the next. His is a life of connections, patterns, histories, motivations. In the world of the boy detective, as in our world, there is a reason for everything. Without a reason, without a plan, without a precise count of steps to the closest escape route, there is nothing.
Nurse Eloise, one of the custodians of this wing of Shady Glens, a young woman with dark eyes, dark hair, and a bloody handprint on her uniform skirt, walks with Billy along the hallway. “You must be both very nervous and very excited to be here.”
“No,” Billy says, “I am nothing.”
As they walk down the brightly lit tile hall, they pass a Mr. Pluto: a large, bald-headed behemoth of a man in a blue hospital gown stitched from enough fabric to make four smaller men’s gowns. Billy immediately recognizes him as the Amazing Pluto!, a former circus strongman long ago convicted of several vault heists. His eyes are like small black buttons, and from his incomprehensible mumbling, it is clear that he is most definitely mad. He is brushing his bald head with a golden brush and whimpering very frantically.
“Poor Mr. Pluto, what’s the matter, dear?” Nurse Eloise asks. “Did you lose your wig again?”
Mr. Pluto nods.
“He’s only nervous meeting new people, the poor dear,” Nurse Eloise explains. “Why not introduce yourself, Billy?”
Billy smiles at the giant, who looks away shyly.
“Oh, he’s just bashful around strangers,” Nurse Eloise says, taking Billy’s hand and leading him to his room.
It is strange, but as the boy detective enters, he decides it is just as he imagined it would be. Although it is meant to be a residence, there is still something definitely institutional in all of it. The room is very small with faded, peeling green wallpaper and strange black spots which are growing along the ceiling. There is one window, which is barred, and no furniture save for a white wood dresser and a pale green and white bed. It looks nearly the same as his room at the mental asylum, which in the end, the boy detective finds strangely comforting.
It is a surprise when the nurse flips the light switch and instead of offering luminosity, it somehow begins snowing. Tiny white flakes begin to drift from the ceiling in powdery drifts and the nurse, her apple cheeks reddening, switches it off nervously.
“We need to repair that,” she says.
The snow begins to disappear, melting into the dull green carpeting. Billy catches a single snowflake on his finger and watches it turn to tears. He looks up and frowns. “It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t mind really.”
“Well, I apologize,” Nurse Eloise says, embarrassed. “Why don’t I give you a few minutes to get your bearings?”
“OK,” Billy says.
The boy detective closes the door of his new room and looks around. Scratching at his scars, he takes a seat on the bed which sags with dust. He sighs at an aged, sad-eyed painting of a large-headed child held along the wall in a dusty gold frame. He opens his suitcase and begins to take out some of his clothing. Finding his owl-shaped alarm clock, he winds it and sets it beside the bed. Sighing once more, he finds his newspaper clippings, the wrinkled front pages depicting his adventurous youth, and, one by one, he begins attaching them to the pale green wall:
BOY DETECTIVE HOOKS SEA MONSTER CROOKS
Children Reel In Hoax-Makers at Lake Gotham
BOY DETECTIVE SOLVES PRICELESS CROSSWORD PUZZLE
Kid Sister and Neighbor Boy Help Decipher Missing Jewel-Laden Word
BOY DETECTIVE DASHES FIREWORK SMUGGLING RING
Several Hoodlums Die in Fire
and on and on until the walls are papered with the familiar faces of the ones he so dearly misses: There is Caroline and Fenton in the beard and mustache; there is Caroline again, very young in her white dress, pointing at a crooked fireman; there is Fenton smiling as a reporter asks what his favorite flavor of ice cream is, the small soft hands of the neighbor boy holding one of his evidential drawings; there is a villain disappearing into the back of a police vehicle; there is a photo of each of the children victorious, laughing; there is the ruddy face of his sister as she sneers at a corrupt politician; there is Caroline again with the fingerprint kit, providing the daring clue to some startling case; there are her bright eyes and small ears and narrow lips; there is her figure, which now is only black dots on yellowing newsprint, only black smears on a pulp page; there again is Caroline
Caroline
Caroline
Why did you go when you did?
In the privacy of his room, Billy, terrified of all that is unknown around him, lays on his bed and closes his eyes. Like always, he begins to remember. He returns to the case of the Haunted Candy Factory, a famous one he solved as a boy, quite brilliantly. Billy stares at the smudgy newspaper clippings on the wall, dreaming of the distant memory he so happily recollects any time he is feeling so very badly.
That summer so long ago, the Gotham police had been stumped by a series of strange occurrences at the new Happy Land Candy Factory. Some unlucky kids, taking a tour of the place, reported seeing a “ghostly figure” hovering above the Chocolate Marshmallow vat, moments before several support beams fell from their necessary places and leveled the brand-new Strawberry Kisser machine, injuring a few of the children in a dangerous wave of sharp, crystallized gelatin lips. A few days later, a factory employee operating the Nougat Splashdown extruder confessed to hearing an eerie voice echoing in the vicinity of the control panel just as several pipe fittings exploded, showering workers in a detonation of dangerous sparks. An anonymous letter some time later, sent inside a foil-wrapped chocolate bar, provided the first and only clue. Billy and Caroline and Fenton stood together in the police station slowly reading it.
EVERY DEAD GHOST IN A FACTORY IS BENT
The boy detective solves things like this i
n his sleep. Or he used to, at least.
FIVE
The boy detective suddenly realizes that Professor Von Golum, his lifelong archenemy, is now living across the hallway from him. It is un-mistakable: The Professor is a tall, narrow villain with a long face. He is wearing a sleek white robe and white pajamas. Without a welcome, he steps inside Billy’s room and immediately begins snooping, laying his small, grasping fingers all over Billy’s things, grinning as he remarks to himself what he finds interesting.
“Very interesting,” he says, nodding. “Oh, very interesting.”
Billy sighs and takes a seat on the bed, watching the Professor move about his room quite deliberately.
“We meet again, Billy Argo, and yet in the most surprising of places, yes?”
Billy stares down at his hands and frowns, touching his wrists.
In that moment: magic. Billy realizes Professor Von Golum is dead. He has been for some time, due to a strange accident at his laboratory involving a faulty disintegration ray and a lovely assistant who was mutilated in the catastrophe. Billy remembers this fact very suddenly, looking up in terror.
“I thought … I thought you had died,” Billy whispers.
“I thought I had, too,” the Professor says. “But here am I, sitting on this bed. What I’ve learned is that there is nothing in this life that does not fail to disappoint us, even our own deaths.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Yes, it is quite strange indeed,” the Professor says and nods sadly.
“Yes. It is.”
“Is it true what I have heard, boy detective?”
“I …” the boy detective stutters.
Professor Von Golum stares at Billy, gently touching his wrists. Seeing the scars, the Professor quietly nods.
“Oh, I see. And with the wrists, too. Well, that was brave, at least.”
“Why are you here?” the boy detective asks.
“Well, as you know, I had a problem with the fairer sex. As brilliant as I was, well, I could never quite figure them out exactly. I had this one beautiful young specimen in my lab and she was very talkative until finally, I said, ‘If you don’t be quiet and begin undressing …’ And she said, ‘But I’m only a kid, I’m only fifteen.’ And right there, I decided maybe the best way to understand these women—all these women—was to maybe try and open one up, you know, to take a look inside and see how they all work, like a time machine …”
Professor Von Golum gets nervous suddenly and looks around, startled.
“Did you hear that, Billy?” he asks. “The nurses are always lurking around. Do you want my advice? Keep whatever you have that’s valuable with you at all times.”
Professor Von Golum picks up one of Billy’s sweaters and begins to try it on, admiring himself in the mirror.
“You cannot trust anyone in this place, Billy. Well, except me. We are like old friends, are we not?”
Professor Von Golum stands, walking across the room, then pulls a clipping of Billy and Caroline off the wall. He stares at Caroline, her hair short and blond, a daisy behind her left ear, the old man gumming his jaws, his beady eyes transfixed.
“Now that girl, that girl, she was always so lovely.”
Billy grabs the clipping from the Professor, who chortles and nods, turning away quickly.
“What you need to do is to learn to trust people again, Billy. You’re out in the world now. Not everyone wants to hurt you.” The Professor gently pats Billy on the shoulder and smiles, his black eyes glinting. “Yes, yes, speaking of trust, listen—Perhaps this may be of interest to you. There’s a fellow staying here, Mr. Lunt. He’s a daft old gent, like you and me. He was a crook, though, you see—a thief, with banks, robbery, terrible stuff. He pulled down quite a bit of loot back in his time, or so he says, and he’s living right here among us, sleeping in the room right next to yours, right across the hall from mine. That selfish old gent, well, he has a pile of loot hidden away, still just sitting there—a bundle from a job back in 1909, he says. That poor old fellow refuses to share the certain whereabouts of this wondrous wealth, and what I believe is, as cohorts in this facility, it ought to belong to all of us. And so I have been doing some figuring, and you and I as geniuses, well, I thought we might convince him, or discern exactly, where the load of said cash is hidden …”
Billy shakes his head sheepishly. “Please, no, sir. I just want to be left alone.”
“No, eh? Well, it’s your loss, Billy. Because somehow, someway, I’m going to get my hands on that lovely treasure and when it’s all said and done, I’ll be on the lam somewhere living like a king and you’ll be still here rotting, doing paint-by-numbers with the rest of these ninnies.”
The boy detective is silent.
There is an awkward pause, until the Professor speaks again: “I am going to have to destroy you now, aren’t I?”
“Yes, I guess so,” Billy says, staring down at his hands.
“Yes, it seems that way.”
“All right.”
“OK, consider yourself destroyed as soon as I am well rested.”
“Yes. Fine.”
Very quickly, Professor Von Golum grabs the newspaper clipping from Billy’s hands and runs through the door, still wearing the boy detective’s blue sweater. Within a blink, Professor Von Golum has disappeared into his room across the hall and has closed and locked his door. Billy stands, shaking his head, then sighs, returning to his suitcase to soundlessly finish arranging his things.
It is after some time, when the boy detective is nearly finished, that he finds, at the bottom of his effects beneath his clothes, Caroline’s gold diary. He slowly lifts it out and then, without a thought, turns to the last entry. Billy moves his finger down the tiny white page.
It reads, in girlish handwriting:
nothing is good. nothing is ever good.
On another page, near the front of the diary, he discovers this entry:
how to begin? as usual, Billy was quite courageous today, my brother
the famous detective. as we searched through the abandoned old house
i discovered a secret passageway behind a large painting of a
pale lady; i was too frightened to enter
but Billy, like always, led the way
we crept past the rather large wooden door and
into a narrow hallway which wound downwards
there were a number of cobwebs inhabited by a variety of
long-legged, menacing-looking spiders, but we simply marched on
the three of us, Billy holding the light, Fenton mumbling, and me
looking behind for any sign of a ghost, bandit, or otherwise
unlikely villain; we then discovered a large trunk, which when opened, as
you might have expected, revealed the pirate’s glowing costume …
The boy detective places the diary under the mattress of the creaking bed. Then Billy lifts the True-Life Junior Detective kit out of his suitcase, staring at it with a remembered softness and a certain kind of disdain. It has not aged well: The corners are caved in and the cartoon boy on the cover of the box—a boy who had once been blond and whose hair is now gray and dirty—holds up a magnifying glass, discerning a secret message which will never be completely translated. The box is now old and sunken, the cartoon child small and withered, the paper having begun to turn and decay.
Billy, ignoring his shaking hands, begins to open the kit, then stops himself, and finally decides to place it in the bottom drawer of the white dresser. He closes the drawer and stares at it, behind which the detective kit lies, unopened; the boy detective can only dream of what might be inside.
We cannot blame him for putting it away. We cannot. We cannot blame him for being afraid.
SIX
The boy detective begins to pack his bag again, removing the lovely press clippings from his walls, folding them so gently, returning them to his small yellow suitcase. He is through the double glass doors of Shady Glens and walking down the str
eet, when Effie Mumford, still in her purple and white winter jacket, comes hurrying after him.
“Where are you going?”
“I did not think I was ready and now I know it,” he huffs, hurrying toward the bus stop at the end of the block.
“But wait. What about my bunny? Aren’t you going to find its head?”
“I can’t help you with that.”
“But you said you’re a detective, didn’t you?”
“Yes. No. Not anymore.”
“But look,” the girl says, stopping, reaching into her puffy pocket, and retrieving her bright purple wallet. “Here is a dollar if you can find it.”
“I don’t want your money,” Billy says, setting down his suitcase, breathing heavy.
“No, take it and find out.”
The boy detective stares at the soft, wrinkled dollar. He stares at her small open palm, her weirdly round face, the white patch over one eye, the smashed glasses. He thinks he is staring at the picture of how his heart must look: small and sad and mashed. Billy pauses, feeling the sun beat down on his neck, the sweat on his forehead, the smell of the flowers outside—puffy and sweet—the barking of a dog somewhere, the sky looming wide open above his head, the sound of bees glowing in the very last moments of summer, and he knows if he were to keep walking toward the bus stop, he would never see any of these things again. He would never try again: He would simply walk back into the familiar, perfect world of his own death. The boy detective closes his fist around the money and smiles slowly.
“OK, yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I will find it. I will solve this case by the end of the week.”
“Good. Thank you. Thank you, Billy.”
The girl stares up at him with a grin as wide as some unnamed equatorial line, and then she squeezes his hand.
