Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel

by Arlette Lees

  “I agree. Schoolyard bullies would have taken his nickel. Could have been his parents. Wouldn’t be the first time we came across a throw-away kid.”

  A full minute passes while I mull things over and Homer makes a few notes in the chart. “His parents don’t know he’s missing,” I say.

  “How do you figure?”

  “He died on Friday. I don’t think he was going home after school, maybe to a friends or relatives. That’s why we haven’t heard anything.”

  “Who’d want to kill a kid? Where’s the motive?”

  “Was he molested?”

  “There’s no indication of that.”

  “What’s the other boy’s name, the one back in September?”

  “Danny Battle. Eight years old. Third grade. Found on the same stretch of road under similar circumstances.”

  “Homer, I’d like to review everything you have on both boys, including post mortem photos.”

  “Okay, but I’ll need the records back in a day or two.” The phone rings and Platt answers. He listens, shakes his head and hangs up.

  “Looks like they’ve found your Chevy, Jack. A rancher discovered it a hundred feet down a ravine about seven miles outside town. A tow truck is on the way to pull it out.”

  “And Mrs. Barker?”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. Her body’s in the car. You want to follow me out?”

  I give it a moment’s consideration.

  “I think I’d like to focus on the boy right now. I’m going to have a look around the schoolhouse. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay, let me get those records.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The empty schoolhouse with its peeling paint sits in the center of a soggy, weed-choked lot. To the right of the building is a teeter-totter, a tire swing and a sandbox filled with water and dead leaves. Beyond the playground an apple orchard rolls toward the horizon. I drive over a short bridge on the left and park on Schoolhouse Road, an unpaved one lane that runs back to a cluster of wood frame houses at the dead end. Behind a row of collapsing sunflowers at the back of the lot stands an outhouse, its door sagging on rusty hinges.

  I walk up the steps to the locked door, unfold a blade from my pocket knife and slide it between the door and the frame. The metal tongue moves, the door squeaks open and I step inside. The room would be cozy on school days, the potbellied stove snapping with kindling and fluttering with flames. Today it’s colder than a meat locker. Behind the teacher’s desk is a blackboard where she’s written her name in the upper left hand corner: Miss Hanover. Below, is a list of spelling words… the word ‘misspell,’ misspelled with a single s… a common enough mistake, but not one made by a parochial school graduate like myself, who can spell excommunication, purgatory and fornication with scholastic ease.

  There’s a draft as the door opens and closes behind me, admitting a girl with long brown braids, wide hazel eyes and a Band-Aid on one knee.

  “Who are you?” she says.

  “Jack Dunning. And you?”

  “Rebecca Smallwood. I get in the same way you do.”

  “Whatever works, right?” Her bare arms are covered with goose bumps. “You look cold.”

  “I know. My parents make me go outside when they fight. I didn’t have time to grab my coat.”

  “Sounds like they’re the ones who need the cooling off.” That gets a smile. “You go to school here?”

  “Yes. I’m in sixth. I’m the smartest kid in school, even smarter than the eighth graders. My grandfather donated the land the school sits on.”

  “Consider me duly impressed.”

  “Just don’t eat the candy bar in Miss Hanover’s desk or she’ll think it was me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I see. You know where I can find her?”

  “Not until tomorrow. She’ll be here around seven thirty. You’re that cop from Boston. I’ve seen you with Jim Tunney. What are you doing here?”

  “Maybe, I’m here to steal candy bars.”

  “You don’t need one.”

  “Thanks Rebecca. Just call ’em as you see ’em. Do you know where your teacher lives?”

  “In town somewhere. Miss Brown boarded with my family. She was our teacher since I was in first grade, but she retired. Most teachers are too poor to rent a place of their own.”

  “Who’s your favorite, Miss Brown or Miss Hanover?”

  “Miss Brown was nice. She got too old to remember our names, but she’d never misspell, misspell.”

  “You noticed that too. Did you point it out?”

  “To Miss Hanover? Are you kidding? I’m stuck with her until June.”

  “Do you know her address in town?”

  “No. My parents say I’m not allowed to ask grownups personal questions. If I could I’d ask her why she’s twenty-three and doesn’t have a husband yet. My mom says if you’re not married by twenty-five, you’ll be an old maid for life.”

  “What’s Miss Hanover’s first name? I’ll look her up in the book.”

  “It’s Penelope, like the weaver in the Odyssey, but I already looked and she’s not listed.”

  “You are smart. Did you learn that in school?”

  “In the library.”

  Through the window I see a woman coming down Schoolhouse Road, her eyes swollen, her hair in a tangle.

  “You know a lady with dark brown hair and yellow rain boots?”

  “That’s my mom. I’d better go so I don’t get in trouble.”

  “Which house is yours?”

  “The grey one at the end of the road with the goat shed in back.”

  I fish a card from my wallet and hand it to her.

  “Here, keep this. Call me if you get in trouble and I’ll put in the fix.”

  She puts it in her pocket. “Thanks, I will.” I smile to myself as she heads out the door.

  Now that I’m alone, I go straight for the teacher’s top desk drawer, hoping to find a class photo or a list of student’s names and addresses. It’s locked. I’d crack it open, except I’ve already blown my cover. The other drawers contain office supplies and test papers. I drive back to the location where the boy’s body was found. I look into the ditch from the berm and out across the orchard behind it. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t find it.

  * * * *

  I’m having a hamburger and fries at Sparkey’s Roadhouse when the phone rings. Sparkey Bohannon is a big man, an okay guy, who serves a simple menu of satisfying food and runs hookers out of trailers behind the restaurant. The Chief says to turn a blind eye as long as the ladies are of age and don’t get rowdy and who doesn’t need a good poke every now and again? Who am I to argue with that?

  “It’s Jim,” says Sparkey, handing me the phone.

  “The dead boy’s parents just left Platt’s and they’re on their way to the station. Their son is Georgie Allen. They know where and when he was found, but none of the details. How fast can you get here?”

  I finish my beer in one breath, grab my keys and head out the door.

  * * * *

  Hayden and Priscilla Allen are first cousins with identical powder blue eyes and hair that resembles dandelion fluff. They’re young and undernourished, their clothes threadbare from seasons of wear and endless laundering. I express my condolences, ask questions and answer questions, take notes and let them talk. Jim sits quietly off to the side taking notes.

  They were married at fourteen in the isolated mountain community in West Virginia where they were born. Georgie…not George…age seven, was born a year later. They came to California to get Hayden out of the coal mines. They wanted a better life and didn’t find it. They live in an army tent behind Amos Duncan’s peach orchard where th
ey picked at harvest time. Their car is broken down and they’ve been unable to find steady work. Today, they’re driving Dunk’s pickup.

  “When was the last time you saw Georgie?” I ask.

  “Friday morning when he left for school,” says Hayden. “He should be in second grade, but Miss Hanover put him back a year. After school he was going to his friend Kenny Geiger’s house, but when he didn’t come home this morning, we went looking for him. The Geiger’s say he never arrived.

  “But, they knew he was coming.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they think when he didn’t show?”

  “They thought he was with us,” says Priscilla.

  “When did Kenny last see Georgie?”

  “They were running down the highway toward Kenny’s. Kenny turned around and Georgie was gone, just vanished, he said.”

  Hayden, who’d been staring at his hands looks up and gives me a riveting stare. “All this talk is a waste of time. Shouldn’t you be out looking for the person what run down my son?”

  “We’re already working the case, sir. We’re waiting for the official Cause of Death and that can only come from the coroner’s office.”

  “Official Cause of Death! It seems pretty damn obvious, don’t it? He was found in a ditch by the road. It ain’t like he fell from an airplane.”

  “Please try to be patient and let us do our job the right way.”

  “Hayden shoots a glance at his wife, who sits with her hands folded in her lap. He turns back to me. “I know how these things work. You’re protecting some local big shot who’s probably never had a sober day in his life. You think we’re just a bunch of hillbillies you can push around?”

  “No, I don’t think that.”

  Priscilla puts a hand over her mouth, one tear rolling down her cheek. With her other hand she touches Hayden’s elbow in a cautionary gesture. He takes a deep breath. His face is pale, his hands trembling.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was out of line.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how we’re going to tell his grandparents back home.” He chokes out a sob. “They warned us about moving away from our kin. Now we got nothing, not even our son. I don’t even know how we’re going to get him buried.”

  “I can’t say I know the depth of your grief, Mr. Allen, but, we’re here to help you. We’re on the same team,” I say. “No one wants to resolve this case more than we do. I know this isn’t easy, but I need to ask you a difficult question. Do you or your son have any enemies?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Jim and I take separate cars to the Geiger’s. We introduce ourselves and settle on the flowered sofa in the front room. Kenny’s mother, Kay, brings us coffee and cookies.

  “My special coconut macaroons,” she says.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Geiger. That’s very thoughtful,” says Jim.

  “They’ll stick in your teeth,” says Harry, who sits in a broken down easy chair with cigar ashes, magazines and newspapers scattered at his feet. It’s the only untidy place in the otherwise orderly room.

  “It didn’t keep you from wolfing down the first dozen,” Kay teases. She sits across from me in a rocking chair. “I imagine this is about Georgie. Mr. and Mrs. Allen were here earlier. Have you found the boy yet?”

  “The boy is dead, Mrs. Geiger. He was found in a ditch alongside the highway,” I say.

  “Oh my god!” she says. “Is this about that drunk driver everyone is talking about?”

  “That’s one of the possibilities we’re looking into.”

  “What other possibilities could there be?” says Harry

  “What’s your line of work, Mr. Geiger?” asks Jim.

  Geiger’s chest puffs up. “I’m with Cooley Sand and Gravel. I make sure the trucks get out on schedule and nobody cheats the time clock.”

  “Tote that barge. Lift that bale.”

  “That’s right,” says Harry, cheerfully. “It’s a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “Harry married into the family business,” says Kay. “I’m Wild Bill Cooley’s daughter.” She pats her unruly bushel of light brown hair. “You can always spot a Cooley. None of us ever had a good hair day.”

  “It’s a lucky man has a job in these hard times,” says Jim, playing the diplomat. We know what the men at Cooley’s must think of him, riding into management on his father-in-law’s coat tails, lording it over more capable and experienced men.

  “When exactly did Georgie die?” asks Kay.

  “The coroner thinks it was mid to late afternoon on Friday,” I say.

  “Well, I guess that’s no surprise, given he never made it here. It’s tragic, just tragic.”

  “If Kenny’s here, we’d like to have a word with him.”

  “He’s dozing in his room. He’s come down with an ear ailment of, some kind.”

  “You don’t think he done it, do you?” laughs Harry.

  “Shut up, Harry!” says Kay. “You never know when to keep your big mouth shut.” She looks at me with a worry line between her eyebrows. “You won’t upset him, will you?”

  ‘I’ll tread lightly, I promise.”

  She leaves the room and returns with a feverish little boy in flannel pajamas printed with cowboys and bucking broncos. Kay sits back in her chair and makes room for Kenny who rests his head against her side. “Kenny, this is Officer Jack and that’s Officer Jim.”

  “Hello,” he says. “Did you find Georgie?”

  “We’re making progress in the investigation,” I tell him. “Can you help us by answering a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell me the very last time you laid eyes on Georgie and what you two were doing at the time.”

  “It was when school let out for the weekend. We were running along the road.”

  “Toward your house?”

  “Yes. A car came down the highway. A real junker. The tail pipe was dragging on the ground. Georgie and I ran into the orchard near the school. We were laughing our heads off. We hid in the trees in case it jumped the ditch. When the car was gone, I turned around and Georgie was gone too. I thought he was goofing around.”

  “And you didn’t see him after that, in the orchard or walking along the road?”

  “No, I looked. His mom even gave him a nickel so we could go to the movies. It’s all we talked about all week.”

  “Let’s say it like it is,” says Harry, lighting a cigar. “The kid comes here for a warm meal and a clean bed. You know what it’s like with their kind.”

  “A warm meal and a clean bed is a nice thing to have, Harry,” says Kay.

  Jim and I exchange a glance and ignore him. “And that’s the last time you saw or heard from him?”

  “The very last,” says Kenny.

  “Was anybody else in the orchard that day?”

  “A few of the other kids.”

  “How about adults?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, Kenny, does anyone at school pick on your friend? Was he afraid of anyone? Has he ever been ganged up on, or roughed up?”

  “Mostly everyone stays away from him. He talks funny cuzz of where he’s from, like you, but different. He has to wear a cap in school and sit at the back of the room cuzz of his cooties.”

  “It’s, because, Kenny, not cuzz,” says Kay.

  “You mean due to his head lice?” I ask.

  “Yes, becuzz of that. Some people think he’s dumb, but he’s just shy and don’t talk much. He’s smarter when you get to know him.”

  “I bet he is. Are you in the same grade?”

  “Just the same age. I’m in second. Georgie’s repeating first.”

  “What do you think happened to Georgie?”

  “I don’t kn
ow. When I see him, I’ll ask him and let you know.”

  I look at Kay. “I understand the teacher lives in town. Do you know where?”

  “No. I thought she was boarding with the Smallwoods, like Miss Brown did.”

  Thank you for talking with us,” I say. “Here’s my card. Call us if you think of anything else. I hope you’re feeling better soon, Kenny. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we go?”

  “Yes. Can I hold your badge?”

  * * * *

  Jim and I walk to our cars.

  “They don’t seem to be hiding anything,” says Jim.

  “Something happened in that orchard,” I say.

  “Could be. I promised Curley I’d stop by his house today.”

  “I got him some bubblegum and auto magazines. Hang on and I’ll get them out of the car.”

  After Jim leaves I spend the next half hour walking the orchard where Georgie was last seen. It’s on the opposite side of the road from where his body was found. More puzzling is the fact his body lay south of the school. Whoever dumped him, made it look like he was struck walking home, when in fact, he was headed in the opposite direction toward the Geiger’s.

  I stand in the cold, hunched into the collar of my jacket in the middle of a fruitless orchard. Between the rows of bare apple trees the schoolhouse is visible from a great distance to the south. To the north the rows converge at the vanishing point. I search the ground for clues and find none. I wait for an epiphany that doesn’t come. I believe the blood of the innocent cries from the ground like it says in the Bible. It’s my job to listen for it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mittie knocks lightly and enters Frances’s bedroom carrying a breakfast tray and the Sunday paper. She sets it on the bed stand and raises the window shade, letting in a painful stiletto of light.

  Frances moans and turns away from the window.

  “Oh, must you? It’s the middle of the night.”

  It’s eleven A. M. Mrs. D. Time to rise and shine.”