The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1)

by A. J. Flynn

  “You all right, Fitts?” she asked as she hurried up the walkway.

  “Yes, but I made a terrible mistake.” Karl’s voice trembled uncontrollably.

  McPherson looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean? You took down a stalker, didn’t you?”

  “I thought he was a stalker, but it was Mr. Rogers. He dropped by the house with a present for my daughter. That’s what he was doing, fastening it to the doorknob. God knows how badly I’ve hurt him. He cracked his head on the bricks, when he fell back.”

  “You fellows call for an ambulance?” McPherson asked the other officer.

  “I checked. Fitts had the operator call for one. It should be here by now.”

  “You don’t think the fall could have killed him?” Karl asked anxiously.

  McPherson didn’t answer. Instead, she walked over to the injured man. “How is he?”

  The other officer was still kneeling beside him. He looked up as McPherson spoke. “He’s alive, but that’s about all I can say. The pulse is thin—shock, most likely. He has a severe wound at the base of his skull from hitting those bricks, and his leg is snapped. Best not to move him.”

  “No,” McPherson agreed, “leave him where he is, but keep an eye on him. There’s an ambulance on the way and hopefully he stays unconscious until they’re able to get him loaded. Trying to move that leg is going to hurt like hell.”

  McPherson took another glance at the helpless figure crumpled up on the ground, then turned her attention back to Karl.

  “Just what in the hell did you think you were doing? Do you jump every person who shows up at your doorstep?” she asked angrily.

  Karl’s face was pale. “I don’t know. I guess I was coming home from the depot after seeing my family off, and I’d been thinking a lot about how things have changed around here since the Turner boy’s murder. It was a hell of a thing to have happen, but I guess I thought I’d caught a murderer. Instead, I injured a sick old man. Christ, I feel terrible.”

  McPherson watched with pity as the anguished man beat himself up. She had thought that Fitts, at least, was able to keep his head, but she had been wrong.

  “Everyone around here’s been acting like sheep. The women act like every man they see wants to rape them, and the men are so scared they might be suspected, they start knocking each other out like fools. Nobody’s willing to believe that the boy was just strangled. No frills. He just flat out died from lack of air, but that explanation doesn’t seem to suit any of you. Instead, he must have been the victim of a pedophile and have been mutilated, to make all of you happy.” Emma’s tone was bitter.

  Even though she hadn’t named names, Karl knew that Marla’s was among the first on her list, and he felt the urge to speak.

  “My God, lady,” he exploded, “you said so yourself it had to have been someone the boy knew, and kids that young don’t know many people who are strong enough to strangle them. But say it is one of us. That means someone we know is running around the neighborhood, ready to strike again. You can’t blame us for being scared. Murder isn’t old stuff to us like it is to you.”

  “The loss of human life is never old stuff to me, no matter how many times I’ve encountered it,” McPherson assured him.

  Karl’s face flushed scarlet, but he was saved from answering by a groan from Mr. Rogers. They both rushed to his side.

  “Where’s that damn ambulance?” Karl demanded. “I made the call twenty minutes ago.”

  “It’ll be here. I can hear the siren getting closer,” one of the officers said.

  “I just hope the poor guy doesn’t come out of it before they get him loaded. The way his leg is twisted, the pain from moving might do him in for good,” McPherson said.

  Karl watched the street and let out a sigh of relief when flashing lights appeared around the corner.

  When the ambulance stopped, two white-suited men hopped out, swung open the big door at the back of the vehicle and took out the stretcher. They tried to be gentle, but quick and efficient at the same time. In a matter of minutes they had Mr. Rogers loaded up and were on their way.

  “Did you let his wife know?” McPherson asked Karl once they were gone.

  “God, no. I didn’t even think of it.” Karl hesitated, then added, “Can you do it? I can’t just go over there and tell her I beat up her husband.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll tell her,” McPherson agreed in a hard voice, “but if the old man doesn’t pull through, you’ll have more to answer to than just her.”

  Karl was shocked. It was the first time it had occurred to him that he may be held responsible for his actions.

  “Crap, do you think he’ll want me jailed?”

  The lieutenant sighed. “Mr. Rogers stopped at your front door during his nightly walk, which you knew he took. There wasn’t any answer when he knocked, so he was trying to tie a present for your daughter to the door when you beat him. Even if he happens to survive the skull injury, a broken leg, with his age and condition, will probably mean he’ll be bedridden for the rest of his life, and you’re asking me if he’ll want you jailed? He’ll probably want you dead.”

  “But he was trespassing on my property,” Karl complained weakly.

  “To resurrect an old saying: ‘Tell it to the judge,’” McPherson said sarcastically. “I’m going to get Mrs. Rogers and drive her down to the hospital. Stay where I can find you.”

  She pulled her car across the street and parked it in front of the Rogers home. She didn’t blame Fitts for not wanting to talk with Mrs. Rogers. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  All the houses still had their lights on, and the scream of the ambulance and police car had drawn people to their windows. She couldn’t help but look at them with distaste. They hadn’t even bothered to come out of their houses, just stood at their windows, watching, like rabbits peeking out of their holes. There hadn’t been even a single offer to help. They were all scared stiff, and willing to go to any length to stay out of whatever had happened.

  She could make out Mrs. Rogers’s figure through the front window. The woman was sitting alone in a straight-backed chair, calmly brushing her long hair. Two sirens wailing outside her door didn’t seem to be important enough to distract her from her beauty routine. She could see the look of annoyance on the woman’s face as she rang. She flicked her hair back and came to open the door.

  “I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson, I stopped by the other day—“

  “I remember,” she interrupted, “I already said I don’t know anything about the boy.”

  “I’m not here about that, ma’am. It’s about your husband—“

  Again she refused to let her finish. “My husband,” she sneered. “You must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel, to suspect he would have the nerve to kill anyone, especially one of those children. He spends half his day making toys for them. Why in fact, just tonight he went clear out of his way to deliver a doll’s coat to that Fitts girl. And in his condition, mind you. I sometimes have to wonder if he’s lost whatever good sense he once had.”

  “This isn’t regarding that,” McPherson said, trying to keep her anger from showing. “I’m trying to tell you that he’s been injured. I can drive you to the hospital if you want. He’s already been taken away in an ambulance.”

  The woman’s face fell as she stared past her.

  “Did you understand what I just said? Your husband’s been hurt.”

  “Did the murderer get him?”

  McPherson shivered at the hopeful tone of her voice.

  “No. He was injured during a fall at the Fitts’s. They took him to the hospital. If you care to go and find out how he is, I can give you a ride.”

  The disgust in her voice must have registered, because all of a sudden she was acting cordial. “How kind of you. Come inside and take a seat while I get ready.”

  She walked in and took a seat in the straight-backed chair the woman had been occupying earlier, and prepared for a long wait. But she
needn’t have worried, because minutes later she had returned, hair smoothly braided, and wearing a neat, black dress.

  “I’m ready now, Lieutenant. Thank you for waiting for me.”

  “You’re welcome. The car is out front.”

  They both grabbed their coats and walked out to the car together. McPherson helped her inside, then got in herself and started off.

  Mrs. Rogers sat rigidly upright and didn’t make a single comment during the trip. Not even a single question as to what had happened to her husband.

  When they finally reached the hospital, McPherson hurried around to open the door for her. The woman stepped out onto the sidewalk and said, “There won’t be any need for you to wait. I’ll manage just fine on my own, but thank you for driving me.” And with that, made her way lightly up the steps, which seemed out of keeping for a woman of her size.

  McPherson grinned to herself and got back in the car. “She’s a cold fish. A real cold fish,” she told herself.

  She was glad this day was almost over. She had had enough. A quick trip down to headquarters to sign out and she could finally head home.

  She parked the car and walked into the dreary office. She intended to check and see if the shoe repairman had been able to identify any of the pictures, then go home, but like most days, her plans suddenly changed.

  To the left of the office entrance two men were seated, waiting.

  One was Tommy Flint, who referred to himself as the lead crime reporter of the Sunday paper. In all actuality the paper was too small for one reporter to specialize in crime, but Tommy seemed to think the name gave him an air of glamour. He was a good kid even if he pretended at cynicism. McPherson had known him ever since he’d first started at the paper, and was wholeheartedly convinced that the greatest disappointment in Flint’s life had been when he’d first realized that reporters seldom rushed into the room yelling, “Stop the presses.”

  Tommy hopped to his feet when the lieutenant appeared. “Got anything for the readers?”

  “No, and if I did it wouldn’t be for the press.”

  “I could put your picture in the paper.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to make due without the publicity.”

  The reporter sighed then returned to his chair. McPherson was always less than a fountain of information and there was no use in bucking her. There were plenty of others on the force who liked seeing their names in print.

  McPherson started for her desk again, but heard her name being called. She turned and was surprised to see Hardwood, Charlie’s music teacher.

  “Good evening,” Hardwood said in his clipped manner. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

  “Hello, Mr. Hardwood. Come in.” They walked through the gate and McPherson motioned with her thumb. “Take a seat over there. I have to see if there are any messages. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Hardwood took his seat and crossed his legs with care. Somehow, the man gave one the impression that his every move for the day had been planned out accordingly first thing in the morning, and anything that disturbed the schedule would have to be dealt with.

  There were no messages for McPherson so she returned, straightened some papers on her desk and sat down.

  “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hardwood?”

  “It’s more like what can I do for you,” he answered and flipped through a zippered notebook he was carrying. “When the police took Charlie’s things from his locker, this wasn’t among them. I can’t say whether or not it’s of any importance, but I thought I better bring it in.”

  McPherson took the large manila envelope and bent the metal fastener back. “Where did you find it?”

  “The old school auditorium. An old piano bench is kept there, and the students who use the piano either for practice or accompaniment like to keep their music there. It saves them from having to carry it around with them. One of the students discovered this and brought it to Mr. Lewis’s attention. He figured you should have it.”

  McPherson dumped the contents out on her desk. There were sheets scored for music, on which notes had been inked. She took a cursory glance at them but they meant nothing to her, so she flipped to the paper that looked as if it was meant to be a letter, but there wasn’t any salutation.

  “Here’s my song without words,” she read aloud. “The contest dictates that we can heed suggestions but we mustn’t seek help, so please give me your suggestions. Yours, sincerely. PS - I have to have it back by tomorrow.”

  McPherson glanced up at Hardwood. “Do you know which contest Charlie’s talking about?”

  “Yes. There’s an advertisement for it listed among the papers.”

  “Oh yes, here it is. The Hannah Gryffindor Music Festival Contest. ‘Attention Young People. Enter our contest. Send us your best “Song Without Words.” You will be eligible to win two wonderful weeks in the Rocky Mountains.’ Is this what Charlie was entering?”

  “Yes. It’s quite a reputable contest. Mrs. Gryffindor used to sponsor the festival every year, and ever since her death her husband has gone along with it. Her main interest lies in helping young, talented people get their first bit of recognition, and Mr. Gryffindor added the contest as a kind of tribute to her memory. The public schools don’t really come out in the open and endorse the contest, but we give what little help we can unofficially.”

  McPherson continued reading the advertisement. “They offer several prizes for different age groups, and an opportunity to hear some of the best musicians, fresh mountain air, mountain lakes and a hundred dollars to boot. Not bad for the winners.”

  “Yes, they are very acceptable prizes. I wouldn’t mind winning one of them myself.”

  “About this letter. Did he send it to you?”

  “No. I wondered about that as well, but perhaps there was someone else he’d found more confidence in.”

  “There’s no date. I wonder what he must have meant when he wrote ‘tomorrow’?”

  “It most likely has to do with the closing date of the contest.”

  McPherson took another look. “Here it is. It says here that all of the entries have to be in the mail by midnight. Thursday, the fourteenth. That’s today. He never spoke to you about it?”

  “Oh yes. We spoke together about the contest on several occasions. He showed me a few of the tunes he was considering and told me about all of the things he wanted to do once he had won. It never seemed to occur to him that he might not win. In reality it was almost certain that he would not win, but of course I never told him that.”

  “If he didn’t intend the letter for you, I wonder who he sent it to. This looks like it was a first draft, and he didn’t even bother addressing it.”

  “Perhaps he sent it to his violin teacher. I’ve heard the man’s name before, but I can’t remember it now.”

  “We’ll find him. Did he mention anything about the contest on his final day of school? If he was planning on changing his music to have it ready by the deadline, he must have expected to have it back to him at least by yesterday.”

  Hardwood pondered this for a moment. “No. No, he didn’t. That was a busy day for me and excepting actual class time, I spent very little time in my room. I never had time to speak privately with any of my pupils.”

  McPherson gathered up the papers and slid them back inside the envelope.

  “I appreciate you bringing these down. It’s possible they’ll be of help, but right now I’ll be damned if I can see how.”

  Hardwood rose and extended his hand. “I’m glad I can help. Let me know if you’ve had any luck.”

  They shook hands and Hardwood left.

  McPherson stayed long enough to type out a report on the envelope and, after listing it for immediate attention, grabbed her coat and hat and started for home.

  XVI

  It had been two days in hell for Harry Valentine. He had done his best to keep it a private hell, but it was nonetheless real to him.

  He hadn’t been able to get any
sleep since his interview with the police lieutenant, and though he had gone to work today, he might as well have just stayed home, for what little he was able to accomplish. Every car that pulled to a stop outside his place of business was looked at as a potential threat. Every unexpected noise caused him to jump like a frightened horse.

  By mid-afternoon he couldn’t take it any more. He’d told the office girl that he felt like a cold was coming on, and had left.

  A drive around town had calmed him a little. Everything appeared so normal. People hurrying along their way, each one wrapped up in his own problems, not a single one of them interested in him or his. Most of the time it wasn’t clear whether or not they even knew he existed.

  He could keep it that way, he said to himself. People were always the same everywhere you went. Unless you did something that called attention to yourself, you could walk among them for eternity and they would never know you were there.

  He just couldn’t muster the guts to stick it out. He had to go on the run, and he had to somehow keep Hayley from finding out.

  She had always been the stronger of the two. He knew it, but he never let her know that he knew it. If she even suspected what he was up to, she would find some way of holding him back. Maybe she felt it as her duty, or maybe it stemmed from her love towards him, but whatever her reasons, if he let slip even so much as a hint of his plan, she would surely find a way to talk him out of it.

  Once he had made his decision, he drove home. Their house was completely empty, Hayley wouldn’t be back home for at least two more hours.

  He picked up a suitcase from the utility closet and began gathering up the few clothes he dared to take. Even though he was alone, he moved as quietly and carefully as a cat stalking its prey.

  Shorts and socks were not easily missed from his drawers, but it seemed wisest to him to take a coat and a pair of pants from the back of the closet. Hayley knew just how particular he was about his clothes and kept keen track of them. He felt a heavy pang of regret as he thought of leaving her, but he knew she would never be able to understand how he felt.