The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1)

by A. J. Flynn

  “Yeah, I know. People from the city tend to forget, but keep it in mind.”

  He wanted the man to go away, but he didn’t dare show it.

  “How much longer before we’ll be able to get through?” he asked.

  “They’re about halfway done,” the officer answered. “Should be finished in another half hour or so. In a hurry?”

  It was a perfectly normal and friendly question, but to a man in Harry’s situation it registered as danger.

  “I need to fix a freezer at a grocery store down in Santana. If I can’t get there in time, the food will spoil.”

  The man laughed. “If old Swan’s food is spoiled, you better not show up. That’s the crabbiest old goat I’ve ever met. Some of the folks in Santana go clear to town for their food just to avoid having to interact with him.”

  “Well, if it’s only going to be another hour, I should be able to make it. The frost should hold the cold for quite a while.”

  “You’re a lucky man. Say, isn’t this James Marlboro’s car?”

  This was bad. He had hoped the car wouldn’t be noticed until James reported it missing.

  “Yeah, it’s James’. There was something the matter with mine on the way up. He loaned this one to me while he fixes mine.”

  “You two must be good friends. Old James is picky about who rides in his cars, let alone drives them. Well, I’ll go check and see how they’re getting along—and watch those butts.”

  “Will do, Officer.”

  He kept control of himself until the man was gone, then he began trembling. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, so he leaned back and rested his head against the headrest and tried to overcome the dark waves that threatened to swallow him.

  He must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him by the shoulder and calling out to him.

  “Hey there fella, wake up. Road’s clear.”

  It was one of the drivers he’d spoken to earlier.

  “Oh, thanks.” The man went away and Harry pulled himself upright. He noticed that he was feeling immeasurably better.

  Harry started the engine and waited for a chance to pull into the line of traffic. There must have been around twenty cars, and he had to be patient and wait until they had all passed. It may be slow going for a while, but he knew the cars would eventually thin out.

  For a length of about ten miles, the road was reasonably straight, broken up only by the occasional, gentle curve. He passed by three cars, that eventually put him behind an ancient coupe that was putzing forward at about forty miles an hour. The left wheel was wobbling precariously and the driver religiously hugged the center of the road.

  Harry clenched the wheel until pain shooting into his wrist called attention to what he was doing. The old beater showed no sign of increasing its speed and the road had transformed into a long series of blind curves.

  The trees and road signs crawled by with an almost impossible slowness, and his muscles were beginning to feel like they were on a medieval torture wheel.

  Harry rode nearly bumper to bumper with the offending car, mentally begging for the fiends of hell to remove the obstruction. His throat was so tight it felt like a hanged man’s. Time was no longer his friend.

  They entered the snowshed. The road was still laced with curves, but they were far less sharp than before. There was a spot that seemed just long enough so long he sped up. Without much awareness of his actions, he gunned the motor and flung into the opposite lane. He floored the accelerator and the car leapt forward like a well-trained jack rabbit.

  His speed was hovering around seventy when he first noticed the gasoline tank. By the time the driver’s cab had come into view, swaying around the curved incline, his whole body froze. Recovering himself, he yanked the wheel to the right only to hear the twisted grind of metal against metal as his black fender struck the car behind him. Someone else had tried to make the pass as well.

  He could see the pale face of the truck driver, and he could hear the tin wail of tortured rubber as the truck’s air brakes labored to bring the vehicle to a halt.

  Harry crashed head on into the truck and, after a brief moment of silence, roaring flames erupted towards the sky. The truck driver hobbled out of the cab on shaky legs and fled for safety at the edge of the road. Harry had escaped in a sense, but the real tragedy was that he had no reason to run.

  XVII

  McPherson had a good night. According to the health articles she’d read, she should be suffering because of the stress and tension of her job and all the odd hours she worked, but she never did. She slept like a baby, and ate everything in sight without it giving her any trouble.

  She dressed quickly. The herringbone could use a pressing, but she didn’t feel like bothering. No matter how pressed and polished, she would never look like anything more than what she was.

  After a final adjustment to her tie, she quietly pushed open the door to her room and stepped softly into the hallway. It was a kind of joke. Her landlady was a good kind-hearted woman, and she liked to keep her house neat and clean, but the idea of having an actual policeman living under her roof never ceased to fascinate her.

  She always kept a keen eye on the front hallway and cornered McPherson for a morning chat every time she was able to catch her. Actually, it was more of an interrogation, and now with the Turner case floating around in the headlines she was sure to be on her toes. McPherson had overheard the woman’s conversations enough times to know that what “The lieutenant said” formed a large part of her repertoire.

  McPherson made her way quickly down the stairs, taking great care to step over the one that squeaked, and reached the door before she was stopped.

  “Lieutenant! One moment please.”

  McPherson turned to face her. She could be a real nuisance, but she didn’t want to be rude to her.

  “Yes, Mrs. Crag, what is it?”

  Mrs. Crag hurried up to her like a bow-legged hen. She was a tiny little woman who was never still for long.

  “Do you have enough hot water?” The hot water was automated and to McPherson’s knowledge there had never been a shortage.

  “Plenty, Mrs. Crag.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she beamed. “Now let’s see, there was something else I was hoping to ask you. Oh, what was it?”

  McPherson knew perfectly well what it was, but went along with the gag anyway.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Crag. Everything seems to be in perfect order to me.”

  “Oh, I remember now. Mrs. Grayson is sure to ask me about the murder. Have you figured out who did it?”

  Mrs. Grayson was another one of the tenants. She spent most of her days caring for her big tomcat and playing solitaire. Not only was it doubtful she would ask about the murder, she probably didn’t even know it had occurred.

  “No, Mrs. Crag. We still don’t know who did it.”

  “But you must have some ideas,” the woman pleaded confidently.

  “Nope. We have a few leads that will have to be checked, then maybe we’ll get some ideas.”

  “Then you don’t think you’ll be making an arrest today?” She looked deeply disappointed.

  “Hard to say. Sometimes it takes years to break a case like this.”

  “Well, I guess you know what you’re doing. It’s just that my club gals are planning to meet back here this evening and they’re sure to expect me to know all about it.”

  Whoever said everything is relative sure knew what they were talking about. Not very far from where they stood, people were in mourning over a tragedy. And here this woman was disappointed because she wouldn’t be able to announce the solution at a club meeting.

  “We’re trying our best, Mrs. Crag. Now I better get back to work. I won’t be able to locate the murderer so long as I’m here, unless you’ve got him hidden somewhere.”

  Mrs. Crag tittered. “What a thing to say, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll see you,” she said and went out.

 
; It was a cool crisp morning. The sky was clear and the sun was shining, and as she drove along she was taken aback by how clean everything looked. It reminded her of a man she’d met a long time ago. He’d been one of the most beautiful men to have ever walked this earth. He was dressed well and had refined manners, but inside he’d been a tangled mass of rottenness.

  For some reason, best understood by him, or the doctors who were called in to treat him, he had written a series of the most despicable letters she’d ever heard. When he was eventually confronted with proof of his guilt, he laughed, and asked if they could do as well.

  He put forth a pleasant clean appearance, until you dug deeper, then just like the town—dirt.

  She didn’t know what had crawled under her skin. She wasn’t the type of woman to let events in her job leak out into her personal life and bother her. A long time ago she’d made up her mind that people are part good and part bad, and she’d accepted it as the way of the world. Now she was beginning to reach the point where she found it hard to believe in the decency of anyone.

  She parked her car inside the police garage. It was against policy, but it was easy to get away with it for a few months at a time. When work dried up, the powers that be got to work enforcing the rules, but when there were better things to do, they let the rules slide.

  The mechanics were busy working on some of the cars, complaining about the care the officers gave them. Once they were finished, and the cars were back in service, the officers would have plenty to say about the mechanics and how unqualified they are.

  McPherson stopped by the lab, but Dr. Hemlock wasn’t in yet, so she made her way upstairs.

  Things were quiet. McGill sat at his desk, writing reports. McPherson set her hat on the hook and went over to him.

  “How are things looking?”

  The heavy man glanced up. His face was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. “About the only thing I know anything about is the condition of this garage business. If you ask me, it stinks. I have it from twenty authorities on the subject. They never sold any tires.”

  McPherson sympathized with him. There were few things more dull or unrewarding than routine legwork in an investigation.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. There are a couple shoe repair shops I haven’t scoped out yet, but I’m planning to.”

  “At least you’ll be able to talk to them inside. There is one thing, though. Eager Aiden, boy wunderkind, has been working on his own time. He’s set to clean up the whole world by Christmas I suppose, but he managed to come up with something.”

  McPherson nodded. “He’ll calm down once he’s been at it a while longer. His promotion still feels new to him. What’s he found?”

  “He was poking around, rechecking the neighbors that live around there. The woman living in that older house, across from the South Pines development, says she saw Robb Johnson return home around eight o’clock on the night of the murder.”

  McPherson frowned. “He wasn’t anywhere near there at that time.”

  “Hell, I know that. But Aiden says the woman was certain she saw him go in. He said he questioned her closely, and she was spying out of her window, because she was expecting company soon, and she swears she saw him enter the house.”

  “How does she know for sure it was him?”

  “That’s the same thing Aiden wondered, so he’s gone out to talk to Mrs. Johnson. It could be that the woman witnessed someone go in and just assumed it was Johnson.”

  “Well, let’s wait and see. Somehow I can’t picture the Johnson woman having too many friends. She seems to think she’s too pure for that sort of thing.”

  McGill laughed. “Yeah, well she may think she is, but unless she’s dead, she isn’t.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Here’s a drawn up list of the places I went. Didn’t get anything, so there’s no use in going back. I sent off some inquiries about Valentine, but I haven’t heard anything back. Talked to Captain Balzac, down at State Patrol Headquarters, and his men are keeping an eye on the garages outside of town. That’s all.”

  McPherson nodded. “Alright. Go ahead and get yourself some breakfast, we’ll take it from here.”

  McGill stood up, huffing a little from the exertion. He threw on his coat and hat, then turned to McPherson with a sheepish look on his face. “If you aren’t doing anything tonight, would you mind doing me a favor?”

  The request was completely out of character for the big detective. He never bothered to do things for other people, nor expected them to do things for him.

  “Sure, if I can,” McPherson answered hesitantly. There was no real telling what she might be getting herself into.

  “Well, if you’re near a phone around ten thirty, give me a call, will you? I’ve caught myself oversleeping lately, and when I don’t have enough time to eat, my stomach gives me hell.”

  She did her best to suppress her smile, as she thought back to the four roast beef sandwiches McGill had brought with him the night before. “Yeah, I’ll try to remember.”

  “All right. Thanks.” He seemed relieved as he left.

  McPherson had just begun straightening the papers that were spread out over her desk when McGill returned.

  “Forget something?” she asked.

  “Yeah. A couple of the patrolmen picked up a guy who was calling the Turner house. The damn fool called something like six times from the same tavern. The phone company did a trace on the call, and they picked him up in the booth. He was plastered and mean as hell. We locked him up. Maybe you can get something out of him. He was threatening to kill the other brother unless the family paid him off.”

  “Maybe he’ll confide in me. I’m starting to feel like the long lost soulmate of all the degenerates in town.”

  McGill nodded and started off again. This time he made it.

  McPherson walked up the stairs to the jail. There was a small room to the side of the corridor that was used to question inmates. She told the guard who she wanted and went in. Within minutes, the guard brought the man in.

  The man was squat and fat. His eyes were so buried in his skull that they were nearly invisible. All of his hair was missing, except for a lightly tufted fringe that circled his head, and he was dressed like a day laborer. He was most likely the kind of guy who wanted to be a big man and, once he figured out he couldn’t make it, settled for being mean.

  But even in his meanness, he made certain not to pick on anybody that might strike back. His shaking hands betrayed his late night of drinking.

  “Sit down,” McPherson said.

  “I demand a lawyer,” the man answered sharply.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll have to settle for a shyster. No decent lawyer in town is going to want to touch you.”

  The man took his seat. “You don’t have nothing on me.”

  “Attempted extortion is something.”

  “You can’t prove it,” he said confidently.

  “Officers make good witnesses, and they listened in outside the phone booth before they cuffed you. The folks down at the tavern aren’t going to like the idea of someone calling up a man whose kid was just murdered and threatening to kill the other one, either. These people don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.”

  The man ran his tongue over his bottom lip. All of a sudden he didn’t look quite so confident.

  “You can’t prove anything,” he repeated.

  “It says here your name is Holden. Is that right?”

  “If that’s what it says, then I guess that’s what it is.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t always follow. Done any time?”

  “A little.”

  “What for?”

  “Vagrancy. I never broke any laws.”

  “Where were you two nights ago?”

  “Up in Seattle. You can’t pin it on me, because I wasn’t even in your town.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Sure, I can. And won’t you be sorry,” he
sneered. “I was visiting my sister.”

  “We’ll see what she has to say.”

  Holden laughed. “She’ll remember. I was bumming around listening to my brother-in-law tell me what a no good sum bitch I was. After I got my gutfull of him and his ideas, I laid him out, then took off before they could call the cops. I’m sure the whole damn street will remember, he was yapping so loud.”

  “Give me your sister’s name and address.”

  Holden told her and she wrote it down.

  “Once she tells you I wasn’t even in town will you let me out?”

  “We’ll have to see how Mr. Turner feels about you threatening his kid.”

  Holden tried to give the impression that he was just a careless boy caught up in one of his pranks. “Oh, hell. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just wasted and looking for something to do. I’d never hurt a child.”

  “No,” McPherson agreed, “I don’t think you’d have the guts, but what about money? Would you have taken it if the Turners had paid you off?”

  Holden didn’t answer.

  “I think a man who’s willing to threaten grief-stricken parents with harm would be just fine collecting the money, if it meant he wouldn’t be caught.”

  Holden threw off his little-boy act and slumped in his seat. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Yeah.” There was nothing to gain by continuing to talk to him, so McPherson called for the guard.

  “He wants to speak with a lawyer. Let him, then lock him up.”

  The guard nodded and led Holden down the hallway to where the pay phone was.

  People like Holden are one of humanity’s many irritants, but they existed and there was nothing to do about it besides accept it. McPherson had never been able to make up her mind about whether they were people who wanted too much and weren’t willing to accept less, or people who didn’t want anything and decided to do their best to see that nobody else had anything either.

  She walked back downstairs. She wanted to get back to work, but there was a problem: she didn’t know where to start.

  McPherson had just sat down at her desk when the desk officer heralded her. She stood up reluctantly and walked over to him.