Loonies (12 page)

Across from the shoe factory was the old train station, also falling into disrepair, and town folks thought it, too, should be demolished. But Eldon Winch believed passenger train service might one day be revived and hoped Smokey Hollow would be a stop once again. Why anyone would deliberately come here, Brian could not understand. Maybe Winch figured people would come and shop in the stores at the renovated shoe factory. Brian would never have found his way here, or even heard of it, if he hadn’t found the job at
The Hollow News
.

Brian ignored the call, rolled over, and went back to sleep. An hour or so later he heard another call on the scanner—a police call, asking Chief Treece to come to the fire station for an undetermined incident.

Brian sat up, staring at the scanner waiting for more. Incident, he wondered. What the hell did that mean? It seemed unusual enough for him to want more, but nothing else came from the scanner. He glanced at Darcie, still sound asleep, and climbed out of bed. He dressed as quietly but as quickly as possible. Something didn’t sound right about the call. He could easily wait till the morning and check with Noah, but he would find it hard to get back to sleep now that his curiosity was tweaked.

He thought about waking Darcie to tell her he was leaving, but she seemed really tired now that she was pregnant, and he didn’t want to disturb her. She was used to waking up and finding him gone. She had come to expect it.

He scribbled a quick note and left it on her night stand, just in case. Then he scurried downstairs and out to his car. He lit up a cigarette on the short ride to the fire station.

When he approached the station and eased into a parking spot on Main Street, the fire engine was sitting in the middle of the street, lights on, before the open bay doors of the station. Chief Treece’s car was parked near the station, along with another patrol car. Some of the firefighters were standing in the street by the engine, looking into the open bay.

Brian didn’t see the State Police car belonging to Steem and Wickwire and was glad that whatever the incident was, they weren’t involved. Night Shift Alvin greeted him as he approached the brightly lit bay.

Noah was there, standing between Fire Chief Warren Shives and Assistant Chief Simon Runck. They, and everyone else, were looking up. Brian followed their gaze to a fire hose running up and over one of the rafters in the ceiling.

Dangling from the fire hose wrapped around his neck like a noose was Simon’s dummy, Marshall.

Brian thought it was some kind of firehouse prank, something firefighters might do to rib each other. But when he looked at Simon Runck and saw his trembling lower lip and ashen face, there didn’t seem to be any humor in the incident.

Simon stepped forward, reaching his right hand toward the dangling feet of the puppet, and then turned to the crowd. “Let him down,” he yelled, he face flushed. “Dammit! Someone let him down!”

Fire Chief Shives approached, put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, and motioned to another firefighter, who ran to where the end of the hose was attached to a wall strut and began untying the knot. Once it was loose, he lowered the dummy till Marshall was within reach, and Simon pulled his friend into his arms, gently resting him on the concrete floor. He untied the hose from around the neck and cast it aside with disgust.

The puppet’s eyes were open, and Simon stroked its cheek.

Brian looked at Noah and shrugged his shoulders, begging for some sense to the bizarre scene. Noah smirked and shook his head.

“Who would do such a thing,” Simon said, now almost on the verge of tears. He lifted the puppet’s right hand and let it go. It fell limply by its side. He reached up a hand and closed the puppet’s eyes. “He’s dead,” Simon said.

Brian scanned the faces in the bay and the others standing outside by the fire truck. All the faces were solemn. He expected a few grimaces or gazes of bewilderment. But everyone was taking the scene seriously.

“Why would someone want to kill him?” Simon said, still on his knees by Marshall’s side.

Murder? Brian thought. Was this now a murder scene? It was ridiculous. He didn’t even have the urge to take a photo. This wasn’t something he’d consider putting in the paper. He almost got the feeling everyone was pulling a big prank for his benefit. He might even have believed that was the case if not for the look on Noah’s face.

He wanted to ask the police chief if Simon really believed Marshall was alive.

Simon scooped the puppet up in his arms and took him into a back room.

“Let’s get that engine in here,” Chief Shives barked before following Simon.

The firefighters broke out of their trances and began to move, unloading their gear and directing the engine into the garage. Brian finally got a chance to approach Noah.

“Noah, what the hell is this?”

“I guess someone got tired of the mouth on the little guy,” Noah said. He wasn’t cracking his usual smile.

“Is this thing serious?”

“It seems Simon thinks so.  Someone silenced Marshall.”

“Does he think that thing’s real?” Brian couldn’t believe he had to ask. “It is just a puppet.”

Noah looked at him. “Of course. Don’t you think I know that?” The chief seemed insulted.

“Phew,” Brian exhaled. “I was getting worried I was the only one who could see that. It’s just kind of strange.”

“No. The strange thing,” Noah said, “is whether someone else believed Marshall was real.”

On Wednesday afternoon, Brian put the weekly edition of
The Hollow News
to bed, transmitting the final galleys to the printer. He kept the front page intact, with the dramatic stories and photos of the asylum fire, Dr. Wymbs’ murder, the missing inmates, and the latest update on the trunk skeletons—of which there was little. He did not connect the trunk and the asylum, other than through the fact that the mysterious container was found in the home once owned by a retired nurse from the Wymbs Institute.

He had included a short bio on Dr. Wymbs, what little he could find with the help of the newspaper’s archives. In that dimly lit cellar were bound books of all the past editions. Brian had scoured those editions for some history on when the institute had opened forty years ago. He had interviewed a few people in town who knew the doctor, including Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch and real estate agent Leo Wibbels. But no one knew the doctor that well. It seemed in years past he’d visit town infrequently, but in the last decade or so had become more reclusive. Brian’s notes from his conversation with the doctor were not very useful, but he added them. He might have been one of the last people to talk to Wymbs.

If only he had gotten the name of the housekeeper. That would have been helpful to paint a picture of what went on in the Mustard House and how many patients and staff were usually there. It surprised Brian and Noah that no staff member had come forward to provide any information to the authorities. That was a piece of this puzzle that just didn’t seem to fit.

The story on the Women’s Garden Club tour and Rolfe Krimmer’s Boston Post Cane award went inside as planned. That meant Brian wouldn’t get the name of the mysterious flower sender from Mrs. Picklesmeir. It was a shame. If an anonymous woman was indeed the mother of one of those babies, it would be imperative to find her. Brian would have to tell Noah about it. Maybe under the guise of a police investigation, the crotchety woman would divulge her information.

Brian decided against putting anything in the paper about the lynching of Marshall. The more he thought about it, the more he chalked it up as a firehouse prank, despite the odd reaction Simon Runck had to the strangulation of his dummy. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like something that belonged in a news story.

There was commotion by the front desk, and Brian looked through his office windows to see Capt. Steem and Sgt. Wickwire talking to Beverly Crump. She directed the State Police officers toward his office, and Brian waved them in.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Brian said.

“I’m sure,” Steem grunted, removing his hat and settling in a seat in front of Brian’s desk. Wickwire stood by the door, rigid. He didn’t remove his hat.

“What can I do for you? Paper’s already gone to press. No chance for any last minute quotes.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” Steem said, wiping beads of sweat from his bald head with his bare hand. “No air conditioning in here?”

“Not one of the luxuries the paper can afford. These are tough economic times for the newspaper industry.”

“Well, nothing like a good arson and murder story to pump up circulation.”

Brian chuckled at that. “This newspaper sells to the same number of people no matter if the front page features the Fishing Derby results or a UFO abduction. I’m just glad I have something newsworthy to publish.” He smiled. “Now what brings you here?” He wondered if Noah told them about the discovery of the glass eyeball.

“Noah tells me you have a photo from the fire scene with Ruth Snethen in it.”

“Yes,” Brian said. “I didn’t know it was her, but my receptionist identified her to me.”

“I’d like a copy of the picture,” Steem said, his tone demanding. “In fact, I’d like copies of all your pictures from the fire scene for evidence.”

Brian leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, thinking how to approach this request. “You still haven’t found nurse Snethen?”

“Not a trace.” Steem’s brow furrowed. “We discovered she was living at a retirement complex out on Twistback Road, but she hasn’t been at the place for several days.”

“Since the fire?”

“Exactly.” Steem seemed hesitant to answer. “But we don’t have any pictures of the woman, so we’d like a copy of yours.” He leaned forward. “If that isn’t a problem.”

Brian didn’t want to hand over copies of the picture without taking advantage of the opportunity it provided. He placed his hands on his desk, pretending to rummage through some papers. Steem looked impatient. Wickwire was emotionless behind him, a statue.

“I don’t see any problem cooperating with the authorities,” Brian said. “As long as I know they will co-operate with the media as well.”

“I could get a subpoena,” Steem said.

“I’m sure you could, though I see no need for that. I’m asking for mutual cooperation. Just keep an open line with me on developments in the case. That’s not much to ask.”

“I keep Chief Treece informed,” Steem shot back. Then he hesitated. “I supposed I can pass information along to you.”

Brian spread his hands wide. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m not looking for special treatment.”

“Of course you are. You want details that I don’t give out in statements to the press.”

“I guess if you put it that way. Yes. I’d like to think, since I’m the only media representative in this town, that I get some kind of—let’s say, home-field advantage.” He smiled.

Steem did not smile back. “I guess that’s only fair,” he said.

“Very good,” Brian said, getting into his computer picture folder and bringing up the photo of Ruth Snethen on his screen. He turned it around for Steem to see. “Here’s the picture of Snethen.” He pointed to the gray-haired woman on the screen. “I can burn a disc of all the pictures for you.”

“Great,” Steem said.

Brian rummaged through his desk for a blank disc and had trouble finding one.

“Need one of these?” Beverly Crump said, standing at his door, holding up a computer disc.

“Thanks, Bev.”

She handed the disc to Wickwire, who in turn handed it to Steem, who passed it along to Brian, who put it into his computer and began downloading the files.

While it was burning, he leaned back and looked at the impatient Capt. Steem, who wiped more sweat off the top of his scalp. “Now there are a couple things I’m interested in.”

“Such as?” Steem looked irritated.

“I was wondering if you had located the housekeeper? And what her name is.”

“Hettie Gritton,” Steem said.

Brian grabbed a pen and jotted the name down. “And have you talked to her?”

“No.”

Brian looked up from his notepad. “Because?”

“We can’t locate her either.”

Brian sat upright. “Hmm. Since when?”

“We only discovered her name yesterday. She lives alone in a house out on Fogg Road. Nobody home when we’ve gone to the place. No one answers calls to the house.”

Brian remembered her leaving the night he went to the Mustard House. “Her car?”

“In the driveway.”

“That is strange.” The computer file finished copying, and Brian popped the disc out. He held it to Steem. An image popped into Brian’s head of a faceless Dr. Wymbs. “One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“There was something covering Dr. Wymbs’ face when they pulled his body out of the fire. What was it?”

Steem’s face grew rigid. He plucked the disc from Brian’s fingers and held it over his shoulder; Wickwire stepped forward and took it. “That I’m afraid I can’t answer.” He got up from the chair. “And I expect you to cooperate with us if you come across anything in your journalistic inquiries.”

It was a statement Brian thought would be accompanied by a sarcastic grin, but Steem’s face showed no such thing. Brian thought about the notes he had received from the mysterious Silhouette, the anonymous flowers left on his doorstep, and the glass eyeball found in the Somnambulist’s pocket. “Of course,” he said to Steem, smiling.

The State Police captain turned to go.

“Oh, there is one thing,” Brian said.

Steem halted and turned back.

“The assistant fire chief’s ventriloquist’s dummy was found hanging at the station from a noose made from a fire hose.” Brian shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure what that could mean. I didn’t know if you were aware of it.”

“Of course I’m aware of that. Not much in this town gets by me. But I have no interest in a firehouse prank”

Wickwire actually cracked the only smile during his silent visit.

“Then I guess I have nothing more,” Brian said. “But I’ll keep cooperating if anything else comes up.”