Loonies (15 page)

“For a stretch, pets went missing. Chief Pfefferkorn found the remains of a few dogs, necks broken, skin removed. He turned the remains over to me. It was the only time I was reluctant to take a dead animal.” Pigott wiped something from the corner of his eye. “Not a fitting end for man’s best friend.”

“Did they ever catch who did it?”

Pigott shook his head. “No. Never.”

“What happened?”

“They stopped.” The old man cleared his throat and spat onto the floor. “Either the person stopped doing it or found better hiding spots for the carcasses. Peoples’ pets still went missing from time to time. Every time I see a poster on a utility pole for a missing cat or dog, I wonder.”

“That’s horrible. And strange.”

The old man set his knife down on the table. “You want strange? I have something I could show you.” He motioned for Brian to follow him over to the counter along the side wall. Brian watched his step. Pigott stopped in front of a large, dusty ceramic pot on a shelf above the counter. The old man reached up and lowered the pot to the countertop. He removed the cover.

Brian stepped up to the counter and peered into the pot. It was filled with old, gray bones. He looked at the Knackerman.

“What’s this?”

“The remains of a ribcage.”

“Huh?”

Pigott told him a story. More than twenty years ago, a fisherman snagged his line on something in Thrasher Pond, three-acres of water by the railroad tracks parallel to Route 113. What he eventually managed to pull up was a ribcage.

Police Chief Pfefferkorn had been alerted by the fisherman and had checked it out. This was about two years after the disappearance of Timmy Birtch, and some residents speculated that maybe the remains of the poor boy had been found. Some wanted the pond drained to see if there were more remains. But Pfefferkorn decided the bones belonged to a pig that might have fallen victim to whoever was killing animals. He turned the bones over to Pigott to be disposed of.

“But you kept them,” Brian said, looking at the old man.

“Them ain’t no pig bones.”

“Couldn’t they tell?” Brian would have thought the difference would be obvious.

“I could,” Pigott said. “Grant you, the abdomens of a pig and a human being are almost identical, including the internal organs. That’s why pigs are often used in scientific testing. But there is a difference.”

“There is?”

“The human ribcage has twenty-four ribs, twelve per side. A pig has fourteen per side, twenty-eight ribs.” He pointed into the pot. “This ribcage has twenty-four.”

“Are you sure?” Brian peered inside to the pile of bones.

“If it’s one thing I know, it’s bones.” He seemed insulted. “Besides, I may have been homeschooled by my ma, but I can count to twenty-four.”

Brian didn’t doubt the man. “Did you tell Pfefferkorn?”

Pigott nodded. “Sure did.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t listen. That puzzled me. I thought that maybe he didn’t want to believe it could be that poor kidnapped boy, the Birtch kid. He’d rather the boy remained missing than be found dead, so he dismissed it.”

Brian looked into the pot of bones and decided to take a couple pictures. He looked at the Knackerman and asked the main question on his mind.

“Could it be Timmy Birtch?”

The old man paused. “Crossed my mind at first,” he finally said, working his gums. “The ribcage was small, which is why the chief thought about a pig. But it was still not small enough for a boy Timmy’s age. And the main reason it couldn’t have been the boy’s is because the bones were kind of narrow.”

Brian looked at him. “Which means?”

“They belong to a woman.”

Darcie was preparing dinner when Brian got home. He was disappointed that there was no new note from his secret correspondent. Maybe The Silhouette had gotten spooked by the authorities. Whatever the case, he missed his mystery messenger.

His wife called out that dinner would be ready soon and told him to wash up. That was something he urgently wanted to do, feeling the odors of the Knackerman’s workshop clinging to his sweaty body. He almost felt flies buzzing around him but knew it was just his imagination; still, he waved his hand over his head as if shooing away something.

After a quick shower, he checked his camera, skipping past most of the shots of Hester Pigott at work, stopping only to view the profile shots he took. The old man flashing a gummy grin, his round eyes wide. Brian noticed a spot of blood on the ball cap on the knacker’s head. It was visible in every profile shot. Damn, he thought. Maybe nobody would notice, especially if he ran the picture on an inside page in black and white.

When Brian got to the shots of the pot of bones, he skimmed them. He wondered if Noah knew about them. Maybe Pfefferkorn had never told him about the rib cage in Thrasher Pond. More mystery bones, Brian thought, things decaying and rotting in Smokey Hollow and nobody noticing.

Brian went into the kitchen while his wife was tossing a salad. He crept up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, startling her a bit. She giggled, and it sounded good. He felt the bump in her belly and kissed her neck.

“Good day?” she said.

“Every day I have with you is good,” he answered, bending his head to brush her cheek with his lips. He hugged her tight but mindful of what she carried inside her.

“The hard-nosed reporter getting all soft?”

He pressed his crotch against her backside. “Does that feel soft?”

She laughed and pushed him away. “What’s got you all riled up?”

He released her and shrugged. “I don’t know, just feeling good.”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Go sit down. Eat first, play later.”

He went to the table and sat. Darcie brought over a couple bowls of salad, placing one before him.

“I know why you’re in such a good mood.”

He looked up at her before reaching for the bottle of salad dressing. “Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because your paper looks so good this week.”

He grinned. “It did come out fantastic.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t show so much glee in such tragic stories.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help that they happened.”

“But you feel fortunate they did.”

He smiled. “I just never thought I’d have something like this happen to me here, of all places.” He was worried she might ruin the mood he was fostering, but he couldn’t help but gloat a little.

“Well, for what it’s worth, the paper looks really good.”

“Thanks, darling.”

She took his empty plate to the kitchen counter. “Though it would have been nice if the one garden tour picture you ran was in color. I’m sure Mrs. Picklesmeir will be extremely disappointed.”

He sighed. “I have no doubt about that.”

Darcie returned to the table, setting his plate before him. Brian stared at the porterhouse steak sitting in reddish juices next to a small pile of rice. He eyed the bone in the meat. His mind retreated to the images inside the Knackerman’s barn. He frowned.

“Something wrong?” Darcie asked, sitting down with her own steak.

Brian looked across the table as she began cutting her meat, not looking up at him.

“I think I might have just salad and rice tonight.”

She stopped sawing mid-stroke and looked at him. “What? Are you feeling okay?”

He didn’t know what to say. “I’m not that hungry,” he lied.

“But I made it medium rare, just the way you like.” She pouted. “Nice and juicy.”

“And it sure smells delicious,” he said, feeling his stomach rumble. “Just not tonight.” He pushed the plate to the side and pulled the salad bowl in front of him, avoiding the disappointed look in her eyes.

“Doesn’t sound like you,” she said, her tone flat.

“I might have some later.”

After dinner, he helped her clean up and then went to his office upstairs. Darcie wanted his company, and he told her he’d be down soon. He wanted to write a quick draft of the Knackerman story while the images were fresh. What he really wanted was to sneak outside for a cigarette, but that was out of the question.

He joined her later on the couch while they watched an old black-and-white movie on one of the retro channels. His portable scanner was on a table in the hallway by the front door, where he had left it when he got home. It was plugged in, recharging. He always kept it running, usually with the volume turned low. There was quite a difference in the amount of chatter on the scanner in this town than back in the city. He could not bother with it and probably not miss much, but after the past few days, he liked to keep it close.

Toward the end of the movie, Brian drifted off. Some chatter from the scanner perked him up, something about the Town Pound. He got out from under the arm Darcie had wrapped around him and walked to the hallway, picking up the scanner and bringing it into the living room, placing in on the coffee table and turning the volume up slightly.

Darcie shot him a look but said nothing.

When the credits rolled at the end of the movie, she got up and tugged at his arm.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s see if you’re still frisky before you doze off.”

He smiled and rose from the couch, following her toward the staircase.

The scanner squawked.

He looked back at it, habit telling him to grab it and bring it upstairs.

“Leave it,” she pleaded, her eyes dour.

He actually thought about it and started to move toward the stairs, his hand still in hers, when he heard something that stopped him in his tracks. He looked at the scanner, deciphering the words he was positive he heard. He looked at Darcie.

“They’re calling for the medical examiner.”

The disappointment etched on her face cracked his heart. Her hand released his and dropped to her side.

“Go,” she said, matter-of-factly.

It was ten o’clock at night as Brian headed down Main Street, lighting a cigarette on the way. He knew he shouldn’t have left, not with that look Darcie had in her eyes, but he also knew he had to go. It was who he was. Sometimes he wondered why they were together; he wasn’t the kind of person she should be with.

That’s why when the trunk was opened in their attic, they saw the contents with different eyes. He saw the tiny skeletons as a big headline and a set of questions: Who, what, when, where, and why. He saw a story that lead to more mysteries and more headlines. Darcie, on the other hand, saw the flesh wrapping those decaying bones. She saw the living, breathing babies that those tiny remains could have been, should have been, like the tiny body growing inside her own belly. The body he had put there. Not the school teacher she could have ended up with, but him, a news junkie chasing sirens and salivating at the thought of murder. Just what he was chasing tonight. A call for a medical examiner meant a death.

At the stop sign at the end of Main Street, where earlier that day he had turned right onto Twistback Road, he now turned left onto Fogg Lane. He drove past Cricket Lane and a short time later saw the emergency vehicles ahead on the right—a couple police cruisers, a State Police vehicle, an ambulance, and a couple of unmarked vehicles. He pulled over a safe distance away and got out of his car.

The Town Pound stood in a grassy clearing about fifty yards off the road, a rutted dirt drive leading up to it. The entry gate hung crooked, and apparently falling off its hinges.

As Brian approached, he saw that most of the people were gathered in front of the gate. The county attorney was there, along with a couple of the Smokey Hollow police officers, including Chief Treece and Night Shift Alvin. When he spotted Noah, he casually walked up to him. The chief greeted him.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, trying to peer through the gate. There were no street lights on this portion of the road. Over the wall of the pound, he could see the heads of Steem and Wickwire, along with someone who might have been one of the paramedics.

Noah’s face was solemn and, though it was hard to see in the dark of night, even a bit pale. “We found the body of a woman.”

“Ruth Snethen?” Brian asked, craning his neck to try and see better.

Noah shrugged. “No ID yet.”

Another car pulled up. The man who stepped out of it was the medical examiner who had been at his house the night the trunk was opened. He spoke briefly to the county attorney and then headed toward the pound. He pulled open the metal gate, which squeaked loudly in the quiet night, and stepped inside.

Brian moved to one side to look through the opening. The two police cruisers had their spotlights shining into the pound, but they couldn’t completely penetrate the dark shadows that filled the structure. The medical examiner’s feet crunched on old pine needles and dried leaves as he walked toward the back left corner where Steem and Wickwire stood.

Now Brian could see bare legs, pale beneath a skirt that fell just below the knees. The upper portion of the body was still bathed in darkness.

“How’d you find her?”Brian asked, realizing his voice was low, just above a whisper, almost afraid to break the silence of the night.

“He found her,” Noah answered, pointing toward one of the cruisers.

Brian saw the dark figure of a man in the back seat. It was too dark to make out a face, but he saw the outline of the man’s head and recognized the high wiry hair.

“Is that—?”

“Sherman Thurk,” Noah finished.

“How?”

“He says he was sleepwalking, woke up out here, and started to walk home. Needed to take a piss, so he stepped inside the Town Pound. That’s when he saw the body, lying in the corner. He went to one of the nearby houses, and the homeowner called us.”

Brian looked at the Somnambulist in the cruiser. “Is he under arrest?”

“Not exactly,” Noah said. “More like protective custody. At least until Capt. Steem can check out his story.”

“You don’t think…?”

The chief shrugged. He was probably thinking the same thing Brian was. Thurk had been spotted up on the ridge the night of the Mustard House fire, when Dr. Wymbs was murdered. And now he happened to find a body. And the glass eye had been found in his pocket. That made Brian wonder.