Loonies (20 page)

Wanda smiled. “Sure thing.”

Once outside, Brian stood on the sidewalk, hands on his hips, thinking. Something Isaac had said resonated with him. Talk to someone really old.  Well, Brian just happened to know the oldest guy in town.

He drove to Cheshire Road, to the rooming house, parking in front. As he approached the two-story structure, he noticed a man leaning on the railing of the second-floor porch. The man had thin hair and glasses and was looking down. When Brian got close enough to the house, he recognized the man as the clerk he had seen at Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate. There was something else familiar about the man, the way he stood against the railing, but he couldn’t quite place it.

When Brian walked up the front steps, he saw Rolfe Krimmer sitting on the first floor porch, Boston Post Cane in hand. He was sitting next to the man in the wheelchair, playing dominoes.

“Howdy, Mr. Krimmer,” Brian said. His greeting was returned with a warm smile.

“You’re the newspaper boy,” Rolfe said, less a question than a statement.

“Yes, you remember.” Which was good. It meant the man’s mind was still sharp despite his age.

“Never forget a face,” he said. “Even though I’ve tried sometimes.” He looked at the man beside him and laughed, tapping his cane on the floorboards of the porch. “Where’s my manners though, this is Linley Droth.” He indicated the man in the wheelchair.

Droth lifted his hat off his head with his remaining hand, tipping it before placing it back on his head. “Greetings,” was all he said, with a bit of a lisp. His hair hung in stringy clumps to his shoulders.

“You can call him Doc,” Rolfe said. “He’s accustomed to that.”

“Nice to meet you,” Brian said, glad the man hadn’t extended his three-fingered hand. It would have felt awkward shaking it. Brian sat on an empty seat beside Rolfe.

“What brings you out our way on a nice sunny day like this?” Rolfe asked.

“I came to see you.”

The old man chuckled. “In need of more stories of a life less extraordinary?” He laughed again, as did Linley Droth.

“I thought you might be able to help me with something, using that accumulation of years of knowledge.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying I’m old,” Rolfe said to Linley, both men grinning. “Fire away,” he said to Brian.

“I’m trying to learn about an old serial killer, dating more than fifty years back. Killed some people throughout New England. The police dubbed him The Pillowcase.”

Rolfe gave him a blank stare, and Brian couldn’t tell if he was thinking or just plain stumped. The old man scratched the top of his white head. “Hmmm,” he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment. For a second, Brian thought the man had fallen asleep, but then his eyes popped open and he banged his cane on the floorboards. “Dagnabbit. I do recall something. Long time ago it was. I was a young man.” He paused, staring at Brian. “Don’t recall them using that term serial killer back then.”

“No, probably not,” Linley added. He was not nearly as old as Rolfe.

“But there were some strange killings, in some remote towns.”

“Strangulations?” Brian said, not meaning to pose it as a question.

Rolfe thought this over hard before nodding. “Yes, I suppose that’s what they were. I think. I don’t quite recall. I was working on the train line back then. Remember passengers gossiping about it from time to time. Had folks kind of shook up. Don’t believe they ever caught the fella.”

“No,” Brian said. “They never did.”

The old man nodded. “Not much else I remember. That was a long time ago. Killings happened back then you know. People today think those things didn’t happen in the good old days. But folks killed each other then, just like they do now. Just didn’t always get so much attention in the news. Your kind changed that.” He poked a finger toward Brian. “Killing’s big news nowadays.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Brian said, not even wanting to defend himself.

“Don’t know what more I can tell you,” Rolfe said, shrugging. “It was a long time ago.”

“Very long,” Linley Droth reiterated.

Brian stood up. “Well, thank you for your time.” He reached out to shake the old man’s hand.

“That’s all I got is time,” Rolfe said, laughing. “Just don’t know how much more of it.”

“Plenty, I’m sure,” Brian said.

He turned to the man in the wheelchair. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Droth.” He started to extend a hand, thought better of it, and pulled it back.

Droth tipped his white hat and smiled.

Brian walked to his car. Before he got in, he looked back and saw the small man still leaning on the second-floor railing. He got into his car and drove around the loop to where Whispering Lane connected to Cheshire. He looked down the road and saw the police chief’s car and another cruiser in front of a house. He also saw a State Police vehicle. Wanda hadn’t mentioned the State Police checking out the house with Chief Treece. Odd, he thought, wondering if she purposely kept that information from him.

He turned onto Whispering Lane. Day Shift Alvin stood sentry outside the front door to the small saltbox-style home. In the front yard was a For Sale sign with a picture of Leo Wibbels, with his smiling face, squinty eyes, and silver peach-fuzz hair.

Brian walked up the brick walkway.

“Hey, Alvin,” he said, greeting the patrol officer, who managed a grunt. “What’s going on?”

The officer shrugged. “Crime scene. Sort of.”

“So you can’t let me in?”

“That’d be right.”

“Can you let the chief know I’m here? Please.”

“Sure,” Alvin said, and almost cracked a smile. He disappeared inside for a brief moment and returned to the front stoop. “Said he’d be out in a bit.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Brian stood on the front lawn, waiting and trying to have patience. It was hot. The sun burned bright in a cloudless blue sky. He wondered what this house had to do with anything. But the State Police were here, so it had some importance. There was no crime scene tape, nor any other vehicles, so he doubted another murder had taken place. He took a couple pictures of the house just in case, with Day Shift Alvin in the shots, standing guard. The officer seemed to take pleasure in being part of the photo.

Brian looked around. No one was about, which seemed odd for a Saturday afternoon. What were people doing? Over on Cheshire, he could see the chimney sweep up on the roof of one of the houses, whistling while he worked. It reminded him he still hadn’t gotten the guy’s number to call about cleaning his own chimney.

Finally, Chief Treece stepped outside, greeting Brian with a warm smile.

“What’s happening here, Noah?” Brian asked, looking up at the quiet house.

“Broke a big case today,” he said, peaking Brian’s interest.

“Yeah? What?”

“Found out who’s been pilfering fruit from Wibbels’ market.” The chief grinned.

Brian was confused. “And that brought the State Police out?”

Noah chuckled. “Not exactly.” He looked back at the house. “Turns out this is where Ruth Snethen was hiding out.”

“Really?” Now Brian was interested.

The chief nodded. “The place has been on the market for a while. Owners had moved out several months ago. The place has been empty, except for some staging furniture. But one of the neighbors reporting seeing lights on some nights. Thought it was strange, decided to give us a call. Looks like she’s been squatting here for a while. Found some apple cores and orange peels in the kitchen sink. Figure she’s been the one stealing the fruit from Wibbels’ bins.”

“How’d you figure it was her?”

He shrugged. “We can’t be positive just yet. Wickwire’s dusting for prints. But we found some of your newspaper clippings about the trunk and the asylum fire.” Noah squinted into the bright sun. “And we found a scrap of paper with your name and the phone number to the newspaper office scribbled on it. Steem seems pretty confident she’s been here.”

Brian looked back at the house and then the For Sale sign. “When was the last time this place had a showing?”

“Don’t know. We’ll check with Leo on that.” He glanced around the street. “Nice neighborhood. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve had someone look at the home recently, even though the housing market’s a bit down.”

“Like everything else,” Brian added. He thought about the note and pulled it from his pocket, handing it to Noah. “Got another message this morning.”

Noah took it from him and opened it. Brian studied his face as the chief read the note. There was no obvious reaction. If anything, his expression, or lack thereof, showed puzzlement.

He looked up at Brian. “The Pillowcase?”

“Ever heard of him?”

The chief shook his head. “No.”

“A serial killer.”

Noah’s eyes grew wide. “Wow.” He looked back at the note, as if he’d missed something. “How come I haven’t heard of him?”

“Because he stopped killing over fifty years ago.”

“Arrested?”

Brian shook his head. “Never caught. The cases remain unsolved.”

Noah fanned the note, looking back at the house before them. “I wonder.…”

“If Steem knows about it?”

The chief nodded.

“He seemed pretty emphatic that I not write anything about the victims being found with pillowcases covering their heads.”

“But why would the guy return after all this time?”

Brian thought about the trunk in the attic and figured Noah was thinking the same thing. “Unfinished business?”

Noah took the note inside to talk to Captain Steem, and once again Brian waited patiently outside. It was only a few minutes before the chief returned with the State Police captain in tow, an unpleasant look on his face.

“When did this arrive?” Steem demanded, waving the note.

“Just today,” Brian answered. “Brought it right to you guys, just to show you how cooperative I’m being.” He smiled but got no reaction from the captain.

“I want to keep this as evidence.”

Brian nodded. He was reluctant to give it up, but he already knew everything he could from the note. “Sure thing.”

“And I’d like you to turn over all the other notes.”

“I can do that. It’s nice to see you taking an interest in them.”

“Of course, they’ve been contaminated as evidence.”

Brian shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Let me know directly if any others turn up,” he said, looking at Chief Treece as if to usurp whatever authority the local official had.

“I will,” Brian said, “but I plan on reading them first.”

Steem bit his lower lip and nodded. “I expect you would. Thanks for bringing this by.” He turned to go back into the house.

“Captain,” Brian called, and Steem stopped in his tracks and turned around. “What’s the significance of The Pillowcase? Do you know about him?”

“Of course,” he said, matter-of-factly. ”Most cops do. But that was an unsolved case from a very long time ago. I can’t imagine any bearing it would have today. The murders stopped half a century ago. That most likely means the killer died, or ended up in prison for some other crime. He’s either rotting in a cell somewhere or rotting in a grave.” He waved the note in his hand. “Whoever’s sending these is playing some kind of game with you. Maybe it means something, maybe it means nothing. I’ll look into that.”

He started to turn again.

“So you don’t think this Pillowcase character has come back?”

Steem’s body tensed. “No, I don’t. Killers don’t just stop. Where the hell would he have been all this time?” The captain walked into the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Noah looked at Brian and shrugged. There was nothing for the chief to say. Brian said goodbye and walked to his car. Before getting in, he stopped. He was thinking about what Captain Steem had said, about where The Pillowcase had been all these years.

Fifty years is a long time for a killer to lay low. Killers don’t retire do they? Steem didn’t think that was possible. As Brian opened his car door, he looked across town to the ridge and the burned-out hulk of the Mustard House looming over the town. It should be torn down, but it was still the scene of an unsolved crime.

The mystery of where the patients of the asylum were was also unsolved. Maybe there was only one patient in the Wymbs Institute. Maybe that’s why the doctor didn’t need a large staff. Maybe that one patient was held behind barred windows for decades, looking at the town below. Maybe that one patient was the only survivor of the fire that destroyed the mansion. And maybe that one patient was The Pillowcase, who got his freedom the night the place burned to the ground.

Brian was surprised how little information he could find about The Pillowcase. He contacted reporters from the towns in the four states where the murders had taken place. None of the staff librarians at any of the newspapers covering those towns could dig up much information. They were unknown murders committed for unknown reasons and were long forgotten. He even contacted the police departments in those towns. Everyone involved with investigating the cases was long retired, some no longer alive. Not one of the seven departments holding jurisdiction even kept an active file open on the cases. They remained unsolved.

The victims had nothing in common, all seemingly chosen at random. There was a farmer in Vermont, a mailman in Connecticut, a housewife in Massachusetts. Nothing connected the victims.

Brian did finally manage to get a hold of a retired FBI agent who had worked on the case, a man named Gordon Kreck in an assisted-living facility in Virginia. Brian called him from his office at
The Hollow News
. Fortunately the man still seemed to have most of his faculties.

“Of course I remember The Pillowcase murders,” Kreck said, wheezing. “Spent several years on that case.”

Brian’s pulse quickened. “Is there anything you can tell me about it?”

“Not much to say,” Kreck answered. “Never saw a case with so few clues in my whole damn career. It was just a dead end. There wasn’t any evidence, no witnesses, no motive, nothing. It was like the devil himself snuffed those victims.”