Loonies (21 page)

“And there were never any suspects?” Brian was disappointed.

“Suspects? Hell no. I think we took a couple plaster casts of some footprints. Size nine and a half. Did you know that is the most common shoe size of the average male? Anybody could have committed those killings.”

“And nothing more came of the case?” Brian’s was dejected. “Even years later.”

“The killings stopped, just like that.”

Brian could imagine the old man snapping his fingers.

“And you closed the case on it.”

“Pretty much. With nothing to go on, we just packed up the notes and photos and filed them away. Probably sitting in a box on some shelf at the FBI headquarters’ warehouse.”

“How could a serial killing case just end like that?”

The old man cleared phlegm from his throat. “Listen, there were some who even doubted it was a serial killing. Some started to think it wasn’t one person committing the murders.”

“But the pillowcases?” That couldn’t be just a coincidence, Brian thought.

“Yeah, I know, that was the lynchpin. But a few at the Bureau started to wonder if some of them were just copycat killings. The first ones made big headlines, and sometimes people just get ideas.”

“Do you really think so?” It seemed unlikely to Brian.

“There were seven killings spread out over nearly ten years. That’s a long time to go between killings, even for a psychopath. And then they just stopped. A thrill killer doesn’t just stop.”

“Unless something happened to him.”

The man cleared his throat again. “True. He could have died, moved to another part of the country, or even overseas. Some people believe Jack the Ripper moved to America. There were killings at the Chicago’s World’s Fair around the same time that some think were committed by him. Or maybe The Pillowcase ended up in prison for a murder or crime unrelated to the others.”

Brian remembered Steem suggesting the same thing. “But what do you really think?”

He heard a sigh over the receiver. “I only saw the bodies of the last four victims by the time I got involved in the case. And one thing always struck me as odd.”

“And what’s that?” Brian asked.

“Those damn pillowcases were all the same type. Like they all came from the same set of linens.”

“Really,” Brian perked up. “Were you ever able to trace them?”

“No.” Brian could hear disappointment in the old man’s voice. “They were a pretty common brand. Nothing unique to them. But seeing those bodies with those damn pillowcases on their heads sure made me think the same person committed the murders.”

“And they were all strangulations, right?”

“That’s right. Initial investigators thought the victims were smothered in the pillowcases, but that wasn’t the case. In every slaying, the death was ruled strangulation.”

Brian was curious. “Then what was the point of the pillowcase? It’s not like the culprit was worried the victim would be able to identify him.”

“We had an FBI psychiatrist we consulted on the case, and we talked about that. He had a theory.”

“And what was it?”

“He thought maybe the killer couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of his victims. So he covered their faces with a pillowcase.”

Brian let this sink in. “Almost like he was ashamed of what he was doing. A killer with a conscience?”

“Never met one of those,” Kreck said. “Maybe it was more of a way to dehumanize the victim.”

“I guess that’s possible,” Brian said. “I want to thank you for your time.”

The old man laughed. “Time, that’s all I got left.” Brian remembered Rolfe Krimmer saying the same thing. Probably something most old people related to. “Why the interest in that old case, sonny? Writing a book or something?”

“No,” Brian said, though the idea intrigued him. He then told Mr. Kreck about the murders in Smokey Hollow.

“You don’t think this guy has started killing again do you?”

“I don’t know,” Brian said, and he didn’t.

“God, that was fifty some odd years ago. Where the hell’s he been hiding all these years?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Brian meant to say this to himself, but realized he had spoken it into the phone.

“Well, I hope not,” Kreck said. “I still picture to this day seeing the bodies with those pillowcases. Gives me the creeps thinking about it.”

“I know what you mean,” Brian said, and he did. He still had the image of the pillowcase on Ruth Snethen’s head. He couldn’t shake it. Especially since it had shown up in that dream the other night.

When Brian sat in his office, putting the stories together for that week’s edition, he felt grateful for what he had to work with, even though there were still too many missing pieces. But that was the newspaper business. Every article was incomplete. All you could do was go with what information you had at the moment. He had two murders to write about and the arrest of the town’s assistant fire chief for the Mustard House arson.

Of course, he had to make sure he put the Dump Fest preview on the front page. But the whole top of the edition was devoted to the grim news unfolding in town. He felt bad about putting the story on the Knackerman inside, but the photo of Hester Pigott at his work table was better hidden inside the newspaper. There was enough graphic material on the front.

Brian decided not to mention the pillowcases. He partially did this as a favor to Steem, hoping to smooth things over with the State Police captain. Steem was appreciative when Brian called to let him know. He wouldn’t use the term
happy
; he doubted Steem knew happy, but he could tell in the captain’s voice that he was relieved.

But part of it was out of necessity. Brian didn’t have enough information on the old serial killer to really bring that angle into the story of the recent murders. Keeping the information on the pillowcases quiet also gave him a slight advantage over the other reporters. None of the other media knew that detail, and he figured Steem would keep it that way.

Taking a break, Brian walked to Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate to see if Leo was there. When he walked in, the owner was near the back of the shop opening a crate of fruit with a crowbar. As he walked down the rows of fruit and vegetable displays, he saw the sales clerk behind the counter—the man with the glasses he had seen on the second-floor porch at the rooming house.

“Hello, Mr. Keays,” Leo said over the screeching sound made when he pried the nails loose from the crate cover. “Need some last minute information about the festival?” The man was smiling.

“No, I’m all set with that. Already have it laid out in tomorrow’s edition.”

“Front page?”

“Of course.”

The man clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to hear. You don’t know what this means to the town.” He set the crowbar down on a nearby counter.

“I guess I don’t,” Brian said, though he didn’t think Leo was really listening.

The man grabbed the crate and began walking down one of the aisles. Brian followed.

“So, to what do I owe this visit?” He set the crate down and began scooping the cranberries into a bin.

“I’m sure you are aware Ruth Snethen had been living in a house you’ve been trying to sell.”

“Of course. The State Police asked me a few questions about that.”

“Yes,” Brian said. “I heard. You told them you didn’t know she had been staying there.”

“That’s right. I represent a lot of houses in town, several of them vacant. Real estate’s been a bit slow in this economy. Hadn’t had a showing at that one in several weeks.”

“I gather that.”

“That’s why you got such a good deal on your house.” Wibbels flashed his smile.

“And I certainly appreciate all the help you provided.”

“You and Darcie like the house?”

“Very much so,” Brian said. “Of course, with the exception of the trunk in the attic.”

Wibbels grin evaporated. “Unfortunate. I should have done a more thorough check of the house before listing it.”

“Hindsight,” Brian said.

Wibbels stopped what he was doing and looked at Brian with his squinting eyes. “So what did you come see me for?”

At that moment, Brian wasn’t really sure. Everything Wibbels said corroborated what Steem and Noah had told him. Ruth Snethen broke into the vacant house and had been basically living there. Obviously the woman had feared for her life and didn’t want to stay at the retirement complex she had moved to after Brian bought her house. And as it turned out, she had good reason to be afraid.

“I guess I’m just double checking my facts,” Brian said. “Want to make sure I have everything accurate.”

Stepping outside, Brian looked up and down Main Street. It was quiet. He looked up at the marquee of the cinema. The “Y” and “C” were still there, but the “Y” was crooked and looked like it was barely clinging to the marquee, as if a strong breeze would knock it loose. The problem was, there was no breeze. It was another hot day, too many for this early in the summer. And there hadn’t been rain in a while to cool things off.

Brian saw Jonas Fitchen in the window of his taxidermist shop, setting up a stuffed fox. The display of glass eyes stared out the window.
Don’t watch me,
Brian thought. It made him think of Marshall lying in that tiny coffin in the graveyard beyond the cemetery. He wondered if Simon Runck was still at the county jail, or if anyone had posted bail for him by now. Since the murder of Ruth Snethen took place while Runck was in county lockup, it paid to reason he was not involved in the murders, at least not directly. But he had burned down the institute.

Time to pay Noah a visit. He walked to the police station. The chief was in his office and welcomed him. Even though Brian had talked to him first thing in the morning, he still asked about any new developments.

“Got something you will be interested in,” Noah said with a smile.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Brian whipped out his notebook.

“Looks like our former assistant fire chief has quite a history.”

Brian looked up. “As in?”

“Apparently, the fire department he worked at before he came to Smokey Hollow had a string of unsolved arsons.”

“Where was that?”

“Up north in Coos County.” Noah named some town Brian had never heard of. “Mostly abandoned houses and small buildings. No injuries. But no one was ever caught. At least a dozen cases of arson. They stopped when Runck left there.”

“So he’s a regular firebug.” Brian thought that odd since the firefighter had told him he was afraid of fire. He had said that he’d moved to Smokey Hollow because he thought it’d be a safe town with little activity. Brian looked at Noah. “Any unsolved arsons in this town since he’s been on the department.”

“Two,” Noah said, “not counting the dumpster blaze at the shoe factory the night Marshall was hung.”

“That was obviously a ploy to get Runck and the others out of the station. So what are the two?”

“The Mustard House fire, of course,” Noah said.

“And the other?”

The chief grinned. “That’s what I thought you’d be interested in.”

Brian leaned forward in his chair.

“The other arson was a fire at your house, back when Ruth Snethen lived there.”

Brian wanted to see if Simon Runck would grant him an interview. Noah had some connections at the jail and said he’d make a call and see if it was possible. In the meantime, Brian paid a visit to the fire station to see Chief Warren Shives with the news Noah had given him.

“There was no connection to Simon concerning those arsons up north,” Shives told him. “There were no suspicions. Otherwise we never would have hired him. It does explain a few things about the fire at the Wymbs Institute, though.”

“Such as?”

“I was out of town the night of the blaze,” Shives said. “Simon took the initial call and was in charge when the first crews got to the scene. In a small town like this, with any kind of a serious fire, a mutual aid call goes out to surrounding towns immediately.”

“And that didn’t happen here?”

Shives shook his head. “Simon delayed the call for mutual aid. And delayed calling me. By the time I got to the scene, Simon had already given the surround-and-drown order, giving up on any real attempt to save the structure.”

“Of course,” Brian said. “He wanted the place to burn to the ground.”

“That’s apparent now. Never would have suspected it.”

“Tell me about the fire at my house.” That’s what most concerned Brian.

“A small blaze. Started by the bulkhead in back of the house. We got there right away and quickly had it contained. Minimal damage.”

“And it was arson?”

Shives nodded. “That’s what the state fire marshal determined. They and the police investigated it. They came up empty.”

“And Runck was never suspected?”

Shives seemed offended. “No reason to. He was a great employee.”

“Hmm,” Brian thought, looking at his notes from what Noah told him. “How long ago was the fire at my house?”

Shives tipped his head back, closing his eyes for a second. “About seven years,” he said upon opening them.

Brian scribbled dates down, forming a timeline in his notes. “And how long had Runck been on the force before that.”

“Couple years.”

“And he came right here from the fire department up north?”

Shives hesitated. “No,” he said. “Not quite. It was about four years after he left that department.”

Brian looked up. “Where did he work between then?” He wondered if he worked at some other firehouse and committed other arsons.

Shives shrugged. “Not really sure.”

Brian lowered his notebook. This sounded odd. “What do you mean not sure?” He looked at his notes, flipping back a page. “There was a four-year gap from when he left his last firefighting job and started here, and you don’t know where he spent it?”

“That’s right,” Shives said, his voice stern.

Brian slumped back in his chair. “Was it on his resume?”

“I didn’t see his resume.”

Now Brian was dumbfounded. They had hired Runck as an assistant fire chief. That was a pretty important position. “Why not?”