The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin (20 page)

Apparently, to Detective Hawley this request is as good as
an admission of guilt. He jumps up and grabs Devon. I can’t see what is happening now; their backs are to the camera. But I am pretty sure that I see something that looks a lot like the glint of fluorescent light on a pair of handcuffs.

I run up the stairwell. It is easier today, possibly because of the adrenaline, or possibly because I am getting used to running. Devon was right, you get pretty fit playing detective, searching for hidden gold, climbing Skull Mountain, et crapera. I sprint into the hallway and join the students from Prefontaine’s—or rather Faulk’s—room emerging into the hall in a slow trickle. Other classes are emptying too, a wave of bodies. Then the normally chaotic scene of halls filling with students and teachers suddenly goes orderly and still.

Hawley has Devon in handcuffs.

I look around the halls in a panicky sweep. Some people are saying things like “I knew it!” and “Burn in hell, Smiley!” Some are confused, asking each other, “What is going on?” I feel like I’m going to choke, like a cloud of poison gas had been released into the hallway.

A bunch of people whip out their cell phones and start taking pictures, wanting to capture Devon’s perp walk. Dwight Carlson, always out of step with everything, has a regular camera for some reason. His flash lights the hall, briefly throwing strange shadows on the gawking faces.

I try to catch Devon’s eye, but his head is down. Even if I had made eye contact, what could I do? How can we talk? His hands are bound tightly behind his back as he shuffles down the hall. I had been starting to put the pieces of the whole
thing together, biding my time to make my theory fully gel. I know I have some answers and that I can help, but then this happens: they get the wrong guy.

I push through the crowd. I am not a ghost. I am made of flesh and muscle, and I can be pretty strong when I need to be. I shove people out of the way, step in front of Detective Hawley, and stand my ground. He pauses like he hadn’t expected this. And then I do something that no one expects.

I scream.

It has been a while since I’ve used my vocal cords, but I think they still work pretty well. It sure seems that way. Everyone stops and stares at me, including Devon and Detective Hawley. I sign, just hoping the point will somehow get across, chopping my hands violently. A long, puzzled moment hangs in the hall.

Purple Phimmul steps up, emerging through the crowd. “I know what he’s saying,” she says. Heads turn away from me and toward her like satellite dishes simultaneously tuning in the same signal.

“That’s the sign for ‘stop,’ “ she announces to everyone, her normally bored eyes ablaze. She adds, “You guys. He’s saying, ‘Stop, you guys.’ “

I chop my hand a few more times, then nod to her. “And then,” she says, “I think, I think … that’s the sign for ‘wrong.’ Either that or ‘accident.’ It can mean both.” I nod. I did intend it to mean both. I make the sign for “innocent.” I remember being back at Camp Arrowhead learning this sign. They
instructed us to move our hands down as if we had nothing to hide. Though somebody does.

“Innocent?” Purple asks me. “Devon is innocent?”

I nod.

“He says Devon is innocent.”

Why is she helping me? Was I wrong about Miss Phimmul all along?

And then she signs to me, while speaking to the crowd, the detectives, Devon, and everybody. “How do you know?”

“Because,” I sign, “I know who really did it.”

I’ve had my suspicions for a while. But my theory was clinched the second I saw that flash. That flash went through my eyes, illuminating another flash: the one from Devon’s camera when he took his stupid picture of the dark. I saw someone. At the edge of the mine. Next to Pat. Emerging from the wall.

My hands start to sweat and my head starts to spin. My stomach feels like it is filled with a thousand lunches of fried ravioli. I can’t let the real killer go free, even though I really don’t want to be responsible for what will happen next. I spell out the name with shaking hands.

The buzz in the hallway
is so strong that I swear I can actually feel the vibration of the sound waves bouncing off my skin. There is just an intense energy of shock, confusion, surprise, and utter bewilderment.

Devon is shouting. “We can explain it all! Just let me out of these handcuffs so I can talk to Will.” Hawley doesn’t want to do this, but Principal Kroener gives the head nod that says, “Do it, buddy.” The detective slides a key into the lock and pops the handcuffs. Devon shakes his shoulders and rubs his wrists.

Then he immediately signs, “I trust you.” I nod. And then he finger-spells a question: “P-R-O-O-F?”

I nod again. I sort of do have proof. But how can I explain? It will take forever. Hawley paces and gestures wildly, muttering to himself. “Has to be the Smiley kid … Returned to the scene of the crime … He was picked on by that Pat! He lied about
being friends with him! … Messed with the surveillance tapes … Handkerchief.”

The thing is, I can understand Hawley’s line of thinking.

Devon and I were separated when the lights went out. And, yeah, Devon made us skip past his interview on the surveillance camera. And he kept several details from me during our “investigation.” And I did wonder: Am I being impartial in my investigation? Am I being honest with myself? Meanwhile, Hawley is up in my face, shouting at me.

I gesture to Hawley to back up. He gnashes his teeth, and I reach into my pocket and take out my notebook. He flinches, like I am pulling a weapon. I hand it over.

“It’s all in there!” Devon yells. “Will has the proof!”

Hawley flips the notebook open. I read his lips. Everyone is listening in rapt attention. He starts to read. I don’t catch all of it, but I am pretty sure he says, “Who the hell is Jimmy Porkrinds?” I grin sheepishly and gesture that he should turn the page. He reads again: “Scuzzy guy loves his fingers?” Everyone is looking at me, and I feel my face get hot. I gesture that he should turn the page again. “I’m not reading this part about Miss Prefontaine’s, uh, chest,” he says. Why did I spend so much time writing about boobs and Escapone? I gesture as if to say, “Can I have that back?” I take it and start flipping through.

It is embarrassing as hell to have all those things I had written be entered into the police record or whatever, but with Devon’s innocence on the line, I have no choice. Hawley looks over my shoulder, checking out my notes about everyone in school. His eyes light up when he reads, “Stay away from
Smiley Guy,” but I quickly flip the page again and find the exact page we are looking for.

And there in plain printed English is my map and my theory about who had killed Pat. I had crossed out suspects one by one. Finally, there is only one name left, the name I had signed to Purple in the hallway. Next to that I have a map of the secret passage, a list of Pat’s awful behavior to explain motive, and some ideas on ways to collect hard evidence: checking the dog hair on the coal against the perp’s pup and for footprints in the passage. We have enough.

I trace the route on the map with my finger. And my notes spell it all out for the detective: “She entered a secret passage a few yards from where he fell. Take the path to the right and you pop out of a door a little farther up the path. She got in on the other side, just before the lights went off, and crawled through. As soon as it went dark, she reached out and smashed him with the coal. Then she crawled around the other side. There are no fingerprints because she had her hands inside a coat with long sleeves. And the hair on the coal should match her dog.”

I sign the name again.

Devon knows who I mean. He nods. Purple knows too. And I don’t have to present all the evidence right then. Because Purple elbows the person standing next to her and translates this in a whisper. At least that’s what I assume happened, because the person next to Purple suddenly turns as white as a ghost. She literally starts shaking in her shoes and then tries to flee. Before she makes it more than a few steps down the hall,
however, she smacks right into Principal Kroener. The true culprit is apprehended.

Principal Kroener is holding her by the shirt. Suddenly the word “collared,” as in “The police collared the suspect,” makes sense. He just grabs her by the collar and doesn’t let her go. Detective Hawley is pacing and huffing like an angry lion at the zoo. He gives her a look that says, “You’re not going anywhere, Ms. Pennington.”

Leigha collapses; she looks so young, like a girl. A baby. I don’t see exactly what she is saying, but I don’t need to.

So I’m back
at my computer playing around online. Yeah, I solved a crime of national importance, got a bunch of Republicans cleared of assassinating a high school quarterback, got the homecoming queen arrested—-just normal-dude stuff. Just a regular long weekend in public school. Uh … to be honest, it has been pretty amazing. For the day or two after Leigha’s arrest, I was on the local news as the lead story.

I got top billing even before the twin scandals of sexy Miss Prefontaine and the drug-dealing Jimmy Porkrinds, which still have the town in a fury. My name was even briefly on CNN.com. They wrote, “Pennsylvania deaf high school student Will Halbin solves murder of son of casino scandal kingpin Pat Chambers; Chambers cleared in corruption scandal.” Yep, they spelled my name wrong. And, yep, Pat Chambers Sr. got off scot-free.

Maybe people cut him some slack because his son died. Maybe he just had a really good lawyer. I still think he might be a raging scuzzbag, but my feelings on the subject changed somewhat when he presented me with a large check for catching his son’s killer. All the money that was going to go to Pat’s party came in one fat personal check to one William Halpin. Pat Senior said I could do whatever I want with it. I have several things in mind.

Oh, and I even got mentioned on TheTruthIsNot.com! It was posted by someone other than me, I swear. They thought
I
was a CIA hit man, which was definitely sort of awesome.

I spend a while online reading my own press until I get tired of it. But I have one more page to visit. I click back to my old favorite: Leigha’s profile page. I’m a weak man. Even after everything, I want to see that picture one last time. I am not prepared for the flood of comments damning and defending Leigha. It is fascinating reading. Some are on her side, maintaining that Pat was an overcontrolling maniac who got what he deserved. The way he treated her was terrible, and she just snapped. It wasn’t premeditated or anything. Still, they are talking about life in prison.

Some people just wrote, “We’ll never 4get u!” which seems a little inane and obvious. Most of the messages are condemning or downright threatening, including statements like “i hope someone gets u baaaack.” Others contain a bunch of words I probably shouldn’t repeat (left by people like Travis Bickerstokes, who was understandably shaken up).

From several of the messages, it becomes clear that we had
correctly lip-read the question that made Leigha cry in the interrogation. She was (is?) pregnant with Pat’s baby, and he was trying to force her to—how do I put this?—get rid of it. He even got physical with her a few times over it, which explains her increased amount of makeup and puffy lips. This part makes me sick. Pat was worse than anyone thought.

There is one interesting heartfelt message, left by Purple Phimmul, of all people. She simply wrote, “So sad.” Those two words really do seem to sum it all up. Pat crossed the line in how he treated Leigha, and she way crossed the line in how she fought back. It is just so sad. I sit there, thinking deep thoughts. I check out Purple’s page, catching up on what Purp is up to.

She has some new pictures, including a few in her family’s oak-paneled study. There she is, doing her weird Purple face in front of a giant oil painting in the study. They are the type of family that has oils of all the old Phimmuls. One of them—with his giant mustache and super-old-timey hearing aid—looks sort of … familiar. In fact, he looks
extremely
familiar. Is it because I read about him on the mansion’s Web site? Or is it because he looks exactly like the picture sitting on my desk at that very moment? Purple’s caption says, “Me and my great-uncle Andy, LOL.”

I stare at the painting of Andy Phimmul and compare it to the photo of Dummy Halpin. Maybe it’s the double
m
that gives me a hint? Andy Phimmul, Dummy Halpin! I grab a pencil and scratch it out. A perfect anagram. Andy Phimmul is Dummy Halpin.

And suddenly it all makes sense; well, some of it does.

Here’s what I think happened. Just like I walked out of that fight in the cafetorium with nobody noticing, the original Will Halpin found that being unnoticed can sometimes be a blessing. It can offer a chance to escape. Unlike all the other miners who lived their lives in grime and felt trapped by the walls that fate surrounded them with, locked in with no way out, Dummy used what made him different to make him stronger. His deafness was his key to transformation, his key to a different future. I think he survived that 1901 cave-in by hiding in that secret passage. He knew everyone would assume he was dead, and this gave him a chance to make his life over again. I try to put myself in his shoes. Go back and spend another day clawing coal out of the earth to make some mining company rich or just go … where?

Where else? He obviously spent some time in town trying to remain sort of hidden—that could explain all the early “hauntings.” But the bright lights of the big city drew him like a moth to a flame. I don’t know if he hitchhiked, hopped a train, or walked and swam. But I bet he ended up in New York City. And I bet that he changed his name, met a girl there, and started a family. The Phimmuls.

It all makes sense. How did I miss it? Purple definitely looks like me—some ancient trace of Dummy’s lineage flows in both of our veins, like deep coal flowing under the Pennsylvania mountains. And she has deaf relatives whose condition was congenital just like mine, passed down to some lucky ones, skipping others.

A few weeks ago, I would no more have considered walking
to Purple Phimmul’s house than I would have planned a trip to the moon. But now it just seems easy. I have a new dog, a new friend; it is time I have a whole family too. I am going to shut the computer off, lace up my sneakers, and walk downtown toward Purple’s house—her elegant old family mansion.
My
elegant old family mansion. I will walk past the stump of the DEAF CHILD AREA sign. Are they going to put a new one up? Probably not. I don’t really feel like a child anymore. I plan to walk far off the safe and wide sidewalks in my neighborhood and plow right into the traffic of the town’s busiest road. I have places to go, people to see. Ace is already at my side, this crazy mutt who thinks I’m the greatest thing on two legs. And before long I’ll be the coolest thing on four wheels. That’s right: I’m taking driver’s ed next semester. Hiring an interpreter for CHS and the deaf school outta my own hefty pockets. You’re welcome.