Sticks and Stones Page 20

  Leah glanced to Carmichael, who had his briefcase on the table in front of him, his index finger tapping the leather top. “Good news, son,” he said. “We’re goin’ to give you a nicer cell. I hear it’s got a view of the valley and everythin’.”

  Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, Leah wondered what valley he meant.

  “Now,” Carmichael said, “tell us who told you about the holdback?”

  Leah realized Carmichael didn’t even know what the holdback was. He hadn’t asked, so she hadn’t said. She was thankful that he never did actually inquire, as it would’ve put her in an uncomfortable spot.

  Duck just stared at him. “That’s my deal?” His cuffs rattled as he awkwardly stood and gave out a loud whistle. “Guard! Take me out! I’m through in here!”

  Carmichael rose halfway from his chair, making a downward motion with his palm. “Now, now ... Let’s just stay seated a while longer and see if we can come up with some other arrangement if you don’t like that one.”

  “I’m not goin’ to like any one now. You think I’m stupid? You start with ‘we’ll give you a better cell’? What am I, fuckin’ two years old? I’m out of here! Guard!”

  “Wait!” Leah said, much too loud. Her voice ricocheted off the cement walls.

  Both Carmichael and Duck’s eyes went to her. “The best deal you’ll get today,” she said, “is the better cell and two years off your sentence. That’s the God’s honest truth. It’s the maximum the DA here told me he’s willing to go. Take it or leave it. I think it’s a good deal, considering you just pulled the three-year thing out of thin air.”

  Duck absorbed this, nodding slowly. “A better cell and two years off my sentence?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Leah said. She didn’t look at Carmichael. She could feel how pissed he was. But she knew she’d done the right thing. Carmichael’s plan wasn’t worth squat.

  “Okay, deal,” Duck said. “I need it in writin’, though, before you get anythin’ from me.”

  With an evil glare to Leah that she quickly looked away from, Carmichael snapped open his briefcase and leafed through a series of pages. He pulled some out that were stapled together and laid them in front of Duck. “Here,” Carmichael said. “Read page one and then I’ll turn to the next for you.” His words were clipped. Leah knew she was in for it all the way back to his office. She felt his silent anger filling the room while Duck read.

  Finally Duck said, “Next page,” and Carmichael flipped the top one over for him. There were only two pages. “Looks fine to me,” Duck said when he’d finished reading. “Get the guard to take off my bracelets so I can sign it.”

  Carmichael looked at Leah. “Fetch the guard,” he commanded.

  Leah almost told him to go “fetch” the guard himself, but then decided she wouldn’t mind a small respite from sitting beside him.

  Returning with the guard leading the way, Leah stood while Duck’s cuffs were removed from one wrist so he could sign the agreement. He did, and then Carmichael signed his name before pulling out some sort of official DA stamp and stamping the last page of the document as the guard cuffed Duck’s hands again.

  “Okay, roadkill,” Carmichael said, “now it’s your turn at bat—it’s the duck’s time to start quackin’. Tell us what we paid for.”

  “God,” Leah said to Carmichael. “You have absolutely no bedside manners, you know that?”

  Carmichael gave her a look like he wanted to decimate her where she sat.

  “She’s right, you know,” Duck calmly said. “You’re a prick. Everyone thinks so.” Leah nodded in agreement.

  A slight smile came to Duck’s face. “Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head to Leah. “I’m only tellin’ her. I don’t want you in this room anymore, you fat bastard.”

  A giggle escaped Leah’s lips. She couldn’t help it. Carmichael was far from fat, but he also wasn’t Charles Atlas.

  Carmichael’s face went red. “You will tell us both right now,” he said. “We have a deal!”

  “The deal’s just that I’ll tell someone,” Duck said, serene and quiet. “And really, she’s the one who needs the information. Not you. So, scoot!”

  Carmichael turned to Leah for assistance. “Just go,” she said. “Make him happy. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Without a word, Carmichael stood and stomped from the room, letting the metal door slam shut loudly behind him. “That was kind of funny,” Leah whispered to Duck. “So, what do you have?” She pulled out her pad and a pen.

  “To be honest,” Duck said, “I don’t know how useful this is actually goin’ to be. Hopefully, you can make somethin’ out of it.”

  “Just tell me how you found out ’bout the letters,” Leah said.

  “Well,” Duck said, his voice dropping low, “I have problems. You know . . . mental issues? I get paranoid delusional flashes sometimes. Not fun.”

  Leah nodded. “I bet.”

  “So sometimes I wind up in the psych ward. Unless it happens while I’m here. Then they just leave me to work it out in my own irrational head. But what I’m goin’ to tell you happened before I got here. Back in seventy-three. I was at Grell Memorial in Montgomery. Stayed four or five weeks. It was a bad one.” Pausing, he collected his thoughts. “Anyway, when you’re in a place like that, you don’t use your real name, just in case it gets out on the street that you’re messed up. Can ruin your cred, you know?”

  Leah nodded and made some notes.

  “So,” Duck continued, “I was Billy Boston to all the other patients. Now, some guy goin’ by the name Jimmy McNimmy came in a week after me. He was still there when I left. It was this ‘Jimmy McNimmy’ that told me he was the Stickman—the guy responsible for all them murders on the TV. Of course, I thought he was full of shit. I mean, I’m in the freakin’ nuthouse, right?”

  He laughed. Leah gave him a sad smile. “When in seventy-three was this?” she asked.

  Duck replied immediately. “I was admitted May sixth, 1973. I know the date ’cause it was my ma’s birthday. I felt bad ’bout that. Happy birthday, Ma! Your son’s loony tunes.” He cocked a grin. “Jimmy McNimmy came in, I believe, six or seven days later. Sometime around May thirteenth.”

  Leah wrote this down. “Thank you,” she said. “Please, go on.”

  “Well, he tells me everythin’ about the Stickman, but it’s all stuff I already know. He goes on ’bout how he ties up their wrists and their ankles and how he shoots ’em in the back of the head then drives them somewhere, leaving their bodies staked with stickman drawings for the cops to find. And I’m like, ‘That’s great, man. I can read the freakin’ papers, too.’ Only then”—Duck’s voice grew even quieter and he gave the one-way window a quick glance—“then he drops the bombshell. ‘Here’s something not in the papers,’ he says, and he tells me, ‘For everybody I’ve killed, I’ve sent the Alvin Police a note telling ’em when the body will turn up and where they’ll find it’.”

  He paused, letting his words hang there so Leah could feel their weight.

  “So,” he continued, “as you probably guessed, I don’t believe him, so I call him on it. I’m like, ‘Then why the fuck ain’t you been caught?’ and the bastard taps the side of his head and says it’s because he’s smart. ‘Smarter than the cops. Smarter than anyone.’ ’Course, all I’m thinkin’ is, Dude, you’re in the freakin’ cracker barrel right now. You’re a freakin’ nut job. But then you and that asshole come in and I drop it on you guys, and y’all get that five-pointer-in-the-headlights look. So now I’m sittin’ here wondering how nuts that guy actually was. You really did get letters, didn’t you?”

  Leah avoided answering the question. She just kept her pen going as she finished copying down everything Duck had said. When she finished, she asked him, “Any idea if Jimmy McNimmy was his real name?”

  Duck shook his head. “No. But I highly doubt it. It’s a dumb name.”

  Leah agreed. “Is there anythin’ else you can give me
?”

  “Nope, I’m ’fraid that’s pretty much it. Hope it was worth the deal you threw me.”

  “I think we did all right. One last thing, would you be willin’ to look at a photo lineup to see if you recognize Jimmy McNimmy?”

  Duck thought this over. “Guess not. Oh, and I guess I should say thanks for stepping up to bat with fuck face.”

  It took a minute for Leah to figure out that ‘fuck face’ was Gary Carmichael. “If I hadn’t,” she said, “you’d have walked out and I wouldn’t have my leads.”

  “Maybe I would’ve, maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe I was just rattlin’ Carmichael’s little chain—and from what I’ve heard, it’s real little . . .”

  “No, you were serious. I could see it in your eyes.”

  Duck hesitated. “What are you, some kind of psychoanalyst?”

  “Nope, I’m not. Just a parent.”

  * * *

  Before leaving the correctional institution, Leah asked if she could use a phone and their fax machine. She was admitted to a small office and given the fax number. The office had a computer much like the one Leah used in Alvin, a fax machine, and a telephone. She was told to dial nine before calling an outside line.

  She found a phone book in one of the drawers and looked up the number for Grell Memorial Psychiatric Hospital in Montgomery.

  A lady answered her call, and Leah explained she was a police officer and wanted information. They must’ve had caller ID showing that Leah was calling from the correctional facility, because the lady believed her and asked what she could help with. Leah asked for the names of all patients admitted in May of 1973 and whether, in particular, there was someone named Jimmy McNimmy.

  “I’m just goin’ to put you on hold for a minute or two while I run the search, that all right?” the lady asked.

  Leah said it was.

  When she came back on the line, she apologized for taking so long. “We had no patients in that month by the name of Jimmy McNimmy,” she said.

  Leah sighed. “I figured so. It’s likely a fictitious name. Could you print a list of every patient admitted between May sixth and May twenty-seventh of that year?” That would broaden Duck’s estimate of when McNimmy came in by two weeks, giving wiggle room for error. If Duck wasn’t thinking straight at the time, he could easily be mistaken.

  The phone number for the fax was labeled right on the machine. Leah read the number to the lady. “Might take a bit of time to run the report,” she replied. “Probably at least fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? Our systems aren’t that fast.”

  “That’s fine,” Leah said, thanked her for all her help, and hung up. Then her eyes settled on the fax machine.

  While she waited, she wondered how useful this information was likely to be. For certain it would generate more suspects, which was always a good thing, she figured.

  Only ten minutes or so went by before the fax machine sprang to life and a page of names crawled out the front. Ripping off the paper, Leah read them over. Thirty-nine in total. Far more than she’d expected. They were sorted by surname and most also had their last known address, phone number, and Social Security number.

  Well, she had leads. Only, it was about thirty-five more than she wanted. She needed to think of a way to narrow this list down. She decided to set Chris to the task of tracking everyone down. Some would be harder to find than others. Ten or so had no information other than just their names. Those would be tricky, even for Chris.

  CHAPTER 24

  Me and Dewey flew down Hunter Road on our bikes all the way to Mr. Harrison’s Five-and-Dime. I had hold of the VHS tape, so I struggled a bit with my trajectory, riding one-handed. Both of us were close to bursting we wanted so much to tell him the news about Tyler Bonnet. When we came to his storefront, we skidded to a stop, my bike actually sliding sideways, leaving a black mark on the sidewalk beneath my back tire.

  After leaning our bikes up against the store’s glass front, we went into the store. The bell on top of the door rang as we passed beneath it.

  We marched straight up to the counter, but Mr. Harrison was busy talking to an old man about some card game. The man was black with graying hair, and he wore big, round glasses perched halfway down his nose. A cane was in his left hand, and a deck of cards was on the counter. I guessed they were for whatever game him and Mr. Harrison were talking about.

  I felt my entire life go by as we stood waiting for them to finish their conversation. Me and Dewey didn’t have much patience when it came to things like this. In fact, this was worse than usual on account of we felt like real detectives. We’d actually uncovered an honest-to-goodness crime that nobody else knew about. Nervously, I tossed the VHS tape back and forth between my hands.

  The two men went on about “bowers” and other things I didn’t understand. Dewey gave me a nudge. “Just say, ‘S’cuse me, but I have somethin’ important to tell Mr. Harrison,’ ” he whispered. “Then we can just tell him.”

  “That’d be rude,” I whispered back.

  Dewey looked as though he had to pee. “How long can these two talk about some dumb card game for?” he whined, his voice still quiet.

  “Apparently pretty long.” I’ll admit, I was just as antsy as Dewey.

  Finally, their discussion wrapped up and Mr. Harrison rang in the cards. “That’ll be two-fifty,” he said. The man handed him two singles and two quarters. “Need a bag?” Mr. Harrison asked.

  “I’ll just put ’em in my pocket,” the old man said, reminding me of Tyler Bonnet putting everything in his pocket, only he never paid first.

  “Sure nice talkin’ to you, Phil.” Mr. Harrison waved as the old man left, limping as he walked by us using his cane.

  “Well, well, well,” Mr. Harrison said, bringing his palms down on his counter. “If it isn’t my forensic psychologist and his friend.”

  Both of us started talking at once, saying the same thing. “We have something—” Then we stopped, realizing this was only going to work if one of us spoke.

  “Let me tell him, Dewey,” I said.

  “It’s because of me we know ’bout it,” Dewey said. “You only wanted to watch your dumb ending.”

  “My ending wasn’t dumb. Ask Mr. Harrison.”

  “I don’t care ’bout your ending, Abe,” Dewey said. “I care ’bout tellin’ Mr. Harrison what we found out!”

  “Hey, hey, boys,” Mr. Harrison said, holding up a hand. “How ’bout one of you tells me what in the Sam Hill has you so worked up?”

  I nodded to Dewey, letting him say it. He was right—if I hadn’t listened to him, we’d never have known about Tyler Bonnet.

  Dewey took a deep breath. “Sir, I’m ’fraid to say a great injustice is occurring in your fine establishment.”

  I rolled my eyes. As usual, he was being weird. I was fixin’ to jump in when Mr. Harrison spoke.

  “That right?” He leaned forward with his forearms on the glass countertop. “And what injustice is that?”

  Dewey glanced at me. “We watched the VHS tape you gave Abe out of your camera.”

  “You watched the whole tape? I only meant for you to watch Abe’s robbery.” He tossed me a smile and a wink, on account of it being just a pretend robbery.

  “Yes, sir,” Dewey said. “We watched the whole thing. It only recorded when somethin’ was happenin’, otherwise it jerked ahead to the next interestin’ bit.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Harrison said. “It’s motion-activated. Otherwise, I’d have to change the tape every two hours.”

  Dewey nodded. “I only told you because it makes it hard to know how many days we actually watched, but throughout the tape, Tyler Bonnet came in and stole four different things from your store. Stuffed ’em all in the kangaroo pocket of his jacket and just walked out without you knowin’ a thing.”

  Mr. Harrison rubbed his nose, thinking. “Tyler Bonnet,” he said, finally. “Now, he’s the boy with the black hair always looks in need of a comb? Freckly cheeks? Usually comes in wi
th a friend or two?”

  “Yeah!” we both said at once.

  “What did he take?”

  It was my turn to talk, so I did before Dewey had a chance to answer. “The first time he stole a hacky sack,” I said. “Then he took a yo-yo—and it looked like a good one, too. Next, he stole some kind of fancy notebook from your school supplies aisle—”

  “You mean my stationery aisle,” Mr. Harrison corrected.

  “Yeah, I guess. The last thing we saw him nab was a bottle of Coke from the back cooler.”

  Mr. Harrison tapped his fingers on his chin, staring at something out in the street. I turned to look through the glass front of the store, but didn’t see anything interesting. A second or two later, his attention drifted back to us. “You’re sure about this, boys?”

  I nodded, holding out the tape. “See so yourself.” He took it from me.

  “The picture isn’t great,” Dewey said, “and it’s only black and white, but you can definitely see him stealin’ everything.”

  Mr. Harrison sighed. “I’ll check it out myself, then I’m not sure what I’ll do. Probably best to talk to his parents.”

  “You could talk to Abe’s ma,” Dewey said. “She’s a detective. She could arrest him for thievery.”

  Mr. Harrison chuckled. “I don’t think I need to go that far. He is just a kid. Some kids just do dumb things sometimes.”

  I was in shock. And slightly offended. “This isn’t just ‘some dumb thing,’ ” I said. “He’s stealing from you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Harrison said. “I didn’t mean to dismiss it like that. You’re right, it’s important to deal with, but I need to deal with it properly. Some kids go through phases. I have to consider all the ramifications of any action I take on account of how it could affect whether or not Mr. Bonnet continues stealing the rest of his life or just grows out of doin’ it.”

  I didn’t rightly understand what he was saying. I had no idea what ramifications meant, but it didn’t sound like Tyler Bonnet was going to get in too much trouble. I was about to argue the point when Mr. Harrison interrupted.