Sticks and Stones Page 7

  “Yep, let me just clear it with my lieutenant. This mystery has lasted ten years. Taking some time away from it ain’t goin’ to make much of a difference. Besides, like I said, I can go through files and stuff while I’m down there.”

  Leah sat on the edge of her desk and took a gulp of coffee. “Another thing Ethan wants me to do is find out who the talkers are in these same institutions and interrogate them. Find out if anyone’s been yakkin’ about the Stickman lately, or giving out his MO and his signature.” She paused before adding, worriedly, “I’m not a great interrogator.”

  Dan ignored her last statement. “Another good idea,” he said. “There’s always squealers. Serial killers like to talk once they’re in the can. Has this guy done any time?”

  “Not that I know of. I still need to go through the files. There are a lot of files.”

  There was a pause before Dan spoke again. “I think going around to these places isn’t a bad idea at all. I can come with.”

  “Yeah, but what’ll make anyone want to talk to us?”

  “Oh, don’t worry ’bout that. They’ll talk to us. Hang on a sec.” Leah heard Dan speaking to someone. She couldn’t make out the words, they were muffled. Dan’s hand must’ve been over the receiver. A few minutes later, he came back on the line. “I’ll be down day after tomorrow. That sound okay?”

  “That sounds great! Oh wait, there’s one more possibility I haven’t mentioned,” Leah said. She finished her coffee and set the mug down on the table beside the machine.

  “What’s that?” Dan asked.

  “The letters we received—the signature that wasn’t leaked—there were some people who knew about it: a few select cops from my pa’s task force that he handpicked on account of him absolutely trusting them. But you never know, could be that he was wrong and we’re looking at the work of a dirty cop.”

  Dan sighed. “Now that’s a tougher one to act on. A lot of those guys will be either in the upper ranks by now or retired. And if your pa handpicked ’em, you gotta think they’re pretty much stand-up guys. But—”

  “But you never know,” she said, finishing his thought. “So what do we do about it?”

  “We approach that one carefully. Very carefully. That is, if we approach it at all.”

  * * *

  Hopping on to her computer, Leah decided to get the press release she had to write out of the way. She already pretty much knew how it would read. She just needed to write it. The fact that Dan so easily approved of her “slanting the facts” helped give her the confidence to get it done. That and the constant ringing of phones motivated her like nothing else.

  PRESS RELEASE

  Alvin Police Department

  Update on the Recent “Apparent” Stickman Murder

  Wednesday, June 14, 1989 (FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE)

  This release is in regards to the recent victim that was discovered on the bank of Leeland Swamp yesterday, Tuesday, June 13, 1989.

  The victim was thirty-six-year-old Abilene Williams. The condition of the victim’s body and the way it was found was congruent with the Stickman serial killings that happened from February 10, 1973, running until July 22, 1974, when the then Stickman, Harry Stork, was shot dead by an officer from this department.

  This new incident is currently under investigation. Alvin Police want to assure the public that its safety is the number-one priority at this time and precautions are under way to assure this “new Stickman” doesn’t kill again. Confidence is high that evidence found at last night’s crime scene will lead to a quick arrest.

  The Alvin Police have discerned that, other than in a superficial way, this new incident is in no way related to the incidents of 1973/74. The public is safe from Harry Stork and the police are doing everything possible to bring this new suspect to justice.

  Anyone with information regarding this incident is urged to call the Alvin Police. Information leading to an arrest could be eligible for a cash reward.

  She sat back and read it over. It was good. And really, at this point in time, there might actually not be any falsities to it. Leah simply didn’t know. And that made her somehow feel a little better about it as she printed it out before faxing it to the local papers, radio stations, and television news shows.

  * * *

  Officer Chris Jackson returned to the station with Abe and Dewey in tow. They managed to convince him to stop at Igloo’s Ice Cream Parlor on their way back so they both had ice cream cones. In this heat, they were melting pretty fast, so Abe and Dewey were licking them up as quick as they could. Leah took one look at them and made sure they knew she wasn’t impressed.

  “What can I say?” said Chris, “I’m a pushover.” He picked up the press release that was still sitting beside the fax machine. “Evidence from last night?”

  “Don’t start. If we’re lucky it will put an end to the phone calls. Did you find the kite?” Leah asked. “You were gone awfully long.”

  “Yeah, it was up in a Douglas fir on Blackberry Trail just as you thought. Nobody was hurt and it’s far enough back that I think it’s best to just leave it there. It takes a while to look in trees. Try it sometime.”

  “So, Dewey,” Leah asked him while ice cream dripped from his hand, “what have you learned?”

  “That two-by-fours and industrial plastic make amazing kites, ma’am.” His face was covered in ice cream. He looked ridiculous.

  Leah sighed. Then to Abe, she said: “Will you go over and grab that boy a paper towel before he gets ice cream everywhere?” The paper towels were on the same table as the coffeemaker. Abe grabbed three pieces off the roll and an extra piece for himself. He handed the three to Dewey, who used them to wipe the ice cream from his face.

  “Okay, Dewey,” Leah said, “now try again. What did you learn?”

  Dewey looked at Abe. Abe just rolled his eyes.

  Turning back to Leah, Dewey said, “That I should take the tensile strength of the string into account next time?”

  With yet another sigh, Leah said, “One more time.”

  “Um, I don’t really know what you’re lookin’ for, ma’am. Is it that kites shouldn’t be homemade in Alvin?”

  “Oh thank goodness, you got it.”

  “Okay, but I still feel the experiment was a huge success. I—”

  “Dewey?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Shut up while you’re ahead.”

  “Um, okay ...”

  It took all she had not to laugh out loud.

  CHAPTER 7

  Leah was back at the station for another day, feeling antsy because Dan was arriving tomorrow. He always kept her on her toes. She never knew what the man was going to say or do next. Sometimes, the most inappropriate things came out of his mouth (usually at the most inappropriate of times). Strangely, she found herself loving it.

  After work last night she had stopped by Tuesday’s crime scene and checked it out. For a good hour, maybe hour and a half, she walked around the markers indicating where the body was found and looked for anything Ethan and Chris might have missed. She even walked the trail Chris had reported searching and, other than the wheelbarrow track, found nothing new. By the time she left, she felt confident that everything that needed to be documented had been documented. One thing positive she could say about her two workmates, when they did a job properly, they covered their bases. Her anger about not being called in for the search had diminished substantially.

  After pouring herself the day’s essential first cup of coffee, she took a seat at her desk. The clock said ten o’clock. Ethan’s office door was closed, of course. “He in yet?” she asked Chris.

  Chris sat at his desk doing the crossword from today’s paper. “Not yet,” he said. He had barely said anything to her but a quiet “good morning” since she came in. “Oh, this is for you.” He handed her a two-page fax.

  “What’s this?”

  “The report you asked me to run on Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw,” Chris said, actually loo
king up from the paper. “Better known as ‘the Buzzman’.” He laughed and went back to his puzzle.

  “That was quick.” She had asked him to get it for her shortly after leaving Ethan’s office yesterday.

  Chris shrugged.

  Leah skimmed the report. Ethan was right, Bradshaw’s name did make him sound like a serial killer. But he was never caught killing. He certainly wanted to be, though. Three separate times, he came forward to Alvin Police stating that he was the Stickman and, all three times, police decided he wasn’t. The final time, they had him taken to a psychiatric hospital for a review.

  However, on October 10, 1974, Bradshaw finally got his wish when he was sentenced to five years at the Federal Correctional Institution at Talladega and wound up staying for every single day. The last Stickman murder happened on June 16, 1974—near on four months earlier—so, theoretically, Bradshaw could’ve been responsible.

  He now lived in the suburbs of Satsuma, where he’d lived since leaving Talladega.

  Sipping her coffee, Leah read on.

  Evidently, Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw walked into a Shell station one evening wearing a balaclava, a black-and-red checkerboard shirt with a white T-shirt underneath, a pair of army boots, and a gas-powered chain saw. Pulling the saw’s cord, it roared to life as he held it above his head, yelling, “I am the Buzzman!”

  Luckily, nobody got hurt. Bradshaw got away with eighty-seven dollars and change from the register and three bags of assorted candy. In fact, police reports made at the scene established the candy was what got him caught. The clerk hit the store’s silent alarm while Bradshaw rummaged through Tootsie Rolls and gummies, giving law enforcements time to show up and cover the store’s exits. Bradshaw waltzed out eating a Mars bar and was immediately taken into custody.

  The history of the Buzzman was short and sweet. Even still, given his history of claiming to be the Stickman, Leah decided to drive out to Satsuma and see what the man had to say.

  * * *

  Bradshaw lived in a fairly run-down clapboard house. The wooden siding had once been white, but the paint had long ago begun to peel. One of the shutters framing the bedroom windows had pulled from its hinge and hung at an angle. A short, gravel driveway ran down the left side of the house and a beat-up red Chevy pickup was currently parked there. Leah left her Bonneville on the side of the road out front.

  Like the other houses she had passed driving in, Bradshaw’s home was nestled in a wooded area, with a small front yard of sparse lawn and dusty patches of dirt. Douglas fir and oaks loomed from the back and sides of the house, nearly suffocating it. The boughs of the fir trees, heavily laden with Spanish moss, hung over the driveway and pushed against the house’s side.

  Leah walked across the yard, and, not seeing a doorbell, knocked hard on the wooden front door. From inside came a loud bang and then heavy footsteps. Slowly, the door opened, revealing a man who stood probably six feet tall with unkempt dishwater blond hair. He probably weighed around 240 pounds, Leah guessed, and wore a stained, gray T-shirt and baggy, black track pants. His socks had holes in both big toes.

  “H-hello,” the man stammered, his gaze dropping to the floor, “w-what can I help you with?” Leah wondered if he had a speech impediment.

  She flashed her badge. “Hello. I’m Detective Leah Teal from the Alvin Police. I am looking for a Mr. Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw. Would that be you?”

  “I—I am him . . . he.”

  Leah put away her badge, pulled out her pad, and started taking notes. Bradshaw’s eyes went back to the floor and he rocked slightly from foot to foot.

  “Is something wrong?” Leah asked.

  “No, I j-just don’t like getting company.”

  “May I ask why?” Leah said. And just to see the response, added, “You’re not going to invite me in?”

  Bradshaw’s eyes flashed upward, momentarily locking with hers. “Wh-why? Wh-What does this have to do with?”

  “The Stickman.”

  Again those eyes darted to Leah. This time, for a brief second, she saw an emotion but couldn’t place it. Panic? Anger? Fear? His eyes once again went to his carpet, and the rocking came back.

  “What do you want to talk to me about him for?” he asked, almost mumbling.

  “Well,” she said, “there was a time you told authorities that you were, in fact, the Stickman.” She consulted her notes. “I believe you did this three different times during 1973 and 1974, the last being after police issued a statewide manhunt for Harry Stork. You came into my station and told Joe Fowler personally that Stork was innocent and you’d been responsible for all the Stickman killings.” She paused as Bradshaw continued going from foot to foot, even more pronounced now. “You told Fowler, ‘You’re after the wrong guy,’ according to the report I read this morning. Got me thinking, with this most recent murder you may have heard about, that maybe there was something to this, after all.”

  Once again, Bradshaw’s eyes came up, this time staying there. “What recent murder?”

  “Two nights ago a victim was found in Alvin. The crime scene looked remarkably similar to the old Stickman murders.”

  Bradshaw stepped sideways, his gaze again dropping. “I—I know nothin’ ’bout that. I’m—I’m not the St-Stickman.”

  “Oh right,” she said, turning quickly to catch his gaze, dipping her head to see his face. His expression looked like a wild animal caught in front of a car on a dark road. “I forgot. You’re just the Buzzman.”

  Their eyes gripped each other again for a moment, then he looked away. Leah nodded, unable to hide her smirk. “The Buzzman,” she said quietly.

  “Look, lady, I’m—I’m not anyone now. I’m just Thom-Thomas Bradshaw. I paid for what I—what I did. I did my time.”

  Leah couldn’t help but smile grimly. “Glad you dropped the Kennedy,” she said. “Makes you sound less like a serial killer. Of course, that might be on purpose.” She was intentionally trying to push buttons. She still didn’t know how to assess his reaction to her showing up.

  “No—no, ma’am, I’m not a s-serial killer.”

  “Detective, if you don’t mind.”

  “What?”

  “Call me detective.”

  “No, Detective, I’m—I’m not the Stickman.”

  “But you are the Buzzman.”

  “That—that was five minutes of my life. I was very con-confused.”

  “Would you like me to leave, Mr. Bradshaw?”

  He looked up, pleadingly, and quieted his voice. “Yes, please?” It came out almost like a question.

  “Do I make you feel unsettled?”

  “Yes, ma—Detective.”

  “If you’re not guilty, then why?”

  “Be-because, ever since get-getting out of Talladega, I don’t like cops—I mean, the police. And I-I’m not guilty. I promise.”

  She hesitated. “ ‘Cops’ is fine. It’s not derogatory, and I think most serial killers would promise that. Why should I believe you?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Bradshaw asked.

  “Where were you Tuesday night? What were you doing?”

  “I was here.”

  “Can anyone corroborate that?”

  “What?”

  “Can somebody confirm you’re telling the truth? Did a friend come over? Did you call someone?” By his actions, Leah suspected the man didn’t have a lot of friends and probably few telephone conversations.

  “No, but I was here. I’m not—I’m not lying.”

  “Again, I think a serial killer would say that.”

  His eyes met hers, searchingly. “I’m not a serial killer. I’m not. I’m—I’m just a man.”

  This conversation hadn’t brought a lot of notes to Leah’s pad, but she did have a strange feeling about Bradshaw. During the ride here, she had almost convinced herself the man wasn’t a suspect, but now she wondered if that came from the fact that her pa had ruled him out. Now, based on his reaction to her, she second-thought that. Bradshaw was definite
ly staying on her suspect list. “Tell you what, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said. “I’m goin’ to leave now, but I want you to be available for questioning. If you suddenly disappear, you will be found. Do I make myself clear?”

  A look of relief washed over him. “Yes, ma’am—I mean, yes, Detective.”

  Leah turned and the door closed quickly behind her. As she walked to her car, she could almost feel the woods take the opportunity to tighten even closer around Bradshaw’s house.

  CHAPTER 8

  That afternoon, once she got over her experience with Bradshaw, Leah decided it was time to seriously dig into the Stickman files. It wasn’t going to be easy; there were lots of them. She figured her best bet was to make a duplicate of everything and take one set home so she could work here and there without having to lug them back and forth. What she didn’t count on was how long it would take to copy every piece of paper in those files. Near on two hours went by as she stood by the Xerox machine, putting page after page onto the top, closing it up, and pressing the green button.

  When she was done, she poured herself a new coffee and returned to her desk.

  Her feelings for this case were different from most. Even though Ethan accused her of always getting too emotionally involved in her work, this one felt extremely close to her. Probably because it had been so important to her pa. She wanted to make sure she missed nothing. Wanted desperately to be certain that, once everything was solved, she got it right.

  So she read slowly, taking everything in. It would take a long time to get through all the information. She looked at the two identical stacks of folders on her desk and figured she’d be putting in a lot of overtime at home. She wouldn’t get paid for it—not in money, at least—but it was an investment in how she would feel when the whole thing was finally over.