Sticks and Stones Page 9

  The date on Tommy Stork’s police and medical reports was May 30, 1974, two days before Strident picked him up and talked to his pa. She flipped through the police report and, just like with Harry, nothing too interesting stuck out for her. Then she looked over his medical history.

  Like Harry had after returning from East Asia, Tommy also saw a psychiatrist. The difference here, though, was that Tommy started seeing his at the age of twenty, and his report actually listed his diagnosis as schizophrenia. Tommy’s doctor tried him with a number of different medications throughout the years, including a regimen of chlorpromazine, the same medication Harry had been on. Tommy started at 500 milligrams and eventually moved up to 750.

  After being diagnosed, Tommy’s medical history showed him in and out of psych wards at a number of different hospitals around Alvin and other parts of Alabama. Apparently, his medical disorder was considerably worse than his brother’s.

  Tommy worked in construction from age nineteen until he was twenty-one. Then, all vocation history for him came to an end. The date was September 20, 1964, to be exact, the day Tommy Stork lost two fingers from his right hand while at work. Six months after that, his address changed, becoming the same as his pa’s. That’s where he’d lived ever since.

  Unlike Harry, Tommy wasn’t drafted into the war. He was labeled F-4 on account of his accident.

  Two years later, on September 20, 1966, Tommy wound up in a bar fight and he received that gash across his face Leah had seen in the photo. The police showed up and threw Tommy in the drunk tank for the night, but no charges were laid. The bar, some place called the Three Little Pigs, was ten miles out of Birmingham.

  One page of notes made by Strident was all that remained in the STORK folder. He’d taken them while interviewing Noah when he went to pick up Tommy. They all pertained to Noah’s wife, Sally-Anne, and her suicide, which happened back on February 5, 1973. Cause of death: an overdose of barbiturates. Maiden name: Delford. Strident noted that Leah’s pa had been the first responder at the scene. He also commented that, should they need it, a proper police report would be filed somewhere in their archives. The archives being the rows upon rows of binders and folders stuffed across the station’s back walls. Leah had no doubt the official report was in there somewhere, but that didn’t mean she’d ever find it. She decided if she needed anything further on Sally-Anne’s death, she’d just get it straight from Noah.

  Leah glanced at the clock. Half past three.

  Her knees popped as she got up from her desk and lifted the Xeroxed stack of files she’d made to read at home. “I’m takin’ off early,” she told Chris. “I figure the kids deserve a home-cooked supper for once. I can sift through all of these just as well there as I can here . . .” The stack was heavy and she nearly dropped it while struggling with the door.

  “Need some help with that?” Chris asked.

  “No, I’m good.” She got the door open and readjusted her grip on the bundle. “Don’t forget about my juvie records.”

  “I won’t,” Chris said. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Have I ever failed you?”

  She pretended to think on this. “If you did, I no longer remember it. Listen, though. I’m probably goin’ to be a little late tomorrow. I plan on interviewing Noah Stork, Harry Stork’s pa, on my way in. You should see me before Dan shows up, though. But just in case . . .” She didn’t know how to end that sentence.

  “Just in case . . . what?”

  “I don’t know. Just . . . let him sit in my chair until I get here, I s’pose.”

  “I can do that. Have fun with your interview. Hope it goes as well as Bradshaw’s did this morning.” Chris smiled, the fluorescent lights gleaming in his dark eyes. She had told Chris the details of her bizarre encounter with Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw upon returning to the station this morning. She was certain interviewing Noah Stork would be much more normal.

  “I’m mostly worried about finding the place,” she said. “He lives in Blue Jay Maples. Some road I never heard of called Woodpecker Wind.” She pronounced it as rhyming with “sinned.”

  “Woodpecker Wind? What kind of a name is that?” Chris went to take a sip of his coffee, realized his mug was empty, and set it back on his desk. Leah was just about out the door when he told her to wait. Still awkwardly holding the stack while balancing the door on her ass, she backed up.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I bet it’s not wind. It’s probably wind.” The way he said it made it rhyme with “kind.” Then he said, “All those bird roads down there twist and turn like crazy. Wind makes more sense.”

  Leah wanted to explain that she’d be reading the sign, not listening to someone yell it at her, but instead, just replied, “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Leah awoke Friday morning refreshed. She’d set her alarm for nine-fifteen and woke up ten minutes before that. As the sun streamed into her bedroom, slicing a path through the gap in her curtains, Leah yawned and stretched. Then everything about this new case came back to her. All her doubt and worry descended like flies on a dead carcass. The hole that had been forming in her stomach throughout the last few days ripped open again. One single idea filled her head: Could my pa have shot the wrong man?

  She wished she was still asleep.

  When she had arrived home last night, she had felt exhausted, despite how little work she’d actually accomplished. Feeling like she should trudge on, after fixing the kids some dinner, she hit the paperwork again, forcing her way through everything, outlining from what led to the police obtaining a warrant to search Harry Stork’s house up to and including the details from the night Stork was shot.

  He hadn’t been home when police raided his house on June 24, 1974, and found, among other things, a gun forensics would later confirm as the murder weapon likely used on all nine victims: a Smith & Wesson Model 10, a revolver chambered for .38 Special caliber rounds, a gun also known as an S&W Victory.

  After his house was tossed, Stork disappeared for near on exactly a month before Leah’s pa and his small team surrounded him in that shotgun shack. Nothing in the reports mentioned any letters coming into the station, but Leah had already expected that.

  She set the files in her “done pile” and decided she’d done enough work for the day. Needing to wind down, she sat in the living room and watched television with her daughter, Caroline.

  And now it was morning again, another hopeful day. So, she pushed all the doom and gloom out of the way, clearing her head enough for her to run through the day’s plan. She had two interviews to do: one with Harry Stork’s pa, Noah, the other with his twin brother, Tommy. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but it was a good-to-go after yesterday’s strange experience with Thomas Kennedy Bradshaw. She still hadn’t decided what to make of Bradshaw’s strange behavior. Her gut told her he was guilty, but guilty of what, exactly? She was only sure of one thing.

  Her gut was rarely wrong.

  * * *

  By the time Leah found Noah Stork’s house, she was quite certain Chris had the pronunciation of the street right. This was only her second time driving through Blue Jay Maples, but it brought back her last experience quite vividly. Every single road zigged and zagged along ridiculous paths through a tangled forest. Mostly oaks and birches, but also the odd maple and gum. Without the maples, the name would have been odd. The woods were thick and grew right up to the edge of the deep culverts dug out on either side of the roads. The ditches looked at least six feet wide and God only knew how deep. Leah drove carefully. The last thing she needed was her Bonneville sticking ass-up in one of them.

  Every road was named after a bird. She got lost twice, both times ending up on a particularly nasty stretch of gravel with the delightful name of Mockingbird Lane. She also drove down Cardinal Road, Chickadee Road, Finch Drive, and Hummingbird Highstreet. There were more, but by the time she managed to find Woodpecker Wind, she’d successfully blocked them from her mind.


  This had to be the worst part of Alvin to drive through, yet the area was being actively developed. Most of the roads were fairly new, and she passed many houses either recently built or in the process of being constructed. Noah Stork lived practically in the middle of it all, his area still rustic. In fact, she drove a mile before finding his house without a neighbor in sight.

  Stork lived in a baby blue clapboard-style home with white trim. The house and yard were well-kept. Every window but the living room picture window had white shutters, and an old-fashioned porch wrapped around half the house. The shuttered windows had flower boxes, overflowing with red and yellow tulips. A short, paved driveway ran alongside the home, separating it from a separate garage painted the same baby blue as the house. A white Hyundai Excel was parked in the driveway. The lawn in the small front yard looked like a putting green.

  After exiting her vehicle, Leah traversed the driveway and went up the porch step and rang the bell.

  The door was answered by an older gentleman with gray hair and green eyes. Leah knew from his report that Noah was sixty-five, but he barely looked a year past fifty. She immediately saw an acute resemblance between him and the Xeroxed photos of Harry and Tommy she found in the files yesterday. The eyeglasses with thin gold frames Noah wore were the only real thing separating him from looking exactly like his sons. He had on a blue collared shirt tucked into eggshell-white Dockers and stood slightly taller than Leah, probably around five ten.

  “Noah Stork?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Detective Teal from the Alvin Police Department, I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may, regarding—”

  “The new Stickman murder?” he asked, without letting her finish. His smooth voice articulated every consonant of his words, making him sound almost like Chris, but with a confidence even Chris usually lacked. To Leah, he sounded like a radio disc jockey.

  “Good guess,” she replied.

  “I read the papers, Detective. I keep up. I am also fully aware of what transpired all those years back when my son was accused of being the Stickman. I assume now, with this newest murder, his record has been exonerated?”

  “Well, that’s still remainin’ to be worked out. Obviously, it’s still pretty early in the investigation, but I’m hopin’ you might be able to shed some details on a few things. Maybe save me some time.”

  “Why don’t you come inside?”

  This was a surprise. Very rarely did anyone invite Leah in when she showed up unannounced to ask questions. She liked doing it this way. She felt it gave her a strategic advantage, like yesterday, when she saw what her surprise visit had done to Bradshaw. It obviously stirred up some emotions—she just had yet to interpret exactly what those emotions were.

  “That would be nice,” she said to Stork. “Thank you.”

  She followed him inside, stopping at the threshold to remove her boots.

  “Just leave them on,” Stork said. “Tomorrow’s cleaning day.”

  He led Leah into an expansive living room that had a nice view of the front porch. A burgundy davenport accented in cherry sat beneath the window. A stone fireplace stood opposite, with two wing chairs on either side that matched the davenport. Along the third wall, cherry shelves had been built that ran the entire length, floor-to-ceiling. They were near on full of books, the shiny spines of which reflected brightly in the well-lit room.

  Leah had never seen so many books, and she took a minute to study the spines, noticing that the shelves’ edges were labeled by subject. Books with authors like Kant, Descartes, Nietzsche, and Freud were in the philosophy section. Titles such as The American Revolution, Reign of Terror: Stalin and the USSR, and World War II Frontlines sat in history, and spines reading Shakespeare’s Complete Works, Chaucer, and Divina Commedia had been relegated to fiction. This last one gave Leah pause.

  “Do you read Italian?” she asked Stork.

  “I do,” Noah said slowly, following her gaze, “but that version’s actually in English. I don’t know why they didn’t translate the title, probably just to be pretentious.” He laughed. “But the rest of the book’s an English translation of Dante’s poem.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many books outside of a library or a store before now,” Leah said, and actually thought he might even have more than Hemingway’s, a bookstore downtown.

  “Reading is good,” Stork said. “Keeps the mind active and supple. It’s always good to keep things working. I believe the mind is much akin to an automobile in that respect—if you don’t keep it tuned up, it slowly wears down.”

  Leah considered this and nodded. She was surprised at Stork’s ability to set her at ease. She had shown up wanting the advantage of surprising a man whose son was taken from him by her very department, expecting to find him bitter and resentful, but found herself surprised by how calm and good-natured he seemed.

  Stork gestured to one of the wing chairs. “Sit. Please. Would you like something to drink? Perhaps some sweet tea? I have some already made.”

  “Sure,” Leah said, “that would be nice.” She took a seat, her attention remaining on all those books.

  Stork returned from the kitchen, a cup of sweet tea in his right hand. He gave it to Leah. “Thank you,” she said. “Aren’t you having some?”

  “I am,” he said. “Mine’s still in the kitchen.”

  He went back and got himself a cup, carried it back in, took a seat on the davenport across from Leah. He placed his cup of tea on the cherry coffee table in front of him.

  Leah’s eyes remained on all those books, but Noah Stork brought her back to the subject at hand.

  “So,” he said. “I am sure you will get around to telling me sooner or later, but, may I ask, what details do you reckon I might be able to help with?” His right arm went up along the davenport’s top.

  Shifting in her chair, Leah met his eyes. “As you might guess, there is a lot of paperwork to go through regarding the murders from 1973 and 1974. I’ve only just begun to go through everything.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about this newest murder?” Stork said. “That might allow me to best comply with whatever it is you need.”

  “Well, honestly, there isn’t a lot to tell you don’t already know. The victim was found pretty near in exactly the same state as all the victims from fifteen years ago. Whoever killed Abilene Williams wanted us to believe he was the old Stickman.”

  “But you reckon he’s not. I read your ‘official statement,’ ” Stork said, “I felt it came off rather vague.”

  The hole in Leah’s stomach tore open again. She really didn’t want to discuss her bogus statement. She had hoped nobody would see through it, but obviously she hadn’t done a great job. “Mr. Stork,” Leah answered. “As much as I don’t want to offend you or make you angry, I’ve looked at the evidence surrounding the old case, and everything I’ve seen supports the fact that your son committed those crimes. So, yes, I believe this new murder is the work of someone else.”

  “Hmm,” he said, with a slow nod. “You also indicated in your release that evidence turned up linking this death to a potential suspect. May I ask what that evidence entailed?” He took his arm down from where he’d laid it, leaned forward, and lifted his cup of tea from the table. With a big drink, he set the cup back down and returned his arm to where it was along the davenport’s top.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” she came back with, probably a mite too quick.

  “I see. Well then, why don’t you tell me what we can talk about?”

  Pulling out her pad, Leah flipped to her notes.

  “I’d like to first discuss Harry’s tour of duty in Vietnam. What, exactly, led to his honorable discharge?”

  Stork stared right into her eyes, never once flinching. “According to the army, he couldn’t perform his duties due to psychological impairment.”

  “Yes, I garnered that much from the report, but what exactly was his ‘psychological im
pairment’?”

  “This is where the army and I don’t see eye to eye,” he said, and Leah could hear an edge to his voice. “According to them, Harry wasn’t right even before they dropped him in East Asia, but that’s a lie. Harry was as bright a bulb as any one of them soldiers. What messed him up was what they made him do. He came back with severe PTSD—post-traumatic—”

  Leah cut him off. “I’m familiar with PTSD,” she said. “Your other son, Tommy, he also has psychological issues, does he not?”

  Leaning back on the davenport, Stork let out a little laugh. “One could say that. He’s been in and out of hospitals a lot. Suffers from bad schizophrenia. Looking back, he probably had it from birth, but he wasn’t diagnosed until his late teens.”

  “Is he doing all right, now?”

  Stork’s attention drifted to the wall of books as he answered almost offhandedly. “Oh, he’s up and down. Goes through stretches of being okay, but sooner or later his illness once again gets the best of him.”

  “I noticed for some time, he and Harry were on the same medication. Do you think there’s any chance Harry might’ve also suffered from schizophrenia? I understand doctors believe it can be genetic.”

  Stork’s eyes locked again with Leah’s. “I just said, Detective, the army brought on Harry’s ‘illness,’ and it has nothing to do with schizophrenia. That’s just the doctors looking for an easy scapegoat. The army broke Harry. Before then, there was nothing wrong with him. Even after he came back with PTSD, he still managed to start his own company and work. Not like Tommy . . .” He drifted off.

  “Yes, from the reports, I reckon Harry’s company did quite well.”

  “Very well, Detective. I am rather proud of him for it. Did you see the photo on the mantel?” He nodded toward it. “That was taken just after he became incorporated. I helped with the logo design.”

  Leah stood and took the picture from where it sat and studied it. Harry Stork and his father stood in front of Stork’s truck shaking hands and smiling. At the time the photo was taken, Noah wasn’t nearly so gray, and the resemblance between the two of them was uncanny, although the father stood two inches or so taller than his son. Harry’s truck was a red pickup with a white camper on the back. A logo was written across the side of the camper. Although the two of them were in front of it, Leah could make out enough to fill in the blanks.