House Haunted by Al Sarrantonio Page B

its face. A sign, partly hidden by his mother's smiling face, read: “Couldn't put . . . again.”
    Gary removed the picture, tossed it aside. He pulled up the four gummed corners and discarded them.
    He turned the page. Another snapshot showed a similar scene, with him and his mother, but a different man. He didn't recall this one, either. The man had a broad-brimmed hat tilted back on his head. Gary was about seven, now. He was mounted on a saddled horse, his mother's hand holding the reins. The man's arm was around her waist, pulling her close.
    Gary lifted the picture out and slid the gummed corners off. He went on until he reached a page that held a huge picture, eight by ten, set in sideways to fit. It was of his second-grade class at the Lexington School. It was the only class picture his mother had ever bought. He sat in the row farthest from the camera, in the end seat. He could barely be seen, his crew-cut blond head partially hidden behind a girl with a red thick kinky mop that stood out from her head. Only half his face was visible, showing a lopsided smile. He looked as though he were half asleep. The teacher had even said that to him once or twice, that he acted as though he were half-asleep. His mother had said that, too.
    â€œBitch,” he said, yanking the picture from the page and removing the comers with his fingernails.
    He gathered all the photographs together with the school shot and put them under the couch, brushing the gummed corners after them.
    He pulled the three newspapers on the coffee table up close, going through them page by page.
    It had taken them a week, but they had finally found Harold. The Daily News had a story about him on page four. There was a photograph, blurred, of the sheet-covered body on the kitchen floor, and another of his chess museum. In the kitchen shot, a cop in plain clothes stood next to the body; two uniformed cops were pulling the sheet up around Harold's head.
    The caption said the plain-clothes detective's name was Falconi.
    Falconi was in the story, too, claiming he had no real leads but that he was certain they'd solve the crime. “We'll get the S.O.B .,” he was quoted as saying.
    Feeling vaguely disappointed at the Daily News coverage, Gary clipped the article and used a glue stick to paste it into the photo album.
    He searched through the Times , which had the same story with fewer, fancier, words. There was a clearer picture of Falconi—he was short and looked stout but his tie was straight.
    The Post had the headline he had hoped for. “GAMES KILLER,” it read. He pasted the story, a lurid copy of the other versions, underneath the headline, carelessly ripping one section at the bottom. He didn't get angry at himself. It was the headline, in two-inch tall type, he wanted to stand out.
    He glanced at the school clock in the hallway and did get mad at himself. It was seven-fifteen. He had nearly let himself run late.
    He added his clothes to the pile in the hallway and showered. Then he shaved, pausing to wipe the steam from the mirror carefully before each stroke.
    He dressed slowly, in blue oxford-cloth shirt, gray crewneck sweater, tan chinos. His cordovan loafers were shined, his hair brushed neatly to the side. He cleaned his glasses and set them carefully on his face.
    He took his gym bag from the closet, packed an extra pair of chinos, belt, navy blue turtleneck. By the time he was finished it was nearly seven forty-five. He went back to the mirror in the bathroom to make sure he looked the way he wanted, then left the apartment.
    Out on the street he thought about Meg. She once told him that he dressed the way she remembered boys dressing in high school. She liked that. She said that when she was in high school everything was nice. That was before hair got long and everybody turned into slobs. She told him that he reminded her of high school, of the junior prom. She'd lived in the suburbs, then. She'd gone to the prom with a