the patience of wet paint waiting to dry, Womack snapped, “Don’t be cryptic; who wasn’t what, Leland?”
“Smiling,” the boy said. “The girls weren’t smiling.”
“I don’t understand.”
Before he could explain, the boy’s father crossed the floor to his son, placed a protective hand to Leland’s shoulder and said, “The boy is colored, Sidney, the girl is white. According to Lee, he was making off-color jokes. (Did Sidney detect a smirk, a faint twist of the lip suggesting McMaster was pleased at his turn of words?) The conclusion is as obvious as that. I’m sure Jimmy Cromwell would agree, if you were to ask,” McMaster said, invoking the name of the County Prosecutor.
Womack could think of nothing more to say. Less than one hour after arriving, he was gone, the uneasy bubble in his stomach heating to a boil.
On the evening of the disappearance, before they had a body, he had spoken with the boys individually, in their own homes. They each had given a similar account of the afternoon and their subsequent whereabouts after parting company with the girls at the diner. The story was simple, short on detail and indistinct, as he’d expect from a group of carefree teenagers on summer vacation, careless about the time and what they did with it. They’d left the Big Top Diner together, they’d left in pairs; they arrived home by six, or maybe it was closer to seven; Dojcsak left with Leland, Chislett left with Pardoe; Dojcsak paid, Leland was broke; Mcteer left on his own, or he left with the girls. Or perhaps it was the other way round?
Call me if you think of anything else, Womack said that first night, doubtful the boys would. With the discovery of the corpse, however, an odd thing occurred. On his second visit, the accounts seemed to crystallize, become embellished with a richness of detail and exactitude lacking three days before, as if the boys had been seeking deliberately to account for their time, whereabouts, and activity. Under pressure from Sidney, Ed Dojcsak had confessed, “Lee may have known her. We all did, kind of. But he didn’t hurt her.”
“How do you know?” Womack wondered.
“He told me so,” Dojcsak replied confidently.
“Did Lee pay for his meal that afternoon, Ed, or did someone pay for him?”
“Not sure. Is it important?”
“It may be,” Womack acknowledged.
Dojcsak furrowed his brow, as if thinking. “Nah, he was broke. Shelly may have paid for him, though.”
Womack retrieved a second “Baby Ruth”, removed the wrapper and attacked this bar more slowly than he had the first, taking his time to savor the chocolate, the nougat, the nuts and the distinct flavor created by the combination of all three. Still facing the window, he placed his boots on the sill and tried to settle his bulk comfortably in the unforgiving wood chair. The cicadas had gone silent. In the courtyard, the shadows were long, stretched out over the grass by the shifting aspect of a setting sun. Soon they would disappear altogether. A slight breeze kicked up, made its way through his open window and agitated the papers on his desk. Womack placed his palm flat down on the Hayden file.
“Be still, Shelly Hayden,” he said, “be still.”
Since its founding in eighteen thirty-three there had never been a homicide in Church Falls. The town was an insignificant stop on the road between Albany and Lake George, without even its own highway interchange. With a population of only four thousand, half of who are children themselves, Sidney thought before leaving for the day, how many child killers can there possibly be?
CHAPTER FIVE
SOMETIMES, JENNY DOJCSAK spoke aloud as if she was speaking to a therapist. This wasn’t so unusual except for the fact that recently Jenny had begun to answer herself back, dispensing precious nuggets of advice as if she was a qualified Ph.D.
On the Monday morning after the murder of Missy Bitson, the conversation went like this.
Jenny the
“Smiling,” the boy said. “The girls weren’t smiling.”
“I don’t understand.”
Before he could explain, the boy’s father crossed the floor to his son, placed a protective hand to Leland’s shoulder and said, “The boy is colored, Sidney, the girl is white. According to Lee, he was making off-color jokes. (Did Sidney detect a smirk, a faint twist of the lip suggesting McMaster was pleased at his turn of words?) The conclusion is as obvious as that. I’m sure Jimmy Cromwell would agree, if you were to ask,” McMaster said, invoking the name of the County Prosecutor.
Womack could think of nothing more to say. Less than one hour after arriving, he was gone, the uneasy bubble in his stomach heating to a boil.
On the evening of the disappearance, before they had a body, he had spoken with the boys individually, in their own homes. They each had given a similar account of the afternoon and their subsequent whereabouts after parting company with the girls at the diner. The story was simple, short on detail and indistinct, as he’d expect from a group of carefree teenagers on summer vacation, careless about the time and what they did with it. They’d left the Big Top Diner together, they’d left in pairs; they arrived home by six, or maybe it was closer to seven; Dojcsak left with Leland, Chislett left with Pardoe; Dojcsak paid, Leland was broke; Mcteer left on his own, or he left with the girls. Or perhaps it was the other way round?
Call me if you think of anything else, Womack said that first night, doubtful the boys would. With the discovery of the corpse, however, an odd thing occurred. On his second visit, the accounts seemed to crystallize, become embellished with a richness of detail and exactitude lacking three days before, as if the boys had been seeking deliberately to account for their time, whereabouts, and activity. Under pressure from Sidney, Ed Dojcsak had confessed, “Lee may have known her. We all did, kind of. But he didn’t hurt her.”
“How do you know?” Womack wondered.
“He told me so,” Dojcsak replied confidently.
“Did Lee pay for his meal that afternoon, Ed, or did someone pay for him?”
“Not sure. Is it important?”
“It may be,” Womack acknowledged.
Dojcsak furrowed his brow, as if thinking. “Nah, he was broke. Shelly may have paid for him, though.”
Womack retrieved a second “Baby Ruth”, removed the wrapper and attacked this bar more slowly than he had the first, taking his time to savor the chocolate, the nougat, the nuts and the distinct flavor created by the combination of all three. Still facing the window, he placed his boots on the sill and tried to settle his bulk comfortably in the unforgiving wood chair. The cicadas had gone silent. In the courtyard, the shadows were long, stretched out over the grass by the shifting aspect of a setting sun. Soon they would disappear altogether. A slight breeze kicked up, made its way through his open window and agitated the papers on his desk. Womack placed his palm flat down on the Hayden file.
“Be still, Shelly Hayden,” he said, “be still.”
Since its founding in eighteen thirty-three there had never been a homicide in Church Falls. The town was an insignificant stop on the road between Albany and Lake George, without even its own highway interchange. With a population of only four thousand, half of who are children themselves, Sidney thought before leaving for the day, how many child killers can there possibly be?
CHAPTER FIVE
SOMETIMES, JENNY DOJCSAK spoke aloud as if she was speaking to a therapist. This wasn’t so unusual except for the fact that recently Jenny had begun to answer herself back, dispensing precious nuggets of advice as if she was a qualified Ph.D.
On the Monday morning after the murder of Missy Bitson, the conversation went like this.
Jenny the
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