first week of June, so it got dark late, and it was damn near dark now. It didn’t look like any runaway shit or some kid who’d gone off to a friend’s house and forgot to check in. No family crap that anybody’d heard, and a girl who was a class behind the kid had seen him talking to some guy in the parking lot at Schaefer’s Drugs, hippie looking dude, early twenties or thereabouts. Schaefer’s had a snack counter, kids from the school hanging out there sometimes. Girl said she seen the kid and the guy walking across the lot, like they were headed somewhere. Couple minutes later, she looks back, the kid was gone, the guy was gone, black Camero that had been there was gone. You can show ‘em all the stranger danger movies you want, but these slick kiddy fuckers, they got their ways.
This wasn’t one of those wait-a-couple-days, see-if-the-kid-turns-up deals. Had the wrong feel for that, plus the kid’s mom knew the mayor. So everybody was out with a copy of the kid’s school photo from the year before. It was Wednesday, so the kid was in his Cub Scout uniform the mom said. DeGatano was a detective, but it was all hands on deck, so he was marching a grid in Lincoln Park with a mess of patrol guys. Still lots of undergrowth back then, before they’d put in the pool and the ball diamonds and the tennis courts, so back in ’71 the park was just thirty acres or so of grass, scrub woods and brush. They’d get some hobos down along the east end sometimes, where the park butted up against the Burlington tracks. Nobody there when DeGatano worked his way down the right of way, he was just thinking it was time to get the flashlight out when he saw the silhouette.
The kid still had the Cub Scout shirt on, still had the kerchief thing on. But that was all he had on. Pants were gone, socks gone, shoes gone. The kid was hanging from a low branch of a burr oak, a couple feet off ground. DeGatano came at the body from the side, his flashlight out now, going around behind the kid. The kid’s hands were tied behind his back in some complex looking knot, a thin gruel of blood and shit and something else drying along the back of the kid’s legs and the inside of his thighs. DeGatano was pretty sure he knew what the something else was. He had to stretch up a little to reach the neck, check for a pulse, but the skin was already cool.
DeGatano started yelling for the other cops who were strung out through the park.
“Somebody get back to a car and call it in. We got a body down here.”
***
“Sheepshank,” the ME said. “Man-o’ war sheepshank, actually.” He was looking at the knot holding the kid’s hands. Full dark now, the kid finally down out of the tree, lying on his stomach on a tarp on the ground. Fire Department had brought some lights in, the light bouncing off the kid’s buttocks, DeGatano taking in the sight of that, the blue Cub Scout shirt, the little yellow triangle of kerchief on the back of his shoulders, hands tied behind him, that crap on his legs dried to a paste now, all of that burning a hole into him. He’d dump a lot of shit into the hole over the next forty years trying to close it up – a lot of skin of his knuckles, booze, a couple of marriages, his relationship with his son – but the hole just got bigger and bigger.
“What’s this sheepshank shit?” DeGatano asked.
“Sailing knot,” the ME said. “Old man used to take us out when I was a kid back on Long Island. That’s a sheepshank.”
“Long way from the ocean,” DeGatano said. “But it’s something.”
Something, but not enough. Three more kids that summer, all boys, all left hanging from trees up and down the rail line, all raped, all with the fucking sheepshanks, papers calling the guy The Hangman. Last kid was in August, the week before school started. And then it stopped. And they never caught anybody. Never even got close.
***
DeGatano had to piss. Rolled over, looked at the clock again.
This wasn’t one of those wait-a-couple-days, see-if-the-kid-turns-up deals. Had the wrong feel for that, plus the kid’s mom knew the mayor. So everybody was out with a copy of the kid’s school photo from the year before. It was Wednesday, so the kid was in his Cub Scout uniform the mom said. DeGatano was a detective, but it was all hands on deck, so he was marching a grid in Lincoln Park with a mess of patrol guys. Still lots of undergrowth back then, before they’d put in the pool and the ball diamonds and the tennis courts, so back in ’71 the park was just thirty acres or so of grass, scrub woods and brush. They’d get some hobos down along the east end sometimes, where the park butted up against the Burlington tracks. Nobody there when DeGatano worked his way down the right of way, he was just thinking it was time to get the flashlight out when he saw the silhouette.
The kid still had the Cub Scout shirt on, still had the kerchief thing on. But that was all he had on. Pants were gone, socks gone, shoes gone. The kid was hanging from a low branch of a burr oak, a couple feet off ground. DeGatano came at the body from the side, his flashlight out now, going around behind the kid. The kid’s hands were tied behind his back in some complex looking knot, a thin gruel of blood and shit and something else drying along the back of the kid’s legs and the inside of his thighs. DeGatano was pretty sure he knew what the something else was. He had to stretch up a little to reach the neck, check for a pulse, but the skin was already cool.
DeGatano started yelling for the other cops who were strung out through the park.
“Somebody get back to a car and call it in. We got a body down here.”
***
“Sheepshank,” the ME said. “Man-o’ war sheepshank, actually.” He was looking at the knot holding the kid’s hands. Full dark now, the kid finally down out of the tree, lying on his stomach on a tarp on the ground. Fire Department had brought some lights in, the light bouncing off the kid’s buttocks, DeGatano taking in the sight of that, the blue Cub Scout shirt, the little yellow triangle of kerchief on the back of his shoulders, hands tied behind him, that crap on his legs dried to a paste now, all of that burning a hole into him. He’d dump a lot of shit into the hole over the next forty years trying to close it up – a lot of skin of his knuckles, booze, a couple of marriages, his relationship with his son – but the hole just got bigger and bigger.
“What’s this sheepshank shit?” DeGatano asked.
“Sailing knot,” the ME said. “Old man used to take us out when I was a kid back on Long Island. That’s a sheepshank.”
“Long way from the ocean,” DeGatano said. “But it’s something.”
Something, but not enough. Three more kids that summer, all boys, all left hanging from trees up and down the rail line, all raped, all with the fucking sheepshanks, papers calling the guy The Hangman. Last kid was in August, the week before school started. And then it stopped. And they never caught anybody. Never even got close.
***
DeGatano had to piss. Rolled over, looked at the clock again.
Similar Books
