The Angel of Knowlton Park (21 page)

He hadn't seen a paper yet. "Do you have the paper?" he asked. "I left this morning too early to read it."

"But you already know..."

"But I don't know anything about this picture. I don't know what she's seen, what she's read."

She got the paper for him. "I can't believe you allow photographers to do that." She bit her lip and turned away as Burgess looked at the front page photo—a large, color close-up of Timmy Watts's body, cocooned in the bloody blue blanket, the two white sheets spread out on either side of him. Clear enough to show the vacant eyes, the gapped teeth, the flies. The caption was: "The Angel of Knowlton Park."

Blind rage at the photographer, at the paper's editor, at this second violation of the child, surged through him. Timmy Watts's death was a tragedy, not a spectacle. The GP shouldn't be seeing this. He and Vince hadn't allowed photographers near the scene. That's why they'd cordoned off the park, put up screens. They'd never allow this. But after seeing this, would Cote and the Chief believe that? He'd expected to return to a wall of impatience, questions, the inevitable 'How do we quell public fears?' Now he'd be returning to hell.

"You didn't know?" Missy Steinberg asked.

"Do you think I'd ever allow...?" He checked himself. Wrong place. Wrong person. He folded the paper and stood. "What I'm asking, what she's answering, you understand it's confidential?" She nodded. "Let's do it."

So they were doing it. Burgess in his own ugly, uncomfortable chair, speaking slowly and carefully to Iris, and Missy, to the side, translating his questions into sign and her answers into voice. He asked the same questions he'd asked Grace Johnson, the Gordons, Delinsky, her family. Did she know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Timmy?

"My brother, Dwayne, was very angry at him," she said. "He thought Timmy had taken something from him." She lowered her eyes. "Timmy did take things. He didn't mean any harm. He just liked to collect things. Or he'd take something from one person and give it to another. Like a packrat. Dwayne wouldn't tell me what was missing, so I couldn't really help, but I searched Timmy's room and couldn't find anything that would matter to Dwayne."

Iris Martin hesitated. "Have you seen his room?" Burgess nodded. "It was all torn apart. I put it back together. Timmy liked things neat." There was a desperate sadness on her face and her tears flowed freely, but her hands continued to move, and Missy to interpret.

One advantage of sign language. People in these circumstances had trouble speaking because their throats closed. Even though that was happening to Iris, she could still communicate. It was Missy who was having trouble, Iris who suddenly stopped signing and put her hand over Missy's, made a sign like a little animal running up into the air.

Missy looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Detective. I didn't expect... I'm not supposed to..." She covered her mouth. She'd broken the rules.

"To have feelings?" he asked. "Because you're only the interpreter?" She looked at Iris. Interpreted what they'd just said.

"What was the sign you just made? It looked like a mouse."

Iris Martin gave a shaky smile. "It was," she said. This time, she used her own voice. "Mouse was his name-sign." She signed something to Missy.

"Little bright-eyed fellow, creeping around the edges..."

Burgess nodded. "You think your brother Dwayne could have done this?"

She considered. "I don't know. When Dwayne does drugs, he might do anything."

"Other than Dwayne, can you think of anyone who would hurt Timmy?"

"Why would anyone want to hurt him? He was just a sweet little boy."

"How did you and Timmy communicate?" he asked.

"I have some speech, some hearing," she said. "He'd learned a little sign." She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. "He was my brother. It just worked."

"Did he ever mention a man named Osborne? Lived down near the park?"

"The dirty-pictures man? He took pictures of Timmy. Naked pictures. He used the big dog to scare Timmy so he took off his clothes."

"Timmy told you this?"

She nodded. "But Dwayne took care of him."

"What about your other brothers?"

She just shrugged, then signed something. "She doesn't know," Missy said.

"Some people in the neighborhood tried to do what you did, to look after Timmy, didn't they?" She nodded. "Can you tell me who?"

"The Gordons. Mrs. Johnson. Officer Delinsky."

"Anyone else?" She shook her head. "Who did Timmy play with?"

She named the same children the Gordons had named. Burgess was disappointed. He'd hoped Iris Martin would know more, would have something to add, because she'd been close to her brother, the only person in the family likely to have been observant. She read his disappointment, and did to him what she'd done to Missy—reached over and took his hand. Then she pulled hers back, her forehead furrowed.

"He used to spend time with the McBrides. Matty and his mother. But not lately. I don't know why. I think Mrs. McBride decided she didn't want to be involved with our family after she had trouble with my mother. Timmy was sad about that. He used to have fun with Matty. But I wasn't sorry. Matty's nice but he was bad for Timmy. At least, he was when Ricky was around. They got him drunk once." Iris pulled herself up straight, her hands swooping and stabbing. "It was a very bad thing to do to a little boy. Timmy was so sick. But that was Ricky, I think, not Matty. Ricky doesn't care about anyone."

The hands faltered and fell still as she considered the very much worse thing that had been done.

"Any enemies of the family..." Burgess began.

Her hands rose again, then fell back into her lap. Momentarily sign-less. Her clear blue eyes focused on Burgess, the tears welling up. "I need a moment," she said.

"Take your time," he said. "I know how hard this is."

She gave him a trembling smile. Then her hands rose. "You aren't at all what I imagined. I expected to be afraid of you. I thought you'd treat me like a dummy. But you're kind." A pause, then her hands swooped. "And sad."

Burgess nodded. She swallowed, and he could see her gathering her courage. "Why did you let them take that picture? The one in the paper?"

She deserved an honest answer. "We would never have allowed a picture like that. Someone must have got up high somewhere, at a distance, and used a special lens. It was a low-down, despicable thing to do. I'm so sorry you had to see it." He repeated his question about enemies.

Her hands swooped wide, words flying faster than Missy could talk. "Enemies of the family? Everybody's got enemies. All of Dwayne's customers. People he's cheated. Jason's customers. My uncle, Henry Devereau, once said he'd kill us all off, one by one, until he got the house. But I didn't believe him. Uncle Henry's not as bad as he seems. I don't know. The family of the girl that Ricky..." Her hands were still. She raised her eyes to his face and the hands spoke again. "I know you're disappointed. I wish I could be more help. May I ask some questions now?"

"Of course." Burgess knew what was coming. It was never easy. A detective had a special duty to the family, serving as their conduit for essential information and their link to the criminal justice system. At the same time, many of the details of the death had to be kept confidential, often others were too painful for the family to hear.

"How did he die? Was it awful?" She wanted to know what Julie Gordon had wanted to know—whether Timmy had suffered. He knew more now than he had then and the answer was 'Yes, it was awful.' He wasn't about to tell her that.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked, immediately feeling ridiculous for using the word "hear." She nodded. "He was stunned by a blow to the head, then stabbed. He probably didn't feel the stabbing." It was a lie. There were marks on the child's back, and on his arms, showing he'd thrashed, turned, tried to evade the plunging knife, defense wounds on the small hands. But how would it help her to know that? To sit alone in her room and replay that in her mind?

"Why was he left in the park?"

"We don't know."

"Was he killed in the park?"

Burgess shook his head. "Ms. Martin, your brother left a note in Grace Johnston's door, telling her he was running away from home. Has he ever run away before?"

She looked away, then, reluctantly, back at Burgess. "Only once that I know of. He came here. Such a long way. He said he wanted to live with me."

"When was that?"

"A month ago."

"How did he get here?"

"Got someone to drive him."

"Who?"

"I don't know. He just showed up." Her eyes returned to the window.

She knew. Burgess was sure of it, and puzzled. Why would she lie? Who was she protecting? He was aware, suddenly, of the awkwardness of doing this with a third party in the room. He shot a look at Missy Steinberg. She didn't seem to find anything strange about Iris's answer. "Timmy didn't tell you?"

Iris shifted on her chair, looking everywhere but at him. "No."

"You weren't expecting him? You didn't know he was coming?" She shook her head. "Did you ask him how he got here?"

Now her eyes were darting. He waited until they came back to his face. "Ms. Martin, I don't want to make any mistakes or fail to ask any question which might let your brother's killer go uncaught. Someone Timmy knew well enough to ask for a ride out here, someone who was willing to bring him—that's a person I need to talk with. Do you understand?"

Was he treating her like an idiot? Was he insulting her? He didn't know the rules of her world. He didn't know how to pressure someone through a third person in a situation like this. How to figure out what Iris was holding back, or why, and say the things which would persuade her to tell him. He looked at Missy, but her focus was on Iris, who looked terribly shaken and fragile. It was evident she'd had enough.

He had two more questions. "Was that the only time Timmy ever came here?"

"Yes."

"And you're quite sure you don't know who brought him?" When she didn't respond, he tried a different question. "Do you know anyone with a small blue car?"

Suddenly, Iris Martin made a flurry of signs, jumped up, and rushed out the door. Missy Steinberg said, "I'm sorry. I'm feeling sick. Excuse me," and hurried after her.

Burgess waited a while, but neither of them returned. The clock was running. Cote was waiting. He had a million things to do. If necessary, he'd come back. He closed his notebook, crossed the empty room, his footsteps echoing heavily, and let himself out. The hot, moist air wrapped him like wet Kleenex.

He felt like a blind man trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle.

His mother had always said life would be dull if you didn't face new challenges and learn new things, but sometimes Burgess longed for dull, for peaceful and routine, for easy. Today, the first full day of his vacation, he'd planned to do some sleeping, some reading, and some fishing. Actually, he
was
doing some fishing. And so far, not catching anything he could use.

Chapter 16

He stopped at Mickey D's for a chicken sandwich and coffee, fretting at the time it took to produce what was supposed to be fast food. By the time food and drink were finally handed over, he figured he could have gone home and made himself a sandwich. All his impatient jittering hadn't done his knee or his disposition any favors, either. He took a moment in the garage to wolf the sandwich. Once he got upstairs, there wouldn't be time.

Prioritizing his next steps from worst to least worst—there was no best—he decided to go first to Cote, stopping in Melia's office for a barometer reading of Cote's reaction to the photo. He didn't need words. Melia's sagging shoulders and set face were enough. "He gave you a hard time?" Burgess said, skipping preliminaries.

"Damned near gave me my walking papers. How'd that happen, Joe?"

"Second, third floor window. Telescopic lens. I'll find out. We can't block out the sky, Vince. Or keep numbskull citizens from letting reporters into their homes. I'm on my way up. Pray for me." He said it flippantly, but as soon as the words were out, he wondered. Maybe he did need someone praying for him. Maybe they all did. This was that kind of case.