Chasing the Boogeyman Page 9

  2

  After dropping Kara off at her parents’ house, I drove by Cedar Drive on my way home. It was just past 9:00 p.m., and the playground was dark and silent. In the glare of my headlights, I noticed that the shrine to Kacey Robinson at the bottom of the sliding board had at least doubled in size since my last visit. More flowers and stuffed animals, and a lot more homemade signs, many of them bearing heartbreaking photographs of Kacey. As I was pulling away, a police car cruised past, heading in the opposite direction. The officer stared at me long and hard. I nodded and flipped him a wave. I’m pretty sure he saw me, but he didn’t wave back.

  Once I got home, I said a quick hello to my folks, who were watching television in their bedroom, grabbed the John Saul paperback I was reading from the end table next to my bed, and went downstairs to the screened-in back porch. I managed to read two short chapters before my thoughts pulled me away. I closed the book and returned to the kitchen, looking for the cordless phone. A few minutes later, settled comfortably on the porch again, I called Carly Albright, and we picked up our conversation from earlier in the week about the mysterious set of numbers contained in the hopscotch grid and lost dog sign. None of it made any sense.

  “What else could they mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing I can think of,” she answered. “Threes and fours are the dominant numbers. Third and fourth murders? He’s done this before? I don’t know. That’s all I can come up with.”

  “I feel like it has to be something smarter than that. Something… deeper.”

  “Why? Because of Hannibal Lecter?” The Thomas Harris novel The Silence of the Lambs had been published to great fanfare earlier that summer. She knew I was a fan, so before I could argue my point, she went on. “He’s a made-up character, Rich. You know as well as I do, most of these guys aren’t geniuses. Not even close.”

  “I know, I know.” I took a deep breath and tried to find the right words. “It just feels like… if he’s been careful enough to not leave behind a speck of evidence, and daring enough to taunt the police with these number patterns, then it’s reasonable to believe he’s pretty damn smart.”

  “Or that you just want him to be smart. We don’t even know the person who did this is the same person who left behind the hopscotch grid and the sign. It could all be some kind of bizarre joke.”

  “Why the hell would I want him to be smart?”

  “Because it makes for a better story,” she replied without hesitation.

  I started to argue again but stopped myself. Maybe she was right. Maybe I just wanted this monster to be brilliant and remarkable and memorable—like a character from a goddamn novel or movie. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed to take a good, long look in the mirror.

  Carly’s younger sister picked up the extension and asked to use the phone, so we wrapped up our conversation, made plans to catch up later in the weekend, and said our goodnights.

  I reopened my book and managed to read another paragraph before closing it again. Staring out at the side yard and Tupelo Road, I imagined large groups of desperate, angry people roaming the dark streets of Edgewood, searching dimly lit alleyways and shadowy intersections. Kara’s brother knew someone participating in the neighborhood watch. The guy had purchased military-grade walkie-talkies and night-vision goggles. I’d heard from a friend that another watch group was pulling around a wagon filled with ice and beer on their nightly patrols. And several of the men were carrying stun guns.

  It struck me then how dead quiet the streets were. It was officially the start of the Fourth of July weekend, and Hanson Road was utterly silent. Muffled conversations from family cookouts and loud splashes from drunken fathers doing cannonballs in backyard pools should’ve been echoing across neighborhood fences. Kids should’ve been outside running around with sparklers and chasing fireflies. Fireworks and bottle rockets should’ve been exploding overhead, lighting up the sky.

  I sat out back for a long time that night, missing those happy sounds and sights, thinking about the Gallagher and Robinson families just down the road from me, and the words that Carly had spoken earlier on the telephone, feeling slightly ashamed.

  Because it makes for a better story.

  3

  Early the next morning, my father asked if I would pick up some gas for the lawn mower and Weed eater. After breakfast, I loaded up the pair of five-gallon cans he always kept stored in the corner of the garage and drove to the Texaco station.

  When I pulled up to the pumps, Josh Gallagher was parked right in front of me, filling up his old Mustang. I hadn’t seen him since his sister’s funeral and immediately wished I’d chosen a different gas station. I had a bad habit of putting my foot in my mouth when I got nervous, and the last thing I wanted to do was say something wrong and upset him.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry about it. No sooner had I turned off the engine and gotten out of the car than Coach Parks, my high school basketball and lacrosse coach, pulled up to the pump next to us. He practically bounded out of his pickup truck.

  “Chiz!” he said, a big grin spreading across his chubby face. “Long time, no see!”

  “Hey, Coach. How’ve you been?”

  He walked over and gave me a high five that made my fingers ache. “You know me, Chiz. Not too high, not too low. Doing okay.”

  Coach Parks glanced at the car in front of us then, and I saw his eyes widen. “Oh, hey Josh, I didn’t see you there.”

  Josh finished placing the nozzle back onto the pump and looked over at us. “Mr. Parks,” he said with a nod. “What’s up, Rich?”

  I tried to keep my face blank. “Not much, Josh. How you doing?”

  He shrugged, and I silently cursed myself. Duh, nice going. How the hell did I think he was doing? He surprised me with what he said next. “I saw you and your mom and dad at the funeral. Appreciate you all coming.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried again. “I’m… really sorry about what happened.”

  “Me too,” Coach said, his voice sounding very different than it had just sixty seconds earlier. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make the service. We were camping with my brother’s family and didn’t hear the news until we got back.”

  “No worries,” Josh said, his face unreadable. He pulled a set of keys out of his jeans pocket. “I better get going. My mom’s waiting for me to take her grocery shopping.”

  “Give your folks my best,” Coach said.

  Another nod. “Will do.”

  I lifted my hand in an awkward wave. “Take it easy.”

  Josh yanked the car door closed and fired up the engine. It made my Toyota Corolla sound like my mother’s sewing machine. We watched him speed away and merge into traffic on Edgewood Road. Once the Mustang had disappeared from sight, I blew out a deep breath.

  “You’re not kidding,” Coach said. “What a terrible thing.”

  I opened the trunk and hauled out the gas cans. After placing them on the ground in front of me, I was reaching for the pump handle when Coach asked, “Police talk to you yet?”

  My hand froze. “About what?”

  “About what happened to Josh’s sister.”

  I was about to ask if he was pulling my leg, but I could tell by the expression on his face that he was dead serious. “Me? Why would they want to talk to me? I wasn’t even here when it happened. I was back in College Park.”

  “I don’t know. They talked to me. I just figured they were doing the same to everyone from that part of town. I heard they interviewed Alex Baliko and his brother. Charlie Emge. Danny and Tommy Noel. Tim Deptol.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “What’d they ask you?”

  He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, a nervous gesture I recognized from years of playing ball for him. “They mainly wanted to know what I thought of Natasha. Was she as well-liked and -behaved as everyone claimed she was? Did I know of anyone at the school who was jealous of her or didn’t
like her?” He made a face. “They also asked when was the last time I’d seen her and where I was the night she was killed.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, can you believe that? I can’t tell you how relieved I was to say that I was on vacation with my family. Like, I was glad I had a real alibi, you know?”

  “Did they ask you anything else?”

  “Not really. Fortunately, it was pretty quick.” He laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, I still almost crapped my pants.”

  “I bet.”

  He gave me a hearty slap on the back, and as usual I pretended like it didn’t hurt. “Don’t worry, Chizzy. I’m sure the cops’ll get around to you eventually.”

  4

  As luck would have it, “eventually” came the very next day.

  My parents had gone to 10:00 a.m. mass at Prince of Peace, so I was alone in the kitchen when someone knocked at the front door. I looked out the peephole and immediately recognized the tall man standing on the porch as someone whose face I’d seen a lot of lately on television. I opened the door and invited Detective Harper inside. Surprisingly, at first, I didn’t feel anxious at all. Not even with the head honcho of the entire investigation sitting right there on my living room sofa waiting to interview me. In fact, I barely even glanced at his badge and ID when he pulled them from his jacket pocket.

  Detective Harper was much more soft-spoken in person than he came across on TV, and extremely polite. He promised it wouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes of my time, and it didn’t. When we were finished, he flipped closed the small spiral notebook in which he’d been taking notes and thanked me. Then he handed me a business card and left.

  When my parents returned home from church a short time later, I didn’t mention a word about my visitor. I’d already decided that would have to wait until later.

  To the best of my recollection, this is how the interview went:

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Let’s start with your personal details. Name. Age. Address. Occupation.

  ME: My name is Richard Chizmar. I’m twenty-two years old. 920 Hanson Road is my residence until January, when I’m getting married and moving to Roland Park in Baltimore. I live here with my parents. I just graduated in May from the University of Maryland. I’m a writer and an editor. Well, trying to be.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.

  ME: Thank you.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And you grew up here in Edgewood?

  ME: We moved here from Texas when I was five. After my father retired from the air force.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Is it just you and your parents? Or do you have siblings?

  ME: I have three sisters and a brother, all much older. They’ve been out of the house since I was nine or ten.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Did you know either of the girls who were killed recently—Natasha Gallagher or Kacey Robinson?

  ME: I knew Natasha a little bit from seeing her around the neighborhood. But I hadn’t seen her since before I left for college, freshman year. I went to high school with her brother, but we didn’t hang out or anything. I didn’t know Kacey Robinson at all.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Never driven by Kacey in the neighborhood? Run into her at the grocery store?

  ME: If I did, I wouldn’t know it. I didn’t even know what she looked like until I saw her picture on the news and in the paper.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: You say you went to school with Joshua Gallagher. What can you tell me about him?

  ME: Umm, good guy, I guess? We had a couple classes together junior year. I’d see him out at parties from time to time. He wrestled and hung out with a bunch of guys from the team. I’ve probably only run into him maybe four or five times since we graduated.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Do you know if he’s ever been in any kind of trouble? Anyone he’s had problems with?

  ME: No, nothing like that.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: How about the rest of the Gallagher and Robinson families? Any contact?

  ME: I sort of know Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher from around the neighborhood and church, when I used to go. Good enough to say hello to if we run into each other in a store, or wave at if one of us drives by. I know Mrs. Robinson from when I used to bag groceries at the commissary on Post. That was the summer before my junior year of high school. She used to come into the store like twice a week. I don’t think I’ve ever met Mr. Robinson.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Can you tell me where you were on the night of June 2, 1988, the night Natasha Gallagher was attacked and killed?

  ME: I was still back at school, in my apartment.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: In College Park?

  ME: Yes, well, actually Greenbelt, right outside College Park. My roommates and I lived in an apartment complex called Brittany Place.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And you were at your apartment with your roommates on the night of June 2?

  ME: Yes, sir. We’d just started cleaning it out earlier that week because our lease was ending.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: How many roommates?

  ME: Three.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And all three were at the apartment that night?

  ME: Actually, just one of them. The other two had gone home to visit their families.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Would you be able to provide me with your roommates’ names and contact information?

  ME: They’re Bill Caughron. David Whitty. Fred Answell. I can grab my address book when we’re finished and get you their phone numbers and addresses.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Which roommate was with you on the night of June 2?

  ME: Bill Caughron. He’s also from Edgewood. His mom still lives on Perry Avenue.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And he’ll be able to verify that you were with him on the evening of June 2?

  ME: Absolutely.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: This is all just standard procedure, Mr. Chizmar. We’re asking the same questions to literally dozens of residents. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

  ME: I’m okay. It’s all just a little… unsettling.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Would it make you feel better if I told you I even asked your mailman the same handful of questions?

  ME: Old Mr. Rory?

  DETECTIVE HARPER: The Gallaghers and Robinsons are both on his delivery route, so yeah, I had to talk to him.

  ME: I guess that makes me feel a little better.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: I understand. I do. We’re almost finished here. Your roommate Bill, he was with you the entire night?

  ME: Pretty much. He left to go to his girlfriend’s at some point, but that was pretty late.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: About what time was that?

  ME: I think it was around eleven, maybe a little later.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And did he stay the night at his girlfriend’s or come back to the apartment?

  ME: He stayed overnight.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Can you tell me his girlfriend’s name?

  ME: Sure. It’s Daniella Appelt.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Now, as I understand it, you’d made an earlier trip here to Edgewood not long before June 2?

  ME: I did. It would’ve been sometime during the last week of May. I’d borrowed a friend’s truck and brought home my desk and a bookshelf and a few other pieces of furniture.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: How long of a drive is it from Greenbelt to Edgewood?

  ME: Depends on the time of day. Usually about an hour. Longer if there’s D.C. traffic.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: How about the evening of June 20, the night Kacey Robinson was killed?

  ME: I was here at home—in my bedroom working and listening to my police scanner. I heard the initial calls go out after Mr. Robinson called the station. I stayed up listening the rest of the night. My parents can verify that.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: And you never left the house that night?

  ME: No, I didn’t.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Okay, a couple more questions and we can wrap it up. Since you’ve been back from College Park… sorry, Greenbelt… have you seen or
experienced anything strange here in Edgewood? Anything at all?

  ME: Nothing I can think of. I’ve mainly been cooped up in my bedroom working.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Fair enough. By the way, you said you were a writer… what kind of writing do you do?

  ME: Umm… fiction, mostly. Mystery. Suspense. Crime. Horror.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Horror, huh? Like serial killers?

  ME: Sometimes.

  DETECTIVE HARPER: Thanks. I really appreciate your time, Mr. Chizmar.

  5

  After Detective Harper left, I walked outside and picked up the newspaper from the bottom of the driveway. Sitting on the front stoop, I was looking for the sports section to catch up on yesterday’s box scores, when a headline just below the front-page fold caught my eye.

  CROPPING EARS: A LONG AND SORDID HISTORY

  I couldn’t believe the old-school Baltimore Sun had printed such a sensational headline—and on the front page, no less. The article’s byline read Mark Knauss, a name I didn’t recognize. I immediately started reading and by the time I reached the jump at the bottom of the page, I couldn’t turn fast enough to page fourteen to finish the article. It was fascinating.

  According to the author, cropping—the act of removing a person’s ears as a form of punishment—was documented as far back as ancient Assyrian law and the Babylonian Code of Hammurabi. In England, during the early sixteenth century, Henry VIII amended existing vagrancy laws so that first offenses would now be punished with three days in the stocks, second offenses with cropping, and third offenses with hanging. Cropping also took place in the United States in the late eighteenth century—punishing such crimes as perjury, libel, arson, and counterfeiting—most notably in Pennsylvania and Tennessee.

  The practice of cutting off the ears of conquered adversaries dated all the way back to the time of the Crusades, but didn’t become more prevalent until Native Americans began performing the ritual mutilation of fallen enemies on the battlefield.