This is an idea that's been rattling around my noggin for some time. To be recklessly frank: It might be a novel/novella here in installments, or something to shop to an agent (as If I had one). So, no promises at all, but read on for the first chapter of ...
WILTON MARTO,
BOY DETECTIVE
The corpse lay, as one would imagine,
still. Limbs awry on the freshly mown grass; a serene visage; left
arm pointing up with open hand, almost as in a greeting; a body that
seemingly had found peace as life fled from it.
Except for the right side of its head,
which was almost perfectly flat. As if the person had lain on his
side for years.
Quentin Kelso just watched. A veteran
detective in the New Haven P.D., Kelso had never quite seen one like
this. Especially on Orange Street, up this far, almost to East Rock
Park. Trees bending in cadence to a slight breeze. Stern homes of
Yale professors, replete with well-tended gardens and wives. The
wives marched in the breeze as well, contorting Scandinavian
strollers around the knot of civil servants: cops, firefighters, EMTs
and their attendant vehicles.
Local residents, not wanting to appear
alarmed, skirted the hubbub. If this had been in Westville,
thought Kelso, we'd need a riot squad to repel onlookers.
Still a half-score of
rubberneckers—mindfully keeping their distance—buzzed among
themselves. It was as if no one wanted to be so rude as to stare;
that would be bad form for this part of town. Kelso overheard
enough to know that the decedent had passed right on his front lawn.
Uniforms began to circulate among the neighbors seeking nubs of data;
the cops' initial reports had not been promising. Generalities were
already patent: Peter Treadwell, 42, and never to age another day, an
adjunct professor of linguistics at Southern. Lived with a male
partner who was currently on holidays on Long Island. The house
seemed to look down on its deceased owner with shadowy disapproval.
The late-spring air turned choppy; Kelso secured his floppy belt
around his gabardine.
How many people are
murdered—violently—on their front lawn?
Then Kelso (who was known to all of
his co-workers, and even friends, by surname only) noticed the young
man. Rather than edge up to the actual scene with the other discreet
gawkers, the young man stood at the far corner of the Treadwell lawn.
He was making notes in a small book. Tiny notes, at that, Kelso
surmised. No harm here; the kid's nowhere near the scene.
Or was he?
Kelso strolled over to the youngster.
He said, “Whaddya doin' here, young man?”
The young man looked up from his
notes. He capped his fountain pen and blew on his words before
closing his book. He said, “I am making notes and ascertaining
data, sir. Very pertinent data concerning this savage crime.”
Kelso's experienced eye was failing
him. Is this a kid or a young man? He could be thirteen or
nineteen. Grown enough but slight, almost thin. Kelso also
noticed the hands: abnormally large but delicate; the way he handled
the pen and paper; the old-school notebook, bound, not the spirally
kind; ash-blond hair. But his eyes stopped Kelso's mind. Those are
the eyes of someone who's been around, fallen off more than a few
turnip trucks. Eyes that have been there.
Kelso broke and spoke, “And what
wouldja need this data fer?” His voice wrung the word out.
The young man stood—almost at
attention—and grinned after a demure fashion. “You see,
Detective-”
“Kelso. En-haitch-pee-dee.”
“You see, I am a detective also. Of
a far different ilk than you, with only a smidgen of experience. Yet
a detective just the same.”
Kelso bristled; his brow reddened and
rimpled.
The young man continued, “There is
no need to voice your objections. I don't brook scolding. I will do
you a favor and vouchsafe you a clue. A footprint; a very interesting
and evidence-laden footprint, Detective Kelso.”
Kelso said, “Lissen, buddy. We find
the evidence. And determine iffen it's 'evidence-laden' or whatever.
Now, I'll thank you to back off and go detect someplace else.”
“That's a Croc.”
“A WHAT! You wanna take a ride
downtown with that fresh mouth?”
“No need. And you have my humble
apology. I meant Croc: see-are-oh-see-kay. It's a brand of rubberized
sandal. Popular with chefs and gardeners—now de rigueur for
students, artists and people with piercings, as well as sensible
housewives. There's an imprint right here. And deep it is
“Plus, I think I have espied a few
more, in a direct line from here to the decedent. The penultimate and
final prints are the deepest. As if the wearer put all his weight
into his step.”
Another detective, Smoke Slattery,
beckoned to Kelso. He walked back toward Smoke, but froze when the
strange young man said, “And I firmly believe that the doer is in
our midst. Why don't we close the book on this one, posthaste?”
Months later, Quentin Kelso would
remember his next decision as being momentous. Not that he ever used
that word. “Okay, kid. Lessee whatcha got.”
The detective waved off his partner
and followed the young man to the edge of the crowd. They stood
directly behind a smallish, blond man with a poorly wrought combover.
He wore stained khaki pants and a battered London Fog Barracuda.
The young man stared at Kelso, winking
with confidence and spoke loudly, “YESSIR, DETECTIVE. I BELIEVE IT
WAS WITH A HOE. MY FATHER'S AN AVID GARDNER AND THEDEAD GUY'S HEAD
LOOKS JUST LIKE THE GROUND WHEN DAD SLAMS THE HOE DOWN WHEN THE RED
SOX LOSE. 'CAUSE HE LISTENS TO 'EM ON HIS TRANSISTOR IN THE
BACKYARD.”
With this, the blond man, turned
around with vigor and eyed the young man. “A hoe you say? How could
that be? Hoes have a small edge, cuz they're at right angles to the
handle. They would make a sharp, narrow gash.”
Kelso immediately noticed the
speaker's furtive, darting eyes.
The young man winked at Kelso again
and said, “But not a Dutch hoe. It has a blade that connects to the
hilt with a moderate 's' and is almost parallel to handle. Not good
for digging, but it can be pulled to chop weeds.”
At this, the blond man snorted and
returned to watching dieners load the former Peter Treadwell into the
ME's bus.
The young man gently pulled Kelso
away, out of earshot of the gaggle.
“Big deal,” Kelso said.
“Now, cast your view on the man who
responded to me. Note the shoes.”
“Is that that croaks or whatever?”
“Correct. Now, where was the
decedent's wound? I'm guessing the right side of his head.”
“Howdja know that?”
“Look at the Croc man. He wears his
watch on his right wrist, the non-dominant one. He also parts his
unfortunate coiffure on the right, whereas most men—even you,
detective—part theirs on the left, since they utilize the comb with
the right. The little man is definitely left-handed, hence the mortal
wound on the corpse's right. There's your perp.”
Kelso, barely thinking squarely,
walked away from the young man and summoned Slattery. The young man
watched as Kelso pointed out the blonde man to his partner. Soon
Slattery, with his arm on the stranger's biceps, walked down the
street a few feet and into the driveway of a house three doors down.
The young man said, “Watch.”
In about five minutes' time two things
happened: A brace of NHPD squad cars sirened up the street and
stopped in front of the driveway where Slattery had taken the blond
man. The second thing was a beaming Slattery strolling jauntily back
down the driveway with his charge.
In handcuffs.
Kelso hurried over; the young man
trailed at a safe distance.
Slattery said, “Name's Vandewoort,
Kelso. He's our perp. Spilled it all. Seems he was queer for
Treadwell. I dunno how you did it, Kels, but this might be a speed
record for solving a homicide.”
As the uniforms loaded the suspect
into a cruiser for the ride downtown, Kelso turned to the young man
and motioned him to follow. They walked up the same driveway. At its
end was a small shed, its door open, abutting a garage. Just inside
the door, an implement leaned against the wall. It had a long handle,
like a rake, but its business end was not toothed.
Kelso donned a pair of disposable
plastic gloves and picked up the tool. He held up the blade for both
to see.
The blade was covered in blood. Small
tufts of hair clung to the drying fluid.
Kelso said, “A Dutch hoe, eh?”
The young man said, “A Dutch hoe.”
The detective ruffled his hair and ran
a knotted, burly hand over his face. He said, “Who the hell are
you, anyway?”
The young man canted his head, almost
in a bowing motion. Then he snapped to full height and proffered a
business card to the detective. Before Kelso could speak, the young
man pulled a nigh-perfect about-face and strode away.
Kelso examined the card. Quickly,
since it bore only two lines of printing.
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