The Camaro Murders Page 3

  My parents never learned what happened that afternoon in Mendelssohn’s house. I always imagined they had a sixth sense about those things, where they could look at a situation and know something just didn’t add up—my father especially.

  He found me in the back room, bangs plastered to my head in perspiration. Mendelssohn was on the floor. Certain he was dying, I just watched.

  I hate that day. I remember fighting back, as much as a scrawny boy could. I dealt Mendelssohn what I thought was a death blow—my thumb pushed through the soft, fleshy part of his throat so easily. At the time, my immature mind was convinced I was responsible for his passing.

  In truth Mendelssohn didn’t die until a month later. It was a stroke. A common death for a common man, some people said. Held in high regard, he lived as a humble servant of God, and commanded great respect in the Graehling Station Community Church. At least my father said so.

  My father looked up to people like Ezra Mendelssohn—men of order and integrity, men whose character stood above the rest. He would give Mendelssohn the best chair in the living room when he came to call on our family, and the most comfortable pillow to prop up his aching legs.

  I’d sit close by and listen to their good-natured exchange, usually after we finished dinner. My mother and sister would clean up the kitchen while Mendelssohn spoke to my father about raising Godly children and doing good works.

  They never talked about anything bad; most people didn’t. Most didn’t even say much when Starla disappeared. There was just a quiet murmuring about what kind of sick people operated in the world.

  No one got their answers, but I did. I found out all I ever wanted to know in Mendelssohn’s back room. I got my first taste of malaise and hypocrisy and stomached it like I had no choice.

  But I did have a choice. I didn’t have to keep my mouth shut for fear of what my parents would say, and I didn’t have to play dumb with the Sheriff. Those were my selfish decisions.

  The evening chill settles and I need to get the fire started. I’ll sit on the brown carpet and watch long enough to see the cobwebs on the wood melt. Then I’ll write in my notebook for as long as I can stay awake. It’s packed in my bag with a few changes of clothes.

  I never liked the idea of a diary—that no one would ever read it but me—so I journal instead. Someone needs to read my account of what happened. It’s mostly about when Starla went into the woods and never came back…but it’s also about what it’s like to feel my soul slipping away.

  There’s an internal disconnect that I can’t put into words. I’d just as soon dissolve, or fade into some dull smudge. To sink into solitude and forget that I exist is really all I want. Dissatisfaction outweighs everything I’ve ever tried to do.

  I imagine people would soon forget about me. They’d only have some faint recollection of a person, a random face on a random day. “He had a scar, didn’t he? On his forehead—no, his chin. On his forehead and his chin. And boy, was he ever skinny. Yep, he was a rail. What was his name again?”

  They’d forget, and I wouldn’t have to think anymore. It would be a lot like sleep, but without the dreams and without the cold—and without the guilt. But if there’s no guilt, then there’s no Starla.

  I can’t let go of my memory of her, so I need my guilt. It’s a necessary part of who I am…a building block of sorts…one I covet but am quick to hide in shame.

  Holding on to it won’t get me anywhere in the end. My condition is more complex than that. I’m so close to breaking free, but someone, something, somewhere is holding me back.

  Is it Mendelssohn reaching out in death? I blame him for everything else—my dreams, my guilt—he may as well shoulder the blame for my lack of motivation as well.

  It’s easier that way. I don’t have to be accountable or even love myself. Still, I’ve asked God so many times to forgive me for not being braver, but I suppose some things just aren’t forgivable.

  What Prying Hands May Find

  January 16th, 1987

  Deputy Hildersham at the Mendelssohn farm

  The paramedics are nearly finished by the time I pull into the drive of the Mendelssohn farm.

  “Show’s over, Hildersham,” the first-response officer says as we meet at the slanting front steps. It’s Lightfoot, another deputy. He eyeballs me with disapproval while passing a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

  I look past him through the peeling door frame. The body has been bagged, and the paramedics are ready to move it outside.

  The house is shabby white, almost gray, and sits two hundred feet from the road on the northern edge of town. The paint on the clapboard siding is curling into sizable flakes.

  It’s an old farmhouse, surrounded mostly by fields no longer worked. A run-down barn stands near the back of the property and looks to have been in disrepair for many years.

  I allow the medics to shuffle past me before I continue up the steps and into the front room. The flashes of red and blue illuminate an overturned chair. A few depressions in the far wall break up the otherwise bare plaster.

  There is a second story whose stairs I don’t climb, and I imagine there’s an attic. A hint of natural gas lingers below the scent of aging wood and plaster; it’s a worn-in smell that only lived-in houses have.

  The house contains most of the original fixtures from when it was built in the thirties. It’s full of oak and earth-tones. Mendelssohn lived alone for decades.

  I continue to survey the relics of yesteryear in the front room, coarse and faded with use, and I’ll be damned if I don’t see somebody else standing there in the corner.

  It’s only for a second that I see this illusion. But I’d swear on the Good Book there was a little boy there, fragile and pale, with his finger to his lips urging me to be quiet.

  Startled, I curse under my breath before Lightfoot emerges from the open door behind me.

  He struts into the room like the good ol’ boy he is. A few wisps of streaky hair hang over his brow. “There ain’t nothin’ else that needs to be done here,” he says, with that stupid toothpick clamped between his teeth. “Let the doc sort it out.”

  As much as I want, I don’t have a reason to argue. Lightfoot has already cordoned off the rickety porch with tape that says “Police Line—Do Not Cross,” and the body is making its way down the drive, the ambulance tires crackling on compacted snow. I shrug my reluctant agreement. The coroner will handle the rest. I steal a sideways glance before heading towards the door.

  The corner is vacant, dark, and dusty. A cold trickle races down the underside of my arm and I shiver. I don’t believe in ghosts, phantoms, or whatever you want to call them. But I saw the boy, plain as day, and now I don’t.

  “I’m not sure why you bothered comin’ out here, Hildersham,” Lightfoot says to me. It’s like he wants me to give him a good enough reason.

  I don’t look at him, but can feel his glare trying to provoke a fight out of me. “I was in the area,” I say, “and figured I’d stop by to make sure everything was squared away.”

  “Hmmpf.” Lightfoot is mocking. “Yep, everything’s squared away just fine.”

  “Why’s the room all tore up?” I ask as we step onto the porch.

  “Not sure,” Lightfoot says. “I found the old man down the cellar. I’d say he threw a fit and then took a fall.”

  I’m not impressed with Lightfoot’s police work, but he’ll be the one filling out the report. There’s a lack of evidence to support any foul play. There’s no weapon and it sounds like no obvious wounds on the body, otherwise Lightfoot would’ve said something.

  Out in the driveway, I turn to look at the unlit house like I expect to see some damning evidence, but there’s nothing. No heads peeking out the window, no telltale signs of forced entry. Just the falling snow collecting on the edge of the porch…

  “I ain’t standin’ out in the cold anymore,” Lightfoot says. That’s his equivalent of “good night.” He marches toward his cruiser and backs
out of the drive by the time I reach mine.

  The motor is nearly cold so I crank the heat before putting the shifter into reverse. With one arm over the passenger seat, I look over my shoulder as I back out of the drive, and see another vehicle saunter past the house a bit too slow for regular traffic. Not that there is other traffic…

  My gut says to take note of the make and model. I watch it roll by, and see it’s a Chevy Camaro—black. Now why does that bother me? Wait—the vagrant…I remember what the vagrant said.

  “All’s I saw was a Camaro—black and screamin’ like the wind.”

  I whip the cruiser out into the road and flip on the lights. The fresh powder denies the tires the grip they need, and the cruiser shimmies a bit before finding a sure footing. I gun it as the Camaro picks up speed.

  Siren blaring, I’m in pursuit as the Camaro’s taillights go up and over a rise. I clear it in a few seconds, the cruiser’s 5.0 liter bellowing, and see the suspect vehicle about a quarter mile ahead.

  “Dispatch,” I say into my radio, “this is car number three. I’m in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle heading south on Old Brinson Road. Stand by.”

  Barbwire and fence posts line the open fields on either side of the road. They melt into a blur as the needle slingshots across the dash. I play loose with the gas; one wrong move and I’ll end up in a ditch.

  A quarter mile down the road and the needle is buried. I’m gaining on the Camaro. The taillights grow larger until I’m sure I have him, but then they ignite in a flash of red as the driver mashes the brakes.

  There’s no way I can stop in time; I won’t have enough traction. I stomp on the brake pedal and the tires skid. The rear of the cruiser starts to give, and I try to compensate with steering.

  I correct the fishtail, but I’m nearly on top of the other car. The rear of the vehicle dominates my field of vision. I brace for impact, but it never comes.

  The cruiser comes to a halt several feet beyond where we should’ve hit. There’s no trace of the Camaro anywhere. Not in my rearview…not on the roadside. The white fields are empty.

  The radio is crackling as I step out of the cruiser and wonder what the hell just happened. I look back the way I came. Nothing but a few wisps of the exhaust… I must be losing it. It’s hard to choke back a laugh of disbelief, and the frigid air is more biting than it was before.

  I get behind the wheel again and radio the station. “Dispatch, this is Hildersham. Cancel that—I’ve lost the vehicle.”

  “Copy that,” is the reply from Dispatch.

  Three clunks and the cruiser is in “drive” again. My mind is thick and numb with everything I can’t explain from the last half-hour. Some of the old timers talk about seeing stuff out in their fields or on some back road, but no one ever believes them. They’re just crazy farmers. Maybe I should lend credence to what they say.

  That line of thinking will get me into trouble for sure. Josie will think I’ve been drinking. I’m always the level-headed one—no time for shenanigans. Stay focused. Cars just don’t disappear. Neither do little boys.

  I lose my train of thought at the flash of high beams in the rearview. Someone just came out of nowhere, and they’re on my tail like mange on a mutt.

  It’s the Camaro; I know it. Its motor is making the most God-awful sound as it bears down on me. I’m ready for it to explode into the back seat, the way it’s howling. My only recourse is to punch the accelerator for fear of being rear-ended.

  Times like these, it hits me—there’s no safety out here. It’s just me and the road, and the desperation letting loose from under the hood. Thoughts of Josie race to the forefront of my mind. Her golden hair seems far away.

  The Camaro is so close now that I can’t see the headlights anymore—only their glare is visible, reflected from the cruiser’s bumper. Of all things I notice a bullet hole in the windshield.

  The howl is deafening now; it sounds like a freight train is going to derail on top of me. The blare resonates through my bones, and again I wait for impact.

  Then—silence. The glaring lights are gone and I’m left flying along the countryside at eighty miles an hour. The leftover adrenaline goes to my right leg and I can’t stop it from pumping up and down; I pull off along the shoulder and come to a jerky stop.

  The wipers drag noisily across the windshield and I breathe in measured gasps, only long enough for half of an inhale. I bring myself to check the rearview once more. It’s empty.

  All my senses are alive. I can almost taste the cold. My mind lets go of any particular thought and I start to drift along, staring down the road and watching the snow flutter. I watch myself drive to Mendelssohn’s house; I see me walk inside. And I know what I see inside. Then I’m chasing the Camaro, and in turn it chases me.

  Still drifting, I find myself back at the Mendelssohn farm, and I keep seeing that boy over and over. He’s there in the corner, and he doesn’t have any eyes.

  Rickets and Hollow Trees

  October 27th, 1986

  Culver Crisp walking home from school

  “I’ll look pretty for you, Culver Crisp,” Starla says to me as she swings my arm in her hand.

  I’m seven years old, and I don’t know what to say.

  Starla is all smiles and gawks at me like I’m the greatest thing ever. “I’ll wear my pink ribbon and my new dress.”

  We’re walking home from school along Castle Road. It’s the busiest road in town. There are all kinds of houses and barns, and lots of fields from one end to the other, but someone forgot to build a sidewalk. So we walk beside the white line in the gravel and weeds.

  I don’t live on Castle Road, but Starla does. She and her mom stay in the Asbury Commons trailer park, out past the circle in town. It’s further away from school than I thought.

  After school, Starla’s mom usually picks her up in Nancy’s car. Nancy waits on tables with Starla’s mom at the Manor Restaurant, and lets her borrow the car a lot. Sometimes the restaurant gets busy and her mom can’t take her break, so Starla has to walk.

  Starla’s mom didn’t show up today. We were standing on the steps in front of the school when I asked Starla if I could walk home with her. I had my blue backpack and my Ghostbusters lunchbox, and talked with my eyes mostly down. My mom would say I was being bashful.

  “OK,” Starla said with her pretty smile. She knew I liked her, and I sure hoped she liked me—but I didn’t have the guts to ask her if she did. She’s all I think about from afternoon recess until the bell rings.

  She grabbed my free hand and walked me along like I was something to be proud of. “Whatcha doin’?” asked a freckled girl named Bethany while we marched off the school grounds.

  “Walking home with Culver Crisp,” Starla said.

  Boy, did I like that. She didn’t say, “Walking home with Jeff Chester,” or “Walking home with Timmy Ryan.” She said, “Walking home with Culver Crisp” like she had picked me.

  We’re past the corner and can’t see the school anymore. I don’t look at much of anything other than my white sneakers kicking stones along the way, but I peek at Starla now and then.

  Most of her blond hair is in a pony tail; the rest of it has fallen around her face. It always pulls out of place during recess. Sometimes we ride the swings together, and we try to see who can swing the highest.

  Starla is wearing her red flower dress today. She usually wears it once a week. I like her red flower dress, but wonder what her new one looks like. Mom always says a lady’s dress shouldn’t go higher than her knees.

  I try to keep up while Starla is going on about everything. How her grandma was bow-legged because she had the rickets, and about how she wants a dog but her mom won’t let her. I never talked to a girl this long before and had no idea if they always talked this much. I thought I should say something, and muster a “Wow, really?” every so often.

  I hope she doesn’t think I’m dumb. It’s easier when there aren’t other kids around, but I’m still afraid of sayi
ng something stupid. I’m worried about getting home on time, too. Starla’s trailer is out of the way for me, and mom will be mad if I don’t go straight home.

  Mom always has to know where I am. She’s the same way with my older sister. I wish I was like the other kids who don’t have to do the same. Starla’s allowed to walk from school all by herself. Cars drive real fast along here. I know Mom is always complaining to Dad that he drives too fast when we’re on Castle Road.

  Starla stops talking for a bit. I don’t know if she expects me to say something, but she’s grinning again. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you like living in a trailer?”

  “It’s OK,” she says. “My momma says someday we’ll get a house, but it might be awhile. She says we have to save more money.”

  “Yeah, my mom and dad talk about saving money too,” I say. “That’s why when I get older, I’m gonna be rich.”

  Starla giggles. “Me too. I’ll buy a hundred pink ribbons and a puppy dog.” She’s swinging my arm again.

  “What kind of dog do you want?” I ask.

  “A big fuzzy one.”

  I wrinkle my nose at that. “Aw no, you don’t want that! You need a big tough one to be a guard dog—and to go fishin’ with.”

  “But I don’t like fishing. Fishes are gross.” Starla makes a face.

  My hand is all sweaty and I hope she doesn’t notice. We don’t have much longer to go. There’s a bunch of trees and then the trailer park is on the other side. A few of the trees are close to the road. They’re so big, probably nobody wanted to cut them down.

  We’re passing by one of them when Timmy Ryan jumps out from behind. “Aauuuugh!” he yells.

  Starla squeezes my hand and screams the way girls do. I jump as much as she does, but I don’t scream.

  Timmy is laughing and says, “Boy, did I get you.” He stands there grinning with his buzz cut and jean jacket.

  “Timm-eee,” Starla says. She’s trying not to smile.

  “This here tree is hollow,” Timmy says as he points to his hiding place. “I saw you two coming and so I was waiting.”