The Angel of Knowlton Park (6 page)

"Grabbed something from near the man's... I mean, at that point, I thought it was a man... from near his head, then backed off, barking frantically. It was making a fearful racket. Osborne called it, and he was making a fearful racket, too, because the dog wouldn't obey. I wondered why the man didn't wake up. Then the dog plunged down the slope with something in its mouth, right past Osborne, and into the bushes by the pond. Osborne made no effort to follow it, though he saw it had taken something."

"Could you see what the dog was carrying?"

She shook her head. "Something blue." She made a square with her hands, about ten or twelve inches. "About so big. Carried it into the bushes and came out without it. I know I shouldn't have, but I went up to Osborne and I said, 'Your dog took something from that man.' He just shrugged and turned away."

"What did he do then? Did he approach the... uh... Timmy?"

"Yes. He marched up there, bent down and grabbed the blanket like he was going to undo it, then he just kind of straightened up and walked away. So he couldn't help but see..." She stopped, making a conscious effort to suppress her opinions about Osborne.

"At some point you went up yourself and discovered the body?"

"You'll think I'm an old fool," she said. "I went up to apologize for Osborne and his dog. And when I got up there..." She looked toward the window, but what she was seeing was inside her head. "There was blood on the blanket. I wanted to run away then, but I thought maybe someone needed help, and when I got closer, I saw it was Timmy."

Abruptly, she shoved the pad and pencil off her lap and stood. "Excuse me..."

Burgess rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes. Lately he was so tired that some days the haze never lifted. It had been a hard winter and spring. He'd dragged himself through the last month with visions of that peaceful lake, pan-fried trout for breakfast, time with Chris when he wasn't busy or distracted. It was hard to let those visions go. But Timmy Watts was dead and for now, his attention need to be here.

He looked around the room—practical and pleasant, like Grace Johnston herself. He'd been at this long enough to be suspicious of people who were too forthcoming, witnesses too willing to share their stories. But he'd also been a cop long enough to see truth when it came at him. Grace Johnston was the real thing. A neighbor, a citizen, a good person. A bit opinionated, but then, most people who'd made it through seventy years were.

She returned with a box of tissues. "I guess it's all right to cry," she said. "You're probably used to it. My generation, we were raised to put up a good front. To pretend everything was fine, no matter what."

Burgess knew about that. His mother had perfected the art of keeping her troubles to herself, trying never to show her fear of his father or her worries about money to her children. She'd been dead going on three years now, and sometimes his grief was so strong it might have been yesterday. "Yes," he said. "It's all right to cry."

"He was just such an endearing child," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't see how anyone could..."

"How did you know him?"

"Oh, he was always around. Playing with other children. Riding his bike. Looking for bottles he could return for a little pocket money. Back in the spring, when I hurt my wrist, he used to come and walk Popeye. My dog."

"What was he like?"

Grace Johnston considered. Like her drawing, she would want her description of Timmy to be clear and accurate. And she would believe in not speaking ill of the dead. "A diamond in the rough," she said, finally. "The way he spoke, his language, was simply appalling, but he was full of wonder and curiosity. He was so needy it broke your heart, but he had an extraordinary natural generosity. Where he got it, with that family..."

He saw her willfully pull back from this digression. "Timmy was tender toward smaller children and animals. Except he was terrified of big dogs. Well, what would you expect? His family was likely to set their dogs on anyone, including their own relatives."

She wiped her eyes. "Half the time, they didn't even remember to feed him. He's only been around about a year. I don't know how it was where they lived before. But I can't imagine it was any different. He always looked like the rag man's child. Dirty and disheveled. Always needing a haircut and a bath. I had a special afghan I put on the sofa when he was here because of the dirt, but he thought it was just for him. It was blue..." Her tears flowed freely. "Blue like the blanket he was wrapped in. Blue was his favorite color."

She turned away from Burgess, the closest she could come to privacy, until she'd recovered. "Sometimes he'd come after school and ring my bell. I'd find him on the steps with that adorable little buck-toothed grin, and he'd say, 'Please, Mrs. Johnston, I've came for tea.' I'd fix him cocoa and cookies, make myself some tea, and we'd curl up on the couch and read or watch TV. Not much of a reader himself, but he loved to be read to. He was everybody's child, Detective. Not quite nine years old. How could someone...?"

Burgess didn't have an answer yet. In order to understand what had happened, he had to come to know the victim, be able to picture him, know where he'd go and who he'd see. What his life was like. It was hard with anyone—the young mother working nights in a convenience store, the beloved grandfather bludgeoned with a pipe by a crack-head who wanted his wallet, the shy librarian raped and drowned in her bathtub—but children were the hardest. It was hard to reconstruct their lives, habits, and friendships. He couldn't help thinking of all the living they'd miss.

"Do you know who he played with? Who his friends were?"

"I can't give you names," she said. "A bunch of them used to run around the neighborhood, all different ages, girls and boys. He talked about two boys called Sam and Davey, but he was the only one I knew. When he came here, he came alone."

"Did you see him yesterday?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I went up to Rockport to an art exhibit. Got back late and went straight to bed. I can't help but wonder if things might have been different if I'd been home."

"You can't blame yourself..."

"Of course I can." She opened the drawer of a small table beside her chair and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "This was in my door when I got home."

He unfolded the paper. It was a crude crayon drawing of a blond child with a suitcase. On it, the artist had written: "I'm runig away frum hom. Gudby and thanks for all the kukies. Timmy."

"May I keep this?" he asked.

"If you think it might help. Oh," she said. "I never finished about Osborne. When I saw it was Timmy, I ran after him and told him to call the police. He had a cell phone on his belt, while I'd have to go home to call. And I wanted to stay with Timmy. Not that it mattered, but I thought he shouldn't be alone."

"I understand," he said.

"He wouldn't call. He said it was none of his business and walked away like it didn't matter at all that a little boy was dead."

"Thank you," he said, getting up. "Thank you for all your help."

She walked him to the door. He stopped in the doorway, assailed by the wall of moist heat, and looked down at her. She looked diminished and fragile. As soon as she shut the door, she'd be in tears again. "Is there someone you could call to be with you?"

She looked surprised, then nodded. "I should do that, shouldn't I?"

She followed him onto the porch and pointed to a blue house across the street and about six doors down. "That's where Osborne lives." As he stepped into the bright glare of the sun, she called after him, "Find him, Detective. Find the man who did this before he does it again."

Descending the steps reminded him that even the best painkillers have a finite working life. His knee was screaming like an ignored two-year-old. He stopped at his car, snarled at the sporty orange canoe, and grabbed some pills.

He called Stan Perry and arranged to meet him in forty-five minutes to interview Timmy's family. Perry would have had time to touch base with Rocky Jordan, who was searching the records, and would arrive up-to-speed with what the computer could tell them about the various members of the Watts family. Then he limped down the street to Osborne's house and rang the bell.

Chapter 5

The flurry of barking exploding inside made Burgess wish he'd brought pepper spray. This particular animal already had two strikes against it. It had messed with his crime scene and it had terrified a small boy. He had a pretty good idea he wasn't going to like the dog's owner much, either. Grace Johnston might not be a neutral observer but she was honest.

The barking continued but no one appeared. The Saab in the driveway had "Ozzie" on the vanity plate, so he had reason to believe the owner was home. He rang the bell again.

Footsteps thudded. The door was jerked open by a man wearing only a pair of chino shorts. His hair was wet and tousled, water beaded his chest and shoulders and ran in trails across a pale, flabby stomach. It didn't take a detective to know he'd just come from the shower.

"What the fuck do you want?" the man snapped. A huge mastiff, echoing his sentiments, stuck its head around his leg and growled.

Burgess flipped out his badge. "Detective Sergeant Burgess, Portland Police. Like to ask you some questions about the boy in the park." He stepped into the house, forcing the man and dog backward.

"Can't help you," the man said. "I don't know anything about that."

Burgess might have been born at night, but not last night. People should know better. Burgess knew what he looked like. He'd seen himself often enough in crime scene pictures. Salt and pepper hair, fierce dark eyes, the unsmiling mouth and scarred cheek, an aging full-back's body. It was neither a pleasant nor welcoming visage and he sure didn't look naive.

Burgess pulled out his notebook. "You are Mr. Osborne?" The man nodded. "Could we sit somewhere, sir? It's been a long day..."

Burgess could almost hear the words bubbling up in the man's brain. "I don't give a shit about your day." Some feeble vestige of manners or self-protection stopped them. The only difference between Osborne and the scumbags who normally uttered such sentiments was this guy had a nice house with shiny floors and leather furniture, a Saab in the driveway, evidence of a regular paycheck. Osborne waved a hand toward the living room. "I don't know why you want to talk to me, but have a seat," he said. "I'm going to put a shirt on."

Burgess started toward the living room.

The dog, growling, positioned itself between him and the doorway. "Rogue!" Osborne said. "Come." Rogue gave his master the canine version of eye-fucking attitude and stood his ground.

Burgess, watching the struggle between man and dog, heard Grace Johnston. "The man is undisciplined, uncivilized, and so is his dog." Finally, Osborne grabbed the dog's collar, dragged it down the hall, and shut it in another room. Then he stomped up the stairs. Between man and dog, Burgess didn't think the shiny floors would last long.

Osborne's living room had the unlived-in quality of a furniture showroom. Smart, uncomfortable sofa, a coffee table with carefully arranged books, two blond wood coasters and an ashtray, a black iron floor lamp with a mica shade and the price still hanging from the switch. The only personal touches were two blue and yellow needlepoint pillows. Maybe Osborne had a doting aunt. The generic 'Coast of Maine' painting over the sterile fireplace was too neat and pastel to be real. It needed a rusting piece of farm machinery, a derelict barn, or an overturned boat in a state of disrepair. Mainers weren't neat and pastel. They had projects. They had
stuff.

Overhead, a hairdryer whirred, a door slammed, a toilet flushed. Eventually, Osborne reappeared wearing an ugly olive and tan plaid polo shirt and boat shoes without socks, his thinning blond hair moussed into place. "Sorry about that," he said, settling into an expensive leather chair. "Thought you were one of those damned college students from Greenpeace or the Sierra Club. Every time I get in the shower, the doorbell rings. Unless it's kids, selling candy or cookies or collecting bottles. The kids in this neighborhood." He rolled his eyes.

Burgess clicked his pen. "What's your full name and date of birth, Mr. Osborne?"

"Jeffrey. Jeffrey Davis Osborne. 7-10-69."

"You've lived here how long?"