The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin (19 page)

Above his own name on the tree, however, are just names. No pictures, no facts.

I point to the empty spaces. Why not more?

Dad looks away. He takes a deep breath. He gestures for me to follow him upstairs. Mom starts to follow, but Dad does the karate chop that means “stop.” It’s to be just me and him, I guess. Man-to-man. Mom looks a little sad.

We enter the attic. Dad pulls a chain, and an overhead bulb flickers to life. I see old books and games, even a drum kit from that weird phase when I decided I wanted to be a musician. I could feel the vibrations of the bass drum and looked really cool twirling the drumsticks. Why did I give that up?

Various other Halpin artifacts sit in unsorted piles. It’s clear Dad has been up here on a personal mission, digging through our history. He picks up a dusty metal box, inserts a key on a long yellow ribbon, and pops it open. “This is all I have,” he says, gesturing so I get the point. The box contains a picture of
his parents. His father, Grandpa Halpin, was one ample ancestor. As Dad shows me the picture, I laugh because Dad remembers a sign for “fat” that really is hilarious—you use your thumb and pinkie to make a little chubber waddle around in the air.

Then Dad makes the sign for “drunk,” which you do by trying to take a drink but missing your face. It kind of looks like you’re throwing a punch. And then he does punch his hand. This is, not surprisingly, the sign for “punch.”

I don’t have to say the question. I just raise my eyebrows. Dad nods.

“He hit you?”

“Yes. A lot.”

He mimes taking off his belt, and I just shake my head.

“I got away from him, from them,” Dad signs, “and never looked back.”

Well, I mean, who can blame him?

He shows me a folder with some more research into the other Will Halpin that he’d been working on after I brought it up and hands me some papers—a few other pictures of Dummy from newspaper archives and a couple of different articles. We look at them together. In one of the pictures, Dummy has an ear trumpet and a gleam in his eye. Most of those old dudes in those pictures have eyes black as coal. Dead eyes. But Dummy … he seems mischievous, up to something. I sign, “Thank you,” and he signs it back. I’m not sure what I’m being thanked for. We sit without saying a word.

For some reason, in that moment, several things become clear. It is clear that if I stay at Carbon High or not, Mom and
Dad will respect my choice. And it is clear, though I am not sure how or even why, that I have to reveal what I know of the twin mysteries of Dummy Halpin and the death of Pat Chambers. I have to shine the light of truth on two guys lost in the bottom of that mine. But, first, time to go to bed.

I sleep better than I have in a long, long time.

Back at school
on Tuesday, I am greeted by a massive amount of Chambers tributes that had been left around the halls of Carbon High as part of the vigil the previous afternoon. There are signs, cards, even teddy bears for some reason. Outside Pat’s locker, there are crosses made out of flowers, although I doubt he was a very religious guy. There are also football-shaped bouquets, which make way more sense. Someone had printed copies of his picture on red paper and stuck them on lockers, windows, doorways, and everywhere else they could reach. I guess it is supposed to make us feel better to express ourselves, but it creeps me out—his scarlet face smirking from beyond the grave.

Strangest of all, however, is the homemade T-shirt made by, you guessed it, Kevin Planders. Planders had taken an old white shirt and used Magic Markers to write COALERS on the front and
CHAMBERS 45 on the back. Then, on the sleeve, he tried to write RIP and the date Pat died, but it is hard to tell because he apparently got caught in the morning’s rain.

The grief counselors are gone, but there is still a police presence in the school. As I walked through the parking lot with Devon in the morning, we noted unmarked cop cars. Devon signed, “
I H-O -P-E H-A -W-L-E-Y I-S N-O-T H-E -R-E. T-H -A-T G-U-Y H-A-S I-T I-N F-O-R M-E
.”

Classes were supposed to return to normal, to “let the healing begin,” but who are they kidding? It is way too soon to think about school. Even Arterberry is distracted. We are supposed to be learning about World War I, but he just assigns silent reading and stares out the window. What is he thinking? From the furrowing of his brow, it is clear that unpleasant thoughts are racing across his mind. Does he suspect that he is teaching a murderer in this very class? Or is he simply bummed about the disturbing revelations regarding his friend Miss Prefontaine?

I break out my little notebook. Besides for general spying on my classmates, I’ve been using it to sketch out my theories—even a map—of what happened at the mine. The thing is, see, I already know who killed Pat Chambers. Even if I don’t want to admit it to anyone. Least of all myself.

Though such devices are prohibited in school, I crack out my Crony just on the off chance that one of those police cars belonged to Melody and she is sending me an e-mail to alert me of her presence. No such luck. What I do get, a minute after logging in, is an IM.

I am not paying attention to the clock and am glad Devon sends me a message saying the bell has rung. We walk down the hall to math, sending a few more secret messages about potential suspects as we wind through the masses. Then he sends a little message saying “Look to your right” just as a cute senior bends over at her locker. Nice.

Math class
. It is sort of impossible to believe that instead of standing there “teaching” us about angles, Miss Prefontaine is at this very moment in a jail cell. It is hard to imagine her feeling scared, and weirder still because only Devon and I know who really brought her to that point.

Our sub for the day is not Mr. Tough Guy but rather an odd-looking woman that Principal Kroener must’ve hired as an anti-Prefontaine.

“Hello, my wonderful students,” she says after staring at us with a glassy-eyed smile for several confusing minutes. “I am Mrs. Faulk, and you can call me … Mrs. Faulk.”

What can I say about Mrs. Faulk? A wildebeest in a lime green pants suit. Lipstick smeared on thicker than tar on a country road, and enough rouge to choke a horse. Isn’t that
what it’s called? Rouge? As I try to catch Dev’s eye, I catch someone else’s.

Hawley, that mustached hulk of a detective, is taking up most of the doorway and looking around the room with a fierce determination. No one else has seen him yet. I alone watch him looming there like a dark troll guarding his bridge. He stares around the room, rakes his chin with giant fingers, and wrinkles his nose as though something smells very bad. And then he finds his man. He is staring right at Devon with a look that could melt steel.

But Devon is just zoning out. I note that he is doodling some dolphins, for nostalgia’s sake. Hawley coughs, and Devon looks over at him. He motions with two fingers on his left hand that Devon should come with him. Devon looks at me and does that move where you pull your collar in mock fear—trying to make a joke of it. But as he passes by, his face goes a few shades paler.

Faulk blathers and everyone whispers, speculating on Devon and the detective. What to do, what to do? Suddenly a fully formed plan, one worthy of the Smileyman himself, comes to mind.

First, I write a note to Mrs. Faulk describing a sudden onset of some unnamed illness that requires an immediate trip to Nurse Weaver. Then I write a second note, which I fold and put into my pocket. I raise my hand and bring the first note to the teacher’s desk. Mrs. Faulk reads it and, as expected, seems very concerned. A softie. She gestures that I should hurry along, winking at me the whole time. Does she know what I am really
up to? I head straight for the boys’ bathroom, take a huge bunch of paper towels, and stuff them into one of the grungy toilets. I keep stuffing paper into the toilet, more and more, like a looter filling a sack. Then I flush.

The water begins to back up. I take out the second note I had written in math class. It says, in a panicked scrawl, “EMERGENCY! THE TOILET IS FLOODING! CALL THE JANITOR!” I run into the classroom across the hall from the bathroom, where a freshman math class is in progress with a teacher whose name I don’t know. He looks a little baffled by my sudden presence at his door. He reads the note and immediately goes to the classroom phone to page Lucille. I rub my fingers and make a devious evil genius smile. Then I realize I am still standing in front of the freshman math class.

I run out and head to the back stairwell, which leads to the building’s basement. A grumpy-looking Lucille passes me carrying a bucket and a mop. The janitor’s office is now empty, and I will have at least a few minutes alone down there. Still, I am nervous. As I stride quickly toward the door, I look over my shoulder every two seconds—maybe more—fearful that someone will see me. I have no idea how I will explain myself if anyone catches me. Am I still new enough at school that I can pretend to be lost? Will they suspect me of starting the toilet volcano? Nah. Maybe being the newcomer-weirdo has some advantages? If everyone underestimates you, you can either sink to their level or take joy in proving them wrong. I’m going for number two.

I am trying to remember what I learned in my one day with
Smiley Security Services. I need to see what Devon is saying to Detective Hawley in Kroener’s office.

I head down the stairwell and descend once again into the darkness. The unnerving smell of sweaty socks wafts toward me. I wish the Black Rose could be here. But there is no Frank, no Black Rose. Just Chet. Deaf guy on a solo mission.

Inside the janitor’s room, that dank little cave, the T1300 surveillance system is turned on. There on the screen is just what I want to see: Devon and Detective Hawley in the middle of an intense conversation.

I can see Dev pretty well and have an easy time lip-reading what he is saying, but I can’t see Hawley. Still, it is pretty obvious how the conversation is going: not well. Devon keeps wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Hawley then presents Devon with a plastic bag. It holds his handkerchief, clearly bagged as evidence.

“Hey, I wondered where that went,” Devon says. And then, after a pause, he adds, “That doesn’t prove anything.” And then he looks annoyed and adds, “That doesn’t prove anything either. So what if I was separated from my buddy? So what if I actually hated Pat? And so what if you found my handkerchief in the janitor’s office? This is all
(something)
at best. Proves nothing.” It is hard to lip-read this last part, since Devon is getting agitated, but I am pretty sure the word I missed was actually “circumstantial
.”
Isn’t that what they say on all those cop shows? And then he says something I know they say on those shows all the time: “I want a lawyer.”