Stone Cold Dead (10 page)

Just then the smelly guard returned with a boy in tow.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “I was nearly manhandled by these delinquents.”

He shrugged his indifference. “Cry me a river, sister. Here’s the kid you wanted to see,” and he ambled off somewhere, surely to scratch himself against a tree.

The kid standing before me was short with longish, unkempt hair. His eyes were big pools of brown, desperate and angry. He had full, red lips, chapped and raw from the dry cold.

“Are you Joey Figlio?” I asked.

“Yeah. Who wants to know?” he said, taking the seat opposite me at the table.

“My name’s Ellie Stone. I work for the paper. Darleen’s mother asked me to help find her.”

“They told me a reporter was here to see me. I wasn’t expecting a Girl Scout.” And he chuckled.

“That’s funny,” I said, playing along. “You can have a good laugh over that one when I drive home, and you’re still stuck in here.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. He fidgeted in his seat, scowling for a moment, then asked me what I wanted.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Darleen. I assume you’d like to help me.”

“I know what happened to her,” he mumbled. “The only way you can help is to get me out of here so I can get the guy that did this to her.”

“Did what exactly?” I asked.

He gazed at me with those big brown eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was seething mad or about to cry.

“You know as well as me that she’s gone,” he said softly.

I had to admit that a happy conclusion was growing more unlikely by the hour. Darleen had been missing for two weeks in the middle of a frigid cold spell. Chances that she was alive were slim, unless she’d actually run off with an unknown man, as the sheriff maintained. Like Darleen’s mother, Joey seemed to have accepted the worst as well. Irene Metzger just wanted to know what had happened to Darleen and to close the book on her poor daughter’s life. Joey Figlio wanted something more.

“You said you wanted to get the guy who did this,” I prompted. “You said it as if you knew who he was.”

Joey stared deep into my eyes, unblinking, and said he did.

“Mr. Russell, the music teacher,” he said quietly. “I’m going to get out of this crazy place, with its crazy food and music, and I’m going to kill him.”

“This place is crazy?” I asked.

“They make us eat funny food and listen to stupid music,” he said as if no further explanation was required.

Joey Figlio warmed to me after that, as if confiding his murderous intentions had made us confederates. His JD, wise-guy veneer melted away, replaced by a sort of inflamed ardor, a sensitive yet volatile passion for everything he cared about, most of all Darleen. Like a fervid partisan or an artist who knows nothing of compromise or half measures, Joey Figlio screamed earnest zeal. But at the same time, you knew he was deeply disturbed. He leaned back in his chair and rocked slowly, staring at the floor as he chewed on the rough edge of a fingernail.

“You drive?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Not all girls know how to drive.”

“Maybe not, but I do.”

“Have you ever piloted a plane?”

“No, and I’ve never captained a ship either. Can we change the subject? I’m here to ask you about Darleen.”

He shrugged, as if resigned to being told what to do by everyone. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“How long have you known her?” I asked.

“About two years. Since seventh grade. We were in different schools before then.”

“Where did you meet?”

“I met her my first day of seventh grade and fell in love with her.”

“Isn’t that rather young?” I asked, thinking how sweet it was.

Joey didn’t answer. He just stared off into space, inscrutable, lost in some tender memory of his beloved or vengeful fantasy of murdering her killer. It could have been either one with this boy. Barely an adolescent, he was contending with painful adult emotions that he was ill-equipped to handle.

“But she wasn’t your steady back then, was she?”

He shook his head, perhaps ruing the lost months and the love they might have shared over a social studies or arithmetic book.

“Just since last May,” he said softly. “We flunked English together.”

“Mrs. Nolan’s class?” He seemed surprised that I knew. “Sophocles can be tough.”

He chuckled. “I wrote ‘Eddie Puss’ on my test, and Adelaide failed me. Old hag.”

“Poor woman,” I scolded, thinking he would have surely failed anyway. “She liked Darleen, though.”

Joey shrugged then demanded a cigarette. I asked if the students were allowed to smoke, and he nodded.

“At least until one of the guards catches us. They steal them and smoke them themselves.”

“Tell me about Darleen,” I said, offering my cigarette case; he grabbed several, stuffed all but one into his breast pocket, and slipped that one between his lips. I held out my lighter, hoping he’d give it back when he was done. He lit his cigarette, turned the lighter over in hand, examining it distractedly, then pushed it gently across the table to me.

“What was she like?” I asked, opting for the past tense.

“She was the coolest girl. We were going to run away together, take off for Florida. I was going to find a job, and we were going to get married.”

“How old are you, Joey?” I asked.

“Fifteen. Sixteen in May. I got held back in the third grade. How old are you, Ellie?”

Joey Figlio had no concept of propriety. He lacked discretion and placed no limitations on his speech. He would boldly ask you uncomfortable questions or bare his soul without invitation, no matter how personal or unwanted the information was. He was a naïf, a child—and perhaps a slow-witted one—fiercely proud of his high passions and unafraid to cut off his nose to spite his face, as my mother used to say. I couldn’t decide if he was retarded or wildly intelligent, but he had a flair for theatrics.

“I understand you write poetry,” I said. “Would you show me your poems about Darleen?”

“I asked you how old you are,” he repeated.

“Twenty-four,” I answered tentatively. “Now about your poetry. Would you show it to me?”

“No,” he said. “That’s private between me and Darleen.”

“I won’t tell anyone, promise. I love poetry. Maybe I could give you a critique.”

He just stared at me, his eyes almost dead, emotionless. He was truly odd.

“When did you last see Darleen?” I asked, changing gears.

“That’s two questions in a row,” he said.

“You can ask me one next. When did you last see Darleen?”

“The last time was about a month ago. They sent me up here on December fifth.”

I tried to look him in the eye, but he was focused on something else again.

“I heard you broke out of here the day before she disappeared. Did you see her then?”

“My turn. What kind of car do you drive?” he asked.

Okay, I knew the drill now.

“A Dodge Royal Lancer. Red and black,” I said. “Did you see Darleen during the two days you were on the lam?”

“Yeah, I saw her. I was lying to you. I hitchhiked to New Holland then took a bus over to the South Side and walked five miles to Darleen’s place. Hid out in her stepfather’s barn for two nights before that old crank caught me. But Darleen brought me some beef and macaroni before that. It sure was good, but not enough. They don’t give us beef here. How did you manage to get such a nice car? Is your dad rich or something?”

That took me by surprise. Just the mention of my father could still knock the wind out of me. I tried to bury it. “Company car,” I croaked. “Did you see her the day she disappeared?”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m not telling you that. You seem to be quite good at slipping your jailers here, and I don’t have any beef and macaroni to offer you. Besides, it’s my turn to ask the question. Did you see her the day she disappeared?”

He thought a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I saw her. She came to the barn and gave me some bread and butter and milk, then she said she had to go. She said she’d bring me some gum or something from Canajoharie. Of course, she never came back. Then her father caught me about eight o’clock that night and called the cops. They brought me back here. You got a boyfriend or are you married?”

“Neither. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary that day? Was Darleen upset about anything?”

“She was okay, in a good mood. Nothing strange, except that weird neighbor of hers.”

“Bobby Karl?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“What about him?” I asked, realizing I’d just managed two questions in row.

“He was watching her from the fence when she went to catch her bus. I don’t think Darleen knew he was there, but I saw him. His shadow anyways.”

Then he asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You’re pretty,” he said. “Are you some kind of prude or something?”

“I have dates, but no one steady,” I answered. Prude, indeed. “Did Darleen ever mention this Bobby Karl to you?”

“Lots of times. She said he stared at her a lot from across the fence. One time, when her ma gave her a haircut, Darleen said he stole some of her hair before she could sweep it up. She saw him through the screen door as he was taking it.”

I remembered the lock of hair tied up with yellow ribbon that I’d seen on Bobby Karl’s queer collage and wondered if it might have been Darleen’s.

Before leaving, I had a word with the principal, Dr. Arnold Dienst, about Joey Figlio. Dienst was a tall man of about fifty, with an equine face and large, probing eyes, homely but kind. Dienst told me Joey was an unusual boy, even for Fulton.

“He’s a loner. Hasn’t bonded with any of the boys here at the school. And he won’t take any tests, so we don’t know anything about his intelligence, though I suspect he’s an imbecile, perhaps even an idiot.”

“I heard he writes poetry,” I said. “Do you know if he keeps it here?”

“That’s news to me,” said Dienst. “I’m not sure he knows which side of a pencil to write with, but I suppose it’s possible.”

“Can you search his belongings for it?”

“That’s rather irregular, Miss Stone. What do you hope to find anyway?”

I said I didn’t know. “He won’t tell me much. I was thinking maybe his poetry might be more illuminating.”

Dienst scribbled something into a pad on his desk, squinting sideways to focus better as he wrote. His eyeglasses must have been for distance, not reading.

“I can’t search his things without good cause. But if anything were to come to light, I would reconsider the question,” he said.

“What did he do to land up here anyway?” I asked.

“The first time he stole a car,” said the principal, whose nameplate identified him as a PhD. He struck me as a caring, intelligent man. How had he ended up in this forsaken backwater? “Then he started a fire somewhere or other. Thankfully, no one was hurt. I’d like to bring him out of his shell, but he’s resisting me. Some specialists have recommended electric shock therapy, but I am not a believer in such barbaric methods. I prefer a more humanistic approach. That’s where I disagree strongly with the board here. They’re either for corporal punishment or psychotherapy. The causes of juvenile delinquency and its treatment are both poorly understood, even in the institutions and research centers across the country. It’s not a facile matter of beating discipline and good behavior into a child. Nor should we be tempted to spare the rod in the name of progress. Some juvenile delinquents are born, but I suspect many more are made. And I believe the child can ultimately decide for himself what behavior is most advantageous to him, provided we give him that opportunity. What’s sure, at any rate, is that a child gone wrong is never a lost cause. That’s why we encourage arts and crafts, music, and education here at Fulton.”

“That’s progressive,” I said. “Have you observed positive results in your students? Is it working?”

Dienst smiled and shook his head. “It’s not so simple. We have thieves, arsonists, forgers, what have you. Even sexual deviants. That’s a problem exacerbated by grouping teenage boys together with no outlet for their sexual urges. Sex is, after all, a normal human function. But we must guard against perversion and unhealthy behaviors.”

Why was he telling me this? All I’d asked was if it was working.

“Each case is different, you see,” he continued. “So to formulate conclusions and categorize them so broadly and vaguely as success or failure is a sophistic exercise.”

I took that as a no.

“Do you know anything about what Joey Figlio did when he escaped?” I asked, deciding not to share my other thoughts.

Dr. Dienst harrumphed. “Which time?”