The Camaro Murders (3 page)

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 saying 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.”

I thought it was kind of a mean trick, and I'm unhappy Starla has now let go of my hand. She knows Timmy because he lives in the trailer park too. He's really good at baseball and is always trying to get attention.

“Hey, Culver,” Timmy says to me, “you ever been down to the ravine?” He's talking about the ravine where Potter's Creek runs behind the school. There're woods on both sides and everybody says the Principal keeps a shack out there where he takes kids who are bad. On recess, some kids go back there, even though no one's allowed. I always stop at the edge of the trees.

“You're not supposed to go back there,” Starla says.

“Aw, Jeff and I been back there a bunch of times,” Timmy says like it's nothing.

Starla's eyes widen. “Does Mr. Cressup really have a shack where he paddles kids?”

“I ain't telling. You'll have to see for yourself,” Timmy says, arms folded. He looks at me and begins to taunt. “You ain't scared, are ya' Culver?”

“No, I'm not scared,” I say. I am, though. I'm afraid to get caught by one of the recess monitors.

Timmy says, “I dare you to go back there.”

I shrug and say, “I'll go back there. I'll do it.”

“What about you?” Timmy says to Starla. “I'll bet you're a scaredy-cat.”

Starla says she isn't, but she looks like she is. I want to say she doesn't have to go if she doesn't want, but we're interrupted when a car pulls up.

It's Starla's mom. “Starla Jean, what do you think you're doing?” She's calling from the open window.

“Nuthin,” Starla says, “just walking home.”

Her mom ignores this and says, “Timmy, why don't you run on home now.”

“Yes ma'am,” Timmy says before running off in the direction of the trailer park.

“Come on, Culver. I'll give you a ride home.” Starla's mom waves us over. “Be careful now—look both ways.”

Starla and I make our way across the road and climb into the car. I think it's a Buick. Starla sits in the front and I sit in the back. It smells like hairspray and peppermint.

“Buckle up,” Starla's mom says, peering into the rearview before turning the car around. She still has her apron on over her pink blouse, and there's a pen behind her ear.

I obey and put on my seat belt.

“Culver was walking me home, Momma,” Starla says.

“I know, honey.” Chewing gum, her mom looks at me in the rearview again and says, “Thank you for being a gentleman and walking my daughter home.”

I look away and mumble, “You're welcome.”

Starla's mom is real skinny. Her elbows have a funny way of sticking out as she steers the car. They look like they're going to pop out of her skin. The earring in her right ear is missing the little cap that goes on the back, and she's always pushing a few strands of hair away from her face. She keeps talking. “What are you going to be for Halloween, Culver?”

“I want to be Batman,” I say, “but my mom won't let me because he's got devil horns.” Man, did I want to be Batman.

“So what are you going to be then? Starla is going to be a princess.”

I can hear Starla in the front seat. “Uh-huh. I'm always a princess.”

“Maybe you should be Superman,” her mom says. “You live on Granger Road, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, my house is 1-1-4-5-4 Granger.” I don't really like Superman. He doesn't even wear a mask. How come people don't figure out who he really is? “Maybe I'll just be a baseball player again,” I say.

We drive in silence the rest of the ride, which isn't much farther. I say “bye” to Starla and her mom after we reach my driveway. Lunchbox in hand, I stop and turn as the Buick backs out onto the street. Starla waves and I wave back, and then I worry about recess tomorrow.