Secret Hollows (15 page)

“Ian, I’ll be able to keep my cell phone with me, so call me if you have any evidence that will be useful when we speak with Emil,” Bradley said.

“The only possible glitch in our plan...,” Mike inserted, “is that Timmy tried to help Ronny by making him remember. He remembers the man and the lake. I’m not sure he’s going to be willing to talk to any strangers, especially men.”

“Could you bring Timmy with you?” Mary asked. “He could vouch for you.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Mike replied. “And he can remind me where the secret tree is. It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to that park.”

“I don’t have a lot of time this morning,” Mary said as she let herself into the gym.

Ernie appeared next to her. “What? You giving up on me?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she put down her gym bag and opened the cabinet containing the wraps. “No, I’m going to the prison in Dixon to interview an inmate,” she explained.

“
You talking
about those little kids, the guy who did that?”

She nodded as she wound the cloth around her wrists and hands. “Yeah, we found another little boy who was murdered at the park. He might be the first one and his death doesn’t match the other ones.”

“So, this guy changes his system. His modus operandi, like you legal eagles
call
it,” Ernie said. “It could happen.”

She pulled the gloves on over the wraps and moved over to the punching bag. “Actually, what we look for is called a signature,” she explained. “We’ve found that killers act out their fantasies in some manner.”

“Yeah, like killing little kids,” Ernie said.

“It’s more than that, over and beyond killing their victim. They do something that represents their acting out of the crime,” she said. “That unique aspect of the crime, whatever it is, is the signature. That’s what we have to determine.”

Ernie glided in front of her. “Okay, sister, like we practiced yesterday, elbows in, hands up.”

She assumed the correct stance and shuffled on her feet, imitating a fighting stance.

“Hey, you look good,” Ernie said.
“Real good.
Now, let’s see what you’re made of. I want you to circle the bag and throw some light punches.
Straight jabs.
Nothing fancy.”

Mary slowly circled the bag, keeping light on her feet while she threw a series of short, light punches at the bag.

“Good, good,” Ernie said. “But you’re holding your breath when you throw your punch. You should exhale when you throw your punch.”

“Why?” Mary asked. “Why can’t I hold my breath, it makes more sense.”

“Yeah, until your gasping for breath during a fight,” Ernie said. “Besides, exhaling on the throw gives you more power.”

Mary tried it and found, to her surprise, that it did give her more power. She turned and grinned at Ernie. “You’re right.”

“Listen, sister, I knew I was right,” he said. “So don’t act so surprised. Now, I’m going to teach you how to do some combo-moves.”

“Cool,” Mary responded, swinging her right arm up in a jab. “I’m ready.”

“Hey, have you been practicing on me?” he asked.

She nodded, grinned and shuffled her feet.
“Rocky Marathon last night.”

“How the hell does a flying squirrel help you fight?”

“A flying…,” she paused. “When did you die?”

“July 4, 1970. Why?”

She sighed.
“Never mind.”

The sun was just peaking over the horizon when Ian pulled his car into the entrance of Lake Le-Aqua-Na. “So, which way do you want me to turn?” he asked Mike who was seated next to him.

Mike looked around for a moment. “Take a left,” he said. “And follow the road past the beach entrance and then take the curve to the south side of the lake.”

Ian drove slowly, aware that Midwestern cornfed white-tailed deer assumed they had the right of way, especially just as the sun was coming up. The park seemed to be deserted. Most campers, if they were hearty enough to venture out in the winter, camped on the weekends. And most of the park’s local joggers found a less icy and snowy venue during the winter months.

“Okay, after you make this slight jog, slow down,” Mike said as he stared out the side window. “Yeah, this is it. Pull over.”

Ian pulled the car to the side of the road and put it into park. He looked around at the narrow park road. “This isn’t the best place to leave a car,” he said.

Mike shrugged. “Like anyone is going to be out here at this time in the morning.”

Ian got out of the car and walked around it to meet Mike. The snow had melted and the path down to the lake was clear. “Careful, there are still icy spots,” he warned Ian. “Don’t want you falling in the lake.”

“I’ve done a bit of backpacking,” Ian replied. “I’m no stranger to rocky or icy terrain.”

Mike shrugged. “Have it your way.”

Ian stepped forward and unknowingly placed his weight on a patch of black ice. His foot slipped out from under him, but he was able to grab a tree trunk and keep himself from landing on the ground.

“I meant to do that,” he said, glaring at Mike.

Mike chuckled.
“Yeah, right.
I believe that one, professor.”

“Hey, Mike, I’m down here,” Timmy called.

Timmy was down at the end of the path, near the lake. Ian could see the lake slapping up against the shore through his translucent body. They hurried down the path to meet him.

“So, do you remember?” Timmy asked Mike.

Mike looked around and studied the area. Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry, Timmy, I can’t remember which tree had our hiding place.”

Timmy laughed out loud. “You are such a dork,” he said. “It’s right next to you.”

Mike turned around and looked at the trees around him. None of them looked like the oak tree they had used.
“Where?”

“Right there,” Timmy said, pointing to a broken down ancient oak that was leaning against some other trees in the area.

“But shouldn’t the hole be higher up?” Mike asked. “It’s been twenty years.”

“See this is why you need a professor,” Ian said with a smile. “Tree trunks stop growing up at a certain age, they only get wider. The growth is from the crown of the tree, which is generally up where the trunk divides.”

“Wow, you’re pretty smart,” Timmy said, “even if you do talk funny.”

Ian bowed. “Thank you so much.”

Mike chuckled. “So, have you looked inside?”

Timmy shook his head. “
Naw
, I wanted to wait until someone else was here,” he said. “It was kind of spooky.”

Nodding, Mike moved over next to the boy. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said. “Besides, we’re not supposed to disturb it, if it’s still there. It’s evidence.”

“Yeah, just like in the movies,” Timmy said.

The bark around the outside of the hollow was jagged and rough, but the hole still had a diameter of about eighteen inches, big enough for an adult’s head.

“Okay, well, here goes,” Mike said, moving up and sticking his head into the hole in the tree.

He looked around, the hollow was much deeper now; it looked like it went down several feet into the tree. “I can’t see the backpack,” he called out. “It’s too far down.”

Shaking his head, Ian put his hands on his hips. “Well, you know, you’re a ghost,” he said. “You could get down on your knees and stick your head through the bark and see if it’s there.”

Mike chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I can do that, can’t I?”

Timmy laughed.
“Duh.”

Mike looked down at Timmy. “Hey, I heard that.”

He moved down a few feet and looked into the tree. A ragged piece of canvas was lying in the middle of the tree, covered with leaves and acorn shells. He could see the color was faded green and there was still a plastic name tag attached to it. “Hey,
Timmy,
was your backpack green?” he called out.

“Yes. Yes it was,” Timmy called back.

Mike pulled his head out of the tree. “I think we have a winner here.”

“Yeah, but how do we convince the local constabulary that we happened upon a piece of evidence that’s stuck in the middle of a tree?” Ian asked.

“That’s easy,” Mike said.

“Easy?” Ian questioned.

“Yeah, don’t you folks over in the UK all go in for bird-watching?” he asked. “Just tell the cops you were searching for an orange-breasted
warbler,
or something like that.”

“Well, first, we folks over there don’t necessarily all go for bird watching,” Ian replied, his lip curling in disgust. “And, if we did, winter in the Midwest would not be the time to be exploring the woods for birds.”

“Unless you were looking for a hawk or an owl,” Timmy suggested. “Then it would work.”

Ian nodded. “Okay, you’re right, that might work,” he said. “But before we call anyone, we bring Mary and Bradley back here to figure out what they want to do next.”

“Great, and in the meantime, let’s find Ronny and see what he can tell us,” Mike said. “I got a feeling this murderer is closer than we think.”

Mary and Bradley walked down the gray cinderblock walls to the small Visitor’s Room in the prison. The sound of her heels hitting against the concrete floor echoed all around them.

They had already passed through the metal detector and Mary had left her purse and personal belongings with the guard. Bradley had been allowed to keep his cell phone, but he left his weapon with the guard.

They were seated on metal chairs in front of a gray metal table that was secured to the floor. A moment later, a door on the other side of the room opened and a guard escorted a shackled man into the room. He was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit that seemed two sizes too big for him. His face was drawn and his body seemed frail and unsteady. His head was bowed and he didn’t make eye contact with them.

“Chief Alden?” the guard asked.

Bradley nodded.

“This is Forrest, the kid killer,” the guard continued. “You got him for thirty minutes. If you have any problems, let us know and we’ll be in here immediately.”

He pushed Emil into the chair, locked the shackles around his wrists in the bolt attached to the top of the table and left the room, locking the door behind him.

“Emil Forrest,” Bradley said. “I’m Chief Bradley Alden from the Freeport Police Department and this is Mary O’Reilly, a private investigator and former Chicago Police Officer. We’re here to ask you some questions about your case.”

Emil sighed heavily and lifted his head a little, peering at them from the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t kill those boys,” he said tentatively, his voice slow and deliberate.

Then he stiffened, bracing himself for retaliation for his words.

“I don’t think you did either,” Mary replied.

Shock registered on his face. He stared at Mary for a moment. “Why did you say that?” he asked. “Is this a game?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not a game,” she said. “But we need your help if we’re going to find out who killed them.”

He lifted his head higher and looked both of them in the eyes. “Really?” he said softly. “You aren’t…you aren’t making fun of me?”

“No, we’re serious,” Bradley said. “But we don’t have a lot of proof. So we need you to tell us everything you can about what happened and the trial.”

“Okay,” he stammered, his eyes filling with tears, “because I really didn’t kill those boys. They were my friends.”

“Tell me about the day the police came to your house,” Mary said.
“The day they arrested you.”

He sat even taller in his chair and he stared down at the table, his eyes moving back and forth, as he tried to recall the information. “I was in the living room and I was getting ready to go out,” he said. “I was going to go somewhere. I can’t remember why… But, there was a knock on the door. I had a bag, a grocery bag, and I put it on the table to answer the door. Bob Farley was there, on my porch. I smiled at him and started to say hello, but he grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me out of the door.”