Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

“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?”

I retrieved my camera and billfold from the guard, then braced myself at the door, pulled my collar tight, and made a dash for my car. The cold hit me like a slap, stinging my eyes and blistering my lips. I heard the guard laughing at me as I hurried through the snow, but at least I didn’t slip. The car door handle crackled stiffly from the frost but opened after two sharp yanks, and I ducked inside. The Dodge groaned to life, and I rubbed my gloved hands together for warmth before gunning the engine and driving off. I wanted to shake the dust of the Fulton Reform School from my heels as soon as possible. Depressing hole. Plus, the faster you drive, the sooner the heat kicks in.

I swung onto Kendall Road and headed toward Route 5, about six miles ahead. My City Desk meeting was at 11:00, and my watch showed 10:40. No problem, I thought. Plenty of time. And I had a good trick ready for Georgie Porgie, too: a clever scheme involving George’s new Pontiac and three boxes of wet cotton balls. He’d be driving around in a white cloud until the spring thaw. I had a good chuckle just thinking about it. Then I felt something cold on the right side of my neck. And it was sharp.

“Just keep driving,” said the voice behind me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I gasped and nearly drove off the road, but a hand slipped around my clavicle