December Park(96)
The police-enforced curfew put a damper on the opening of summer vacation. Most nights I was home before the nine o’clock curfew, having come home for dinner only to remain there for the rest of the night.
The search for Howie Holt curtailed our visits to the Dead Woods, too, since there were always cops around. Uniformed officers patrolled the park grounds, dump yards, and schoolyards on foot. Sometimes they walked German shepherds on leashes. There were county police cars stationed at various intersections, helping to augment local law enforcement. Men in dark suits were spotted around town, usually one or two at a time, although they could be found having lunch or dinner together in some establishment, their matching suit jackets draped over the backs of their chairs, their voices conspicuous in their quietness.
There were rumors that plainclothes policemen wandered the streets, pretending to be average Joes, buying coffee at The Bagel Boutique or chatting with the greasy, nervous salesmen at the OK Used Kars lot. My friends and I frequently saw them in December Park, strolling by themselves while pretending to admire the walnut trees or sometimes pausing to watch a pickup baseball game. They stood out like gorillas someone had dressed up in people clothes.
Our little city had made the national news, and there was even an exposé about the disappearances on one of those weekly news programs. An attractive woman with coiffed hair and glossy pink lips interviewed some of the parents of the missing children, as well as the spokespeople for the Courtney Cole Memorial Charity and the Protect Our Children Foundation. Former Chief of Police Harold Barber was demonized while the interim chief, Michael Solano, declined to be interviewed.
As we had done with the other missing children, Peter and I took to our bikes one sunny afternoon and rode out to the Holt household on Ridgley Avenue. Scott came with us. Adrian hadn’t been waiting on the curb for me this morning, so I wasn’t sure where he was, and Michael was enjoying a stint in summer school.
Yet unlike with the other kids, we happened on the scene when it was still fresh and new, and we weren’t prepared for it. The Holt house had balloons, stuffed animals, and bouquets of flowers on the front lawn, up the driveway, and around the perimeter of the front stoop. It looked like a parade float. The small two-story house was dark, the window shades drawn.
There was an HFPD cruiser parked farther down the block, a dark shape propped up behind the wheel. In thoughtful silence, the three of us assessed that we had about two minutes before the cop got out of the car and informed us that this wasn’t a carnival attraction and we should get lost. So we got lost.
We purchased two six-packs of Jolt from the Generous Superstore, and Peter, Scott, and I went down to Solomon’s Field. We sat in the shade of the underpass, drinking sodas like dockworkers chugging beer on lunch break. We had dropped our guard after learning that Nathan Keener had started working days at the Ralston-Redmond Brothers junkyard and wasn’t out patrolling the neighborhoods for us anymore.
“Ed the Jew says the FBI has been hanging around town,” Peter said. “He thinks they’re helping the local cops work the case on the Piper behind the scenes.”
Scott handed me a fresh can of Jolt. I popped the tab and chugged half the can, wiped my mouth on my arm, and handed the can to Peter.
“There were some guys in dark suits checking out the quarry at the end of my block the other day. They drove by in an unmarked police car.” I knew what one looked like since my dad drove one, and I had easily spotted the red and blue lights hidden behind the Crown Vic’s grille. “If there’s FBI in town, I don’t think they’re working with the local police. My dad seemed surprised to see them.”
“The Piper got that Holt kid in broad daylight,” Scott said. “What’s the point of a nine o’clock curfew if kids are being swiped in the middle of the day?”
The Cape was an alternating panorama of farmland, beaches, and woods sequestered from the rest of the city not only by distance but by economic status. It was one of the poor neighborhoods, separating our section of Harting Farms from the industrial park. Nonetheless, it was still a risky move approaching a kid in the middle of the day. Particularly just as school let out.
“The news is saying that the Piper could be someone from town that these kids know,” Scott said. “They would go with him and not feel threatened. That’s how he’s able to take them so easily and without leaving any clues behind. Not even signs of a struggle.”
“Like a teacher,” Peter suggested.
“Or a cop,” I said.
Later that afternoon, we hung around Fairway Court where Michael lived, waiting for him to come home from summer school. We had the remaining cans of Jolt Cola stowed in Scott’s backpack and our headphones on.
Michael, lanky in khaki shorts and a Ghostbusters T-shirt, met us at the end of the block an hour later. Water-soluble tattoos, which he’d been collecting from boxes of Cracker Jacks for weeks, covered his forearms. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder.
Scott looked at the digital clock on his Walkman. “Did you actually get detention in summer school? Is that even possible?”
“Miss Huber loves me, didn’t want to let me go,” Michael said. “The poor lady said she’d miss me too much if I didn’t hang around an extra hour to clean up the classroom and wash the blackboard. Who am I to break her heart? Anyway, where’s Poindexter?”