The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(19)

“Honey,” Dad said, putting his arm around her. “Please, you’re upset. I don’t think Eddie Newcott would ever do anything like that.”

I didn’t believe it for a second. He would never do anything to hurt my little brother. My mother was simply not right in her head. She was still in shock, distraught, and drugged. When the detectives left, I started crying and told my mother between sobs that she was wrong. I pleaded with my father not to let the police arrest Eddie; that’s what I thought they were going to do next.

“They’re just going to talk to him again, honey,” Dad said. “Don’t worry. Maybe he saw something. He could be an important witness.”

As it turned out, there was plenty to worry about. The next day, the police showed up across the street and took Eddie to the station, accompanied by his father and mother. He was there nearly fourteen hours, and I learned much later how traumatic the interrogation was for him. I remember sitting in our front room, watching Eddie’s house for the entire day. The police had taken Eddie in a cruiser, followed by the Newcotts in their car, first thing that morning. They only returned to the house after dark. I saw their car pull into the driveway. Eddie bolted out of the back seat and ran into the house. I heard Mr. Newcott shout at him, “Eddie!” Mrs. Newcott, hunched over, appeared resigned and beaten. Mr. Newcott put his arm around her. They walked inside and shut the door.

The very next morning, police sirens screamed on our street. Dad, who was taking days off from work, was home. The three of us stepped into the front yard—I was still in my pajamas—and saw three police cruisers parked in front of Mr. Alpine’s house down the street. It looked as if the entire Limite police force had descended on the Alpine home. “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Dad said and walked toward the mayhem. The cops sent him away. He returned to the house and called one of the detectives that had questioned us the other night. No luck.

We didn’t hear anything until the day after that. The two officers returned and sat down with my parents in the kitchen. That was when I learned their names: Detective Jim Baxter was the tall man who had been nice to me; Detective Blake Donner, the heavier man, had ignored me. Detective Baxter told me that they needed to talk to my parents privately for a few minutes, and asked if I would mind waiting in my room. He gave me another stick of gum, which I stuck in the pocket of the skirt I was wearing. “Sure,” I answered, but instead of going to my bedroom, I stood in the hallway and eavesdropped on some of the things that were said. Apparently, the police had received a tip that Gordon Alpine had abducted Michael. They obtained a warrant to search his house and found Michael’s barbell rattle hidden in a dresser drawer in Mr. Alpine’s bedroom. I heard the rustling of a paper sack as the detective took out the rattle from a bag for my mother to identify it. She cried out in horror, answering the man’s question. Though I strained hard, I didn’t catch everything, and I’m sure I didn’t understand a lot of what was being said at the time. Words I’d never heard before. Something about photographic equipment. I heard the words, “he was suspected before,” no doubt referring to the death of his child a decade earlier. And, of course, the word “mayor” came up a few times. After a while, Detective Baxter called for me to come into the kitchen. Detective Donner barked at me, asking what I knew about kids visiting Mr. Alpine. I answered the best I could—that he often invited the neighborhood children into his house to watch cartoons, play with vintage toys, and drink lemonade.

“And that’s all that happened?” Donner asked in that serious tone grownups have when they want you to tell the truth … or else.

“That’s all that happened,” I answered, because it was the truth.

“Did Mr. Alpine ever touch you inappropriately, or did you ever see him touch any of the other kids?”

The idea was absurd to me. I shook my head and said Mr. Alpine wouldn’t do that. Detective Baxter wrote something down in a notebook and asked me to go back to my room.

“Wait, there is something else,” I said.

“What’s that?” Baxter asked.

“Mr. Alpine has a picture of Michael on his wall.”

The two detectives looked at each other. Donner gave a slight nod, as if he was confirming something.

My father said, “What? His picture?”

“Yes, sir,” Donner answered. “Mr. Alpine took your son’s portrait, is that correct?”

“Yes, he did.”

“There are several photos of babies displayed on his living room wall. There was one conspicuous empty space; a photo frame had been removed. The hook was still there.”

“And?”

“The photo of your son was in the dresser drawer with the rattle.”

“Oh my God!” my mother shrieked.

Mr. Alpine had been arrested and taken to the police station the previous day. Everyone in the neighborhood was shocked and surprised. The mayor was conspicuously silent. My mother wanted to kill the man. But the big question above everything else was—where was Michael? Other than the presence of the rattle and the portrait, there was no baby. The police dug up Mr. Alpine’s backyard and tore his house apart, but they found no tiny corpse. The detectives were confident that the prisoner would eventually talk. Surely a soft man like Mr. Alpine who worked in a library would rather confess to where he’d hid Michael than be moved from the city jail to a bigger prison to await trial. There was speculation that Alpine had most likely wrapped the baby in a garbage bag and had thrown him into a dumpster, or perhaps buried him in a vacant lot or in the oil fields.