I believed the magazine salesman was the man who had killed Mr. Heinrich. And by the way, just how had Heinrich been killed? The newspaper article didn’t say. Wasn’t it possible that the little man who said right-o and ha-ha had tortured him before killing him? To get the name of the man with the stash of gold goodies?
I turned from my right side to the left. My feet were sticking out and I fluffed the top sheet and the blanket back over them.
Or maybe torture hadn’t been necessary. Maybe Mr. Right-O just told Heinrich that if he gave up the name, he wouldn’t be killed.
I went from my left side back to the right one. Fluffed the blankets again. Radar raised her head, made a whuffling sound, and went back to sleep.
Another question: had Detective Gleason spoken to Mrs. Richland? If he had, would he deduce that Mr. Bowditch had been targeted before he died? Or would he think the little guy was just casing the neighborhood for targets of opportunity? Maybe he’d think the little guy was just your ordinary garden-variety door-to-door salesman. If he even bothered to ask at all, that was.
Jackpot question: if Mr. Right-O Ha-Ha was still after the gold, would he be back?
Right to left. Left to right. Fluff the blankets.
At some point I thought the sooner I listened to Mr. Bowditch’s tape the better, and after that I finally went to sleep. I dreamed that the little man with the skip in his walk was strangling me, and when I woke up the next morning, the sheet and blanket were all the way up around my neck.
5
I went to school on Friday, just so Mrs. Silvius wouldn’t forget what I looked like, but on Saturday I told my dad I was going up to Number 1 to start cleaning the place up. He offered to help.
“No, that’s okay. Stay here with Radar. Kick back, enjoy your day off.”
“Are you sure? There have to be a lot of memories in that place for you.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, but call me if it starts to get you down. Or freak you out.”
“I will.”
“Shame he never told you the combination to that safe. We really will have to get somebody to crack it open so we can see what’s inside. I’ll ask around at work next week. Somebody will have a connection to a box-peeler. One not in prison.”
“Really?”
“Insurance investigators have connections to all sorts of sketchy people, Charlie. Gleason’s probably right, nothing but old tax returns—assuming Bowditch ever filled any out, which I doubt—and some cufflinks, but maybe there’s stuff in there that can explain just who the hell he was.”
“Well,” I said, thinking of the gun and the tape recorder, “you hold that thought. And don’t give Radar too many treats.”
“Bring her meds.”
“Already did,” I said. “Kitchen counter.”
“Good on you, kiddo. Call if you need me. I’ll come running.”
Good guy, my dad. Especially since he sobered up. Said it before, but it bears repeating.
6
There was yellow POLICE INVESTIGATION tape threaded in and out of the picket fence. The investigation （such as it was） had concluded when Gleason and the two unis left, but until Dad or I got someone to repair the lock on the back door, I thought I’d leave the tape up.
I went around back, but before I went inside the house, I walked down to the shed and stood in front of the door. No sounds came from within—no scratching, no thuds, no weird mewlings. No, there wouldn’t be, I thought. He killed whatever was making those noises. Two shots and boom-boom, out go the lights. I took out his keyring and thought about trying them until one fit the lock, then put the keys back in my pocket. First I’d listen to the tape. And if it turned out to be nothing but Mr. Bowditch warbling “Home on the Range” or “A Bicycle Built for Two” while high on OxyContin, the joke would be on me. Only I didn’t believe that. Everything else you need is also under the bed, he’d told me, and the tape recorder had been under the bed.
I opened the safe and took it out—just an old black tape player, not as retro as the TV but far from new; the technology had marched on. I went down to the kitchen, put the recorder on the table, and pushed play. Nothing. Just the hiss of tape passing across the heads. I started to think it was a bust after all—something like that safe of Al Capone’s Gleason had mentioned—then realized Mr. Bowditch just hadn’t rewound it. Very possibly because he’d been recording when the heart attack hit. The idea creeped me out a little. How that hurts, he’d said. Like pig iron in the forge.