“Hey, mister!” someone yelled. “I’ll show you around for a dime or two.”
He turned and saw a kid—fourteen or fifteen—in a checkered cap and coveralls, his coat too thin and his face too grimy for a boy who should still be in school. The kid approached him cautiously and stopped when he was about ten feet away.
“You’re kinda late, aren’t you, mister? There’s nothing left to see down there that hasn’t already been seen,” the kid said. “But I’m happy to tell you what I know. I’ll even give you a discount. A nickel just for talking.”
“Oh yeah? Who are you?” Malone asked.
“Steve Jeziorski.” The kid said his name hopefully, like he thought Malone might recognize it. When Malone didn’t, he sighed.
“My name was in some of the dailies a couple years back. You probably missed it. Wagner and Kostura got all the attention.”
“Why were you in the papers?”
“I saw one of the dead guys—the second victim—from the top of the hill. We didn’t go down. James and Pete took off that way.” He pointed. “We hightailed it home. Leonard wouldn’t let me go down.”
“Leonard?”
“My brother. He’s older. Thinks he’s the boss of me.”
“And Wagner and Kostura? Who are they?” Malone knew who they were. He recognized those names, but he played dumb.
“They’re the kids who saw the first body. James Wagner and Peter Kostura. They got the police down here.”
“I think I heard something about that.”
The kid scoffed. “Of course you did. Why else would you be here?”
Malone took a dime from his pocket and tossed it to Steve.
“Why don’t you tell me everything you saw.”
The dime disappeared into Steve Jeziorski’s pocket, and he smiled like he held a winning hand.
“For a while we had all kinds of folks wanting to solve the mystery. I charge everyone I talk to . . . but I always tell the truth.”
Malone didn’t react to that.
The kid had a canned presentation all ready, pointing out the spots in the bushes and brambles where the first two victims of the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run had been found, describing what he and Leonard had seen before they dashed off to tell their mother. Nothing in the kid’s account challenged anything Malone had read in the police reports. But the kid didn’t tell him anything new either.
“Whoever done it wasn’t trying to hide those bodies. They weren’t too hard to spot. The Butcher wanted people to see, I’m guessing,” Steve finished off, nodding like he hadn’t heard the exact assessment a thousand times.
“Hmm” was all Malone offered.
“He was proud of his work.”
“All right. Well, thank you for your time, Steve Jeziorski,” Malone said, turning away from the path that led down into the Run.
“You don’t look like a reporter . . . or a detective,” Steve said, following him.
“No?”
“Nah.”
“What if I was the Butcher? Come back to the scene of the crime?”
“Nah. You ain’t the Butcher either. I’ve thought about it. The Butcher . . . he thinks he’s a real funny guy. He thinks he’s smart too, but mostly he thinks he’s funny. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who laughs all that much. You could probably kill a fella. But you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“That’s an interesting take. And you’re right. I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“You look like a gangster.”
“Yeah? What gave me away?”
“Your face. Everyone around here is Polish or Hungarian or Czech. You’re slick. Your shoes . . . and your hat. You could be a banker, but nah. You look like a gangster.”
“Noted. You want to trade me hats?”
The boy hesitated. That surprised Malone. Steve’s hat was a checkered cap that had seen much better days. Malone’s hat was a black felt with a matching ribbon, and it was brand new.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll trade,” Steve said.
Malone tucked a card with his number in the ribbon of the hat and handed it to the boy.
“You keep an eye out, Steve. You’re a smart kid. You think of something else, or you see someone prowling around here that doesn’t belong, you call and ask for Mike. At 5054 Broadway.”
“You’ll pay?”
“I’ll pay.”
The kid handed him the checkered cap, and Malone pulled it on.