Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon Read online

  Anne knew she was losing this battle. She had sensed it from the beginning of her visit when Simon’s father dispatched him to his room. The mother seemed at least receptive, but the father, well being as he might be, was obviously the decision maker in this house. She might not agree with that or with him, but neither could she force a change. “I understand your concern, Mr. Lynch.”

  He shook his head politely. “No, you don’t. Do you have children, Dr. Jefferson?”

  “A girl. She’s grown and in college.”

  “You can’t understand,” Martin Lynch said in a contemplative tone. “We’ll never be able to say any such thing about Simon. We’ll never be able to say he’s ‘all grown up’ and believe it. He’ll never go to college. He’ll never get married, have children.” His wife’s gaze dipped toward the floor. “He’ll never be part of the normal world.” He was quiet for a second, then said, “My father used to say that on the eighth day God made rogues and idiots.” There was pain in Martin Lynch’s eyes as the words came out. There was also acceptance. “I know my son’s station in life, Dr. Jefferson. The place he needs to be most is here, in this home, with us, not—with all due respect—with you or Dr. Ohlmeyer doing tests on him. That’s just the way I see it. It’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Mission not accomplished, Anne thought, scolding herself, though she wondered if there was a way to convince Martin Lynch that his son should not live his life as an island. Probably not. But she had tried. “I respect your decision, Mr. Lynch.” She pulled a business card from her purse and jotted a number on the back. “I don’t have cards yet, but my office extension is on the back. That’s one of Dr. Ohlmeyer’s cards. If you do need anything, please call. Please.”

  Martin Lynch took the card and dropped it in his shirt pocket while standing. “We will.”

  Anne looked to the stairs. “Tell Simon I said goodbye.”

  “I will,” Jean Lynch said. They all walked toward the door.

  * * *

  The red-haired man was munching on pistachios when the nigger lady finally left the house on Vincent Street. He watched from the back of a rented van parked down the block as she walked to her car at the curb, and saw a man in a blue work shirt come onto the porch, but no further. A woman stood in the doorway behind a half open storm door.

  The red haired man didn’t know who the nigger lady was, and he didn’t particularly care. His focus was on the man and the woman, who turned and went back inside as their visitor drove away. He looked to the pair of driver’s license photos on his lap. It was them. The Lynches. Two of the three people who resided at 2564 Vincent. The third person was a son.

  The red haired man was looking for a young man, a boy named Simon he’d learned from medical reports on file with the father’s insurance company. The son was sixteen. That was all he knew, but he would soon know more. The red haired man was skilled at getting information.

  He tucked the two photos in the inside pocket of his jacket and stepped from the van. The Lynch home was six houses away. The red haired man walked along the sidewalk into the long shadow of his own form. It was as dark as his suit and moved out of the way when he turned up the walkway of 2564 Vincent. He made purposeful noise climbing the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell just once before Mr. Lynch appeared from inside.

  “Hello.”

  “Martin Lynch?” the red haired man asked in greeting.

  “Yes.”

  He removed a black wallet from his inside pocket and flipped it open. A badge shined at Martin Lynch. “I’m Detective Burrell, Chicago Police.” It was a lie, but the red haired man had no trouble with that. He was after the truth, not its keeper. “Can I have a word with you?”

  Martin Lynch blinked nervously and reached for the storm door latch. “Sure. Come inside.”

  The red haired man smiled and entered. He noted a dining room to the left, a staircase and an arched opening directly ahead, and a living room to the right. A woman came through the arched opening. She smiled at him, then saw her husband’s face and the expression faded.

  “This is…”

  “Detective Burrell, Chicago Police.” The red haired man finished the introduction and shook the wife’s hand. He heard water running in the kitchen.

  “Is something wrong?” Jean Lynch asked. Her husband closed the door and stood next to her.

  “Not exactly,” the red haired man said. “But I do need to ask you a few questions.”

  Martin Lynch nodded. “About?”

  The red haired man produced a small notebook and clicked open a pen. “Are you familiar with a Dr. Lawrence Wollam?”

  Jean Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “He treated our son a few months back. Why?”

  “Well, Dr. Wollam has been accused of some inappropriate behavior, I’m afraid to say.” He saw the wife’s eyes go wide. Perfect. “These accusations all center on one day; the day your son was seen by Dr. Wollam.”

  “What did he do?” Martin Lynch asked with a rising voice, then turned to his wife. “Weren’t you with Simon when he saw the doctor?”

  “Almost all the time.”

  “Listen, folks,” the red haired man said in a calming voice. “So far we’ve found nothing to back up the accusations. The other patients he saw that day have said nothing happened. But we have to check with everybody. Now you say your son was with Dr. Wollam alone for a while?”

  “A short while,” Jean Lynch answered. Her husband’s eyes burned at her. “For a few minutes. That’s all.”

  The red haired man nodded and recorded her response in his notebook. “Okay. I’d like to talk to your son. Just to ask him a few questions about the visit.”

  Jean Lynch’s eyes dipped briefly. “Our son is autistic.”

  “Autistic? Is that like retarded?” the red haired man asked, just like a cop would. He knew better. Autistic? The medical report in the insurance company’s computer hadn’t mentioned that, but that was just a report. He hadn’t delved into the complete medical history. Just an opening to the son, that was all he’d been looking for. But autistic? That would fit… ‘Spoke like a child, but with an older voice’ …or would it?

  “He doesn’t function like normal people,” Martin Lynch said.

  The red haired man slowly nodded. “But he can talk? He could answer questions, right?”

  Martin looked to his wife. “You’d better get back to dinner. I’ll take the detective up to Simon.”

  “Uh, it’s better in these situations if we talk to the person alone,” the red haired man explained. He had to be alone with the kid. Had to. “That’s standard.”

  Martin Lynch disagreed with a shake of his head. “Simon won’t talk to you without his mother or I there. He doesn’t know you.”

  The red haired man considered further protest, but thought better of it at this point. ‘Get the information…period.’ He had to get to the kid. “All right. As long as you let him say whatever he has to say.”

  That admonition seemed strange to Martin Lynch, but then cops thought differently than ordinary people he believed. “Let’s go.”

  Jean Lynch watched them ascend the steps then returned to the kitchen and her Hungarian goulash. It was her son’s favorite.

  Simon sat in a chair at his desk with a pad of graph paper before him. His right hand held a pencil, and with that he was tracing over the pale blue lines that dissected the paper, scoring graphite channels down one column vertically, over one horizontally at the bottom, then up again covering the adjacent line. When he was done every vertical line on the page would be covered.

  Six sheets had already been completed. They were stacked neatly beneath the desk lamp.

  When the door opened Simon did not look up. His body did begin to rock.

  Martin Lynch brought the red haired man fully into his son’s room and closed the door. Simon did not like open doors. “Simon.”

  The blonde head bobbed up and swung briefly toward the voice.

  “There’s someone here who wan
ts to talk to you.” Martin Lynch walked to his son’s bed and patted the white comforter. “Come sit over here.”

  Simon carefully placed the pencil along the top edge of the paper and walked toward the bed. He stopped a few feet short. The red haired man was in his way.

  Martin Lynch noticed his son shuffle-step back a bit.

  “Hello, Simon,” the red haired man said. He said no more when he saw the father caution him with a wave. The gesture urged him to give the kid room.

  “Simon, it’s all right. Come over by Daddy and sit down.”

  The big black shoes moved away and Simon scooted by and sat where his daddy told him to. His hands balled on his lap and he again set to rocking.

  “Simon, this is Mr. Burrell,” Martin Lynch said as he squatted and put a hand on his son’s knee. “He wants to ask you some questions. Is that all right?”

  Simon did not answer.

  “I’ll be right here,” Martin Lynch assured his son.

  Between the rocks, Simon’s head bobbed twice.

  “Okay.” Martin Lynch stood and backed away a few steps so he could lean against the wall.

  The red haired man smiled big and bounced low into a squat like the father had. He tried to look the kid in the eye but was thwarted by their constant motion and the low angle of his head. “How ya doin’?” he asked as though a long time friend. Simon knew that he was not and did not answer.

  Behind the red haired man, Martin Lynch observed cautiously. His son did not like this man.

  The red haired man covertly swept the room with just his eyes. On the night stand beneath a lamp he saw a magazine. He recognized the title. He picked it up and casually paged through it. “Do you like to read?”

  Simon’s rocking increased.

  The red haired man skimmed through The Tinkery and stopped at the first page of the puzzle section. “Do you like puzzles?”

  Simon’s head tipped up toward his daddy and then fell again. His thumbs began to work hard against the skin of his hands. Martin Lynch stopped leaning and stepped forward.

  The red haired man tilted his head to look beneath the angled young head. “Do you like puzzles?”

  “Hey.” Martin Lynch tapped firmly on the red haired man’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Just trying to make him comfortable, Mr. Lynch.” Get the information…period.

  “Up,” Martin Lynch said, and the red haired man stood and faced him. “He’s not comfortable. That’s the problem.”

  “I guess so,” the red haired man said. He chewed at his lower lip and added a nod, then laid the magazine on Simon’s lap. He seemed sorry.

  “He’s not going to talk to you,” Martin Lynch said.

  “Well, maybe we should just talk, you and the Mrs. and I, downstairs,” the red haired man suggested. …period.

  Martin Lynch nodded and looked to his son. “I’ll be back up in a few minutes, Simon.”

  Simon rocked quietly as his daddy and the stranger left his room. Footsteps tapped on the stairs after the door closed. The box spring squeaked beneath his motion. A truck passed the house. At this time Simon knew it would be the truck that delivered milk to the market on the corner. A man named Mr. Toricel—

  Tsewp-Tsewp. Tsewp-Tsewp-Tsewp. THUMP. THUMP. Simon’s rocking stilled at the sound of breaking glass. Mommy must have dropped a plate. She had done that before. On the day they ate turkey and mashed potat—

  Footsteps rose on the staircase. Heavy feet.

  Simon began rocking again. Daddy walked softly.

  The door eased open and stayed open. The red haired man walked into Simon’s room alone. Simon smelled something strange. Like smoke.

  “Hi again, Simon,” the red haired man said as he neared the kid. He reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. “I wanted to talk a little bit more about the puzzles.” He stood directly in front of the kid. With a gloved hand he took a fistful of hair and lifted the kid’s head until his face was visible. “You know it’s rude not to look at someone when they’re talking to you.”

  Simon’s lower lip turned to jelly, but he did not cry. His eyes darted about in search of something familiar. They locked on the picture of his old dog, Ranger, on the wall by the window. Ranger had died when—

  “Look at ME, kid.” The red haired man shook Simon’s head sharply.

  “You’re a stranger.”

  “Nah.” The red haired man put his face very close to Simon’s. “I’m your friend.”

  Daddy hadn’t told him that.

  “I just want to talk about some puzzles. You’ll tell a friend about puzzles, won’t you.”

  This man was a stranger. He was not a friend.

  The red haired man backed off, but kept hold of Simon’s hair. He unfolded the paper in his other hand and held it in front of Simon’s face.

  It was covered in letters and numbers.

  There were fifty numbers and letters mixed together at the beginning, and fifty letters at the end. In between were 1450 numbers.

  “What do you see, kid?”

  Simon’s eyes flitted over the numbers and letters. He blinked several times.

  “What does it say?”

  Simon knew this kind of puzzle. It was not hard. “I know kiwi.”

  The red haired man pulled the paper away. “Right.” He stuffed the paper in his coat pocket and aimed Simon’s face toward the magazine on his lap. “There’s a puzzle like that in there. Remember that?” He lifted the head again with a tug. “How’d you figure it out, kid?” His other hand was now unoccupied. He drew it back, palm flat under black leather. “How?”

  * * *

  Martin Lynch lay in a spreading pool of his own blood when his son’s cry echoed down to the kitchen. With a great draw of air he forced his head up and looked around. His wife lay where the two walls of cabinets met. Her dress clung to the front of her body, soaked dark. A line of red trickled from the center of her forehead over one cheek.

  He shot us, Martin Lynch realized. He did not remember it happening, but he knew. He should have sensed it coming, like Simon had—

  “Thsimon,” Martin Lynch said in a weak, wet voice. Blood spurted from his mouth as he did. He rolled to his side, sat against the stove, and looked down. There was a dime-size hole in his work shirt, just right of the pocket. The blue cotton had turned red. He touched a hand to a fiery spot on above his left eye. One finger found a wet depression that stung tremendously.

  Martin Lynch was suddenly nauseous and vomited onto his legs. My God, I’m shot… In the head, and in the chest… I’m going to die… He looked again to his wife. She was still. He killed my Jean…

  A SLAP from above snapped Martin Lynch’s throbbing head upward. Simon winced loudly.

  “Noth my thson,” Martin Lynch said. He let anger fill him, let it overcome the pain, the sickness, the sorrow, let it lift him from the floor, let it guide him step by step through his wife’s blood out of the kitchen and into the den.

  * * *

  The Red haired man’s hand was cocked for a third blow when a crashing sound rose from the first floor. He let go of Simon’s head and drew his weapon. A slender blued tube extended from the barrel.

  “You stay…” The red haired man caught his folly. Like you’re going anywhere, kid. “I’ve got some unfinished business downstairs. Be right back.”

  Holding the silenced Walther PPK in a relaxed forward stance, he left the upstairs bedroom and advanced with care down the stairs, measuring each step, easing his feet lightly to the treads below. Near the bottom he crouched and scanned the front room. Nothing. The front door was still closed, and nothing seemed amiss here. He continued, coming upright at floor level and checking both left and right; left farther into the living room, and right toward the kitchen. He saw the mother’s legs through the arched opening, but not the—

  “Bastard,” Martin Lynch said from behind the red-haired man. He had gone into the den through the archway directly across from the kitchen, and
had come out through the opening to the living room. In the den was a china hutch. Resting atop it had been a .38 caliber revolver. Martin Lynch now held it in his right hand.

  He shot the red haired man six times in the back before collapsing himself. His last thought was of his son, and what would become of him, and before the world went dark Martin Lynch dropped the revolver and reached into his shirt pocket.

  * * *

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Simon’s body shuddered at the loud noise. It seemed to echo, going on, and on, and on. His ears rang almost painfully.