brushed it away.
“I’d like to talk to your nephew.”
“Why?”
“He called me last night. I wanted to be sure I understood what he said.”
“So who’re you?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. I took out my wallet, extracted one of my business cards, and held it up in front of the screen door for her to see.
She turned her face away. “Ain’t got my glasses on. That could say you were the President himself, wouldn’t impress me. What’d you say your name was?”
“Coyne. Brady Coyne.”
She frowned. “Yup. That’s what he was sayin’. Sounded more like ‘bone.’ He was sayin’ he gotta call Mr. Bone.”
“That was me. Coyne. He was trying to tell me something. I think it might’ve been important, but I couldn’t understand all of it.”
“Nobody understands what Ernest says. Except me, of course. But then, I’ve known him a long time. Twenty years, nearly, he’s been with me.” She cocked her head. “Most folks don’t even bother tryin’. They figure his brain’s no good and he ain’t got anything worth listenin’ to. You figure different, huh?”
“Yes. He was trying to tell me something.”
She cocked her head and looked at me differently, as if she had suddenly noticed something for the first time. Then, evidently satisfied that she had seen it accurately, she nodded. “His brain ain’t quite right, of course. But it works. For some things, it works good. If he could talk right, folks wouldn’t tease him so. He ain’t as dumb as he seems, I can tell you that.”
“Well, I know he can use a telephone.”
“He can use lots of things.”
“They have special schools, new therapeutic techniques, you know. The Commonwealth is very enlightened about diseases like his.”
She shrugged. “I reckon it’s too late now. Maybe when he was a boy…”
“They have good programs for adults.”
She shrugged, and I guessed Dotty McCarthy liked things exactly the way they were.
“Is Snooker—Ernest—at home?”
“Nope. Hardly ever is, ’cept at mealtime. I feed the boy good. Three times regular. Eats like an elephant, I don’t mind telling you. Takes all my pension just to feed him. Otherwise he’s off on that bicycle of his, lookin’ for people to pay attention to him. Fact that some of them tease and taunt him don’t seem to matter. He don’t know the difference. Mostly, people are nice enough. The boy just likes company. You look down on the docks. He likes to hang around the boats, talk to the people there. Might find him dangling a handline off the end, tide’s right. Sometimes he’ll bring home some flounder or mackerel, proud as a kitten with a dead mouse. I cook ’em up for us. About what the poor boy’s good for. Bringing home dead fish. Blessed shame.”
Dotty McCarthy had made no move to invite me in. I could hear the murmur of television voices coming from somewhere in the darkened interior of her house. It was becoming disconcerting talking through a screen door.
“Does your nephew stay out late at night?” I asked the woman.
She pushed the door open a crack and snapped the cigarette butt past my ear out into the yard. “Usually,” she said after a hesitation so long that I thought she was going to ignore my question.
“What about Sunday night?”
She frowned. “Today’s what?”
“Tuesday.”
“Let’s see. He was in last night. We watched television some. I went to bed usual time. He stayed up. Agitated, he was. That when he called you up?”
I nodded. “Last night, yes. Late.”
“Okay, then. Sunday.” She bobbed her head up and down. “The night that woman got herself killed, right?”
“Yes.”
“He was out most of the night. Up early the next day, too. Ate breakfast and took right off on his bike.”
He had pedaled straight to Des’s house, I figured, where he was waiting when Marc and I came out.
Dotty McCarthy was leaning back, as if to listen to what was happening on her television. I took the hint and thanked her. I
“I’d like to talk to your nephew.”
“Why?”
“He called me last night. I wanted to be sure I understood what he said.”
“So who’re you?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. I took out my wallet, extracted one of my business cards, and held it up in front of the screen door for her to see.
She turned her face away. “Ain’t got my glasses on. That could say you were the President himself, wouldn’t impress me. What’d you say your name was?”
“Coyne. Brady Coyne.”
She frowned. “Yup. That’s what he was sayin’. Sounded more like ‘bone.’ He was sayin’ he gotta call Mr. Bone.”
“That was me. Coyne. He was trying to tell me something. I think it might’ve been important, but I couldn’t understand all of it.”
“Nobody understands what Ernest says. Except me, of course. But then, I’ve known him a long time. Twenty years, nearly, he’s been with me.” She cocked her head. “Most folks don’t even bother tryin’. They figure his brain’s no good and he ain’t got anything worth listenin’ to. You figure different, huh?”
“Yes. He was trying to tell me something.”
She cocked her head and looked at me differently, as if she had suddenly noticed something for the first time. Then, evidently satisfied that she had seen it accurately, she nodded. “His brain ain’t quite right, of course. But it works. For some things, it works good. If he could talk right, folks wouldn’t tease him so. He ain’t as dumb as he seems, I can tell you that.”
“Well, I know he can use a telephone.”
“He can use lots of things.”
“They have special schools, new therapeutic techniques, you know. The Commonwealth is very enlightened about diseases like his.”
She shrugged. “I reckon it’s too late now. Maybe when he was a boy…”
“They have good programs for adults.”
She shrugged, and I guessed Dotty McCarthy liked things exactly the way they were.
“Is Snooker—Ernest—at home?”
“Nope. Hardly ever is, ’cept at mealtime. I feed the boy good. Three times regular. Eats like an elephant, I don’t mind telling you. Takes all my pension just to feed him. Otherwise he’s off on that bicycle of his, lookin’ for people to pay attention to him. Fact that some of them tease and taunt him don’t seem to matter. He don’t know the difference. Mostly, people are nice enough. The boy just likes company. You look down on the docks. He likes to hang around the boats, talk to the people there. Might find him dangling a handline off the end, tide’s right. Sometimes he’ll bring home some flounder or mackerel, proud as a kitten with a dead mouse. I cook ’em up for us. About what the poor boy’s good for. Bringing home dead fish. Blessed shame.”
Dotty McCarthy had made no move to invite me in. I could hear the murmur of television voices coming from somewhere in the darkened interior of her house. It was becoming disconcerting talking through a screen door.
“Does your nephew stay out late at night?” I asked the woman.
She pushed the door open a crack and snapped the cigarette butt past my ear out into the yard. “Usually,” she said after a hesitation so long that I thought she was going to ignore my question.
“What about Sunday night?”
She frowned. “Today’s what?”
“Tuesday.”
“Let’s see. He was in last night. We watched television some. I went to bed usual time. He stayed up. Agitated, he was. That when he called you up?”
I nodded. “Last night, yes. Late.”
“Okay, then. Sunday.” She bobbed her head up and down. “The night that woman got herself killed, right?”
“Yes.”
“He was out most of the night. Up early the next day, too. Ate breakfast and took right off on his bike.”
He had pedaled straight to Des’s house, I figured, where he was waiting when Marc and I came out.
Dotty McCarthy was leaning back, as if to listen to what was happening on her television. I took the hint and thanked her. I
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