jurists already weighing guilt. Tom saw the quiet conversations, the subtle nodding of heads as simple folks with absolutely no evidence passed judgment on their neighbors, and many of them looked at Tom, not as an ally, but as an accomplice to the crime because he had not yet solved it. On the other hand, the Germans wore guises of the accused when Tom spoke to them. Faces became contrite and words crawled from lips in a stilted yet respectful way, all except for Weigle who believed himself somehow above suspicion.
Days had passed since Harold Ashton had been found, and Tom was no closer to identifying the killer than he had been. The snuffbox was of German origin and very common in that country; it could have arrived with any number of families who had chosen this part of the country to settle. No additional evidence presented itself, and he’d received no reports of similar crimes from any of the sheriff’s offices he’d contacted. So he was left with a dwindling list of men who needed to be interrogated and all but useless tip-offs from the community. It seemed that every slight against a neighbor had become sufficient cause for suspicion. Phone calls came in day and night. Angry citizens marched into his office certain they knew the identity of the Ashton boy’s killer and their convictions were born of evidence that amounted to: he plays his radio too loud; he closes his blinds at three in the afternoon; he parked his car in front of my drive; his son threw a muddy ball into the clean sheets I had drying on a line and all he did was laugh about it. Petty and ridiculous.
He stopped at a tent to share a glass of tea with Doc Randolph, and the doctor asked him how he was feeling, though both of them already knew the answer, and Tom expressed his frustration, but the doctor only added to it with a glare of superiority cast through a fog of pipe smoke. Rex Burns joined them and the three men exchanged ideas, all of which they had exchanged before and the futile redundancy of the exercise fueled Tom’s aggravation, because he knew that the crime would remain unsolved unless the killer walked right up to them and confessed, but of course he couldn’t say that to anyone except Estella – and only because she could never translate the admission of his failure.
Finally, Tom excused himself and returned to the sun-baked fairgrounds. He walked from tent to tent, hoping to see every face in the city. He thought on the information Doc Randolph had given him about Albert Fish and imagined that such sickness must surely cover a face like warts or boils, and if he looked hard enough, the blemishes of malevolence would show themselves. He strolled to the bandstand and crossed the grounds to the German tents and peeked inside each to find families and young couples and plump, pretty women attempting celebration as the shadow of the Ashton boy’s murder hung over them all. They regarded him sheepishly, then looked away like bashful children. In one tent, Tom saw a man sitting alone at a back table. The man wore deep scars like a line from cheekbone to cheekbone, and Tom felt a tickle of unease under the man’s gaze so he turned away.
He checked the next tent and the next, and then wandered back across the dusty field, through small groups of playing children and the parents who hovered at the edges of the games, speaking quietly and keeping close eyes on their boys and girls.
He’d shaken a hundred hands before the celebration began to break up. The forced smile had brought an ache to his face, and the greasy food and acidic drinks were working to tear a hole in his stomach. By five o’clock only a handful of people remained. The vendors packed away their supplies and disassembled their tents.
With no fireworks to look forward to, Tom imagined fewer families would gather by the lakeside, swapping flasks and stories as the moon rose over Barnard. But single men would still gather at Mitch’s Roadhouse, the Longhorn Tavern,
Days had passed since Harold Ashton had been found, and Tom was no closer to identifying the killer than he had been. The snuffbox was of German origin and very common in that country; it could have arrived with any number of families who had chosen this part of the country to settle. No additional evidence presented itself, and he’d received no reports of similar crimes from any of the sheriff’s offices he’d contacted. So he was left with a dwindling list of men who needed to be interrogated and all but useless tip-offs from the community. It seemed that every slight against a neighbor had become sufficient cause for suspicion. Phone calls came in day and night. Angry citizens marched into his office certain they knew the identity of the Ashton boy’s killer and their convictions were born of evidence that amounted to: he plays his radio too loud; he closes his blinds at three in the afternoon; he parked his car in front of my drive; his son threw a muddy ball into the clean sheets I had drying on a line and all he did was laugh about it. Petty and ridiculous.
He stopped at a tent to share a glass of tea with Doc Randolph, and the doctor asked him how he was feeling, though both of them already knew the answer, and Tom expressed his frustration, but the doctor only added to it with a glare of superiority cast through a fog of pipe smoke. Rex Burns joined them and the three men exchanged ideas, all of which they had exchanged before and the futile redundancy of the exercise fueled Tom’s aggravation, because he knew that the crime would remain unsolved unless the killer walked right up to them and confessed, but of course he couldn’t say that to anyone except Estella – and only because she could never translate the admission of his failure.
Finally, Tom excused himself and returned to the sun-baked fairgrounds. He walked from tent to tent, hoping to see every face in the city. He thought on the information Doc Randolph had given him about Albert Fish and imagined that such sickness must surely cover a face like warts or boils, and if he looked hard enough, the blemishes of malevolence would show themselves. He strolled to the bandstand and crossed the grounds to the German tents and peeked inside each to find families and young couples and plump, pretty women attempting celebration as the shadow of the Ashton boy’s murder hung over them all. They regarded him sheepishly, then looked away like bashful children. In one tent, Tom saw a man sitting alone at a back table. The man wore deep scars like a line from cheekbone to cheekbone, and Tom felt a tickle of unease under the man’s gaze so he turned away.
He checked the next tent and the next, and then wandered back across the dusty field, through small groups of playing children and the parents who hovered at the edges of the games, speaking quietly and keeping close eyes on their boys and girls.
He’d shaken a hundred hands before the celebration began to break up. The forced smile had brought an ache to his face, and the greasy food and acidic drinks were working to tear a hole in his stomach. By five o’clock only a handful of people remained. The vendors packed away their supplies and disassembled their tents.
With no fireworks to look forward to, Tom imagined fewer families would gather by the lakeside, swapping flasks and stories as the moon rose over Barnard. But single men would still gather at Mitch’s Roadhouse, the Longhorn Tavern,
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