The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

her if she might have a smoke. She regretted it immediately, for it brought on a scurrying about such as she had never seen before.

The woman couldn’t seem to remember where she’d put the ashtray, and when she finally found it, McPherson had to sit and wait while she danced around plants and statues, so there might be a place to set it.

Finally, once everything was arranged she sat down again.

“Now. What would you like to know?”

“It’s about Charlie Turner—“

“Isn’t it terrible?” Mrs. Johnson interrupted. “And he was such a nice boy, too. There aren’t many boys nowadays who are interested in the arts, and he took his music so seriously.”

“So you knew him quite well, then?”

“He stopped by fairly often. I try to keep tidbits around for the children when they come over. He was always so fond of my cream cakes. I can still see him, sitting in front of the computer, listening to violin music and eating my cakes.”

McPherson didn’t have a problem with hyper-feminine women, but this felt like it was getting out of hand. “Other than his violin, do you know of any other interests he had?”

“No, nothing besides his Boy Scout membership. He attended the meetings religiously.”

McPherson took note of that. It was strange that Mrs. Johnson knew just how often the boy went to meetings.

“Then I take it you liked the boy?”

Colleen clasped her hands against her breast. “He was such a sweetheart. So quiet and shy and well-behaved. We used to talk for a long time together. He liked to hear stories about the South. I’m from the South, you know.”

She knew, but she was pretty sure Charlie was more talked at than talked with. The part about him stopping over to listen to violin music fit perfectly with what they already knew, but the kid probably paid a high price for his curiosity in having to listen to this pseudo-Southern belle.

“Then you can’t think of any reason why someone would have disliked Charlie enough to want to hurt him?”

“There wasn’t any reason,” she said dramatically. “A person who could work themselves up to such a state to where they mutilate that poor little boy would have to be insane.”

She mentally rehearsed some of her favorite swear words, then said in a deceptively soft voice, “It appears to have been a simple strangulation, Mrs. Johnson.”

“I know,” the woman answered in a confidential tone. “You officers won’t dare let the public know what really happened.”

McPherson had a choice. She could either leave or tell the woman what she thought about her and her kind, so she rose quickly to her feet and walked towards the door.

“That’s everything for now. If you can think of anything else that might help, feel free to call me at my office.”

Mrs. Johnson looked disappointed that she was leaving so soon. “I’ll call you if I think of anything. The sooner you get him, the sooner we can all get back to sleeping safely. By the way, have you spoken to my husband? He was gone the night of the murder. Not that he could have had anything to do with it, but I just wondered.”

“A few of the other officers will pay him a visit today,” she answered shortly and started briskly toward the car, leaving Mrs. Johnson behind to wonder where her husband must have been at the time of the murder.

“How was your nap?” McPherson snapped at Taylor when she returned to the car.

“Haven’t been able to sleep this time,” the handsome young officer answered. “I’ve been sitting here counting out all the times those crazy housewives come running to the window to peek out. That Fitts woman is leading the pack, with thirteen trips. What the hell do they expect to see?”

“Probably a pedophile, itching to take them next,” McPherson said sourly.

“What?! Out in broad daylight, with a police car sitting out in plain sight?” Taylor asked in amazement. He knew better than to think he was being joshed.

“I don’t think that Fitts woman expects to find one, but it seems to suit her purpose just fine to act like she does.”

“What the hell for?”

“Personal reasons, most likely. She doesn’t seem to like it here, and so what better reason to move than to protect herself and her children from a pedophile?”

Taylor settled himself and started the car. “Hell.”

“Yeah. Let’s take a trip down to the school. I want to talk to the boy’s teachers.”

“OK. Maybe we’ll finally learn something.”

XII

McPherson took in the school as Taylor pulled to a stop in the front of the building. It was a modern design, built using sandstone bricks and wide expanses of glass. To the left of the parking area was a large playground where a track class was in progress.

“Take a look at the legs on some of those kids,” Taylor chuckled. “They’re so skinny you wonder how they even stand on them, much less run.”

“And you think your legs are pretty?” McPherson’s disposition still hadn’t improved after the Johnson interview.

“No, not pretty, but sturdy and serviceable.”

“Well, then you’re very fortunate,” she said sarcastically. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so go ahead and take a nap.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The order had been well-received.

McPherson made her way up the sidewalk, flanked on both sides by a green velvet lawn, and thought about how different her own school had been. A thin-framed building in need of paint, with halls so dark that the lights had to be on all the time, was a far cry from this.

She pushed open the glass door and found a sign pointing the way towards the principal’s office. When she found the door, she knocked and went in.

It was a small, decent office, with a good-sized desk, behind which sat a pleasant-looking blonde girl. The sign atop the desk read Miss Tack.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely.

McPherson removed her credentials from her pocket and showed them to her.

“I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson. I’d like to speak to the