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

She sighed. It had been a tough, unrewarding day and the prospect of having to listen to another psycho bleat on about how he’d committed murder sounded like torture. She would have preferred to tell them to lock him up and forget about him, but she could still remember the time a skinny little man had shown up with a wild tale about how he had taken a hatchet to his family, and it turned out the little creep had been telling the truth. The police had to listen to hundreds of confessions on the off chance that one might be legitimate.

“Yeah,” she said, with an air of resignation, “bring him over.”

She went back to her desk and waited, and within a few minutes they brought in a well-dressed man who looked to be about fifty. He looked perfectly sane, if not a little irritated. They were usually upset when they learned that the police’s reaction to their confession didn’t come with honor and sympathy.

McPherson nodded to the officer. “I’ll call for you if I need you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied crisply then left.

“Take a seat,” McPherson said to the man glaring at her.

“Well, it’s about time somebody listened to me,” he snapped. “I came here on my own free will to turn myself in, and not only have I not been arrested, but I can’t even find anyone courteous enough to listen to me.”

“Just take a seat,” McPherson ordered calmly, “and tell me your name and address.”

“My name is Wilson Brandt, and I’ve already provided this information to the gentleman out there.”

“Sure, but I need it for my own records, so if you won’t mind repeating it—“

“That’s the trouble with this world. Everyone goes on repeating what everyone’s already done. It saps up time that might be used for things that are truly necessary. Besides, you should be trying to save paper. Every sheet of paper you use is bought and paid for by the local taxpayers, but you don’t care. One record of a name and address should be sufficient.”

After expressing his point of view, Mr. Brandt seemed to settle down a little, and took his seat.

“I’ll keep in mind what you said. Now if you’ll provide me with your name and address.”

“Wilson Brandt. Actually, it’s Wilson K. Brandt, but the K stands for Kincaid and I hardly ever use it. I could never understand why my parents decided to name me Kincaid. It sounds like a steel plant.”

“Yes, Mr. Brandt. Now where do you live?”

“Down at the Bateman Motel, Room 313. I’ve been living there for almost ten years. They all know me down there.”

“Say, haven’t we met before, Mr. Brandt?”

McPherson was well aware that the man had previously confessed to a wide assortment of crimes over a period of several years. He had been in and out of the local hospital several times, but apparently all that was wrong with him was that he was lonely, and every once in a while he would stop by to confess to something just to get some attention.

He was fixed comfortably, financially, and had two sons, both of whom had families of their own, but it seemed that the only time they ever remembered that they had a father was when they needed money.

Brandt studied McPherson’s face before answering. “I don’t remember having ever seen you before.”

He either truly didn’t remember, or he was a good liar.

“If I recall correctly, I think it was last March that you came in and confessed to setting the Briggs Packing Plant on fire. Do you remember that?”

“I believe you’re quite mistaken,” the man assured her. “I’m not an arsonist. I’m a murderer.” There was little mistaking the sincerity in his voice.

McPherson settled back into her chair. It would be a waste of time to keep talking to him, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to be unkind to the lonely old man.

“All right. So you say you killed the boy. Why?”

“I couldn’t help it. This feeling came over me, and I just had to kill him.”

Now that he finally had an audience, Brandt seemed to be enjoying himself. Judging by the look of him, he might have been the honored house guest at a party.

“What were you doing out in South Pines?”

“It gets old sitting in a hotel room all day every day, so I went out for a bus ride.”

“The bus line is at least five blocks away from where Charlie was killed. What was your purpose for being in those woods?”

Brandt hesitated for a moment, then said, “I decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely evening, so I went for a walk.”

“All right, so you took a bus ride, went for a walk, then something came over you and you decided to shoot a boy you’d never seen before. Is that right?”

He smiled slyly. “I know you’re trying to trick me. I strangled him, and you know it. I was walking along, then there he was. I don’t know what got into me, or why I did it, but I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed.”

It was an old tactic and McPherson hadn’t expected it to work.

“Did you know Charlie?”

“Of course not. Why would I kill someone I knew?”

“Do you want me to lock you up?”

“Sure. I fully expect you, an officer of the law, to do your duty. I murdered the boy, so now you have to lock me up. The public must be protected.”

He would have spoken the same way had he been insisting on proper water treatment.

“All right. Come on,” McPherson said, and they walked over to the officer who had brought him in.

“Mr. Brandt says he’s committed another crime. See to it that he’s locked up.”

The officer assented then led Brandt away. From past experience, McPherson knew that tomorrow morning Brandt would be yelling to get out and making accusations of police brutality, but one thing was for sure, he would walk away with