Into the Dark Read online

  Dad nodded.

  The chief’s eyes shifted for a moment to Ingrid, then back to Dad. “As I’m sure you know, I’m investigating the Thatcher murder. The body was found on your father’s farm.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Dad said.

  The chief put his hat back on. “I’d like your permission to talk to Ingrid.”

  “About what?” Dad said.

  Permission? Ingrid didn’t understand: She often talked to Chief Strade. He was Joey’s dad, for God’s sake, plus they’d kind of helped each other on a couple of recent crimes.

  “About certain events that may pertain to the case,” the chief said. He looked at Ingrid again. “Since she’s a minor, I’d like your permission.” His voice was formal, like they were strangers.

  They all just stood there. Across the street the Grunellos’ door opened, and Mrs. Grunello, in a fluffy turquoise robe, came out carrying a recycling box. Her gaze went to the scene in front of 99.

  “All right,” Dad said. “But I have to be present.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I also have to leave for work in fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” the chief said. “I had no intention of making Ingrid late for school.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, Dad in Dad’s chair, Ingrid in Ingrid’s, Chief Strade in Mom’s. Now the chief had his hat in his lap.

  “That must have been upsetting,” he said. “When you found the body.”

  “Of course it’s upsetting,” said Dad. “She’s a thirteen-year-old kid.”

  The chief eyed Dad, a cool, appraising look. Ingrid didn’t want him looking at her father like that. She said, “Yes, it was upsetting. Joey was upset too.”

  “I’m sure,” said the chief. “Which one of you was the first to recognize the body?”

  “Realize he was dead, you mean?”

  The chief shook his head. “Realize who it was,” he said.

  “I guess me,” said Ingrid.

  “And how did you know?” the chief said.

  How had she known? Because she’d seen Harris Thatcher before—once the man himself, once his photograph in The Echo. “He was in The Echo,” she said. “On the front page.”

  The chief smiled. “You read The Echo, Ingrid?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you recognized his face from the photo in The Echo?”

  “Yes,” said Ingrid. “The article about how he was missing.”

  “In my experience,” the chief said, “most of the photos in The Echo could be a lot clearer.”

  Ingrid didn’t say anything. Dad glanced at his watch.

  “I understand The Echo’s running a series on the World War Two vets, including your grandfather,” the chief said.

  “Yes,” Ingrid said.

  “Any idea what he did in the war?”

  “Not really,” Ingrid said.

  “Aren’t we getting a little far afield?” said Dad.

  “Maybe,” said the chief. “We’re still waiting to hear from ballistics.”

  “Lost you there,” said Dad.

  “Just that it’s early in the investigation,” said the chief. “There are a lot of possibilities. What I’m trying to get straight now is how Ingrid identified the body.”

  “And she just told you,” Dad said. “From The Echo.” He rose. “Is there anything else?”

  The chief stayed where he was, seated in Mom’s chair. His face wore an expression she’d never seen on it before, almost sad. “So that’s the story, Ingrid?” he said. “You recognized Harris Thatcher from The Echo?”

  One little nod and this would be over. Ingrid nodded.

  Now the chief did look sad, no doubt about it. He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a spiral notebook. An everyday object, nothing to be afraid of, but Ingrid was suddenly afraid.

  “This notebook was recovered from the body,” the chief said. He leafed through. “It appears to be a work diary, where Mr. Thatcher kept track of developments in his caseload. This is from an entry a couple weeks back.” The chief licked his lips and started reading. He turned out to be not a very good reader at all, monotonic and even stumbling over a word or two. “‘Mr. Hill refused to have any discussion whatsoever. He produced a rifle of some kind, and the situation might even have turned violent if a girl that I took to be his granddaughter hadn’t intervened.’”

  The chief looked up. “Was that you, Ingrid?”

  Now came a second nod, and with it the knowledge that this was far from over.

  “So is it possible,” said the chief, “that your identification of the body was based in fact on your presence during this incident at the farm?”

  One more nod—against her wishes, involuntary, but it happened anyway: an admission that she’d been caught in a lie by the chief of police.

  The chief closed the notebook. “Any idea what kind of rifle your grandfather produced?” he said.

  “This discussion is over,” said Dad.

  The chief looked at him, his eyes so cold, his face so hard, that he almost seemed like someone else. “One last thing,” he said. “The ME puts the time of death somewhere between noon and three P.M. on Tuesday. Care to tell me where you were then?”

  “Me?” said Dad. “Is that a serious question?”

  “Very,” said the chief.

  Dad gave the chief a hard stare. But then he seemed to have a thought, and his eyes shifted. “I was with a client,” he said.

  “Name and location?” said the chief.

  Now Dad wasn’t coming close to meeting the chief’s gaze. He looked embarrassed, even…even guilty. “I’ll fax that to you from the office,” he said.

  The chief went away. Dad closed the door, rubbed his face, and turned to Ingrid.

  “Keeping any other secrets?” he said.

  Ingrid shook her head. But was Dad keeping secrets? Was there any way he could have had anything to do with this? No. The murderer was a good shot and Dad had no interest in guns, had never even fired one in Ingrid’s experience. Plus he had no connection at all to Mr. Thatcher, and if anything was probably on Mr. Thatcher’s side when it came to Grampy’s behavior. But then why had he looked so guilty?

  “If you are, tell me now,” Dad said. “I don’t want Grampy hiding behind you.”

  How could Dad say such a horrible thing? Didn’t he know his own father? Ingrid felt herself going red-hot. “Grampy doesn’t hide behind anybody,” she said. “And he would never—”

  Dad’s cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, checked the number, didn’t answer. Ingrid seized the moment to run up to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  ten

  “What’s wrong?” STACY said.

  Recess. They dangled on the swings, Ingrid and Stacy. A bunch of boys were shooting hoops on the paved court nearby, Joey one of them. He didn’t look her way.

  “Nothing,” Ingrid said.

  “That conservation guy?” said Stacy.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There are all these rumors.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Stacy said. “About him getting shot on your grandfather’s farm.”

  “That’s not a rumor.”

  “Don’t get mad at me.” Stacy cracked her gum.

  “I’m not mad at you. What rumors? Who’s spreading them?”

  “I wouldn’t say exactly spreading them. But Sergeant Pina and my dad are buddies. They go hunting in Maine, stuff like that.”

  “And?”

  “And he came over last night. With his truck. My dad was putting new speakers in it. Sergeant Pina, I’m talking about.”

  “And?”

  “And when they were going into the garage, I heard Sergeant Pina say that Mr. Thatcher was a jerk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Way too much of a—what’s the word?—when it comes to the environment.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “Begins with a z.”


  The only z word Ingrid could think of was zero.

  “Rubs people the wrong way for no reason. That was what my dad said. Sergeant Pina said he wouldn’t really blame your grandfather if…you know. Then they started with the drills and I didn’t hear any more.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

  Stacy glanced at her sideways, said nothing.

  “No way,” Ingrid said. “The bullet hole was toward the back of the head and the shooter wasn’t close-up. That’s how a coward kills. Not Grampy.”

  Stacy put her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze—a hard squeeze, Stacy not knowing her own strength. “I believe you,” she said. “One hundred percent.”

  “Zealot,” said Ingrid.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the z word.”

  The bell rang. They lined up. Ingrid found herself near Joey. Their eyes met.

  “Hi,” said Ingrid.

  “Um,” said Joey. He looked away.

  “Two lines,” said Ms. Groome. “And you there—dispose of that gum.”

  “What gum?” said Stacy, swallowing it.

  Ingrid had rehearsal after school. A real bad rehearsal: She forgot everything—her marks, her cues, her lines. Jill wrapped it up early. Ingrid went into the lobby of Prescott Hall, prepared for a long wait. But Brucie’s father, coming in the door, said, “Hello, Ingrid. Your mom called and asked if I’d drop you off.”

  “Oh,” said Ingrid. Did Mom even know Rabbi Berman? She herself had met him only once, in the Prescott Hall parking lot.

  They got in Rabbi Berman’s car, Ingrid, at Rabbi Berman’s insistence, in front, and Brucie in back.

  “How was rehearsal?” said Rabbi Berman.

  “Good,” said Ingrid. She remembered that he was a rabbi and added, “Thanks.” She didn’t know anything about rabbis, had no idea what to expect. She glanced at Rabbi Berman. He looked like all the other dads.

  “Music?” he said, sliding a CD into the player.

  “Sure,” said Ingrid.

  “No,” said Brucie, a groaning kind of no.

  Music started playing.

  “Love Bob Dylan,” said Rabbi Berman.

  Brucie didn’t say another word the whole way. Ingrid had never heard him so quiet.

  Ingrid got out of the Bermans’ car in front of 99 Maple Lane. Ty was standing in the driveway. Not coming or going, just standing there, almost as though he was waiting for her. She walked up to him. Were those tears in his eyes? That made no sense: Ty wasn’t a crier.

  “Ingrid?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Grampy’s in jail.”

  “In jail?”

  “Locked up,” Ty said. “For murder.”

  “Oh, no,” Ingrid said. Then she, also not a crier, was crying too. Ty put his arms around her. They hugged. “He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

  “But he’s got no alibi,” said Ty.

  Ingrid backed up. “How do you know?”

  “There’s a lawyer inside,” Ty said. “I heard them talking.”

  “Mrs. Dirksen?” said Ingrid. Mom had told Ingrid that Mrs. Dirksen was their lawyer for wills and stuff.

  Ty shook his head. “This guy came from Hartford.” Ingrid noticed what she should have seen right away, a huge SUV in the driveway. The vanity plate read: LEAGLE. For no reason she could express it gave her a bad premonition.

  Ingrid and Ty went in the house. Mom and Dad were in the dining room with a man in a dark suit papers spread all over the table. Dad had that lump of muscle showing over his jaw. Mom had the two vertical lines deep in her forehead. Only the lawyer seemed relaxed. Ingrid wasn’t good at guessing the ages of adults, but right away she wished the lawyer looked older. He wore a nice suit—as nice as the ones Dad wore, but more tight fitting. His hair was somehow scruffy and well cut at the same time, like a lawyer in a movie.

  “Kids,” said Dad, “go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”

  Going upstairs? Unbearable. “But Grampy’s in jail,” Ingrid said. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re taking care of it right now,” Dad said. “Go upstairs.”

  Taking care of it how? Very wrong for her to blurt that question out at a time like this, and Ingrid fought to keep it in.

  The lawyer turned to her. “Is this Ingrid?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Ingrid.

  “I’ll need to speak to her.”

  Getting talked about in the third person: Ingrid didn’t like that. “What about?” she said.

  “We can get to that a little later,” said the lawyer.

  Mom said, “Mr. Tulkinghorn is going to get Grampy out on bail. Please do as your father says.”

  Ty turned to go. Ingrid followed. But at the door she stopped—just couldn’t help herself—and said, “Is it true Grampy has no alibi?”

  “Ingrid!” Dad said. “You’re wasting precious time.”

  She left the room, feeling horrible.

  Upstairs, an IM from Stacy (Powerup77):

  Powerup77: hey

  Gridster22: hey

  Powerup77: whassup

  Gridster22: not much

  Powerup77: you ok

  Gridster22: no alibi

  Powerup77: i heard

  Gridster22:

  Powerup77: it was on tv

  Gridster22: omg

  Powerup77: cant account for where he was

  “Ingrid?” Her door opened and Mom came in. “Mr. Tulkinghorn wants to talk to you now.”

  “About what?” Ingrid said.

  Gridster22: cu

  “I’m not sure,” Mom said.

  “What should I say?”

  “Just answer his questions honestly,” Mom said.

  “But—”

  “He’s on our side,” Mom said. “He’s our lawyer.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Of course he’s good, Ingrid. Dad checked.”

  How did you check something like that? Ingrid didn’t know. “Chief Strade really believes Grampy shot Mr. Thatcher?” she said.

  “I don’t know what he believes,” Mom said.

  “But it’s impossible,” Ingrid said.

  Mom took her hand. Mom’s hand was icy cold. She gazed deep into Ingrid’s eyes, as though searching for something. “Is it, Ingrid? Apparently Grampy kept guns at the farm. I never knew that.”

  True. And also Mom didn’t know that Grampy had taught her to shoot the .22, lining up Coke bottles on the fence behind the barn, and how she was actually a pretty good shot; and maybe even worse, from Mom’s point of view, how all that shattering glass was kind of thrilling. Ingrid had a strange vision of how life might be. You came in incapable of speech. Then you started talking. Pretty soon you said something that was wrong, or that someone thought was wrong, and then you were in your first snarl. The more you talked, the more chances you’d end up in more snarls, snarls spiraling within snarls. And by the time you were old, say Grampy’s age—how snarly could things get by then?

  Ingrid said nothing. She went downstairs with her mother.

  “Hi, again,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. Just the two of them in the dining room: He’d wanted to talk to her alone. “I’m Rex Tulkinghorn.” A little pause. Was she supposed to say something yet? “And you’re Ingrid,” he went on. “I’ve already heard a lot about you.”

  Like?

  But Mr. Tulkinghorn didn’t go there. He opened a briefcase—all the papers had been cleared away, the table now bare—and took out a yellow notepad. “I’m a lawyer,” he said. “You’re aware of what lawyers do?”

  They ask patronizing questions? Ingrid kept that thought to herself and just nodded.

  “Your parents have hired me to defend your grandfather. Any help you can give me will be much appreciated.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

  “Oh? You know that for a fact?”

  Ingrid explained: first, how the footprint evide
nce proved that Mr. Thatcher had been shot from a distance; second, that Grampy would never do something so cowardly—and practically from behind, as well.

  “You’re quite the little detective,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “What can you tell me about your grandfather’s guns?”

  Ingrid glanced into the hall, saw no one, but thought she could feel Mom close by. She kept her voice down. “He has a .22 rifle and a .357 handgun.”

  “Licensed?”

  “I think so.” What I own I own by right.

  Mr. Tulkinghorn made a note on the yellow pad. He was one of those people who pressed way too hard with the pen, almost piercing the page. “And what about a .30-06 Springfield rifle, possibly equipped with a sniper’s scope?”

  “No,” Ingrid said.

  “No he doesn’t have such a weapon, or no you never saw one?”

  “I never saw one.”

  Mr. Tulkinghorn made another note in his heavy-handed way.

  “Why?” Ingrid said. The word just popped out, unbidden.

  He glanced up, annoyed. “Why what?”

  “Why are you asking about this other kind of rifle?”

  “Because the ballistics tests came back,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “The bullet was a .30-06.”

  Not a .22 or a .357! “That’s good, right?” Ingrid said.

  Mr. Tulkinghorn reached into his briefcase, removed a printout. Reading upside down, Ingrid made out the heading: United States Army. “Aylmer Hill was issued a Springfield M1903A4 .30-06 sniper rifle with an M73B1 2.5 power sight on February 1, 1942,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn, following his finger across the page. He looked up, his eyes cold. “There’s no record of that rifle ever being returned to the Army quartermaster prior to Aylmer Hill’s discharge on September 3, 1945.” He took out a picture, showed it to Ingrid: an old-fashioned-looking rifle with a brown wooden stock and a skinny black scope mounted on the top. “Ever heard the word implication?” he said.

  Ingrid nodded.

  “Know what it means?”

  She nodded again, not patiently.

  “Then you see the implication of this combination of facts,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn.

  “That he took the rifle home with him from the war and used it to shoot Mr. Thatcher?” Ingrid said.