August 1966
They slid under the concrete canopy of the burned-out grandstands. Heavy rain fell, creating sloppy puddles in the dirt. The old structure provided shelter on three sides and kept the rain off. The two old men sat on crates and unloaded essentials from their duffel bags. In the corner lay a small cache of dry sticks and chunks of wood. Moving under the concrete bunker with practiced precision, they removed wet outer clothing. Within a few minutes, tattered wool blankets wrapped around their shoulders, they held their hands to a warming fire. The rusty rack balanced over the fire, held a small, worn pot. It hissed as outer moisture evaporated in the rising heat. Two used teabags plopped into the pot, and both men waited patiently for the boil. They emptied their bottles a couple hours ago. Their only hope of warmth now simmered over the fire.
“Wonder what’s keeping Nate and Collins? Those two youngsters usually beat us everywhere. Maybe our old bones move faster in the rain.”
“I think they were gonna grab a few ears of corn from that field back there. Food wouldn’t hurt right now. I don’t remember the last time I ate. Do you?”
“Yesterday morning, that guy on the train shared those chocolate bars.”
“I remember that stale chocolate. It filled the hole anyway.”
“Rain could be holding them up, or maybe they decided to wait until dark to steal corn. They’ll be along soon.”
“I’m happy to sit right here until this weather clears.”
They stayed warm next to the fire and moved only to pour more hot tea. When they drained the pot, they added rainwater and, using the same teabags, generated more tea. They had been on the road for quite some time, and conversation had played out long ago.
The hushed sound of footfalls in the wet grass brought both men to attention. They needed to rally, rather than lose everything to some poacher. It could be their friends, or not. They moved quickly into the near bush with their duffels and crouched to watch their site. The fire burned and the pot boiled. No one came near. Whoever they heard moved away from them. They waited, hidden in the bush. A splash interrupted the sound of rainfall. They looked at each other. Holding silence, they carefully made their way through the bush to a spot not far from the pond. The ground mist and heavy shadows made clear vision impossible.
The men watched, trying to comprehend what they saw. Collins laid unconscious, facedown on the ground. Three shadowy figures, dressed in strange apparel, stood to one side. A young man lifted the traveler off the ground, and dropped him into the water. The old men watched as the four of them sauntered toward the fields north of the track, and disappeared into the dark.
The men stayed in place for several minutes and didn’t move. They looked at each other and said nothing. One got up slowly and listened. He heard nothing and signaled his friend to follow him. They lifted their duffel bags and quietly walked back toward the grandstands. Their fire still burned, and the tea still boiled. They whispered to each other and looked around. Nothing looked disturbed.
“I guess Nate and Collins won’t make it for tea tonight.”
“What say we get the hell out of here?”
“I never really minded a bit of rain, and we need a new pot anyway.”
They moved past the grandstands, watching and listening for the intruders. Nearing the highway, their pace increased from the quiet, cautious walk to a full run. Other derelicts, squatted at the rail yards, watched the two men, wet and winded, run into their midst. The two old men dropped their bags and ducked under a small overhang. They slid down into a sitting position against the wall.
They related their story to the other travelers and were amazed to find out most of their rail mates already knew about the pond. For several hours that night, they listened to stories about murderous scarecrows roaming the cornfields. Confused and scared, they whispered to each other.
“Were we watching scarecrows?”
“I couldn’t see them very well. They could have been, I guess.”
“That’s silly. Scarecrows don’t walk around killing people. These guys are just making up stories to scare us.”
They saw something, and realized they might have witnessed murder.
Two constables and a prisoner wagon showed up late that evening and hauled all the transients from the train yard to the local jail. The rain fell heavily and a cold wind kicked up. The travelers, wet and cold, relished the idea of a night in a warm, dry jail and a real meal. The old men shared a cell with six others, and no one complained.
“You know, we should tell them what happened.”
“They won’t believe us.”
“What are you two talking about anyway?” One of the cell mates, a young man, had a curious look on his face.
“Did you say murders were committed by scarecrows?” The second cell mate, a black man about forty, looked serious for a minute, and then all six of the transients burst into near hysteria.
“It’s one of those farcical stories told by old men around campfires. Sometimes the cold and wet make us a bit senile out there.” The two old men laughed along with the others.
Thursday, August 18, 1966
Steven and Robert sat on the porch and waited for the detective to arrive. He promised he would be there within the hour, and got to the house right on time.
“Good day, my friend.”
“Hello, Walter. I hope I haven’t taken you away from anything important.”
“This is important. You told me on the phone that you and Cathy’s doctor don’t think she’s guilty of Emily’s murder. Given some new information this morning, I may agree with you.”
“This is Cathy’s doctor, Steven Webster. He is trying to piece together what happened to Cathy that day. Steven, this is Walter Leland, the lead detective. We need to talk. Let’s head for the kitchen and I’ll brew up some fresh coffee.”
The men moved to the kitchen table. Robert started the percolator, and soon the smell of coffee filled the room. They reviewed the details of Cathy’s story.
“If Cathy is telling the truth, then there are either three scarecrows or three people impersonating scarecrows walking that field.” Walter shook his head.
“I don’t think the scarecrows are the issue. She witnessed something that scared her, and she turned that fear into one she knew how to handle. She didn’t know how to deal with what she actually saw, and completely suppressed it.” Steven spouted his psychiatric explanation.
“Somehow that makes sense. She obsessed about those damn scarecrows. She had nightmares almost every night. I took Cathy to the Lewiston farm that spring and she watched Jimmy build the scarecrows. After that visit, the nightmares stopped and she seemed fine. She talked about how silly they looked and then she’d laugh. Maybe a little fear still existed. We didn’t see it and she didn’t talk about it. She spent lots of time at the Lewiston farm after that.”
“Why would she spend time there?” Walter asked.
“Jimmy filled the role of her best friend. I didn’t want her to play with him. A young man, and…well, a little girl?” Robert seemed uncomfortable admitting the friendship between the two children.
“How did he treat her? Did you see any signs of abuse?” Walter played the cop.
“No. They treated each other like best friends. They spent time walking, talking, playing tag and catching frogs. One day Cathy brought all her books outside. They sat under that willow tree in the front yard and looked at books for hours. Jimmy loved those books. Everything seemed okay to me, and I watched them closely when they were together. I needed to be sure. I thought the whole relationship seemed off, and Clare thought it worked fine. She knew Cathy needed to have a friend, and Jimmy lived right there.”
“Your wife went along with it?” Steven appeared to be shocked. “That’s really out of character for a mother.”
“Clare told me we lived out of the way and Cathy had no friends. The only kids her age lived in the subdivision, and they bullied and made fun of her. Clare hated the kids who lived there. In her mind, brain-damaged Jimmy made a better companion for Cathy. She liked him and trusted him. My wife always went with her instincts.” Robert got up quickly and poured the coffee. He hated talking about Clare.
“That’s interesting that she preferred Cathy play with Jimmy. I’ve never heard of that situation. Mothers are notoriously overprotective. Apparently she saw less threat in him than in children her daughter’s age.” Steven seemed fascinated by Clare’s behavior.
Walter decided to relate the story he’d heard that morning. It did lend a slight touch of credibility to Cathy’s story.
“We arrested the transients at the rail yard last night. The yard supervisor worried that, with the rain and them seeking shelter anywhere, someone could get hurt. We collected every transcient we could find and put them in our holding cells overnight.”
“Do you roust them often?” Steven asked.
“Not usually. With the weather and the concern by the yard foreman, it made sense. We picked them up at the railroad yard, and then we checked the old raceway in case some of them had hunkered down there. Jail is a nice treat for the bums. They get a dry bed and a good meal. We do the same thing when it gets really cold and blustery.”
“That’s nice that you help them out.” Steven smiled.
He nodded and continued. “Nobody bunked at the racetrack last night. The rumors of scarecrows roaming the cornfields and dumping dead bodies in the pond keeps the bums away until after the farmers harvest the corn.” Walter stopped talking and looked at the two men.
Robert spoke first. “You look a bit worried. Is this story going somewhere?”
Walter took a deep breath and sipped his coffee before continuing. “This morning, two of our overnight guests asked to see a detective. These two old men waited at the track last night for two friends who never showed up. The men claim a young man killed their one friend and threw his body into the pond. Their other friend may have already been dumped into the water. They had heard a splash, and that’s why they went to check the pond. These poor old guys believed a teenager and three scarecrows did it. Their descriptions almost matched Jimmy and the Lewiston scarecrows.”
“Are you saying my daughter isn’t the only person who sees scarecrows?”
“Let me finish, Robert. Their description of Jimmy and the scarecrows sounded sketchy at best. These witnesses were old, half-blind and probably drunk when these alleged murders happened. When I talked to others bums about it, they laughed. They admitted tales of roaming scarecrows have been around for years. It comes up every time they arrive in farm country. No one actually believes it. They tell these stories for entertainment, or if they want to scare the new guy.” Walter stopped and let it all sink in. Steven sat quietly drinking coffee, and Robert just stared straight ahead.
Steven asked, “You have a report of two murders. What’s the next step?”
Walter turned to Robert. “I need to talk to Jimmy. Just to clear the matter. Do you think if we went over there, Mr. Lewiston would let me talk to him?”
“I don’t know. Barry’s very protective of him. Why don’t I talk to Barry on your behalf first? He’s always terrified someone will take Jimmy away from him.”
“I’ll leave it with you then. Let me know. The only other thing I can do is drag that pond. With no other evidence at this point, it’s the only way to know if there’s anything to these accusations. I think—”
A loud siren blared outside and Walter stopped talking. Robert jumped up and ran over to the phone. He dialed the operator quickly and waited.
Steven looked at Walter. “What is that?”
“Fire…it’s the fire alarm. Most rural communities have volunteer firefighters. They use that loud siren as the alert, and the men call the local operator for the location of the fire.”
“Thanks, Bonnie.” Robert hung up the phone and ran out the front door. Walter and Steven followed him. They hesitated on the front lawn. Black smoke billowed into the sky. Down the road to the east and behind a modern farmhouse sat a large structure belching smoke and flame. They all ran toward the fire.
“What is that?” Walter yelled.
“Lewiston’s barn is burning.” Robert pointed.
The black smoke engulfed the whole area, and the three men stopped and covered their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs before continuing. Two fire trucks, sirens blaring, sped past them and up the lane to Lewiston’s barn.
Robert joined the firefighters. Walter and Steven slowed and stopped in the lane. Flames licked through the walls and windows of the barn, and smoldering ash fluttered from the sky. Given the fire’s progression, nothing could save the barn. The firefighters were worried about the fire spreading to the house. Robert and two other men kept dousing the house roof with water.
Two hours later, wood embers and ash covered the scorched equipment and the cement floor of the barn. The firefighters hosed down hot spots in the pile of charred wood, preventing any further flare up. Barry stood in the lane and stared at the destruction. He lost most of his equipment and tools. Barry’s face mirrored a hard punch to the midsection.
Robert approached Barry. “What happened? I didn’t realize you had a fire until the alarm sounded.”
“I don’t know what happened. I went into the fields earlier to check the crops. The corn will be ready soon, and I can’t get it out of the field now. All my equipment sat in that barn.” Barry looked like he would cry. Instead, he turned away from the destruction and spoke quietly to Robert. “Jimmy came and told me about the fire in the barn. I think he set the fire. He seemed happy about it.”
“Don’t blame Jimmy yet, Barry. You know how mixed-up he gets sometimes. The fire investigators will check it out. Your insurance should be able to replace the equipment right away, and you know the neighbors will help you rebuild the barn.”
“I don’t feel right about this. Something is very wrong.”
“We’ll deal with it. You’re not alone here.” He put his hand on Barry’s shoulder. Barry just nodded and took a deep breath.
“I had planned to come over later and talk to you about Cathy’s situation.” Robert motioned for his friends to join him.
“That’s still up in the air, isn’t it? What can I do to help?”
“This is Walter Leland. He is the lead investigator in her case. This is Cathy’s doctor, Steven Webster.” He suddenly felt stupid asking for anything from Barry. “I’m sorry to bring this up right now. Walter wondered if he could talk to Jimmy. Is there any chance he could do that? It would just be a friendly conversation, whenever you have time.”
Barry looked the cop up and down and slowly lit a cigarette. He turned and started to walk away and then hesitated, stopped and turned to Robert. “No, Jimmy won’t be talking to anyone.” As he wiped soot from his face, Barry ambled across the lawn and into his cornfield.
Jimmy sat on the front lawn and watched everyone. His father walked past him and into the field. Jimmy stared at the remains of the barn.