Warren Murphy - Child's Play

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* Title : #023 : CHILDS PLAY *

* Series : The Destroyer *

* Author(s) : Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir *

* Location : Gillian Archives *

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CHAPTER ONE

The left arm came sailing over the schoolyard fence… without a body on it. The left leg skittered into a sandbox, where the blood pumped out of the thigh stump and onto a rubber play shovel. There were no sharp edges on this yellow shovel the size of a large serving spoon because it was guaranteed by the National Parental Council as "child safe." In the playground of the Fairview, Oklahoma, Country Day School there was also no left side of Robert Calder.

Jimmy Wilkes and Katherine Poffer remembered that was the side on which Mr. Calder had been holding the "froobie."

"Tell the men what a froobie is, Katherine," said the nurse in the infirmary of the Fairview Country Day School as two men in polished cordovan shoes and neat gray suits with white shirts and striped ties took notes on a small tape recorder. They had told the Fairview County Sheriff's office they wanted to talk to the children first, and afterward the sheriff could get all the information he needed. He had complained that homicide was not a federal crime but a state crime, and if the Justice Department wanted the assistance of the Fairview County Sheriff's Office, they should tell him what the hell was up. Especially since November was four months away and while they had assured jobs, an elected county official sure as hell didn't, and one hand washes the other if the FBI knew what the Fairview County Sheriff's office meant. They did, and they didn't want him talking to the children first.

So Katherine Poffer, seven, explained to the two FBI agents what a froobie was.

"It's nice," said Kathy.

"Tell them what it does, dear," said the nurse.

"It's like a frisbee. It's plastic, only it squiggles if you get it right," said Jimmy Wilkes, six.

"She said me. She said I should say what a froobie is," said Katherine Poffer. "It's like a frisbee only it squiggles," Kathy said with righteous triumph.

"Now when did the bang happen?" asked one of the agents.

"Me or Jimmy?" said Katherine Poffer.

"Either one," said the agent.

"When he threw it, sort of," said Jimmy.

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. Like the froobie was up at his ear, like a quarterback ready to throw."

"Yes," said the agent.

"He was left-handed," said Jimmy Wilkes.

"Yes."

"And then, wow, boom," said Jimmy, his hands going out to show a big explosion.

"You didn't see half of him at all," said Katherine Poffer.

"A leg went in the sandbox, and there's no going in the sandbox during afternoon recess," said Jimmy.

"Did you see who brought the froobie to the schoolyard?"

"Nobody brought it. It was there," said Jimmy.

"Somebody must have brought it," said the agent.

"The new boy maybe brought it," said Katherine.

"Some grownup," said the agent. "Was any grownup standing near the schoolyard?"

"The ice cream man for a while," said Jimmy. The two agents went on with the interview. They had talked to the ice cream vendor already, and he had seen nothing. He was also not the kind of person to withhold information. This wasn't Brooklyn, where people stuck their noses behind doors and kept them there for their safety. This was heartland America, where if a strange dog wandered into town, everyone knew and was willing not only to talk about it but to tell you if it was a Communist dog or a Mafia dog. This was pin-clean small-town USA, where everyone not only knew everyone else but talked about everyone else. And no one knew who had killed Mr. Calder and while everyone was downright glad to cooperate with the FBI-"We're on your side, fellas"-no one knew who had planted the bomb. And what was the FBI doing here in Fairview anyway? This wasn't a federal crime, you know. Was Mr. Calder a secret spy?

No, ma'am.

Was he a secret scientist?

No, sir.

Was he a big Mafia cappucino who split with the family?

No, sir.

Was he a hit? He was a real live hit, wasn't he?

Well, ma'am, we believe that his demise was, so to speak, intentional.

That's for dang sure. Folks don't blow up by accident.

Yes, sir.

So here they were, talking to little children about froobies and bang bangs and sand boxes, while other agents went around picking up pieces of the man called Calder from the schoolyard.

"Anything else?" said the agent.

"He went like a ladyfinger. Bang. You know how ladyfingers blow up when you light them," said Jimmy.

"Ladyfingers are firecrackers. They're against the law. I never used them," said Kathy Poffer. "Jimmy used them a lot though. Jimmy and Johnny Kruse and Irene Blasinips. She showed herself to the boys, too. I know that."

"And you took extra cookies before nap," said Jimmy, turning in his playmate to the FBI. But the FBI did not seem interested in firecrackers or who showed what to whom, just Mr. Calder who was new to the town and had gone bang like a ladyfinger with some of him left, like those little firecrackers that never quite went all up.

There was something else, too, Jimmy remembered, but no one would be interested in that. They wanted to know about the bang, not about the new kid who wouldn't let anyone play with the froobie but just hung around sort of, and when Mr. Calder came by, called out to him and seemed to know him because he called him Mr. Calder.

"Mr. Calder, they say you can throw a football, but I bet you can't throw a froobie," the new kid had said.

And everyone had watched Mr. Calder take the froobie, while the new kid had backed away to the other side of the schoolyard as Mr. Calder raised the yellow plastic froobie to his ear, just like the football players did when they wanted to throw footballs like grownups. But when the froobie was ready to go, bang.

And Mr. Calder was only partly left. Outside the infirmary, the strangers were still examining the area for the sprayed pieces of Mr. Calder. Lights came on, and there were television cameras, and everyone was talking about how hard it must have been on Jimmy and Kathy to see such a horrible thing at their ages, so Kathy started to cry, and since Kathy was crying and everyone said it was horrible and since Jimmy's mother was hugging him as if something horrible had happened, Jimmy started to cry, too.

"The poor babies," said someone, and Jimmy couldn't stop crying. All this over Mr. Calder, who went up like a little firecracker with some of him left.

The two agents caught the nightly news on television as they went over their day's notes. There were the two children, crying away before the television cameras. The schoolyard. And Calder's home.

"A modest home on a well-kept street," said the announcer of the local television station.

"Well kept, you can bet," said the agent who had questioned the children. "We had both sides and the front of the house covered. And the backyard neighbor was a retired Marine." He blew air out of his mouth and went over the notes. Somehow, apparently in the children's toy, a bomb had been smuggled in. But then why did Calder play with it? How had it happened that a child hadn't grabbed it first and blown himself up, instead of Calder?

How did anyone even know the subject was in Fairview? He had changed his name to Calder when his children were only babies, so they never knew his real name. No one at the factory where he was assistant purchasing agent knew his name. The agent at the plant had kept an eye on that.

No stranger had entered Fairview. No stranger could have entered Fairview without the whole town knowing about it-that was why Fairview had been chosen. Everyone in this town talked. Gossip was the major industry here. That, and the single manufacturing plant.