The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 8

Stoudemire came around the corner to find Lizzie standing before a tall hallway closet, the solid wooden door wide open.

"See?" she said. "It's gone." She pointed to a vacant shelf. "It was right there."

"All I see is an empty shelf."

"Mister Gibbs' toolbox."

"A toolbox?"

She leaned closer and swiped her finger across the surface of the shelf. "Oil. I told you."

"An oily toolbox?"

"A great big, old, heavy metal toolbox. It was filled with all kinds of old tools. Wrenches, and pliers, screwdrivers, and even his leaky old drill."

"Ah ha!" said Stoudemire. "And he probably kept some oil for his old drill."

"Mr. Gibbs said he put it there ten years ago–"

"His drill?"

"No, the toolbox with the tools and the drill in it. He put it there ten years ago when he was strong enough to lift it and it's been there ever since. Well, it was. Until now."

"Did you notice anything else missing?"

She shook her head.

Stoudemire poked his head into the bedroom. He saw no evidence of ransacking.

"So whoever took it had to be someone who knew about Mr. Gibbs' toolbox," said Frazier. "Maybe someone who had borrowed tools from Mr. Gibbs."

She nodded. "And it had to be someone who knew his apartment key was under the welcome mat. So it's definitely somebody who lives in the building and is strong enough to carry that toolbox."

"Hmmmmmm," said the detective. "I think we can rule out Mrs. Brennan. And your Aunt Sonya."

"Aunt Sonya is a weakling. I know that's not nice to say but it's true. She doesn't buy big bottles of anything at the grocery store because she says they're too heavy. Ice cream was on sale last week. Two for the price of one. I think they call that BOGO."

He nodded. "Buy one, get one... free."

"That would be BOGOF."

"Right. BOGOF sounds weird so they just leave off the F."

"I think BOGO sounds weird. And how are people supposed to know they mean free?"

"Most people know BOGO means free."

"Maybe they see it on TV. I don't watch TV because it makes me dizzy."

He kept his polite smile in place but the more she prattled on, the more challenging it became.

"Anyway," Lizzie said. "She didn't buy the ice cream because she said it was too heavy and who needs more than one ice cream anyway? That doesn't even make sense. If they're giving you free ice cream, why wouldn't you take it?"

"Let's talk about this later. We need to interview your neighbors and that's going to take some time. Let's start with your Aunt Sonya's neighbors on the third floor and work our way down."

"You could save a lot of time by following the oil droplets."

"That's a good point."

"Well, so let's do it, then."

He squinted. "Your eyesight is far better than mine."

She heaved a sigh said, "Oh, geez," and then walked past, pointing at the oil droplets on the floor. "There's one. There's one. There's another one." Stoudemire followed her out into the hallway.

She pointed toward the apartment on her left. "They lead right to that apartment."

"Do you know who lives there?"

"There used to be two guys but one moved out. And I'm glad. We're all glad. They played music so loud it hurt my ears. When that one guy moved out the loud music stopped. So it's just the other guy now. He doesn't talk to me. I remember the loud music guy calling him "Boomer." I think that's what he said. Anyway, Boomer doesn't play loud music. So that's good."

"You stay here," Stoudemire said slipping past her.

"What for?"

"Just stay here, okay?"

"Oh, geez."

He walked to the apartment door and knocked. He heard muffled footsteps on the other side of the door. He knocked again.

When the door opened, an agitated guy wearing a backward baseball cap stood in the doorway. The detective guessed that he was in his mid to late twenties.

"Are you Boomer?"

The guy looked over Frazier's shoulder at Lizzie with contempt. "Who wants to know?"

"That toolbox has an oil leak," Stoudemire said, pointing to the droplets on the floor.

"What toolbox?"

"The one you took from Mr. Gibbs' apartment," said Lizzie.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said and began to close his door muttering something that sounded like "creepy little girl." He may have said something else but there aren't many phrases that can be mistaken for "creepy little girl."

Anticipating the reaction, Frazier wedged his shoe between the door and the door jamb.

By the time Boomer opened the door, his temper rising in his chest, Stoudemire had produced his police identification. "This seems like a good time to mention that I'm a police detective."

Boomer's belligerent expression crumbled. 

As it turned out, last summer, Boomer was desperate to repair the leaky plumbing beneath his kitchen sink. He left messages with the landlord to no avail.

Being a kind neighbor, Mr. Gibbs invited Boomer into his home. He opened his toolbox and as Boomer helped himself to a pipe wrench and pliers the old man said with a grin, "You fix it yourself, you know it's done right."

When he learned that his neighbor was murdered, Boomer didn't inquire about funeral services. The first thing that entered Boomer's mind was the old man's heavy metal toolbox. He'd recalled seeing Lizzie removing the apartment key from beneath the welcome mat on a few occasions and so he used the key to gain entrance to Mr. Gibbs' apartment and steal the toolbox.

Not so coincidentally, a toolbox matching the one taken from Frederick Gibbs' apartment was listed on Facebook Marketplace linked to Boomer's account. The rusted, leaky toolbox was not a valuable antique. Far from it. The highest offer bid was forty dollars, which, had the transaction been completed, wouldn't begin to cover the $100,000 bail once Boomer was charged with burglary and possession of stolen property.

Lizzie watched Officer Delvin Ott handcuff Boomer and lead him out of his apartment accompanied by Detective Stoudemire. On their way past, Lizzie said, "You're a terrible person."

Boomer mumbled something that sounded a lot like "I know."