The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

by Corinne F. Gerwe

  As he drove up the unpaved driveway from the access road, he could see that much had been accomplished in his absence. The parking lot to the left of the road was filled with stunt vehicles and vans. A campsite, cleared out of a patch of forest on the far side of the lot, had several Winnebago trailers set up to accommodate primary cast members for private dressing rooms and staying on site after a long day of shooting. A gate had been installed at the entry point to the film set. After parking his car, he opened it and walked up a rise to the compound plateau where there was a hub of activity going on. Filming was schedule to begin the next day and the various departments of crew were setting up their territories, each marked with an equipment van or tent.

  Richard had almost forgotten he was supposed to meet with Buddy Larson to discuss questions he had concerning his role. He could hear Larson’s boisterous voice before seeing him and should have known he’d attract an audience instead of growing impatient and idly waiting. Sure enough, Larson was holding court, regaling a gathering of cast and crew with tales he’d accumulated from almost four decades of movie-making. He was a gifted storyteller with an endless supply of anecdotes, including some from the halcyon days of Hollywood.

  Back then, powerful moguls ruled the industry, and the film community operated like a close-knit clan. Scandals were covered up, past histories re-invented, and stars were protected, as long as they abided by their contracts. Some of the old-timers from that era were still around when Larson was starting out. He talked of how he’d been smart enough to learn from them and listen to their stories. Many had shared hilarious incidents and shocking secrets because he had earned their confidence. He had quite a collection of them, from past to present, stored in a memory bank repertoire he could access for any occasion.

  Richard nodded at Larson when the man looked up. He was a great character actor because he was also a great listener, with highly developed observation skills. With his innate understanding of human nature, he brought humor, pathos, and even menace to any role he tackled and always gave an outstanding performance. He was eager to begin filming because he planned to give the performance of a lifetime in a role he believed he was born to play.

  Larson knew this character, Purvis McCabe; men of independence, fortitude and guts, men who had made their own rules and rebelled against government interference. He had no need to inhabit the McCabe role twenty-four hours a day, like the modern method actors he disdained. He respected the “show up on time and know your lines” school of acting, and thought Sherwood felt the same. He hoped Sherwood appreciated his efforts to keep the mood light on the set whenever possible.

  He thought his young co-star, Megan Murphy, had a surprisingly similar approach to her craft. She was impossible at times, immature, and could care less about rehearsing, but put her in front of a camera and she became the role she was playing. She was a born actress, but a really messed-up kid, heading for trouble. He’d read that she’s been seeing some flake in L.A., a pop singer with looks but no talent with a reputation for punching his girlfriends in the face.

  Larson remembered Megan’s mother and former manager, a failed actress who had dragged her young child from one audition to another, accepting any role offered, until Megan became a known commodity by age ten. With no father in the picture and early fame, Megan had rebelled during her teens, eventually firing her mother. He’d never known her to have protection, not the kind she needed. He wondered how well she was protecting herself now.

  Larson had watched Megan’s career with interest because he’d recognized her talent. She was a natural, like him, and currently hot with young movie-goers. She was also perfect for the part of McCabe’s daughter, Evangeline, with her blue-black mane of hair, piercing dark blue eyes, and independent traits. But that’s where the similarities ended. Megan was no innocent mountain girl. She’d become spoiled and too sophisticated for her age. She was already making demands and filming had not yet begun. She was not happy with the location and did not appreciate her surroundings. Complaining would be used as an excuse to storm off to her trailer at every opportunity to keep tabs on the jerk in L.A.

  He understood that shooting on location could be rough, away from the familiar, the movie studio, and her friends. She was young, restless, and, from what he’d heard, reckless and promiscuous. She was also a professional, which he was banking on. Evangeline was a plum role and their scenes together were at the heart of the film.

  Fortunately, autumn in the mountains was appreciated by most of the company; the glorious fall colors, cool fresh air, smoky blue ridges, and pristine wilderness. They were seldom in a protected setting, hidden away from outsiders and onlookers and intruders. The Serena Mountain Lodge, where they would return each night in transport vans, unless staying in one of the trailers, was a fortress of mountaintop seclusion, complete with old-timey tavern.

  Currently holed up in her suite there, Megan Murphy felt like screaming from boredom. She detested the outdoors and wondered how she could survive weeks in such a place. She loathed interacting with her older costars during down time and would be like a caged animal cooped-up in her trailer during breaks. To add insult to injury, there were no replies to her text messages, indicating another relationship about to fail. She’d been warned about his reputation for being a player, but had paid no heed to it. Why had she thought him different from the others? She was out of sight, therefore out of his mind. In Hollywood, there was always someone more beautiful, more exciting, to fill the separation gaps.

  Throughout adolescence, she’d mainly dated young actors and musicians. Being with her was a guarantee for publicity. She’d been used by every one of them, including her mother. Most had ridden high on their fifteen minutes of fame, and then were gone like a passing fad. She’d been in the business long enough to know she was one of the fortunate few who had the potential to go the distance, as long as she didn’t screw up. Despite the bravado she displayed to others, she felt terribly insecure and emotionally fragmented.

  Lately, the yearnings that drove her desires felt increasingly visceral out of pure frustration. She was tired of being a victim of selfish, self-centered egotists, and this manifested into erotic fantasies involving predatory behavior. She hadn’t thought of actually putting fantasy into action until sitting alone in her suite, feeling hurt and rejected. She reached for her phone and shut it off, and then made a conscious decision to close her mind to the blank message screen.

  It was time to fight back, venture into the unknown. She was in a place far from Hollywood, surrounded by forest, a perfect hunting ground, a different territory. Her thoughts centered on the man who had caught her attention when she’d gone for a fitting at the Events Center, before her wardrobe trailer was moved to the set. She recalled seeing him across the room where the extras were being measured and fitted in a separate area. He was taller than the rest and attractive, in a rough sort of way. He’d caught her eye before she’d had a chance to turn away, almost as if he had sensed her stare. She’d paid no more attention to him that day, but hadn’t forgotten the thrill she’d felt during those few seconds of connection. Maybe it was time to take a walk on the wild side.

  Megan sat up abruptly and said aloud, “Where did that come from? Now I’m thinking like these mountain people and I’ve never set foot in the woods.” Then she laughed, “Well, when in Rome . . . ”

  She guessed he was probably a local redneck who’d been picked from the auditions for his macho appearance, chosen for scenes involving violence, definitely not dialogue, but given some minor role to provide local color. He was probably married and lived in a trailer park. But he did have animalistic and somewhat dangerous quality (right down her new alley), and swaggered his macho aura with pride.

  Of course he would not dream he had a chance with her and was probably already hitting on one of the extras. She found it appealing that he was not on her level. He’d be grateful for her attentions, unlike the creeps she’d been involved with who could have any girl t
hey wanted. The power she felt was like an aphrodisiac. She’d wait until the time was right to give him a sign. He’d be easily seduced, and then just as easily discarded, just as she had been, beginning with her totally absent father.

  The object of Megan’s attention, Zack Tanner, had been singled out during auditions by the casting director, Joyce Crenshaw. She not only had an eye for talent, but a nose for what appeals to an audience. She’d proven herself in the film industry time and time again by assembling award-winning casts. During auditions for extras, she would often stand back observing, while her assistants did the interviews. She was always on the lookout for a new discovery, someone with an intangible aura, whether positive or negative, that drew the eye and alerted the senses. If she spotted someone, he or she wouldn’t be aware of it or set apart from the others, but would be chosen. From that moment on, her interest in that person would not waiver until she was convinced one way or the other her first impression had been correct.

  Joyce took pride in her discoveries, although not all had proven worthwhile. Some had flawed personalities, were unstable, problematic. There had already been one incident, but that extra was gone. She’d have to keep a sharp eye on Zack Tanner. He had a sinister quality to his persona. But that is what had attracted her to him. She thought he’d fit in well in the bootlegging scenes. He’d be in the background, but would be noticed. She’d also arrange for him to help out with the stunt crew. They’d be filming chase scenes on back road locations previously scoped out and test driven. It would be good if he could be in one of those scenes. She’d talk to Sherwood about it, and discuss the best way to use him. At some point, she’d let Tanner know who was behind these decisions and begin advising him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FARLEY READ OVER HIS FILE on Willis Gaither and added a couple notes. Gaither had retired early from his coaching job at Wilmont College after twenty years, for no apparent reason. He’d married Eleanor around that time and they’d moved to the house on Bear Mountain Ridge. He’d had a previous marriage, which had ended in divorce. Although claiming to be retired, his online sporting goods business appeared to have been lucrative. There had been no effort to make social connections since moving to the area. Willis Gaither had business contacts with whom he interacted, but Eleanor had been kept in virtual seclusion. Farley recognized the pattern.

  During his time in the military and FBI, he’d interviewed POWs and kidnap victims who’d been held captive, some for long periods of time. There was something unmistakable about the mark it left on them. He recalled an interview with an elderly woman who had been in a concentration camp during WWII. She said she could be anywhere in the world and recognize someone who had experienced the camps, having never seen that person before.

  Farley knew there were many forms of captivity, just like many forms of abuse. In some cases, the victim keeps the secret because of low self-esteem resulting from the psychological torment they’ve endured. The feeling of powerlessness when hope is vanquished can create a perception that the captor is undefeatable, the victor conqueror. It can happen to a prisoner of war, a kidnapping victim, a member of a cult, and in a relationship, when one partner has total control over the other.

  It was about time he brought Eleanor Gaither in for questioning. Before he did, he wanted to have another talk with Dev about the crime scene. If Eleanor Gaither was involved in her husband’s murder, why have his dead blood-caked body moved to a well-tended garden by a picturesque farmhouse, tied to the base of a scarecrow post, and then have the scarecrow’s face mutilated for added effect? What was the intended meaning? How could a woman as impassive as Eleanor Gaither take part in, or arrange such a killing? If not her, who? How could Willis Gaither have made such a savage enemy? Was it someone from his past, his online business or dealings in Asheville? Why choose a garden on the outskirts of Serena? Why not bury him in the forest and be done with it, instead of taking such a risk?

  Farley mentally stored these questions, and then put the file aside and walked out to the front office. Aura Lee had been working quietly at her computer all morning. The phone had been quiet, too. Farley was grateful for Aura Lee’s work ethic. When reports had to be completed and filings done, she put aside her role as self-appointed investigator and attended to the job she’d been hired to do. He knew it was bothering her that she hadn’t dug up anything on the Gaithers. He also knew she would not stop digging until she found something. It was a matter of pride with her. She’d confided to friends how she’d been instrumental in solving most of his cases.

  He left her working and made a call to Dev from his cruiser.

  Dev answered, “Jeff, what’s up? Don’t tell me you’ve got time to go fishing. It’s a little late in the day.”

  “Not for a different kind of fishing expedition? Do you have time to take a ride with me to the Sutton farm? I’d like your take on the crime scene, and then down the mountain for a talk with the medical examiner. I had the scarecrow sent to his lab to be checked for evidence.”

  “I’ll walk on down, though I’m a wee bit grubby from my excavations.”

  “It won’t matter a bit where we’re going.”

  Farley drove around to the side of the station. The storefront building that housed the Police Station faced Main Street taking up the corner of Main and Church Street. Dev was halfway down the Church Street hill steps by then. Farley watched his approach with welcome relief.

  Farley had come to respect Devlin McManus, not only for his knowledge of psychology in relation to criminal behavior, but for his insight and compassion. He was a learned man, educated for the priesthood in Ireland, further educated in the United States for his chosen profession. His interest in ancient beliefs and customs, ingrained since childhood, had proven an asset living in a place steeped in old-world superstitions. Farley appreciated Dev’s wisdom regarding human motivation and hoped he could form an impression of the perpetrator by viewing the scene and the straw man.

  They stood in the middle of the field for almost an hour. Farley described again in detail what he had seen, then they retraced the row the murderer had used to come and go. The evidence team had marked off areas along the way where they’d searched for footprints.

  When they arrived at the county morgue, the new young medical examiner, Dr. Jacob Drake, greeted them with enthusiasm. Farley introduced Dev as Dr. Devlin McManus, psychologist and friend. Drake appeared anxious to discuss the case and, without hesitation, included Dev when asking if they had read his preliminary report.

  Farley replied, “Your report is very thorough without making a final determination of cause of death.”

  “That’s why I’m glad you’re here, Chief Farley. I was about to call you when your secretary called to let me know you were driving down. There is something odd about this case. Let’s take a look at the body and I’ll explain.”

  Drake led them into the autopsy lab where Willis Gaither’s dissected corpse was on full display. “If you will note,” Drake began, pointing to the upper portion of the body, “it appears to have been an attack of violent aggression rather than an altercation that erupted into assault and battery. The assault was definitely not an act of self-defense. There is no indication the victim tried or had the ability to defend himself. The first blow could have rendered him helpless. The battering weapon left a pattern of puncture wounds wherever it struck and, as you can see, tore the skin away in several places. Evidence of defensive action or posture was obliterated by the nature of the battery. Injuries to the face and cranium are so severe, the death blow has not yet been determined. However, the sequential nature of the blows indicates a lone assailant.

  “I ordered a toxicology exam and during the autopsy differentiated the wounds inflicted prior to death from those occurring after death. He may have been unconscious, but he was alive throughout most of the assault. The toxicology report confirmed he had not been drugged, nor were there skin indentations or residue indicating he’d been bound, except after death when
he was tied to the scarecrow.”

  “What made you suspect he might have been drugged?” Farley asked.

  Drake replied, “The size of the man, Chief. His assailant had to be very strong, very lucky, or very clever to have been able to overtake him, do this much damage, and then transport him to another location. Of course, he could have had help.”

  Dev asked, “A helper who shared this level of rage?”

  Drake replied, “I know, it seems unlikely. Someone really hated this guy. Maybe it was a hate crime. Trouble is he doesn’t fit the profile.”

  Farley nodded, and then looked around the laboratory and asked, “Has the scarecrow been brought here? I assume it was taken to the crime lab and checked for prints after removal from the scene. I requested it be sent here for a follow-up exam in accordance with the autopsy.”

  “Actually, I have it in the next room, Chief. I set up an examining table in the medical supply room. I thought it might be a little creepy to have it laying out here, especially with Halloween around the corner.”

  Farley and Dev looked at one another. He wondered if Drake was joking, but he didn’t appear to be.

  Drake continued, “I’ve taken blood, hair, and fiber samples from both the body and the scarecrow, which I’ve sent off for further screening, but those results will take much longer.”

  “Could we take a look at the scarecrow, Dr. Drake? I’d like Dev’s opinion on the facial mutilation and what it might symbolize.”

  “Please call me Jacob, Chief. I may be new here, but I’ve heard of your reputation. It’s an honor for me to work with you on this case. Please come this way, he’s right in here.”

  Both Farley and Dev caught Drake’s change in reference from it to he. Farley had expected to see a partially disassembled pile of straw and rags. Instead, he and Dev were looking upon a life-like hideous corpse made of straw the way Drake had him reassembled and laid out on the table.