An Altar by the River

by Christine Husom

  Vince Weber was a compact body mass of strength. I appreciated his ability to break open a door, ramming bar or not. Without a word, he jammed his elbows into his waist, pulled his shoulders up to stabilize his head and neck, and rapidly sidestepped his way into the closed door. The simple deadbolt did not keep him out. The door swung open so hard that it hit the wall and bounced back.

  The perpetrator didn’t have time to react. Weber drew his gun and was in the house in one movement. Carlson and I had already drawn and followed him in, a hair behind. Weber went right, Carlson went left, and I took center. We had our weapons trained on a young man wearing nothing but an astounded expression. His arm stopped mid-swing, a foot or so from a woman’s face.

  “Drop to your knees. Now!” Carlson ordered.

  The man continued to stare. “On your knees now!” he repeated.

  The man finally understood the order and complied.

  “Put your hands on your head and interlock your fingers.”

  Weber holstered his Glock, moved in, and handcuffed the naked man in under ten seconds. When he was restrained, Carlson and I holstered our weapons.

  I looked at the young woman who was shaking and hugging herself tightly, like she was trying to still her body’s movements.

  “Is there anyone else in the house?” I asked.

  She looked around the living room, her eyes darting from one out-of-place item to the next. A coffee table lay on its side and magazines were strewn on the floor. A lamp lay on the couch, its shade pushed to an unusual angle.

  She shook her head. “No, just us.”

  “Okay. Carlson, Weber, get his information. I’ll be with her in the next room.” I waved the young woman toward the kitchen area.

  Her voice was weak, tentative. “Should I get him some pants?”

  “Good idea.” To ensure security, I followed her into the bedroom and watched her pull a pair of sweatpants out of a drawer. “Why don’t you grab some socks, shoes, and a shirt. He’ll need them when he gets out of jail.”

  She crumbled halfway to the ground. “He’s going to jail?”

  “Yes.” Of course.

  “I don’t want him to go to jail. I’m not pressing charges.”

  “Ma’am, three deputies witnessed him committing assault. It’s not up to you. We’re the ones charging him.”

  I reached for the pants, and she handed them over. “Get the rest of his clothes, and we’ll talk about it.” She pulled out underwear, socks, and a shirt and gave them to me without a word.

  “Let’s go talk in the kitchen.”

  She weakly nodded and headed that direction. I handed the man’s clothes to Weber and Carlson on my way by. “Probably good to get his pants on, at least.”

  The deputies guided him to his feet. The man was crying and babbled incoherently while Weber told him to lift first one foot, then the other. He helped him dress while Carlson steadied him.

  The young woman sank onto a chair at the table. Her head was bent, her face near the table. Tears dropped onto her folded, trembling hands.

  “Your full name and date of birth?” I pulled out my memo pad and found a clean page.

  She identified herself as Nichole Ann Jasper. Collin James Jasper, the man in the next room, was her husband. They were twenty-five and twenty-six years old, respectively.

  “Nichole, tell me what happened tonight.”

  “All I can say is, sometimes my husband has these flashbacks. He gets a little crazy, but he’s never acted like this before, yelling at me, coming after me.”

  “And tonight?”

  “He didn’t hit me or anything. I think he might have, though, and then you deputies came in.”

  “You called nine-one-one.”

  “I was scared for him. He commutes to work with a friend. Tonight they stopped for a drink. Collin just can’t drink. He can’t handle it. He got home and had this scary look in his eyes, took off his clothes, and started yelling at me, accusing me of hiding his boxers and tee shirt—that’s what he sleeps in at night. I thought maybe he took some kind of drug. I mean, he doesn’t take any, but maybe someone slipped something in his drink. I don’t know.”

  “We’ll check him out, run a drug scan. What did you mean when you said he has flashbacks?”

  “It’s a long story, and I can’t really go into it. Let’s just say he suffered a lot of abuse as a kid. Alcohol can trigger those old memories. More than memories. I think his mind goes back to the time when he was powerless against some very bad people. Only now, if they tried to hurt him, he said he would fight back. When he was young, he couldn’t.”

  “You sound like you know your husband very well. Are you afraid of him?”

  “I’m not afraid of him, I’m afraid for him. I worry they still have a hold on him.”

  “They?”

  Nichole shook her head. She wasn’t going to tell me who they were.

  “His mother, father, another relative?”

  She shrugged and remained silent.

  “Okay, we’ll take him to the hospital, get him checked out. He’ll spend the night in jail, hopefully make his first appearance in court in the morning.”

  Nichole visibly shrank, her shoulders dropping several inches. She looked frightened and fragile, more like a young girl than a woman in her mid-twenties.

  I spoke softly. “Minnesota law says we have to make an arrest for fifth degree domestic assault under the circumstances. Hopefully your husband can get the help he needs with his flashbacks.”

  Nichole nodded. “He’s working on it. We both are.”

  “Good. That’s a start. Will you be okay here tonight? You want to call anyone to come and stay with you, or maybe go to a relative’s or a friend’s house?”

  Nichole inhaled deeply and straightened, lifting her head and shoulders. Her spine went rigid. “No. I’ll be all right.”

  Collin Jasper’s head was extended down as far as his neck would allow. He closed his eyes when the deputies led him out the door and down the length of the driveway.

  Carlson followed Weber and Collin Jasper to the hospital. Carlson phoned an hour later to inform me Jasper’s check had revealed he was clear for drugs and his blood alcohol level was .02 percent—a negligible amount.

  Something had triggered his outburst, his flashback. His wife said he couldn’t drink, and if that small amount of alcohol had sent him into fight mode, he should never drink.

  “Weber’s taking him to the jail. He’ll be there in a few minutes,” Carlson said.

  “Thanks, Brian.”

  4: The Coven

  As night closed around them, the four men formed a close circle. The waxing crescent moon offered little light through the trees, but it didn’t matter. They were at home in the dark.

  “The abduction and preparation must take place between the twenty-first and the twenty-third, in keeping with our calendar. The sacrifice for Saint Mark’s Eve is the twenty-fourth,” High Priest Cyril said.

  “I’m scheduled to drive the volunteer van for Harbor Shelter on Friday night, the twenty-third. It works out well. The streets are filled with homeless drunks and addicts,” Roman said.

  Noris nodded. “And we know the cops don’t have the time or the resources to try to track them down when they go missing.”

  “It’s our duty to eliminate those people, purge them from the earth. Human sacrifice furthers the work of our Master.”

  “Try to find a female this time,” Noris said.

  “It will be the one our Master provides, female or male. We will take who he sends. Hail Satan!” Cyril said as he lifted a wooden rod. Its handle was in the shape of a goat’s head.

  “Hail Satan!” The others chanted in unison.

  “We’ll have the young female sacrifice on Walpurgisnacht, Beltane’s Eve.”

  Dieter looked up. “Younger ones’ spirits send out much more energy when they leave.”

  “We will not vary from our plan. Roman will secure our sacrificial victim on the twe
nty-third. The room, the drugs, all in order?” Cyril looked at Dieter’s shadowed face.

  “All in order.”

  “Good. Let’s offer our thanks before leaving.”

  The high priest began, a guttural sound erupting from deep in his throat, “Dark angel, archangel, your power gives us power and brings heaven to our sight. Rise up, Lucifer, bring us your light . . .”

  5

  My phone beeped, alerting me I had a message. I picked it up and flipped it open. It was the dagger photo from Gregory Trippen. There was no wonder he was concerned. The blade looked to be about nine inches long. It tapered to a sharp point and was silver in color. Stainless steel? The handle appeared to be sterling with ornate designs tooled into the metal. Six red stones formed a line down the center.

  An elaborately decorated work of art obtained for self-destruction. Self-sacrifice. I sent the dagger photo to Communications and requested they print it on the color copier.

  A number of calls the next few hours prevented me from returning to the sheriff’s department until late. A waxing moon lit the clear night skies and threw crescent shaped slices on the surfaces of lakes and ponds I passed along the way.

  Todd Mason, a good friend of mine, was the only deputy in the squad room. He stood when I entered. “All yours,” he said.

  “I heard your call. Have fun with that noise complaint.”

  “Second one at that apartment this month. Have to write a citation if it keeps up. Hopefully I’ll be back to finish my reports before the end of our shift.”

  “I’ll tell you all about a phone call I got when you get back.”

  “All righty.” And he was out the door.

  I went into out-of-state records and pulled up photos of both Gregory and Jeffrey Trippen. Gregory resembled Vince Weber from the shoulders up: husky, no neck, which gave the appearance his head rested directly on his shoulders. But unlike Weber, he had a full head of brown hair. Weber kept his head shaved. Gregory’s expression was serious, bordering on pained. The image looked like a mug shot, not a driver’s license photo.

  Jeffrey’s features reminded me of John Lennon from photos taken in his later years, when his hair was long and he sported a beard. But their eyes were different. Lennon’s revealed intelligence, hinting at defiance. Jeffrey’s eyes conveyed a cross between wistful and fearful. The eyes of a tormented man that still had hope. What look would they hold now that he had given up and planned to end it all?

  Jeffrey Trippen was out there somewhere, headed for Winnebago County, carrying a very dangerous weapon. We had to find him before he, or someone else, got hurt.

  Robin swung her slight, bony body around in her swivel chair when I entered Communications. “Oh, Corky, I meant to get that copy to your box, but it’s been too busy.”

  “No problem. You guys have been getting a ton of calls all night.” I picked up the dagger image printout lying next to the copier. Every pore in my body prickled. The larger version was far more fearsome than the miniature one on my phone.

  “One nasty blade on that thing,” Jerry called over from his seat in front of the communication panel’s hundreds of buttons and switches. The ends of his squint lines touched his graying sideburns. The 911 phone receiver lit up, and he redirected his attention.

  Robin stood and stretched. “What’s this all about? When the reporting person called, first he asked for the sheriff. I told him it was after business hours, so I could put him through to the sheriff’s voicemail. He seemed frantic and asked to speak to the next in command. Instead of explaining how admin was gone for the day, I told him I’d have you call as soon as possible.”

  I nodded.

  “So what’s the deal?” she persisted.

  “Gregory Trippen is worried about his brother, Jeffrey, who said he is on his way to Winnebago County. Gregory believes he is carrying that dagger and intends to hurt himself.”

  “We got that in the ATL. Officer extreme caution. That’s scary.”

  I nodded. “I saw the ATL when you sent it out, and you got it right. We look for him ’til we find him.”

  I wanted to do some investigating and talk to the sheriff before I revealed the sacrifice on Satan’s altar detail to everyone in the department. I told Robin and Jerry “thanks”, made my way back to the still deserted squad room, and set to work searching old files listed in the computer records.

  Manthes, Harlan. There were a few calls attached to his name. In 1984, he had reported a burglary at his residence. In 1985, harassing phone calls. Also in 1985, a fender bender. 1986, a small fire in his detached garage. I jotted them down in my memo book.

  Case number 19881104. Accidental shooting death while hunting.

  I headed to the records room where the files from the beginning of time were stored in mammoth, horizontal file cabinets. I unlocked the door, stepped in, and visually scanned the letters on the drawers as I walked. The M drawers started at the end of the north wall and continued around to the east wall. Manthes was in the third drawer from the bottom. I stood on tiptoes while I pushed one Man-file after the next until I found Manthes. Harlan was the fifth or sixth one alphabetically.

  I pushed more files backward and forward curious if either Gregory or Jeffrey was in there for any reason. Neither one was. Back to Harlan. I pulled his file and plopped onto a nearby chair, prepared to read several reports, but the only report in his file was the 1985 minimal damage crash. No other reports, no photos.

  I grabbed a three-step ladder and set it in front of the open drawer for a better vantage point while I looked. I pulled files of the others with the same surname: Bruce, Catherine, Eugene, Theodore, William. Harlan’s reports were not wrongly filed in any of them. I searched one nearby file after the next. Nothing. I opened the N drawer, but there was no Harlan Manthes in the Na section either. It was rare, but occasionally a missing sheet or two turned up accidentally misfiled.

  Three reports, including the investigation of his death, were nowhere to be found in my thirty-minute search. Very odd.

  Gregory Trippen had talked to Alden Armstrong regarding his father’s death a few years before. There should be a report on that. I found the Tra-Tri drawer and fingered through the back files. Tripp, Triton. No Trippen. What in the world?

  I headed back to the squad room and searched the computer for Gregory Trippen. There was one entry. On July second, three years earlier, he had called with a request to speak to an officer. Alden Armstrong made the entry: “Spoke with Gregory Trippen regarding a question he had on a case involving his father. Question answered. NRN.” NRN. No report needed. When a citizen called with a legitimate concern about an investigation, it required a report.

  It was time to talk to Alden Armstrong.

  6: The Coven

  Dieter Munden returned home from the outdoor temple meeting and went downstairs. He stepped into the small temple in his basement and turned on the light. The black walls absorbed much of the illumination. The room was dimly lit and cast in shadows. He bowed at the image of the pentagram painted on the floor, then made his way to the small altar and lit the black candles on it. The Black Book lay between the candleholders. Dieter picked it up and drew it to his forehead, grateful once again for the position of power and authority he had been granted when Royce Sparrow left the coven to start a new one in Saint Cloud.

  Dieter had been a lonely child, raised in the countryside of Germany outside of Bonn, the birthplace of Beethoven. His parents worked long hours in their gift shop, and Dieter was left to his own devices most of the time. He loved science, especially chemistry, and spent hours with the chemistry set he had gotten as a birthday gift. Eventually, that had led to his decision to pursue a career in pharmacy. Studying drugs and their families, their purpose, contraindications, and potential side effects appealed to Dieter.

  He had explored potential universities in Germany, other European countries, and the United States. The educational opportunities in the United States seemed endless. Dieter was intrigued by the
vast opportunities in America.

  He had researched the geography and climate of the upper Midwest in the United States and found it was similar to his homeland. He found a suitable college. The School of Pharmacy at the University of Wisconsin in Madison had been around for over a century. It was established in 1883 and the first of its kind to offer a baccalaureate degree in pharmacy. It was also the first in the nation to offer doctoral degrees in pharmaceutical chemistry, pharmaceutics, the history of pharmacy, and social studies of pharmacy.

  After a year of deliberation, he had applied at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. His parents weren’t thrilled with the idea of Dieter going all the way to the United States for college when there were so many fine ones in Germany, but they weren’t opposed to it either.

  He had met Cyril Bishop in biology class the first day at school. Something about Cyril drew him in immediately. His confidence, his charisma. They differed in personality and looks. Cyril was six four, lean and muscular, with dark hair and eyes. His roman nose was his most prominent facial feature.

  Dieter was six inches shorter than Cyril, but weighed more. He had shied away from athletics and physical activities as a teen and had accumulated rolls around his middle. His eyes were a light hazel shade, and he controlled his brown curly hair by keeping it short. His best facial feature was his winning smile.

  Cyril had chosen Dieter as his lab partner that first day. Dieter was not a loner when Cyril was around, because Cyril didn’t allow it. Dieter thought back to their first conversation, when they had walked out of biology class together.

  “Dieter, huh? Any idea what your name means?”

  “Ruler of the people.”

  “I like it. Not too different from the meaning of my name. Cyril means lordly. My parents chose it for a reason.”