“What is that?”
“I’ll tell you all about it someday. I don’t want to sound like a big bragger when we barely know each other.”
Dieter had wondered if Cyril had descended from royal ancestry.
Most students at the university were from Wisconsin and often went home on weekends. Dieter could not go to Germany at the drop of a hat and spent weekends on the deserted campus, hanging out in his dorm room or at the library. Cyril’s family lived an hour outside of Madison, and the second time he had gone home for a weekend, he’d invited Dieter. He had gladly accepted, eager to meet his new friend’s family.
Cyril’s mother was quiet and serious, and Dieter had noted that Cyril had a similar personality to his father. Friday night, about an hour after they had gone to bed, Cyril’s father had come into his room and told him it was time to go. Dieter had made some noises about time for what, but Cyril’s father had told him to go back to sleep. Cyril had left with his father.
Dieter was curious and a little jealous that Cyril would be called in the middle of the night to go somewhere with his father. When he’d asked him about it the next day, Cyril had told him it was a power-renewing mission and he would give him the details later. Dieter had imagined it was some sort of magical mission. Cyril had seemed more energetic after the outing, which made him all the more curious.
“Someday I will take you with me, but you need to be prepared. You must be willing to give your all. But by giving your all, you will be greatly rewarded.”
Dieter remembered feeling excited at the possibility of being more like Cyril.
7
Todd Mason returned to the squad room twenty minutes before our shift ended. He threw his memo pad on the table, then sat down. “Two young guys sharing a place. Like to play their music really loud. They’ll be deaf by the time they get to be my age.”
“Ah, yes, the ripe old age of thirty-two. How young are they anyway?”
He flipped open his memo pad and looked at a sheet. “Twenty-one. Both of them. I told them it was their final verbal warning. Next time it’s a citation. You put out an ATL, huh?”
“Yeah, look at this.” I pulled the dagger image from my pile and handed it over.
“What the hell?”
“Speaking of which, the guy we’re looking for is on his way to Winnebago County to sacrifice himself on Satan’s altar using this.” I handed him the printout of Jeffrey Trippen’s identification photo.
“Whoa.” Brian Carlson came into the room and dropped his briefcase on a chair. “What are you saying?”
Mason handed both photos over.
“Dungeons and dragons? What’s this about a sacrifice?” Carlson asked.
“That guy looks lost, sad,” Mason said.
I filled the deputies in on the details Gregory Trippen had shared regarding his brother and their involvement in a cult, and the belief his stepfather had killed his father to marry his mother. I didn’t tell them about the missing reports. Mason’s hazel eyes were intense and didn’t leave my face. Carlson’s big blue eyes stared at the dagger photo.
“What’s your take on all that?” Carlson asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Keep the satanic part quiet until I talk to the sheriff. You know how the rumor mill blows things out of proportion.”
They both agreed.
After a minute of silence and another look at the printouts of the dagger and Jeffrey Trippen, Carlson pointed at the training-schedule bulletin board hanging on the squad room wall. “You guys see they finally got the details posted for our annual team-building?”
“No. I haven’t looked yet,” I said as I hung the sheets of Trippen and the dagger images—with explanations—on the postings board next to photos of a few criminals who were on the loose. Fugitives from justice.
“Finally. They’ve had ‘save the dates’ up for a month at least,” Mason said.
We gathered in front of the bulletin board. Carlson and Mason stood behind me, reading silently over my shoulders.
The memo read: “All members of the sheriff’s department, probation services, and county attorney’s office are required to participate in a team-building exercise April 22nd, 23rd or 24th. Your group assignments are listed below. The first step is to contact the other members of your group and pick a date that works for all of you. Meet in Room 130 at your scheduled date and time. Wear casual and weather appropriate dress. Sign up by April 19th.”
“We have to pull our teams together to decide on a date. That’s an odd way of doing things,” Todd said, glancing at his watch.
“No kidding. And why are we with probation and the county attorneys anyway?” Brian said.
I turned toward the deputies, making them take a comfort-zone step back. “A new twist this year, I guess. We work with the same criminals, different aspects. It’ll give us a chance to get to know those guys outside of the courtroom.”
“By getting down and dirty? I hope it’s not what we did last time. It took me a whole day to recover,” Todd complained.
The previous year we had been divided into teams of varying abilities and had to run a seven-mile, hilly course through Lake Pearl State Park, following directing signs. We were required to start together as a team, stay together as a team, and finish together as a team. Hopefully in first place. Todd Mason and I were on the same team. He was a faster and stronger runner than me and had pulled me, literally, up a few of the higher hills so I could keep up. Our group had managed to finish first in spite of my lagging.
“That was a tough one. If you hadn’t dragged me half the way, we never would have done so well. No question I was the weak link on that team,” I said.
He patted my shoulder. “Nah. You were the motivator—you just had shorter legs than the rest of us.”
I touched the top of my head. “True, my five five to your six one. Which is close to what all you guys were, I think.”
“I was in a slow group. We had Edberg, who’s getting up there in years. And Weber. For being so stocky, Weber’s a surprisingly fast sprinter, but you can’t sprint for seven miles. At least we didn’t come in last,” Carlson said.
“I doubt it will be an endurance course this year since we have the other departments with us,” I countered.
“Yeah, one or two of those guys would drop dead for sure. Can you imagine Collinwood—” Mason was referring to our rotund county attorney.
I interrupted, “Be nice, Mason.” I studied the assignments. “So I got Mandy Zubinski, Vince Weber, Donny Nickles from probation, and Eric Stueman from the attorneys.” I thought for a moment. “He doesn’t much care for me. Stueman.”
Carlson crossed his arms and rested them on his chest. “He just got here a few months ago. What’d you do to turn him off that fast?”
“Who knows? We haven’t had much contact, actually. I testified at a couple of DUI cases he handled, and he was very stand-offish. I tried to make small talk, and he wouldn’t even answer me.”
“Been pretty friendly to me. Seems like an okay guy.”
“Like I said, I don’t think he likes me.”
Carlson stepped closer to the board and pointed with his pen. “I see a pattern here. Look at the people on my team, and Mason’s. It’s like people on every team have problems with at least one other. Doesn’t seem like the groups were chosen by eeny meeny miny moe, does it?”
“You could be right, Brian. People go to the chief deputy from time to time with complaints about other deputies, if it’s something they can’t seem to resolve themselves. He’d have the inside information if anyone would,” Mason said.
Looking at my team members, I had an issue, or ten, with Zubinski, and Zubinski had a personality conflict with Weber. I wasn’t sure where Nickles and Stueman fit in. From my end, Nickles and I got along fine. Maybe Weber had something against him. Did Stueman have something against me, as I suspected?
Mason looked up and rolled his eyes back. “I hope we don’t have some weird session where we
all have to confess how we feel about each other personally. We don’t need to know that. And we could end up with harder feelings than we got now.”
“We don’t have a lot of hard feelings in the department—we’ve got a good group around here. We can’t all be best friends, can we? We’re just speculating, anyway. Have to wait and see,” I said.
“You sergeants weren’t in on the planning?” Brian asked.
“No, admin figures that stuff out.”
Mandy Zubinski and I were on the same schedule of days on and days off. She was still on duty, so I phoned her.
“Mandy, it’s Corky.”
“Hi, Sergeant. What’s up?”
“Have you been to the squad room yet, seen the memo on the team-building exercise?”
“No, why? I do have the dates for it penciled in my calendar, though.”
I paraphrased the memo for her.
“No offense, but team-building with other departments seems a little strange,” she said.
I didn’t disagree. “They’re expanding the range of our mandatory training requirements, that’s for sure.”
“We don’t have to run like a hundred miles through the state park again, I am hoping against hope. Not with Weber on our team. He burned out faster than me last year.”
A corporate concern.
“Nah, I don’t think they could expect probation and the attorneys to do that. They count on us, not them, to chase and physically battle the bad guys.”
“Adding those two departments has got me a little curious, anyway.”
She couldn’t see me nod. “Our first day off is Saturday, the twenty-fourth, so that’s the best day for us. Unless you want to do it on the Thursday or Friday morning before our evening shift.”
“I think we better go with Saturday.”
“We can go with oh eight hundred to noon, or thirteen hundred to seventeen hundred. Any preference?”
“Let’s take the early shift.”
“Agreed. You want to call Weber, Nickles, or Stueman?”
“Your call.”
“Okay, you take Stueman, I’ll talk to the other two. Let me know if he has a conflict with the date, and I’ll do the same.”
“Will do.”
8: The Coven
Roman Jenkins was exhausted. His family medicine practice had grown along with the population increases of the Wellspring area. He started early in the morning and worked until dinner time nearly every night. Cyril was calling late night meetings of the coven with increased frequency, cutting further into his already shortened sleep schedule. The meetings and rituals used to give Roman renewed energy and strength. Now they seemed to zap him more and more. He was exhausted and weary.
The words of the last paragraph of the Hippocratic Oath played through his mind. “While I continue to keep this Oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practice of the art and science of medicine with the blessing of the Almighty and respected by my peers and society, but should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse be my lot.”
He had recited the words with his graduating class. His Almighty was Satan, and the left-handed path was his birthright, passed down to him from one generation to the next as far back as his family could trace. There were the chosen and the unchosen. That was never to be questioned or doubted. Roman was chosen, as was one of his sisters. She had attained the honor of High Priestess in the northern Michigan coven where they were raised. Their other siblings had been offered as sacrifices.
Roman had attended the University of Minnesota and was accepted into its medical school. He discovered like-minded followers of Satan, and they found a spot in a wooded area on the Mississippi River in Saint Paul to hold rituals. There were homeless drunks and drug addicts in abundance when they needed them, and human sacrifice earned the worshippers places of honor in hell.
A few members of Roman’s extended family had relocated from Michigan to Winnebago County in Minnesota fifty or sixty years before. They had a strong presence there, with miles of areas suitable for outdoor temple locations. They were chosen and did Satan’s bidding.
Coven members had helped him establish a practice in Wellspring and introduced him to the beauty who became his wife. She understood all they must do in service to the Master. The leaders had let the Jenkins keep their firstborn, but not their second. Roman had determined there would be no more children, and his wife had agreed.
Roman served well and had been appointed as deacon years before. His family had no material wants. Satan had given to them in abundance.
Roman crept upstairs, opened his son’s bedroom door, and listened to the quiet sounds of his rhythmic breathing for a few minutes. Did he want for his son what his parents had expected of him: to attain a position of authority in a coven? He was surprised by his question and closed the door.
He went to his bedroom, undressed, and climbed into bed beside his wife. She turned to him, but he did not respond. He needed to conserve what little energy he had for the weekend, from securing the victim through the sacrificial ritual and ensuing orgy. He prayed for the fortitude to get through it all.
9
I struggled to find my ringing cell phone that was somewhere in my bed with me. No idea how it got there. It was my Nextel, my work cell. I located it on the fourth ring and pushed the button.
“Sergeant Aleckson.”
“Sergeant, it’s Greg Trippen. Did I wake you?”
“I’m fine. Are you on the road?” I stretched my left arm.
“Yes, and it looks like we’ll get to Winnebago County about seven o’clock tonight.”
“All right. Good. To let you know, I sent the attempt to locate on your brother to all eighty-seven counties in the state.”
“Was that necessary?” His voice was strained.
“We don’t know where your brother was when he phoned you. He could have been in Canada for all we know. Another county may find him before he has the chance to get here.”
“I didn’t think about that. Okay.”
“Call me when you get close, and we’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Thank you.”
“Drive safe.”
It was only seven a.m., but there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. I was wide awake thinking about the Trippen case with its disturbing overtones and missing files. I dialed Smoke’s number.
“Isn’t it a little early for Sleeping Beauty?” he said in place of hello.
“Oh, I thought you’d be up before now,” I threw back.
“Woke up witty, huh? What’s up?”
“You have any time to meet this morning? I have some things to run by you.”
“Must be important if it has you up this early. About the satanic altar case?”
“It is.”
“I got court at nine, unless they plead. I’m about to leave and could stop by on my way. That work for you?”
“That works. I’ll start the coffee.”
I rolled to the side of the bed and decided my flannel pajama bottoms were decent. Not unlike what a number of people wore in public. I pulled a rose-colored hooded sweatshirt over my sleeveless tee, stretching my arms and neck in the process.
My bedroom was on the second floor of my country home. I took the stairs down to the main level more slowly than usual. My body protested being awake and moving that early in the morning.
While the coffee brewed, I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth and hair. Smoke knocked on the garage side door before I had time to pull it into a ponytail. I hurried over and flipped the deadbolt. He gently pushed as I pulled the door open. I turned and headed to the counter, where the coffee pot had finished its task and was silent again. I felt Smoke at my heels.
“Pajamas or running outfit?”
“I didn’t take the time to dress.”
“Cute little lambies on your jammies. And your toenails match your hoodie.”
I glanced down to see if that was true. It was. “I do my best
to coordinate my sleepwear and nail polish.”
Smoke was striking in a tailored black suit with thin, light gray pinstripes, a gray shirt, and a checked tie a shade darker. He leaned back against the counter and extended his long legs. His graying, short, thick hair matched his outfit. I took a second to admire what my mother called his rugged good looks: an angular face, with long dimples in his lean cheeks, a strong chin, and full lips. But my favorite feature was his bright, sky-blue eyes.
“How come you’re so dressed up?”
“My brother bulked up and can’t wear most of his clothes anymore. Gave me six suits.” He flicked a small speck of lint from his sleeve.
“Very nice.” I reached into the cupboard for cups, poured coffee in them, and handed him one.
“Thanks.” He accepted the cup and took a sip. “I decided to wear them on court days and such. What’d you want to talk about?”
I set my cup down and reached into my briefcase that rested on a barstool at the counter. I withdrew printouts of Jeffrey Trippen and the dagger he intended to use on himself.
Smoke half-whistled and reached for the photos with his free hand. He set his cup next to mine on the counter. “You could do some serious damage with that. Long blade, sharp point. Ornate, jeweled, expensive looking. Apparently a simple dagger won’t do when you’re sacrificing yourself on an altar. For Satan. Trippen has a vacant look. Kinda like he left a long time ago.”
“I can’t imagine him traveling across the country with that weapon.”
“You said last night his brother thinks he was living in New York, but he hasn’t seen him in two years, so he doesn’t know for sure.”
“That’s right. Jeffrey could be in Winnebago County now for all we know. Gregory Trippen figures that he’ll get here around seven tonight.”
“Good.” Smoke set down the papers, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.
“What I wanted to ask you is, how well do you know Alden Armstrong?”
“Outside of work?” Smoke lifted his eyebrows like it was the first time he had ever considered it. “Huh. I know he was a little older when he got married. Close to forty, I think. Had three kids in pretty close succession. Must be teenagers about now. His wife works for the newspaper in Little Mountain. At least she did. He’s not a guy that talks about his family much around the office. Like most of us, I guess. Not unusual. Most guys don’t say much unless you go on break with them.”
An Altar by the River Page 3
