An Altar by the River

by Christine Husom

  “That’s true. Ever get the impression he would do something unethical, illegal even?”

  “What are you getting at, Corky?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night, but when Gregory and Jeffrey Trippen were little boys, their father was killed in a hunting accident. Gregory suspected his stepfather—whom he calls a hardcore Satanist—was responsible for the death.”

  Smoke frowned. “What’s his name?”

  “I didn’t get it yet. When I talked to Gregory last night, I was mainly focused on Jeffrey’s plight, the case at hand. This morning I wasn’t quite awake and didn’t think of it.

  “Anyway, Gregory called the sheriff’s department three years ago and talked to Armstrong, who was the deputy who handled the case back when. Armstrong told Trippen it was an accident. There were three guys with Harlan Manthes. They supposedly all mistook him for a deer and shot. Not sure who hit him, but he was killed.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Twenty some years ago.”

  “Obviously, the guy would not be wearing a deer costume in the woods during hunting season, unless he wanted to die. Sounds fishy, does it not?”

  “It does.”

  “So the three guys shoot. No rifle season for deer in Winnebago County, so they’d have shotguns. Slugs.” He rubbed his freshly-shaven chin, considering. “That part of the story is believable, depending on where the victim and shooters were standing. Three hunting buddies with another hunting buddy who becomes the victim and the three give the same story. We’ll review the files.”

  I swallowed the sip of coffee in my mouth. “That’s the problem I wanted to talk to you about. There are no files to review.”

  “Whadaya mean?” His eyebrows came together.

  “The reports are missing from the Manthes file. No reports. No photos. Nada.”

  Smoke looked up at the ceiling and sucked in a lungful of air while he listened.

  “I checked all calls attached to his name, and the only report in his file is a rather benign one—a fender bender he had. I looked for quite a while last night.” I reached over and tapped his arm. “And when Gregory Trippen talked to Armstrong a few years back?”

  His eyes fixed on mine again. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t exactly know what went down, but Armstrong wrote ‘no report needed.’”

  “Seems to me a discussion like that constitutes a report unless the evidence compellingly proved it was an accident. Even then, a kid who lost his father and wants a good explanation deserves more than that.” He paused in apparent thought. “I’ll be done with court by noon, I’m guessing. Armstrong should be in his office today, as far as I know. You’re on duty at three?”

  I nodded.

  “Track me down, and we’ll have a little chat with the good lieutenant.” Smoke set his cup down and lifted a shoulder. “It’s possible he pulled the files when the Trippen boy called him then put them in a desk drawer and they got forgot.”

  Smoke knocked on Alden Armstrong’s door frame to alert him. He stepped in first, and I was a close second.

  Alden Armstrong’s name suited him well. His large, strong arms extended from broad shoulders. He was a big guy. Well over six feet, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds. Brown hair sprinkled with gray, cut military style. Armstrong was seated at his desk. He looked up and seemed to take us both in with one glance.

  “Lieutenant, got a minute?” Smoke asked.

  He raised his right hand then waved. “Sure, have a seat.”

  Smoke and I sat down across from Armstrong “Question on a case?” he asked.

  “Good guess. An old case. Harlan Manthes.”

  A storm cloud crossed Armstrong’s face and forced his eyes partially closed. He stood, nearly brushing me as he passed by, and closed his office door. I hazarded a quick peek at Smoke. His expression was unreadable.

  Armstrong sunk back into his chair, failing to mask his agitation. “That is an old case.”

  “Tell us about it.” Smoke slipped into his interview mode. I was the appointed note taker.

  “Not much to tell. Tragic accident. Four friends deer hunting, and Manthes got in the line of fire.”

  “From three different guys?”

  Armstrong shrugged. “They were trying to flush out deer. According to the men who were with Manthes, they said he got ahead of them and they didn’t realize it. He stepped into a clearing, and they shot.”

  “That’s why God invented blaze orange,” Smoke said.

  “I was the first one on the scene. Manthes was not wearing orange. I asked the others about it, and they said he had an orange hat on, but must have lost it when he got separated from the group. They seemed pretty upset, shooting their friend in the back.”

  “The back?” I asked.

  “Two big, twelve-gauge-shotgun-slug holes.”

  “They all have twelve-gauge shotguns?”

  “As I recall.”

  Smoke studied Armstrong for some seconds. “Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of. Pretty cut and dried.” Armstrong grabbed onto the arms of his chair, and his knuckles whitened.

  Smoke slid to the edge of his chair. “What are you not telling us?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Alden, you got up and shut the damn door when we asked about the case. Why would you do that? It’s an old case. A closed case. Look at you. You look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin. What are you hiding?”

  Armstrong’s face flushed. “Nothing—”

  Smoke leaned forward and laid his arm on the desk, not far from Armstrong’s chest. “Even a rookie can tell you’re lying, Armstrong. Spill it.”

  “Really—”

  “Damn it!”

  “No, I—”

  “If you are so forthcoming, maybe you can tell us where you hid the report on this so-called accident.” Smoke’s complexion darkened to a brown tone of red.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Sergeant, do I look like I’m playing games here?” Smoke didn’t give me time to answer. “Where did you put the damn reports?” He half stood, grabbed a piece of Armstrong’s shirt, and tugged.

  As shocked as I was seeing Smoke manhandling a superior officer, my fleeting thought was, Armstrong is going to cry.

  “Let go. I’ll tell you everything.”

  10: The Coven

  Noris stood in the squad room staring at the photos of the man and the dagger attached to the bulletin boards and wondered what exactly was going on. The man was close to his age and looked familiar, but he didn’t recognize his name. He’d seen that dagger before, or one like it. How many could there be in the world?

  No other department personnel were around. He took the photos down, made four copies, and stuck them at the bottom of his report pile. He quickly replaced the originals on the board without being discovered. It wouldn’t matter if he was. He had been hiding in plain sight there for years. As his uncle had before him, and another would after he had gone to his reward.

  Noris chose to work the three-to-eleven shift because he could glean the most information and take the appropriate actions most easily. And still make it to the temple services on time.

  The sheriff’s administration personnel were in their offices until four thirty or five. He gathered the important facts floating around when he walked through or was in the squad room listening to other deputies. He kept track of the calls the other deputies had and made enough small talk to find out what reports he needed to read. It was usually easy enough to decide which ones to trash.

  There was one female in particular he managed to get a lot of useful information from. She was ignorant of how much she helped the coven and their Lord and Master. Her time of service was winding down and would come to a triumphant end soon. He smiled. Satan would be very pleased with the offering of her sacrifice.

  Noris was a faithful servant and addicted to his position of power. The pleasures he enjoyed on earth—and they were many�
�were nothing compared to the ones he would have in hell. His work here was earning him a place as an immortal ruler. For all eternity.

  As far as Noris knew, his family had worshipped Satan since the world began. A branch had moved to Minnesota in the early territorial days. They were as well-connected as anyone, in any coven, anywhere in the world.

  To members of the coven, outside of the leaders, he was known only as Noris, his middle name. Like any other person that went by one name. If his full name and real identity was revealed, the coven would be compromised. He would be arrested, and the coven would lose their connection in the sheriff’s department. They couldn’t afford that. They needed him there, watchful and vigilant.

  11

  Armstrong brushed Smoke’s grip-induced wrinkles out of his shirt. “It may not be safe to talk here,” he said quietly.

  “Spill it, Lieutenant.”

  Armstrong nodded once in resignation. “I was first on the scene, responsible for the main report. Edberg was second. He took photos of the body, collected each guy’s weapon, and put them into evidence until we sorted it all out. I got statements from each witness/shooter. Miles Walden was the investigator. Did you know him?”

  I shook my head, Smoke shook his. “Heard of him. He was gone before I started. Didn’t he die right after he retired?”

  Armstrong thought a moment then nodded. “The shootings appeared to be a tragic end to a day of deer hunting. A few other deputies showed up, like always at a major scene. Detective Walden got there pretty quickly and talked to each guy again. He stood where the hunters said they’d been when they shot Manthes. I walked to where Manthes’ body lay. Walden determined that if Manthes was not wearing blaze orange, he could easily have been mistaken for a deer from that distance.

  “Some things didn’t wash, in my opinion, and I wanted to charge the men with manslaughter two for negligently believing that Manthes was a deer and shooting him.”

  “Why’s that?” Smoke asked.

  “I didn’t think murder one would stick.”

  Smoke lifted his eyebrows. “Explain.”

  “All three of them had twelve-gauge shotguns loaded with slugs. From where they said they stood, it was sixty yards away.”

  “Fairly tough shot. Hell, they weren’t even slug guns. No sights, like a slug barrel would have. Not very accurate at sixty yards.”

  Armstrong nodded. “And I could see Walden just fine at sixty yards. Certainly could tell he wasn’t a deer. The capper? No spent shells around the sixty-yard line. Of course they fly, but I looked for a while, and nothing. I asked the guys about it, and the undertaker said he’d picked ’em up when he was waiting for us to get there. He reloads them at home.”

  “He what? I have never heard of anyone reloading a shotgun slug.”

  “Me either.”

  “Even if he did, why would that even remotely cross his mind when he had just shot his friend?”

  He shook his head and shrugged.

  “Undertaker, you said?”

  “Mortician, yes.”

  “You collect the empty shell casings from him?” Smoke asked.

  “All three of them. Not that it did any good after he’d tampered with the scene like that. Idiot. The coroner examined Manthes’ body, but his wife—widow—wouldn’t let us do an autopsy. Manthes took two hits. One shooter missed. Either shot would have killed him. Two big holes in his back.”

  “You said you wanted to charge them. But you didn’t?”

  “No, you could say I met with strong resistance on that.”

  “From whom?”

  “First, it was Detective Walden. He said there was no reason to charge them. It was clearly an accident. Why tie up the courts for no reason? I talked to the sheriff. Hooper was in office then. The three shooters in question were all professionals, pillars of the community, no criminal histories.”

  “But your gut was telling you something different.”

  “After the phone call, I knew I was right.”

  “What phone call?” Smoke leaned in.

  “That night, the night of the shooting, I got a phone call at home. Didn’t have Caller ID back then. And I had an unlisted phone number. Male caller, obviously disguised voice—muffled, sounded like Boris Karloff, menacing—told me to quit trying to make something out of nothing. Told me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut about the case, my family would disappear and I would never see them again. He named them each by name.”

  Armstrong shuddered. “There was no doubt in my mind he meant it. Evil words, evil voice. It came across the phone lines, and every hair on my body stood up. All I said was, ‘understood.’ It’s haunted me ever since.”

  “You report that to anyone?”

  Armstrong looked down and shook his head. “I didn’t know who to talk to, who to trust. It was the first time in my life I experienced real fear. Can you believe it? The kind of terror you can actually taste? He threatened my wife, my kids. He knew my phone number. Only work, of course, and friends and family members knew it. I had the phone company trace his number, and it came back to a pay phone. I had our phone number changed the next day. A year later, on the same date, I got a phone call from the same guy reminding me to keep my mouth shut. Changed my number again. Didn’t matter. Got another call the next year and every year since. Finally quit changing my number the third year.”

  “You suspected someone in the department was involved in some sort of cover-up?”

  “Hate to say it, but yeah, what else could it be? Unless he threatened another deputy into providing my phone number, and that didn’t make sense. Never could figure out who it was, though. Walden? Edberg? One of the other deputies who was at the scene or in the squad room when I was writing the report and spouting off about the shooting seeming suspicious?”

  Armstrong’s confession seemed to ease the stress lines that years of secrecy had etched in his face.

  “Ever think about contacting the FBI? Or about moving? Changing jobs?”

  “They all crossed my mind for about a minute. I frankly didn’t think it would help. The FBI, who knows? And whoever it was threatening me wouldn’t give up ’cause I moved. Maybe he’d even think I’d have the investigation reopened if I felt safe, away from the department. If I stayed here I could be on the lookout for any sign of who he was.

  “And the main reason is, Molly and I grew up here. Our ancestors homesteaded here. We didn’t want to leave.” He glanced at Smoke, then me. “Yeah, I told her so she’d be aware. I kept my word, and so did Boris Karloff. My big regret is that a crime went unpunished. If it was just me who was threatened, that would be one thing. I would have pushed ’til I found the rat. But my wife? My kids? I did what I did to protect them.”

  Smoke nodded.

  What would I have done under the same circumstances? Or if someone had threatened my mother, my brother?

  Armstrong continued, “I kept a veiled watch, here and there, on the three Wellspring community pillars for a couple of years. Aside from the fact that one of them, a surgeon named Royce Sparrow, married the victim’s widow—”

  Smoke blinked. “Royce Sparrow? Big-name surgeon in Saint Cloud?”

  I jotted the name down. Gregory Trippen’s stepfather.

  Armstrong raised his eyebrows in affirmation. “Coincidence? I don’t know. They basically went to their jobs during the day and back home at night. I quit looking. My prime suspect was Sparrow. But if he wanted Manthes dead, how did he convince the others to go along with it? Who in our department was in his pocket?” He paused. “You asked about the missing files?”

  Smoke and I both nodded.

  “A few years ago, I got a call from a young man, Harlan Manthes’ son. Gave a different last name. Trippen. He was looking into his father’s death.”

  “That’s what brought us here.”

  Armstrong looked momentarily puzzled then inclined his head to the left. “Ah. Trippen asking for another investigation?”

  “Have you been to the squad
room? Seen the ATL?” Smoke asked.

  “No, I was off this morning for personal appointments. Been playing catch-up in my office so far this afternoon.”

  I explained. “Gregory Trippen called last night to report his brother Jeffrey is on his way to our county to sacrifice himself—”

  “Sacrifice himself?”

  “On Satan’s altar.”

  Armstrong’s chest rose and fell at a fast pace, and his face flushed.

  “Satan’s altar? What are you talking about?”

  “According to Trippen, Sparrow was a hardcore Satanist. Introduced the boys to the cult. Screwed them up big time.”

  “Dear God!” He stood and walked to window and stared at something, or nothing, outside. “Back to the missing files. When I got the call from Trippen, I told him I’d go through the records on his father’s death and call him back. That’s when I discovered the files had gone missing. I have no idea when they disappeared. Probably shortly after the incident. I just don’t know. That’s when I knew they—whoever they are—meant business.

  “Trippen didn’t say anything about his stepfather being a Satanist, or about any cult activity. That makes me particularly relieved I did what I did. I told Trippen it was ruled an accident and there was no evidence to support anything else. The reason I didn’t write a report when he called was to protect him.”

  “How so?” Smoke again.

  “I believed Manthes’ death was no accident. My family was threatened when I made that known. I didn’t think Gregory Trippen would be safe if he came back here and started asking to have the case reopened. Someone in this department took those files, and I didn’t want a new report to fall into the same, wrong hands. There are a number of personnel who read them—detectives, brass, sergeants. A bunch of them were here twenty years ago when this all went down.”