An Altar by the River
Page 8
“Why’s that?” Smoke asked.
“Are you ready for this?” Dr. Fischer quietly said.
Smoke cocked his head to the left. “Sure.”
“Things started happening. At first it was mostly an annoyance, but it grew in intensity.”
“Things?”
“Spiritual beings work with electrical energy. In this case it was demonic-spiritual beings. The office lights would flicker. That went on for a while. We had electricians in and they couldn’t find anything wrong. Then appliances started breaking—the refrigerator, then the microwave in the break room, printers, the fax machine. One very hot day it was the air conditioning.”
“Maybe the circuits were overloaded or the appliances were old,” Smoke said.
“Frankly, I didn’t think much of the flickering lights. I mean, fluorescents do that here and there. It was one of my patients that brought it to my attention. She was very, not psychic, exactly . . . very sensitive. I’d say in tune with the spirit world. She has what they call spiritual discernment.”
I jotted the term on my memo pad.
“During one of our sessions she stopped talking, put her hands over her ears, and closed her eyes. I waited for a minute then asked her what was the matter. She looked at me with this very tired, weary expression and said, ‘Can’t you hear them screaming?’ I said, ‘Who?’ and she said, ‘The angels of darkness.’
“I was taken aback and didn’t answer right away. She said, ‘They’re the ones who are doing that with the lights.’ As she was talking to me, the lights went crazy for a minute, then my computer made this loud pop. We both jumped, it was that loud. They crashed my computer.”
“They, as in the angels of darkness?” Smoke’s voice held an edge of sarcasm.
“I realize it sounds bizarre, but after hearing the stories of what these people have been through, I was convinced. The next day, I told the other psychologists in the group what my client had said, and one of them said they couldn’t afford to have more computers crash, or have other things break, not to mention the times the lights flickered and drove everyone crazy. I’m not sure if they all believed in the whole evil spirit thing or not, but they voted unanimously that either I drop the cult victims or I leave.”
“So you left,” I finished.
She lifted her shoulders. “I couldn’t desert my clients. We were making headway. Many had the hope of recovery for the first time in their lives. I felt I had been called to work in that specialty, in that special niche. I was a little apprehensive wondering if they—” Dr. Fischer sought Smoke’s eyes, “—as in the angels of darkness, would bother us here. And they did, of course.” I glanced around and listened closely. I didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary, but maybe my instincts only worked in the physical world. “What did you do about it?”
“I called the minister I told you about, Pastor Daniel Trondholm, and he did what you might call an exorcism.”
Smoke crossed his hands on his chest. “On your house?”
Dr. Fischer nodded. “Yes.”
“And how’d that go for you?”
She stared at Smoke. “Detective, you’re a skeptic. Do you really want to know?”
Smoke shrugged and dropped his arms to his sides. “Sorry. Yes I do. I want to know.”
“First let me say that my clients are followed, tormented, fearful. They feel threatened. Those who have spiritual discernment see the evil spirits. When things started happening here, one of my patients said there were demons surrounding the outside of my house. I knew they wanted me to stop, like I had at my other office.”
“But you didn’t,” Smoke said. Admiration was evident in the intonation of his words. Whether he accepted the demon explanation or not, he had a natural fondness for brave women.
“You’re not afraid?” I asked.
She smiled and shook her head, in answer to Smoke’s comment and to my question. “Pastor Trondholm came, ordered the demons to leave, and blessed my house. I have nothing to fear. They have no power over me.” She nodded at the large wooden cross carved from the wood of an olive tree hanging over the mantel of her fireplace. My grandparents had a small one like it in their bedroom.
“Moving the office to my home turned out to be a good thing. My patients are leery of so many, many things. But they’re comfortable here. I’ve had a number of them ask to see their files, to check to see if everything is there. They’ve had bad experiences with medical records that have gone missing. Police records that have disappeared. Other psychologists they’ve consulted with who deny ever meeting them or hearing their stories. The Satanists have been at this for centuries and are very, very good at what they do.”
Gregory Trippen had said almost the exact same thing.
“How do people, your clients, find you?” I asked.
“Ministers are my biggest referral source. Other psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists are a close second. Some word of mouth from victims, but not much. They may talk online to other victims, but most don’t tell the other people in their lives. Co-workers, friends, sometimes even spouses don’t know what they have been through, what they had to do to survive in the cult.”
Smoke looked at his watch. “Doctor Fischer, we’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you very much.” Smoke offered his hand, which Dr. Fischer accepted in a gentle handshake.
Dr. Fischer and I shook hands. “Yes, we greatly appreciate it.”
“And my offer to help stands. Anytime.”
16
Smoke and I were silent on the walk to the car and for the first few minutes of the return drive. I felt heavy, burdened by everything the doctor had told us.
“Can you imagine the patience that woman has? Working for years to—”
“Put Humpty Dumpty together again?”
“Smoke.” He had lightened the timbre, so I couldn’t resist asking, “You think our guy who was howling at the moon was a multiple personality, one of which was a dog or a wolf?”
“I do not want to go there, little lady.”
“We got a ton of information from Doctor Fischer, but until we find Jeffrey Trippen, we still won’t really know what we’re dealing with.”
Smoke nodded. “In this job, what’s new?”
“It makes me wonder, though.”
“About?”
“You know, the calls where someone is up to something and you get there and the person just gives you an innocent stare, like they don’t know what’s going on?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s happened to me more times than I can count. I figured they were either good actors, mentally out to lunch, or on some kind of drug.”
“Or maybe suffering from dissociative identity disorder.”
“Don’t over think that one. If a person commits a witnessed crime, he is still responsible, whether he remembers or not.”
“I know, but it has got me curious about some incidents.”
“Curious. Your middle name.”
“And yours.”
The vehicle in front of us crossed the fog line. Her speed varied between forty-five and fifty in a fifty-five mile an hour zone. I pulled the keyboard of Smoke’s laptop closer to me and typed in the license plate number. The 2006 Cutlass was registered to a seventy-five-year-old woman who had a valid driver’s license and no violations.
“She likes to hug the shoulder and drive within her speed capabilities,” Smoke observed as he pulled out to pass.
I lifted my hand in a half wave as we sped by. “Oh, I meant to tell you, guess who I ran into at the hospital today?”
“Your former lover?”
“He wasn’t my lover, but yes, it was Nick.”
Smoke raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, I just assumed—you dated awhile. So how is Mister Perfect?”
“You and my grandma with your Mister Perfect stuff. Obviously he isn’t perfect, as no one is, but he seems to be doing fine. He asked me to reconsider leaving the sheriff’s department.”
“He didn�
��t.”
“Said he’d have to wait ’til I retire.”
“He didn’t.”
“I told him not to wait.”
“You didn’t.”
“Something like that.”
Smoke dropped me off at my car, and I had just enough time to go home, change into my uniform, and report for duty at three o’clock. My cell phone rang on the drive back to the station. The sunbeams dancing around in my vehicle and bouncing off the metal on my phone made it impossible to read the dial. I hadn’t heard from Gregory Trippen and figured it would be him.
“Sergeant Aleckson.”
“Corky, hi, it’s Jean Brenner.” Something was wrong.
“Jean, hi. Everything okay?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I just got a call from Shakopee Prison. Alvie Eisner just passed away at the hospital.”
“Oh. Wow. Oh. Wow. We knew this was coming—I mean, she hung on longer than any of us thought she would—but wow. Rebecca will be so sad her grandma died.”
“I know. I was hoping you could be here when I tell her.”
“Gosh. Um. Sure. Her bus gets home at three thirty?”
“It does.”
“I’ll stop by as soon as I can after shift change at three. Hopefully there won’t be any emergency calls between now and then.”
“I’d really appreciate it. Alvie requested cremation, and no service of any kind. Outside of Rebecca, her brother Henry, and her newfound mother Elaine, there’s no one else that we know of to contact.”
Alvie and her brother, Henry, had been abandoned by their mother at young ages and suffered severe abuse at the hands of their uncle. Both Alvie and Henry had mental problems, but Henry’s were more pronounced. He had spent his adult life in institutions and group homes. Did he wonder what had happened to Alvie when she stopped going to visit him?
Rebecca’s father had hanged himself while in prison, before Rebecca was born. And her mother had left her on Alvie’s doorstep shortly after her birth. Alvie was the only parent Rebecca had. When Rebecca was ten, Alvie had begun a revengeful killing spree that landed her in prison. For life. As it turned out, a brain tumor had meant “life” was only a few months long.
Alvie’s mother had shown up out of the blue during Alvie’s trial. But Alvie had wanted nothing to do with her after all those years of separation. It was too little too late, as far as she was concerned.
Ironically, Alvie had asked me to be Rebecca’s guardian. Ironically because Alvie had tried to kill me. Despite that, I loved Rebecca and wanted to find her a good, stable home with loving parents, so I agreed. Dale and Jean Brenner, Rebecca’s best friend Tina’s parents, had welcomed Rebecca into their family with open arms.
I visited often and took the kids on outings. Tina’s older brother, Justin, was active in sports, so I arranged fun things for the girls when Dale and Jean were at practices and games with Justin.
“You still have some contact with Alvie’s brother? We haven’t talked about it for a while,” I said.
“I do. When Alvie signed the adoption agreement, she asked if I’d bring Henry his hygiene items to the group home once a month. Rebecca goes with me. Henry seems to appreciate the visit, but he’s in his own world most of the time. I’m not sure if he knows who we are or not.”
Her end was silent for a second then she continued. “I’m still bothered by the great-grandma issue. I had to respect Alvie’s wishes not to let her see Rebecca, but now that Alvie’s dead, I think Rebecca should at least meet her.”
“I agree. I have Elaine Van House’s contact information, and I’ll let her know about Alvie. Today would not be a good time to tell Rebecca about her. Give her some time to grieve for one grandma before finding out about another.”
“You’re right. See you when you get here.”
“Okie doke.”
I clamped my phone shut, and it rang again.
“Sergeant Aleckson.”
“Sergeant, it’s Marcella Fischer.”
“Oh, hi, Doctor.”
“I wanted to let you know I was able to contact one of my clients and talked to her for a while. She’s amenable to meeting with you. She knows who you are and will call you today or tomorrow.”
“And her name?”
“Forgive me, but I’d rather not say, in case she has a change of heart.”
Someone who knew me? “Okay, I can respect that. Thanks, Doctor, for your help, and for all the info you gave us today. I was telling Smoke you must have tremendous patience.”
“Smoke?”
“Detective Dawes.”
“Smoke. Hmm. Why do you call him that?”
“It’s his nickname, one he earned, but that’s his story to tell.”
“You’ve piqued my interest.”
I bet I did. Up a notch or two, that is. Her interest in Smoke was piqued the moment she locked eyes with him.
“I hope my client talks to you. She has a lot to tell.”
“I hope so too, and thanks again.”
“My pleasure.”
We hung up as I pulled into a space in the sheriff’s department parking lot.
“Six oh eight, Winnebago County.”
Communications Officer Robin answered. “Go ahead, Six oh eight.”
“I’m ten-nineteen.” At the station.
“You’re ten-nineteen at fourteen forty-five.”
I gathered my things and walked into the office, chewing over different thoughts. Rebecca Eisner had known her grandma was dying, but it would be difficult to tell her about it anyway. She was only ten years old and had dealt with many terrible things caused by her grandma’s criminal actions.
Then Dr. Fischer’s call had gotten me thinking about the Trippen/Manthes cases. Two days before, I had received a call from Gregory Trippen that opened separate investigations. One involved the unsettling discovery that a member of our department was likely involved in covering up a murder years before.
We were looking for Jeffrey Trippen who was out there somewhere. Did he suffer from dissociative identity disorder, fragmented into many separate personalities? Was he tortured and tormented by demons following him? Did he think dying was the only way to escape?
And why hadn’t Gregory Trippen phoned yet?
17
“Sergeant Aleckson, report to my office.” The words greeted me from the archaic loudspeaker system as I walked through the double doors on the south side of the building.
The sheriff must have heard about Alvie Eisner’s death.
I wound my way past deputies and office staff to the sheriff’s corner office and poked my head through the open door. “Is this about Eisner?”
Sheriff Twardy stood up from his chair. “Alvie Eisner? No, why? She finally give up the ghost?”
One way to put it, and in keeping with all the talk of spirits so far that day. “Yes. I just got a call from Jean Brenner.”
“A relief, I guess.”
“I guess. We still need to tell Rebecca.”
“A heck of a deal. You’re good with kids. You’ll do fine. I’ll notify the families of her victims, Clarice Moy, the Keltons, and what’s her name, Marion McIllvery. I’m sure they’ll be glad to know. So how are you feeling?”
“Numb.”
He nodded. “It’ll take a while to sink in.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“This could have waited. I know you need to get to your shift change briefing with Sergeant Roth, so I won’t keep you long. This is a far cry from what we discussed this morning, in case you’re wondering. I need your help with something.”
“What’s that?”
“Your mother’s birthday is coming up next month, and I don’t know what to get her.”
My lips curled into a small smile. It was the last thing I’d have guessed the sheriff wanted from me.
“It’s been a while since I’ve bought a gift for a woman, not since my wife died, and I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with something.”
“That’s an idea. Her birthday’s in May. Birthstone’s an emerald. Maybe an emerald ring or a necklace, something like that.”
“That’s way too expensive. She’d have a hard time accepting such an extravagant gift.”
“Any other ideas?”
“The Villager has some cool things. Funky art deco pieces. A thousand candles in every possible scent.”
“What is that expression about a bull in a china shop? That would be me.”
I suppressed a laugh. The sheriff was not a large man and far from clumsy.
“You could always get a gift certificate at the gift shop or at one of the restaurants. If you want, I can go shopping with you sometime.” Did I really say that?
“Oh, mmm, thanks. I’ll let you know.” He probably couldn’t imagine it either.
“Sure. Well, I better catch up with Roth so he can get home.”
“Right. Oh, one last thing. I talked to Dawes when he got back from that psychologist visit with you. What was your take on all that?”
“I went into that meeting clueless, that’s for sure. I’m going to do some Internet searches about dissociative identity disorder and see what I can find on satanic worship. I’ll be meeting with one of Dr. Fischer’s clients, and I hope to get more from Gregory Trippen, if he would ever call me.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“I will if I don’t hear from him by six or so.”
Sergeant Roth was tapping his pen on the squad room table when I walked through the door. “We haven’t found your missing dude yet.” He threw a glance at Jeffrey Trippen’s photo. “I sure don’t like the looks of that dagger.”
“No one does.”
“So what’s his story? A homeless guy traveling with an ornate dagger?”
I shrugged. Sheriff Twardy didn’t want the cult connection mentioned until we had a better handle on the broader implications, like who the spy was in our department. I thought of Armstrong’s comment about the place having eyes and ears and looked at the five other deputies in the squad room. They all appeared occupied with their own tasks.