by Bo Luellen
Captain Andino’s squeaky voice crept in, “We couldn’t agree with you and the Mayor more. Our department doesn’t need their help. You can count on...”
John blurted out, “With all due respect Chief, you’re tying our hands and shoving them up our ass! There are ten thousand Crusader eyes on these streets every day watching on behalf of the citizens of Tulsa. The more we resist their assistance, the more the Robin Hood effect is setting in. Old people sitting on their porches, truck drivers, waiters and every average joe you can think of are keeping their eyes and ears open on behalf of the TCC. They all listen to the daily Eastland Worship Hour and believe in Greyson Dunn’s message. His network is massive, willing, and dedicated to their faith. What I want to know is, how can you sit there and ignore that multi-million dollar resource? How many more terrorist acts will the Governor and Mayor allow to happen, while you order us to half-ass this job? I need to know, is this is a policy decision or is this a political one? If it’s so people can stay in office, that’s bullshit and you should know that!”
Chief Kelly tapped John’s badge as it hung on his dress blues, “Detective, you will do as you are ordered. You will track down the hiding place of cultists, and you will do it within the guidelines I’ve provided. I’m willing to overlook your insubordination this time, John. Because if someone in authority over you judged your words as suspiciously erratic, they might ask you to piss in a cup. Do we understand one another?”
John looked over at his Captain who had his head down. He glared back at the stone-faced Chief, then nodded in agreement. It took all the self-control he could muster to comply to the threat.
The Chief slapped his arm, “Good. Get out there and get me results! The city of Tulsa is counting on you.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Monday, November 5th, 2018 – 12:10 p.m. CST
John was back in plain clothes and at his desk next to the wheelchair-bound Terry Johnston. The pair were thumbing through a list of contacts they had made through the years, searching for an informant that could help them. As he cycled through his rolodex, he came to Amanda Lanyon’s name and held it up.
Terry glanced up, “Amanda Lanyon? What about her?”
John flipped the card around, “I was there when AEGIS took over her security detail and promised she would be present at the trial of Henry Jekyll. To date, there are no suspects for the man that murdered her husband and kidnapped her kids. Something about her statement made me feel like she was holding something back. I think she knows more than she’s letting on. I think it’s time to pay the widow a visit.”
The black man leaned back and asked, “How are you going to find her? Those agents have her tucked away and they ain’t talkin’.”
He pulled out a business card with the AEGIS Medusa logo on it, “Lucky for me, I lifted this off the desk of one of the Feds.”
Terry smiled, “You slick bastard.”
John forced himself to his feet, “Stay here and keep looking for leads. I’ll talk with Lanyon. I’ll see you soon, partner.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Monday, November 5th, 2018 – 12:41 p.m. CST
One phone call later to the Texan and he was given the address of the hotel where the Feds were keeping her. As he entered the lobby, he saw Agent John Hamilton sitting in one of the chairs, reading the Tulsa World. The man had his boots up on a table and engrossed in an article.
The Texan looked over and beamed, “Well look at you, Detective John Utterson. I do say that having the Tulsa Police Department’s decorated officer and hero of city come to visit is the highlight of my afternoon. Now, could I interest you in a cold soda or some sweet tea? They have the store bought stuff in here, but if you add some sugar it almost tastes like momma’s.”
Utterson joined the Agent in the lounge, “No thanks. I need to speak with Amanda Lanyon.”
The man folded his paper and got up from his chair. At 6’4”, John Hamilton towered over the detective. He wore a silver tipped bolo tie with a turquoise centerpiece that looked Native American in design.
Hamilton put on his black Stetson cowboy hat, “This is a safe house for the before-mentioned guest. We have to be careful.” The Agent spoke into his sleeve relaying, “Headed to Sabriel with one. Stand down.”
The man led the detective down a hallway to a room in the back of the hotel. With each step, Utterson listened to the heavy clomping of the cowboy boots of Hamilton as they noisily made their way down the narrow corridor. A blond haired agent was standing guard at the door when they arrived. After a pat down, Utterson followed the Texan into the room. He walked in and found the place had been lived in but was empty. The bed was used, with water bottles on the cabinets, but no Amanda Lanyon.
Utterson put up his hands and asked, “So, where is she.”
Agent Hamilton plopped down into a desk chair and put his feet up on the disheveled bed, “Oh she is right here.”
The detective glanced around, “Is this some kind of a joke?”
The black-suited agent wiped his forehead with a blue handkerchief, “If Widow Lanyon weren’t right here in this room, then the poor thing would be a target for the cult. Now, as long as the Crimson Brotherhood thinks she is under our protection, ready to testify against Henry Jekyll, then that gives her some small degree of security… if she was elsewhere.”
Utterson caught on and inquired, “Okay so if Amanda did choose to leave your custody, where might she have gone?”
The agent tipped his cowboy hat up with his index finger, “You know in all my five marriages, I’ve never once been able to accurately predict their mind. I suppose that is why they are exes. If I were you, I’d tell everyone in the department that asks, that you met with the Widow Lanyon and everything was okay. If someone did go off halfcocked and tell folks she wasn’t here, well, that person could be arrested for treason under the Patriot Act.”
Utterson’s mouth went dry as Hamilton continued, “Amanda does thank you for your kindness in visiting, Detective. Do drive safely now.”
He clinched his jaw, This was the second time today I’ve been threatened for attempting to do my job.
He considered his options and took the path of least resistance. Agent Hamilton followed him back to the lobby and watched him get into his car. The Texan tipped his hat, as John glared back at him and gingerly slid into the driver’s seat. As he stowed his new black cane, his phone buzzed and startled him. Utterson winced in pain from his broken ribs and read the text, “I have something for you on the Crimson Brotherhood. - Moss Vickers.”
He phoned Terry and reported, “Good news partner, I got a solid lead.”
Terry sounded exhausted, “Is this a reliable source?”
He drove his car out of the hotel parking lot, “Moss Vickers. He’s an informant your brother and I picked up when I first became his partner. We busted the man with almost a half a pound of mushrooms just outside of a Wendy’s. Moss was a small timer who would have gone away for a long time, but we let him off in exchange for information on the big fish in Tulsa.”
His new partner scoffed, “You’ve been letting this guy deal drugs in exchange for information?”
Utterson ignored him, “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
He hung up and drove down Highway 169 towards Moss’s apartment complex. The pain was hitting him hard from his injuries, and he washed down two Oxycodones with the vodka from his flask. He waited in anticipation until the drugs kicked in and dulled his senses.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up to an apartment complex near Riverside Drive. It was a depressed area that was known for its drug trafficking and high crime rate. He parked at a nearby Burger King and sent a text to Moss letting him know he was at the usual place.
Eventually, a man in his late thirties came walking around the corner wearing a faded black Pizza Hut t-shirt. Moss Vicker’s face was covered in acne, and his dirty blond hair was unwashed and oily. Utterson unlocked the car door, and the man slid in the passenger seat.
Moss looked at
the cane and said, “S-s-s-sorry to hear about the f-f-f-foot.”
The detective adjusted his leg, “Thanks. Do you have something for me?”
The pimply faced man pulled out a Ziplock bag of weed, “Oh yeah, J-J-J-John. I always b-b-b-bring something for ya.”
Annoyed, he snapped the pot out of his hands and yelled, “How many times do I have to tell you! Don’t give this shit to me out in the open. Wrap it up in a bag or something! Now, do you have anything on the Brotherhood!?”
Moss’s anxiety tripled at the verbal thrashing, “M-m-m-my runner Leon t-t-t-told me that h-h-h-he...”
“For God sakes, smoke some weed, or we’re going to be here all day waiting for you to mah-mah-mutter through a single sentence!”
Moss reached in his pocket and pulled out a vape pen full of marijuana. After a few minutes of smoking from the device, he seemed to calm down and relaxed. Utterson had learned that when the man was high, the annoying stuttering stopped.
Moss gazed at him with narrow eyes, “Leon told me he saw people dressed in black masks tagging the walls and buildings with Crimson Brotherhood symbols.”
Utterson’s annoyance mounted, “Yes, we know about that. It is the cult’s way of letting the people know the Brotherhood is still out there. This isn’t new information, Moss. You know our deal. You keep the intel coming and I look the other way.”
The informant raised his hands and pleaded, “Just hang on, John. Right, but what your people don’t know is when it is being done. Leon said the tagging isn’t random or opportunistic. It’s being done in sections of the town where the Crusaders are not patrolling. I’ve talked to two other of my suppliers, and they said the same thing. If you see tagging, you won’t see Crusader patrols.”
That caught the detective’s attention as he asked, “You mean they are keeping away from Brother Dunn’s people? Wait, but the Crusaders rotate their patrol routes each night to keep the Brotherhood from predicting their movements. How could the Brotherhood know the TCC routes?”
The man gave him a sleepy-eyed look and asked, “Don’t the Crusaders tell the police department where their routes will be each morning?”
Utterson made the connection, “Yes. If the Brotherhood are being tipped off by someone in the department or someone in the Crusaders, then they could move around at will. It also means we could lay a trap for them. If the task force could coordinate with Dunn’s people, we could create corridors of unpatrolled sections of the town where undercover cops could lay in wait. All we would need is one or two low-level members that we could interrogate. Hell, just announcing we had a living member of the Brotherhood in custody would let the people know the Department was making headway and send a message to the cult.”
Moss took another hit from his vape pin, “What’s your move?”
As he answered, Police Dispatch rang in on his phone, “Keep pushing for more information. Now, get out of my car, and watch yourself.”
He answered the phone as the man exited. “Detective John Utterson.”
The dispatcher said, “Detective, they need you at Rolling Oaks Memorial Gardens Cemetery at 91st and Yale. There has been a Brotherhood vandalism of one of the graves.”
Utterson’s heart sank at the thought of who was buried there. He started his car and drove like a bat out of hell. With his sirens blazing, John whipped past cars at 90 miles an hour on the packed city streets. His sweaty hands gripped the wheel so tight his wrists ached as his heart beat like a drum.
A few minutes later he squealed his tires as he turned into the cemetery. He beelined for the three patrol cars that were lined up on one of the side road between the graves. He saw the officers putting up yellow tape around a familiar plot. John screeched his tires as his vehicle slid to a stop. He endured the pain as he hopped out and pulled his bad leg along the road.
Hobbling along the paved path, he saw it. The grey granite tombstone of his dead partner, David Johnston, was in the center of the crime scene tape. As he shambled closer to his friends grave, one of the patrolmen saw him coming and rushed to intercept him.
The Hispanic officer stepped in his path, “John, hold on, we need to keep this clean. Let the investigators do their jobs.”
Utterson’s body began to shake as he took in the desecrated grave. The tombstone had the symbol of the Crimson Brotherhood spray painted over the front. A large mound of dirt was piled up on either side and a hole had been dug all the way down to the coffin. The concrete container was cracked open, and the coffin lid had been destroyed. Fragmented wood and rock littered the bottom of the hole. The body of his partner, the man who had died on his living room floor, was missing from its resting place.
He staggered and fell hard onto his backside. The soft earth and grass absorbed most of the impact, but his ribs blasted agony. The patrolman knelt down next to him, and put an arm on his shoulder. John’s face felt numb, and his fingers dug into the cold turf.
The patrolman gave a comforting squeeze and said, “None of this would have happened, if you hadn’t killed me, John.”
The voice that came out of the officer’s mouth was David Johnston’s. The shock of hearing it caused John to snap his head up. He saw the uniformed officer next to him had the head and neck of his deceased partner. The decayed face had patchy black hair, and the flesh had turned to leather. The skull pivoted to one side and the jaw opened to reveal blackened teeth. A slime covered tendril made its way out of the undead mouth and past the rotted grin of the corpse.
John couldn’t make his body move and froze with fear at the impossible sight. The olive color octopus-like appendage turned in the air and revealed suction cups on the underside. The thing slapped against the rotting flesh and dripped a green mucus down onto John’s pants. It suddenly whipped outwards and latched onto Utterson’s left jawline. The suction cups bit into the soft flesh of his cheek and gripped tight. The pin pricks snapped him out of the fear induced trance and he pulled back and screamed. He pitched himself backward onto on the cold ground and slapped at the tentacle.
His hands whipped around but found nothing but air. Forcing himself to open his eyes, Utterson looked up to see the Hispanic officer staring at him with confusion on his face. He had tears running down from a mixture of terror and sadness.
The cop tried to calm him down, “John, hang in there buddy. We’ll find out what happened. Just take some deep breaths.”
He sat up slowly and took some calming inhales. To his left the crime scene investigators’ car pulled up and the driver stared at him. All at once he realized how ridiculous he looked sitting on the ground. With the help of the officer, he worked himself back up to his feet.
He patted the cop’s chest, “Sorry. It’s a lot to take in.”
All the officers turned away and went back to their tasks. PTSD was commonplace in this line of work, and cracking under heavy pressure was just as normal. He had learned to let people vent, then keep on doing the job. These cops were no different and did their best to act like it didn’t happen.
The detective gathered himself and then visited with the investigators. He ordered a few patrolmen to check the neighborhood to see if anyone saw something and sat in on the questioning of the groundskeeper who discovered the crime scene. All the while, the haunted vision of his friend’s face on the officer’s head filled his mind.
John sat down in his car to catch his breath, Am I cracking up? It’s got to be stress. Keep it together John! If these guys see you breaking, they will assume you are off the wagon. Keep your credibility, and keep your focus.
His train of thought was broken as Detective Cobb tapped on his car window. He jumped at the sound, which shot pain down his side. As he rolled down the window, the craving to take more Oxys came over him.
The slender officer proclaimed, “Hey, sorry John, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He did his best to look normal as Cobb reported, “Okay so we took photographs of the area, checked for tracks and scanned the ground looking for any blood samples in ca
se they hurt themselves while digging up the body. So far nothing, but we will take the casket into the lab to test for...”
As John listened, the investigator’s voice faded out as he saw the corpse of David Johnston standing next to some squad cars 30 feet ahead on the road. Utterson stiffened up and tried not to react to the ghoulish image. David was in his police dress uniform, and the emaciated skin was covering the bones like Saran Wrap. The blue eyes of his old friend were replaced by empty black sockets that were transfixed on him. The cold wind flapped the folds of the dress blues he had been buried in.
Cobb’s voice changed tone, “John! Are you hearing me?”
A layer of perspiration had appeared on Utterson’s face, “Ummm, y-yes. That’s fine. Send me a report.”
He looked back towards the squad car to see the thing was gone and in its place was a patrol officer drinking a cup of coffee. Cobb left shaking his head in frustration. Utterson took some deep breaths and tried looking away, then back again to see if the phantom would return. It was gone, but he didn’t want to chance any more encounters. He started up his engine and headed back to the station.
Tulsa, Oklahoma – Tuesday, November 6th, 2018 – 9:05 a.m. CST
John had managed to get some decent sleep with the help of some Ambien pills he got from Moss. When he arrived at the station, he was in no mood for the morning task force briefing. On the front desk was the a.m. newspaper which had Charlie and David Keller plastered on the front page. He flipped it open and saw his own smaller, less impressive black and white image on page seven. His nostrils flared, and he angrily folded the paper into his pocket.
As the briefing room filled up with plainclothes officers and specialized units, John drew down a map of Tulsa. On it were dots that indicated where Brotherhood related activity had taken place. If a location had been spray painted, structures damaged, or a terrorist act committed, it got a red dot. John begrudgingly put a red dot on the cemetery where David Johnston’s grave had been robbed.
