by Grilz, Jon
“That doesn’t instill a lot of confidence, Doctor—” Lockhart drew it out, hoping the coroner would fill in his name.
“O’Connell,” he said helpfully.
“Dr. O’Connell, I have to let you now upfront that this is to be a by-the-book investigation, and there is a chance you will be presenting your findings in court.”
The coroner’s face grew more serious under the gravity of the situation, but he said nothing and allowed Lockhart to go on.
“I’ll need full screens for toxins, foreign agents, signs of sexual abuse—anything above and beyond the apparent death by gunshot wound.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to sound unprofessional. I won’t miss a thing.”
“I have every confidence. Thank you, Doctor. Tell me, do you have a preliminary analysis you can share with me?” Lockhart flipped open his notebook, feeling somewhat anxious to get some answers. There was a strange charge to it all. A young boy had been murdered, but Lockhart couldn’t help but feel excitement about the possibility of catching the killer.
The coroner opened his file notes and walked Lockhart over to the body. “Male, fifteen years of age, five four. He’s 118 pounds.”
Lockhart looked down at the young corpse; it was the first time that he’d seen the boy’s face straight on. The side that wasn’t exposed in the crime scene photos bore the large, gruesome exit wound, indicative of a close-range gunshot to the head.
The coroner went on, “Positive identification of Michael Joseph Weber, Jr. Death from gunshot wound. Powder burns on the back of the head suggest close range. Dirt on the knees of his pants along with the angle of the entry wound suggests that the victim was kneeling at the time of the shot. Bullet entered the skull at an angle and exited the body through the left ocular cavity. No foreign fibers were found on the body, nor were there fingerprints or blood present, other than the victim’s. Strange irregularities were found on the victim’s shoes, and the—”
Lockhart stopped the O’Connell, “Irregularities? What kind of irregularities?”
“Uh, yeah. I noticed these not long before you got here.” The coroner went over to his desk and retrieved a cardboard box full of Michael’s personal effects. They were individually bagged as evidence. “Don’t worry. Forensics already had a go at these,” he said, handing Lockhart the bag containing Michael’s tennis shoes.
Lockhart took out the shoes and turned them over. The black soles on each were bubbled and warped, like hot tar on the highway. “Any idea about what might have caused this?”
The coroner shrugged. “No idea. I sent pictures to the local fire chief, but I haven’t heard back yet. Whatever it was, it was hot enough to melt rubber.”
“Were there any burns on the body? Any signs of torture, particularly on the feet?”
“None—no burns or bruising; at least nothing at first glance.”
“So what’s your preliminary theory?”
“It’s not much of a theory. All I can say for sure is death by gunshot. Of course, that’s pending the autopsy and tox results, but it looks pretty cut-and-dry to me.”
As much as the coroner would have liked to think so, Lockhart knew that seemingly cut-and-dry cases were often anything but when he was involved.
The phone at the coroner’s desk rang, and he excused himself to answer it. Lockhart continued to turn the shoes over and over in his hands as the coroner informed him that the fire chief was on the phone.
The fire chief didn’t have much of an opinion on the melting patterns. “Because of the composition, rubber doesn’t have a specific melting point, but it will catch fire somewhere between 260-320 degrees Celsius,” The fire chief explained. “It was probably just some little pyro playing with a lighter.” It would have sounded a bit cruel, but he had no idea of the details and didn’t know the shoes belonged to a teenage murder victim, or he likely would have taken care not to sound so callous about it.
Lockhart thanked him for his time and hung up, then left the coroner to perform the grim task of the necessary autopsy. He didn’t have much of a stomach for that kind of thing and his presence at the actual postmortem exam wasn’t required. The coroner assured him that he would call immediately if the cause of death or circumstances changed or if any oddities were discovered. He also said the toxicology results would take at least a few more days. Lockhart decided to drive back to Crayton and get a room for the night; after all nothing was getting solved for a while, and rest would do him good.
Chapter 7
Journal Entry:
The Weber parents are yelling at each other. Maybe fueled by alcohol, most likely caused by my murdering their son.
I watch as Mr. Weber throws his arms up, a look of disgust on his face. Mrs. Weber sobs and between yelling, her chest heaves with deep breaths. Two windows over, their twin sons hug each other in their room. The young boys are terrified, looking for comfort that should come from their parents. Their brother is dead and they had to regress to their embryotic existence, sharing the same space as if they need to be protected once again in their mother’s womb.
I don’t want to be here, and I certainly don’t want to watch the family of my victim. It was hard enough to actually pull the trigger, more so this time than with anyone else in the past, but I just couldn’t chance it.
I wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t of the utmost importance, and I can’t be derailed by a family in mourning. There is too much left to take care of, too many loose ends. It’s not like before. Obviously, it would be different.
It’s hard to write. My hands began to tremble a few minutes ago and my best attempts to flex the pain away have failed. The sun is starting to go down, but it will be hours before darkness. It’s too difficult to time everything correctly; there are just too many variables. I will have to come back later. I can’t risk being seen here, waiting.
Once more into the shadows…
Chapter 8
The sun was starting to go down by the time Special Agent Lockhart got back to Crayton, less a few wrong turns. He stopped in at the law enforcement office and was again informed by the receptionist, Joy, that the chief was at Dan’s Café. This time, Lockhart was far less put off by the idea. He was only really interested in getting something to eat and finding suitable accommodations for the night.
Just as it had been that morning, the place was packed. Even though the town was home to two other diners, from what Lockhart had seen of it, it seemed like everyone was at Dan’s. Inside, Donaldson was seated alone at a two-seater table. Lockhart invited himself to have a seat, but, as seemed to be par for the course during mealtime, Donaldson paid him hardly any attention.
A plate of turkey and mashed potatoes, smothered in thick caramel-colored gravy was the current object of Donaldson’s affection. At least, what was left of it.
The chief took his time with his food before wiping his mouth. “So how was Bemidji?”
“Exhilarating,” Lockhart said as he unbuttoned his suit coat and took a seat.
“Really?” the chief asked, not detecting Lockhart’s sarcasm.
“No, of course not.”
The chief rolled his eyes. “Any new findings from the coroner?”
Lockhart shook his head. “No. The autopsy is probably just getting done about now. We are still waiting on the toxicology and blood-work results. We should hear something after that. Anyway, what’s good here? I’m starving.”
The same middle-aged waitress from that morning came over to the table, dressed in a blue capped-sleeve blouse and a snug pair of black jeans. A black server’s apron was wrapped around her waist, and her hair was twisted up in a bun on her head, held in place by a pencil. It was a look he imagined he might have seen some forty years earlier, or perhaps the required hairdo of the average waitress in the average 700-person, GPS-unrecognizable Midwestern town. Time didn’t seem to move as fast in Crayton, so she would have no reason to update her hairstyle.
Since Lockhart hadn’t received any recommen
dations from the chief, clearly one of the establishment’s frequent diners, he repeated his question to her. “What do you recommend?”
“Well, Chef’s been doing a lot of Philly cheesesteaks today.”
Lockhart had lived on the East Coast for most of his life and questioned how good a Minnesotan “Philly” cheesesteak could possibly be. He also balked at the idea of a short-order cook having the audacity to ask his staff—or anyone, for that matter—to refer to him as “Chef”.
“Sure, fine. I’ll have one, mushrooms on the side.”
“Be right up. Water, tea, s-oh-da?” Her Minnesota accent was thick, with the O in soda drawing out.
“Coffee please, cream and sugar.”
She nodded with a polite, though distracted, smile and merged back into the swarm of people who were begging for her attention.
Lockhart looked around at the packed diner. “Is it always so busy here? Let alone at five in the evening?”
The chief gobbled down a last mouthful of food. Any remaining gravy was mopped up with a slice of bread, until his plate was perfectly clean. Before he devoured it, he took the briefest of moments to answer. “No, not always.”
The waitress, whose nametag read “Betty,” brought Lockhart’s coffee and scuttled off again.
“So, it looks like we have some time to kill,” Lockhart said. He’d been carrying a question around in his head since he’d first arrived in town. “Can you tell me why they call this place Crazytown?”
Lockhart noticed a brief, confused look before Donaldson’s face lightened. “Oh man. Did those kids tag our sign again?”
“The city limits sign? Yes. I saw it on my way in this morning.”
“It’s not really much of a story,” the chief said, still working to swallow what food was left in his mouth.
“Humor me. Besides, it might help me to prepare for what kinds of people I will be dealing with during this investigation.”
The chief laughed. “Crazytown doesn’t have anything to do with the people of Crayton—at least not the living.”
Lockhart sipped his coffee and then added more sugar. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”
The chief cleared his before starting his story. “Well, back in the 1920s or thereabouts, around the time of the Great Depression, Crayton was built as a logging and mining town. Most of Northern Minnesota’s economy ran thanks to the Iron Range. They mined the taconite up here and shipped it all over the world from Duluth. Most people don’t realize you can get to the ocean from Lake Superior.”
Lockhart actually did know that. As a boy, his father had spent a great deal of time making the trip between Lake Superior and the East Coast, as he was paid to sail richer men’s boats for them, which was far less expensive than having the boats shipped across land. Though his father had been to Duluth dozens of times, it was Lockhart’s first visit to the place that had helped to feed him as a child.
“Anyway,” Donaldson continued, “one day, when things were getting pretty bad, post-market crash and all, when it was all getting sketchy, I mean not even the locals wanted to hang around because people were just getting too desperate, and all of the sudden, people started to disappear.”
“Disappear?” Lockhart asked.
“To tell the truth, the way my old man told it, the people weren’t missed at first. People were killing themselves all over the country. Fathers left children and wives, just up and run off. So when the town started to seem a little less full, people didn’t give it much thought, just figured it was because of the Depression. But then bodies started showing up. It was bad, because they were all torn up. Some claimed it was bears, but that was a load of bull, no bear attacks around here, ever. Still that’s what they wrote it off to. After that, weird things just kept happening.”
Betty returned to the table and refilled Lockhart’s coffee cup without bothering to ask if he wanted more. The hustle of the crowd had her otherwise concerned.
“Weirder than missing persons and random bear attack?” Lockhart asked.
The chief rubbed at the gray stubble around his jaw. “Yeah, weirder than that, believe it or not. Reports started coming in about grave robbing, witchcraft, human sacrifices, devil worship—a lot of real dark stuff, the kind of stuff you hear about in those horror movies. People were already depressed, and this just made it worst. Some just snapped, and other went completely loony. People needed to find something else to blame for what was happening in their lives.”
“And you give no credence to the stories?”
“Hell, Agent, I’ve seen a lot of weird things, but I’ve lived in a small town all my life. Rumors and gossip are just that. People were desperate, probably robbing graves for money or jewelry or whatever they could find to sell so they could feed their families. But as far as the rest of that weird stuff? Come on! We both deal with facts, our jobs depend on it, and the fact is, desperate people do desperate things, but that doesn’t make them crazy or possessed.” The chief’s tone made it sound like he didn’t believe the local legends, but it reminded Lockhart of his mother telling him everything would be all right whenever a tornado siren went off, as if she wanted everything to be all right and said it out loud to reassure herself as much as anyone else.
“So, what came of it all?” asked Lockhart.
“Nothing really. World War II began, and things changed. Either whatever was happening stopped, or people just had better things to be concerned with than making up stories.
“So where did the name Crazytown come from?”
“Dunno. Probably kids. You know how they like to come up with nicknames for each other or whatever. Hell, they used to call me Spud. Don’t ask, not telling you why. Town is no different. Kids used to love reading up on the town history and all the spook stories that used to get printed in the paper back then. They begged their teachers to tell stories about it all, and it all turned into ghost stories, the kind Boy Scouts tell around campfires or men share on ice fishing trips after too many Grainbelts. It’s been a while since anyone spray-painted the sign, though. Then again it’s been an even longer time since anyone got killed around here.”
“Mind if I ask you something else?”
Donaldson gave a sort of half-shrug in response as he leaned back in his chair, placing one hand on his bloated and audibly churning stomach.
“How are people reacting to what happened out there, to the murder?”
The chief mulled it over for a moment. “Well, people are scared, best as I can tell, and I can’t blame them. Honestly, I think we should hold some kind of town meeting. Till then, I’m guessing they will do what people do to relax.”
“And what’s that?”
“Round here, they eat and drink. Izzy’s Bar will probably be packed tonight, too, just like this place is.”
“Great. Heavy drinking, no answers and well-armed scared locals. Perfect mix. We will need help tonight. Where is that deputy of yours anyway?”
The conversation was interrupted by the waitress bringing Lockhart his Philly Cheesesteak; it looked good and smelled incredible—a loaf of fresh French bread sliced and slightly toasted, filled with slices of juicy steak and covered in the traditional processed cheese sauce. It looked just about perfect. Unfortunately, Betty had forgotten to ask for the mushrooms on the side.
“Excuse me. I know it’s nitpicking, but I asked for the mushrooms on the side.”
Betty looked flushed and flipped through her notepad. “Oh, uh, I don’t think so…”
“Betty’s busy,” the chief chimed in, interjecting into the conversation, “Why don’t you just go back and ask for the correction yourself?”
“Are you serious?” Lockhart asked.
“Sure, I bet Betty won’t mind.”
Betty actually seemed to prefer the idea, so Lockhart took his plate and walked back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside the amazingly small kitchen stood two men. One, about thirty, wore an immaculately white chef’s coat and moved with the speed of a tepanyaki cook.
His fryer, grill, and flattop were all filled with orders, but he was moving seamlessly between them all, plating and preparing as he went. The room was filled with sights, smells and sounds that were almost overwhelming. All the smells of grease and meat blended together to create an odor that was far from appetizing. The constant popping from the fryer was answered by the sizzling of hamburgers on the grill as well as bacon and cubed-steak on the flattop.
The other man, about the same age, was dressed in an old Pink Floyd t-shirt and jeans with a bandana tied around his forehead. He stood at the far end of the kitchen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, just watching.
“Excuse me,” Lockhart said realizing there would be no break in the cook’s movement.
There was no response.
The man at the far end tilted his head to the side to look around the chef and look at Lockhart, shrugged, and shook his head.
Lockhart sighed and asked, “Chef?”
A quick “What?” was his reply.
“I asked for mushrooms on the side of my Philly, and—”
“No you didn’t,” the chef said without bothering to look up at Lockhart or his sandwich.
Lockhart was stunned by the rudeness for a moment but shook it off. “Yes I did. I always do.”
“It wasn’t on the ticket.” The chef’s hands, scarred with burns, reflexively flipped burgers as he spoke. His eyes never left the grill.
“Well, I asked for them on the side, whether she wrote it down or not.”
“Don’t care. Go sit down and order a new one if you don’t like it.” He was at the fryer, shaking the excess oil off a basket full of French fries.
