Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  “People would know. They’d come after me.”

  “We protect confidential informants. Your name won’t show up anywhere. The only person who knows I’m talking to you is Ms. Freeman. You can trust Ms. Freeman, can’t you?”

  Stacy looked at Kim, eyes troubled.

  Peter continued, “A guy like Jamal, I bet he brags to too many people for him to know who talked. But we can set it up so it doesn’t look like we got inside information.”

  Peter waited while Stacy did the mental math. She spilled. When they finished, Kim escorted Stacy out of the room, sending her back to class.

  “You’re a kind man,” Kim said when Stacy was out of earshot.

  Peter shrugged. “My cousins shoplifted when they were in high school. I don’t imagine Stacy thought this was any different.”

  “No, she probably didn’t think about it at all. They don’t at this age.”

  “You’ve been a big help.”

  “What will you do about her mother?”

  Peter rubbed his jaw. “I don’t want to be seen near Stacy or her mom, and Ms. Bender is just mad enough to go to Taneesha’s house and blow everything. Think you can calm her down?”

  Kim pursed her mouth, considering.

  Peter continued, “Tell her it was a one-off, and Stacy was sufficiently terrified that we don’t believe she’ll do it again.”

  “You don’t want her to know about your investigation?”

  “You think Ms. Beer for Breakfast won’t talk?”

  Kim sighed. “I see your point.” She followed Peter into the hall. “How’s Sam?”

  Detective Sam Robertson was Kim’s uncle. “Sam’s a riot. He tried to scam Brent into a desk pop.”

  “A desk pop? You mean from the Will Farrell movie?”

  “Sam kept winking at me because Brent’s all serious, asking him about desk pop protocol. Cynth is there, and she says, ‘I did mine ages ago. I can’t believe you haven’t done it yet.’ Brent pulls his gun and Sam thinks he’s going to fire one into the ceiling. Then Brent says, ‘I’m not real clear on this, you’re the expert, you show me how it’s done’ and he tries to hand his gun to Sam. You should have seen Sam backpedal. Sam says, ‘It’s a rite of passage, you only do it once, but if you’re not man enough—’ and he backs out of the office. Brent follows him down the hall and he’s whining, ‘I need to do this, you gotta show me how.’”

  “Good heavens. What did Sam do?”

  “Sam ran. Almost crashed into Captain Parker.”

  “You cops and your practical jokes.”

  Peter retrieved the phone he’d silenced for the meeting. Four missed calls from his captain. “I’ve got to go. Can you handle it from here?”

  Kim tilted her head, looking down her nose at a mock-imperious angle. “I can handle one terrified girl and her maniac mother.”

  “Send up a flag if her mom doesn’t bite.”

  Peter strode toward the exit, taking a quick look at his voicemails while avoiding the tide of students. The four from his captain were less than ten seconds each. Probably “Call. In. Now.” He waited until he reached the privacy of his car and turned off on a side street a few blocks from the school to check in.

  Captain Ann Parker didn’t bother with niceties. “What’s your status?”

  “Just finished interviewing a juvenile package thief. I think I have enough for a search warrant.”

  “Pick up the new issue of the National Enquirer on your way in.”

  Better not to ask. “Right away, sir.”

  He found the current National Enquirer tucked behind other magazines in the top shelf of the rack at UDF. He slid the top copy out. A grinning skull stared at him, the ragged remains of a collar barely visible in the nest of roots. The sixty-point, white on black headline read:

  Elvis Murdered!

  Peter sat in his car, popped the tab on his Pepsi, then pulled the Enquirer out of the bag. Parker expected him five minutes ago, but taking time to find out the worst was the smartest thing. He flipped through to the photos splashed across the center spread.

  Photos he hadn’t known existed.

  ___________

  * * *

  Elvis' Shallow Grave Discovered!

  Elvis Presley’s death on August 16, 1977, may be the most hotly disputed event in history. Rumors abound, of conspiracies; of suicide; that the grave at Graceland is empty and the King still lives. A shocking discovery on Cincinnati’s Mill Creek last week proves that only one of the above is true: The King’s Graceland grave is empty. But Elvis' fate is wilder than anyone suspected.

  Boaters on a float trip sponsored by the Mill Creek Yacht Club, an environmental group tasked with monitoring the health of the urban estuary, stumbled upon the skeletal remains in the roots of a toppled tree.

  “When I saw the bones and the jumpsuit, I knew it was Elvis,” our anonymous source said. “It’s obvious he was murdered and buried in a shallow grave. I fear the people who have hidden the truth for so long will continue to cover it up. With the photos made public, the police must pursue this. Elvis deserves justice.”

  The photos show a skeleton dressed in a rotting jumpsuit bearing a distinctive pattern of metal studs, identical to one worn by Elvis when performing.

  “His killer must have loved him, must have had regrets, because he buried Elvis dressed the way his fans loved him best,” our source said.

  Asked how Elvis could have been killed in Cincinnati when he was known to be at Graceland, our source speculates, “I imagine he died at Graceland, but the body had to disappear. The killer was connected to Cincinnati, so he brought Elvis here, where he could visit the grave in secret. Only a Graceland insider could smuggle the body out.”

  When contacted, Bruce Koehler, founder of the Mill Creek Yacht Club, declined to comment, except to say, “The Mill Creek Yacht Club will support police efforts to investigate this matter in whatever way we can.”

  ___________

  * * *

  Peter slumped back in his seat. Shooting Terry would not be justifiable homicide, and that was a crying shame.

  Peter occupied a visitor’s chair in Captain Parker’s office, waiting for her to finish the phone call in progress when she waved him in. He held the bag with its damning contents, hands flexing as if to throttle the magazine. He forced them to relax. Parker wouldn’t thank him for mangling the gossip rag, though he expected it had already served its purpose.

  Parker commanded from a bland beige box identical to every other office in District Five’s temporary home. She kept the fluorescents off, relying on the incandescent glow of a desk lamp instead. The space was further humanized with three giant snake plants on her credenza. When asked, she said they were there for the air quality. That, and they were impossible to kill.

  As with all the other windows in the building, the mini blinds were permanently closed. The station had outgrown the Frank Lloyd Wright inspired building next to Mount Storm Park and relocated to a former social services agency in a College Hill strip mall. The front of the building abutted a heavily trafficked sidewalk. It wouldn’t do for customers of the hip hop clothing store or the Family Dollar to peep in, thus the blinds.

  No carpet could withstand traffic generated by more than a hundred officers. It and the baseboards had been ripped out, exposing abused linoleum that could not be replaced unless the CPD and city council committed to the College Hill location as their permanent home. On good days Peter said their new home was functional. On bad days the building pervaded with a depressing, Kafkaesque depersonalization.

  A woman with strong, androgynous features, Parker wore her hair in a utilitarian ponytail and dressed like a member of the rank and file. She hung up the phone, raising an eyebrow at Peter.

  He wished he could read her mood, but she had a talent for looking friendly while maintaining the most indecipherable cop face in the CPD. He laid the bag on her desk and waited.

  She nodded at the bag. “You read it?”

  “Yes
, sir.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Hard to say, sir. Looks like a return to the alien baby stories they used to run.”

  “I suppose that’s safer than politics these days. Any idea where the photos came from? You know the Enquirer won’t tell us.”

  Peter had asked himself this question all the way up Hamilton Avenue. “My first thought was Terry Dunn, the reporting party. But I know him. I’m sure he took photos, but I don’t believe he would sell them. Someone took them before we got there, or snuck behind us while the Yacht Club got everyone out. I take full responsibility for not protecting the scene.”

  Parker waved it off. “You’re not responsible for anything that happened before you arrived. It’s impossible to keep track of three dozen witnesses when half of them are out of sight and you’re busy making sure nobody drowns.

  “Safety always comes first. It’s just unfortunate. The media is all over this. We have to get in front of it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Captain Arseneault wants to borrow you for the Mill Creek remains. I reassigned your porch pirates to Davis.”

  Command was command. Training kicked in, suppressing the urge to protest. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your bones were slated for the cold case unit. But that’s only two men. Tucker just had an emergency triple bypass and Wallace is in the Bahamas. We expected the bones to keep until the anthropology report was complete and Wallace returned from vacation. With this idiotic story we can’t wait. Everyone in Homicide is ass-deep in the club shooting and other cases.

  “A dozen news agencies have called, wanting to know what progress we’ve made. With the press salivating and social media blowing up, we have to demonstrate we’re on top of this.”

  Homicide was chasing gangbangers who’d killed two and injured seven more, but the media was blowing up over a polyester jumpsuit.

  “But this isn’t an immediate threat to the public.”

  “Even so. While we have our hand out to city council for funds to renovate this place, we need to play nice. Arseneault will owe us if we keep Channel 7 off his back. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect he planted the photos to get attention off the club shooting.”

  I not only have to find a killer who has been in the wind for forty years, I get to put on a dog and pony show to drum up twenty mil. Great opportunity for career advancement. Just great.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir, but I’m out of my depth. Why not someone who was around then? I’m not from Cincinnati. I’m flying blind.”

  “You’re a good detective. All we expect is a good faith effort to show the public we’re doing our job.”

  “It sounds like you want a cosmetic investigation.”

  “Not at all. But we’re realists. Just do your job and find what you find.”

  Or not. “What resources will I have?”

  “Homicide will field tips and forward them to you. Other than that, you’re on your own. It’s not ideal, but this isn’t a case where we have to mobilize manpower before evidence and witnesses disappear. Our best bet will be the tip line.

  “We’ll be flooded with tips. Every one of them has to be vetted. The last thing we want is someone coming forward after we botch things to say they told us who our killer was on day two. You’re thorough to the point of being a pain in the ass. That’s what we need.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Peter wondered if it had been a compliment. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is this assignment punitive, sir, for letting those photos out?”

  She turned the supreme blankness of her exceptional cop face on him now. “Captain Arseneault and I agree that you are uniquely suited to pursue this. If anyone knows anything about our bones, they’ve kept quiet for decades and they may be three steps from the grave. Handling them will take a delicate touch. We need someone people will continue to talk to, the third, or even the tenth time we come calling. You’re that guy. You’re up on the case and you’ve met the folks at the Mill Creek Yacht Club. They could be useful.”

  “You don’t need me for that. They’ll talk to anyone.”

  Parker gave him a stern look. “Thank God Arseneault ran cadaver dogs through the site last week. We know this is a one-off. We’d have a disaster on our hands if there were more bones. You can be certain a half-dozen yahoos are on the creek, looking.”

  Peter surrendered. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Check in with Jeffers at the morgue. Let’s figure out who this guy is and put a stop to the Elvis nonsense. I’ve arranged an interview with Channel 7 for four o’clock. See that you have something by then.”

  “Sir?”

  “We want your face on this thing. You’ll do the interview with Aubrey Morse.”

  Translation: you’re the messenger, in case anyone needs a target. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re on this full time for the next week. After that we’ll reassess. You can catch Davis up on your package thieves once Morse gets her soundbite. And Dourson?”

  “Sir?”

  “Ditch the sport coat for a suit and get a haircut.”

  Not Elvis in situ had been a dark entity from the pages of Lovecraft, a demon drawing power from the earth as it slept. This demon would awaken in full control of the roots entwining it, using them as tentacles to capture and eat every human in sight.

  In the cold light of laboratory LEDs, the stained and disarticulated remains were a sanitized thing, empty of even the memory of life or intelligence—more like a toy skeleton you could buy at the Cincinnati Museum Center. It made Peter sad.

  He stood at the head of the steel autopsy table and scanned the reassembled remains. Gaps in the hands and one foot indicated missing bones. The other leg was missing below the knee. Probably halfway to New Orleans.

  Assistant Coroner Amanda Jefferson, a sturdy black woman with a heavy mop of braids bundled behind her head, said, “It was nice of your guy to pop up the way he did. At least I didn’t spend Saturday killing my knees over a shallow grave. Remains aren’t usually that considerate.”

  “I see you got rid of the roots.”

  “Not me. I was under orders not to touch—after Junior and I did the dirty work hauling him through raw sewage to get him here.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Commodore said you’ll see condoms, lettuce, and toilet paper floating in the water when there’s raw sewage in the creek. We didn’t spot any of that, so I doubt you’re harboring dangerous bacteria.”

  Amanda raised a neatly groomed eyebrow. “Lettuce. I feel so much better. Regardless, I was happy to let Dr. Fancy Pants figure out how to clean him up. That tree fed on those bones for decades. What’s left is fragile as cigarette ash.” She snorted. “The man thinks he’s God, Kathy Reichs, and Kay Scarpetta rolled into one. I didn’t mind watching him pull his hair out.”

  “Sorry I missed him.”

  “No, you’re not. I don’t have the final report yet, but I can give you the highlights. Not Elvis was buried sometime between the mid-seventies and early nineties. We may know more when the lab is finished with his clothes.”

  “So he could be Elvis.”

  Amanda glowered at him. “Don’t be funny. Elvis had enough trouble, though I imagine the King would have preferred murder and a shallow grave to the indignity of dying on a toilet seat.”

  Junior entered, rolling a steel cart full of supplies. “Don’t disrespect the King.”

  “Fact is fact, Junior.”

  Peter’s interest was piqued. “You studied Elvis Presley’s death?”

  “We all get asked about it. And so you don’t have to ask, he died of a heart attack. Some say it was the emergence of punk rock that gave it to him but they would be wrong. Even if he had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy as others claim, the combination of drugs in his system tipped the scales. Crying shame it happened where it did.”

  “Huh.”

  “You’d think Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger would
have learned from his example, but no. Losing them was bad enough. Tom Petty broke my heart, for real. Nothing like having a prescription to legitimize stupid.”

  “I didn’t take you for a Tom Petty fan.”

  Amanda’s face turned wistful. “The teeth on that man. You could see him smile from the nosebleed seats. The American Dental Association went into mourning when he passed.”

  “And he could sing, too.”

  “That, he could.”

  Junior looked up from loading supplies into a cabinet. “Don’t talk about Tom Petty in the same sentence as Elvis. That’s sacrilege.”

  Peter nodded at the bones. “Any chance you can pull DNA?”

  “I might be able to extract some from the teeth, but your best bet for identification is dental records.”

  “Can you run it anyway?”

  “There’s no need at this point.”

  “Humor me.”

  She shook her head. “Whatever.”

  “What did the anthropologist say?”

  “Besides carping about my collection methods? Never mind he was in Toledo when Not Elvis popped up.”

  “Besides that. Cause of death?”

  “No discernible cause of death. Not Elvis lacks the usual trauma associated with violent assault. Skull is intact, so no bludgeoning. Same for the vertebrae. Arnold Schwarzenegger did not snap his neck. No nicks, chips, or breaks associated with a knife or bullet.

  “He could have bled out from a gut wound without incurring damage to his bones, but that only works if he sat still while someone carved up his intestines.”

  “Unlikely,” Peter agreed.

  “If he was gut shot, we would have found the bullet with the remains. Rats don’t run off with slugs. My eagle eye spotted the hyoid bone in the dirt. It’s intact, which means strangulation is ninety percent out, but it doesn’t rule out suffocation.”