A Cry from the Dust
Page 29
Which was fine. Stuffed full as it was with meat and grease, his stomach would not accommodate butterflies. Danny was a trim, young man and usually ate little, but on these special Sunday mornings he always felt inexplicably compelled to stop at some rural greasy spoon and eat until he felt a bit queasy. It was like that old maxim about a pregnant woman eating for two. How many was Danny eating for now? He’d lost count.
And he had no choice but to continue feeding Them, to carry on with increasing momentum down this road, all the while pretending that he didn’t know the truth: at the end of the day, he would be the main course.
ONE
PRESENT DAY
DETECTIVE PAUL KETCHAM DID NOT NEED TO flash his gold badge at the patrol officer covering the door—they knew each other on sight—but he did anyway. He liked the way it felt. He also enjoyed ducking under yellow crime-scene tape, but there was none here to duck.
“Let’s get some tape up,” he barked at the officer. “Press’ll be here any minute. We don’t need them contaminating the scene.”
The house on Lane Avenue had lain vacant for nearly a year. Squatters found the body three hours earlier, and hoping to collect a reward, made the call to the Grand Rapids police. There was none to collect, so now they waited for the local news affiliates, thinking they might get some TV time in lieu of monetary remuneration.
Ketcham entered the spacious living room, noticing the hardwood floors and early twentieth-century leaded windows. It was clear that the house had once been beautiful, despite the years of neglect and the shirtless corpse lying in a pool of blood.
“Hey, Paul,” called Corrinne Kirkpatrick, descending the curved staircase. “I’ve been here twenty minutes already. I can’t remember the last time I beat you to a scene. Did you have to do your paper route?”
Like Ketcham, she was a senior detective with the Major Case Team. They weren’t partners—there was no such official pairing in their unit—but they had been building a mutual respect and interdependence for the better part of a decade. Corrinne was the only person on the force who dared to call him Paul. To everyone else he was Detective Ketcham, save to his superiors, who simply called him Ketcham.
In her midforties, she was almost ten years his senior, which somehow wound up as a source of ribbing in both directions. He also dished out frequent digs about her boyish haircut and severe pantsuits—both of which she took as compliments.
“This is already looking too familiar,” he said, approaching the corpse.
The young man looked to be in his late teens, his dark hair shoulder-length, his skin pallid, and his throat cut from ear to ear. On his forehead the number 666 had been applied in a dark red-brown. His chest bore a large five-pointed star in the same substance.
“Pretty uninventive,” Corrinne observed with some disappointment. “I still give creativity points for painting on the guy with his own blood. But the star and the 666 are a little nineties, am I right? It’s just like that corny movie; what was it called?”
“Hm? I don’t know. I don’t watch movies.” Ketcham ran a hand through his thick hair and squatted down for a better look. “It’s definitely our guy, though. Same technique, same detail—looks like a pretty fine paintbrush. That didn’t make the press, so we can rule out some copycat inspired by the headline.”
“Nothing related to playing cards either. I guess they’ll have to come up with a new name for the perp. The Blackjack Killer doesn’t fit anymore.”
“Yeah. Maybe the Pentagon Killer.”
Corrinne shook her head. “A pentagon isn’t a star. It’s a five-sided shape, like the building in Washington.”
“Pentagram?”
“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, this changes the profile altogether. I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions when I see some definite religious overtones here. That’s new.”
“Hm.” Ketcham scribbled some notes in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. “And if we’re not dealing with playing-card imagery, the whole thing about expecting four victims is out the window too.”
“That was pretty thin anyway. I think Channel 6 came up with it. My real takeaway here is that our whole ‘new gang’ theory is probably off base. Gangs rarely employ Satanic rituals and symbolism, am I right?”
“I wouldn’t think so.” He rubbed his chin. “This whole thing is off. Two victims in two days. Ritualized killings. Looks like the work of a serial killer, but I’d expect another girl in that case.”
“Why is that?” Corrinne folded her arms.
“Oh, save the feminism. We’re talking about a murderer here. Guy’s slicing people up; I doubt he cares whether his choice of victim is politically correct.”
“And why exactly does the killer have to be a man?”
“If you’re trying to advance the cause, I think you’re doing it wrong.” He turned his attention back to the body. “What have we got on the victim?”
She perused her own notepad. “His name is Benjamin Ludema. He was a senior at Central High. No arrest record. We’re waiting to hear back from a school representative. I’d like to interview all of his teachers tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Let me know if you need help.”
“Now that you mention it, I was hoping you two might have some classes together. Are you friends with any upperclassmen?”
“Funny stuff.” He pointed to the design on the boy’s chest. “Did the lab ever confirm that the blood from yesterday’s image was the victim’s?”
“Type matched, but we’re still waiting on DNA confirmation. I wouldn’t stand on one leg until it comes in. I’ll make sure they do the same tests on young Ben here, with a few unique samples.”
“What’s your guess at time of death?”
“Definitely within the last four hours. I’d be real surprised if it were any earlier.”
“Sheesh. Killing for the devil on Sunday morning.” Ketcham shook his head. “What’s the world come to?”
“I know what you mean. In my day all the Satanic murders happened during the work week. Between this and all the churches getting tagged, this town’s really throwing in with Beelzebub.”
He gave her a chuckle. “Those two vagrants out there waiting to give a statement?”
“No, they’ve been handled. Pretty much worthless.”
Ketcham was beginning to sweat. It was early October and still too warm for the lined trench coat he wore. “Techs should be here soon,” he said, checking his watch. “You mind babysitting while I start the paperwork?”
“Of course the woman has to do the babysitting.”
“You’re a regular Gloria Steinem, you know that?”
The story continues in Playing Saint by Zachary Bartels, available October 2014.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CARRIE STUART PARKS IS AN AWARD-WINNING fine artist and internationally known forensic artist. She teaches forensic art courses to law enforcement professionals and is the author/illustrator of numerous books on drawing. Carrie began to write fiction while battling breast cancer and was mentored by New York Times best-selling author Frank Peretti. Now in remission, she continues to encourage other women struggling with cancer.
Visit her website at www.carriestuartparks.com
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Twitter: @CarrieParks