A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1)

by Dallas Mullican

  Finally, he regained some measure of control and hurriedly gathered his bag. He staggered from the bedroom, dimly aware of his surroundings, and made his way outside.

  Once in the woods, Gabriel wandered for hours. Every tree looked the same. Every trail seemed to lead in circles. Unsure of his location, he roamed directionless until a pinprick of light caught his eye in the distance. Guided by the faint illumination, he exited the forest and found himself on Hillcrest Road more than a mile from the salvage lot. He staggered to Henry’s truck in a fog.

  Not until he arrived at his apartment and put away his tools did it occur to him that he had left the coins and cross on the table. He sat at his small desk, wringing his hands, and tried to understand what happened, what went wrong.

  Had the gods abandoned him? Did he anger them somehow? How would they show their displeasure with this failure?

  Gabriel felt alone. The gods withheld their favor and their guidance. He prayed for hours, but no answers came.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Becca woke the next morning with a vicious headache. She rubbed her fingers across a large knot on the side of her head. The slightest touch sent sharp pain radiating outward from the lump. She blinked at the open closet and clothes littering the floor.

  She staggered to the bathroom and pulled on her robe. The knot looked like a goose laid an egg on her head. A thin line of blood trailed from beneath her hair to below her chin. After wetting a washcloth in the sink, she rubbed the streak away.

  What the hell happened to me last night?

  Becca faintly remembered a dream involving a bright light shining in her eyes, but the dream, along with most of last night, remained fuzzy. Maybe she sleepwalked and mistook the closet for a doorway.

  Returning to the bedroom, she scanned the area, looking for anything else she might’ve broken. The standing lamp in the corner leaned to one side, but she did not see how it could have inflicted such an injury. A small bloodstain on the rug near the closet caught her eye, coming with a flash of a silhouette. She turned toward the bed and saw the items lying on the nightstand. Definitely not hers, and not Michael’s as far as she knew.

  Strange coins. A woman holding a what? Pitchfork? She did not recognize the man’s face on the opposite side either. Confused, she turned a coin between her fingers. How did they get here? It seemed somehow familiar. I’ve seen these coins somewhere—

  Realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. The coin slipped from her fingers seconds before she covered her mouth with both hands and trembled. Her gut did a back flip as she sank to sit on the edge of the bed.

  A serial killer was in my house.

  Lately, every TV and radio station was inundated with it. People at the hospital chatted on their breaks about it. Hell, Rachel made a remark about him two days ago when the suicide angle went by on the news, something about the police interviewing mental health professionals. Unless someone did not own a television, or never watched or read the news, they knew every detail of the case. A few of the dedicated cable news channels covered the story twenty-four hours a day with every type of analyst opining their theories. She remembered the reports instructing anyone with information concerning the Seraphim to phone Birmingham Metro Homicide.

  For ten minutes she stared at her phone before remembering what it was.

  “Homicide,” said a gruff male voice.

  “Yes, my name is Dr. Rebecca Drenning. I live at 2211 Emerald Lane. I think…I think the Seraphim Killer attacked me last night.

  * * *

  “Gentry,” called Officer Kirkpatrick, holding the phone between neck and shoulder. “Got a woman on the horn, a Dr. Rebecca Drenning. Says Seraphim attacked her last night. You want to take it? Sounds like a crackpot wanting attention to me. Address is 2211 Emerald Lane.”

  “Nice neighborhood.” Marlowe took his feet off his desk and sat up. “You say she’s a doctor? Could be a crank, but worth checking out. Tell her we’re on the way.”

  “Doctor? Detectives are en route to your home. No problem, just sit tight.”

  “Have a team on standby. If it’s for real, I want forensics ready to work the scene. Send a couple of patrols to do a ride through of the area, and get me everything you can on Drenning.”

  “On it,” said Kirkpatrick.

  “Spence, you catch that?” asked Marlowe.

  “Yep, right behind you,” said Spence, grabbing his coat.

  Normally, Marlowe wouldn’t personally investigate a tip unless the patrols turned up something concrete, but at present, they were batting zero and needed a hit. His gamble with Raze was a close call. He’d run with the story of the killer moving the body for the time being. Panic. A first time impulse. Spence had been right, forensics got nothing from the place but sick at all the luminol glowing everywhere. Body fluids from a hundred johns all mixed into a useless Jackson Pollack on the walls, floor, and ceiling. Marlowe shuddered at the thought.

  They hovered as Kirkpatrick ran a background on Dr. Drenning. When it came back clean, they headed out.

  Spence sipped his coffee as Marlowe navigated the snaking suburban roads. Some theologian on the radio espoused his opinion on the symbolism in the Seraphim’s ritual—wrong on all counts. Marlowe reached down and switched it off.

  “Think there’s anything to this?” asked Spence. “No one’s gotten away from this guy yet. If the attack happened last night, why is she calling this morning?”

  “No idea,” replied Marlowe, his stare fixed on the road ahead.

  “You’re Mr. Talkative.”

  “Just hoping for a break. I felt certain the suicide angle would have turned something up by now. There’s a link there, pissing me off we can’t find it.”

  “We have everyone on it, and so far we haven’t found a single doctor, therapist, preacher, friend—hell, not even a mailman in common.” Spence popped the last bite of his bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit into his mouth.

  “Makes no sense. How is he finding them? What’s his connection to them? He works or frequents places where he is privy to people divulging their problems. We’ve listed every possible source. We’re missing something. Some avenue for counseling or comfort we haven’t thought of yet.” Marlowe reached up and adjusted the rear view mirror for the umpteenth time.

  “Does anything concerning this case make sense? The guy hacks people up and seems ashamed or shy about it, covering up their privates. He blends Greek and Christian symbolism in no discernable method, and stuffs wild flowers in for good measure. It’s pot luck, throwing in the kitchen sink.”

  “No. There’s a purpose behind it.” Marlowe drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Every symbol and detail means something to Seraphim. I can’t seem to get my mind around it.”

  “Well, bud, if you can’t, don’t look at me. This puzzle work, that’s your area.”

  “And right now I’m getting my ass kicked.”

  Spence clicked the radio on, switching it to a music station. “Ya know what they say, man. Misery loves company. You’ve got plenty of it on that account.”

  Spence’s comment made the gun under his arm heavier. He thought of Paige and clenched his jaw. For an instant, he resented her. Because of her, he suffered. He let it go with a hard breath.…

  No. I can’t do that to her. This bastard is getting to me.

  They pulled into the driveway at 2211 Emerald Lane. Not quite as grand as the Meadowview house, but impressive nonetheless. Spence whistled through his teeth.

  “Whew, nice house. What does this gal do?”

  “Shrink, psychologist. Works at the hospital. Husband’s a cop,” said Marlowe.

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. Kirkpatrick said he’s volatile, bunch of excessive force complaints lodged against him. Nothing stuck. Good for a hammer, but no finesse. Name’s Michael Drenning, drives patrol for county, and been with them a while. Up for sergeant, according to Kirkpatrick.”

  “Why didn’t he make the call?
Seems he would want to be in the loop, especially if he’s bucking for a promotion.”

  “I wondered the same thing,” said Marlowe. “Let’s see what we can learn.”

  Dr. Drenning met them on the front porch. Pretty woman…more than pretty. Long, dark hair purposely arranged over a nasty knot that still showed through. Maybe five-five, with a nice figure obvious even beneath her t-shirt reading Property of UAB Medical School and dark green scrub pants. Something in her eyes and posture reminded Marlowe of Katy.

  She led them into the living room. The doctor seemed unsure of what to do with her hands, fidgeting, picking at her shirt, and constantly pushing her hair behind one ear.

  “Can I get you anything? A soft drink, tea or something? The tea is sweet.” Her voice sounded layered with fatigue more than fear.

  “Tea would be nice, thank you,” said Marlowe.

  “Nothing for me thanks.” Spence peered sideways at Marlowe as Becca walked to the kitchen and wiggled his eyebrows.

  Marlowe returned the look with a glare of his own. Still, he watched her move into the kitchen. She extended an arm to a high cabinet and retrieved two glasses. Her shirt lifted a few inches above her waistline, revealing bruises shaded from purple to fading yellow.

  Becca returned and handed Marlowe the tea before taking a seat on the sofa. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I didn’t see anything. I remember hearing a noise in the closet. I went over and opened it. A bright light flashed in my eyes, and then nothing until I woke this morning. I don’t even remember staggering to the bed. I thought it was a dream until I felt the bump on my head and found the weird cross and coins on the table. I still don’t quite believe the Seraphim from the news attacked me, but it unnerved me enough to call you.”

  “You’re very lucky, Dr. Drenning. We can’t confirm it was Seraphim until the lab does some tests. Let’s assume it is until we know different. Any idea why he might set his sights on you?” Marlowe narrowed his eyes and watched her reaction closely.

  “No, none. I know the news said he goes after depressed people—people close to suicide. I’m certainly not suicidal.”

  “You haven’t seen anyone, or talked to anyone, about problems? No consultation with fellow doctors about personal concerns?”

  “No. I guess you know I’m a psychologist. I help others with emotional and mental problems all day.” Dr. Drenning tapped her foot and thrummed her fingers against her thigh.

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t have some of your own. You’re human after all,” said Spence.

  “True, but I don’t. Nothing serious anyway, and I haven’t spoken with anyone about depression.”

  “Maybe you had a tough day recently and spoke to a friend about it. Someone who might have off-handedly mentioned it to someone else,” said Marlowe.

  “No, nothing like that,” Becca said, twirling her hair around an index finger.

  “You don’t remember fighting the assailant off? A struggle?” asked Marlowe.

  “No, I really don’t remember anything. It’s all just a few flashes in my memory, nothing clear. Probably a man, that’s all I can say for sure.”

  “And you didn’t get a look at him? Maybe some small detail—tattoo on a hand, a scar on his arm, anything.”

  “The light in my eyes made it impossible to see. It was so bright. I’m sorry, I’m not being very helpful,” she said, frustration clear in her voice.

  “Probably hit her with a Maglite.” Spence winced at the mark on her head. “Cops carry those.”

  Becca’s face paled.

  “You’re doing fine,” said Marlowe, lightly touching her knee. He quickly withdrew his hand after catching a sly wink from Spence.

  “Thanks. I’m trying. Do you think he might come back?”

  “I don’t think so. But just in case, we’ll station an officer outside the house for the next couple of days. Do you want someone to shadow you at the hospital?”

  “No, there’s security. I’ll be fine at work. But I would appreciate you stationing someone outside the house. I’ll sleep better knowing they’re there.” She smiled weakly and returned Marlowe’s gesture, softly squeezing his forearm. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “Just doing our job, ma’am,” he said, stiff, with discomfort only Spence seemed to notice.

  And notice he did. Spence was getting far too much enjoyment out of this for Marlowe’s liking.

  “Your husband’s with County isn’t he? Where was he when this happened?”

  “Huh, h-he’s out of town for few days.” Becca glanced away, a slight blush on her cheeks.

  Marlowe’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he let the line of inquiry drop. “We’ll keep you updated on what we find, but don’t worry. I think you’ll be perfectly safe.” Marlowe handed her his card. “Call if you need anything, Dr. Drenning—day or night. My cell number is on the back. If you see anyone you don’t know around your house, or notice anything out of the ordinary, give us a buzz.”

  “Thank you…and call me Becca.”

  As they walked from the house, Marlowe could feel Spence’s eyes on him. He tried to ignore him, but it quickly grew irritating.

  “What?” he asked sharply.

  “Getting a little cozy with the good doctor weren’t you bud?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I asked the relevant questions. You know, like cops do.”

  “Mmm hmm, right. Oh Detective Gentry, thank you for riding in on your white horse to save me from the bad man. You’re welcome little lady, just doing my job.” Spence leaned back, laughing himself silly.

  “Screw you.” Marlowe sped up in an attempt to put some distance between them.

  “I’m telling you, sparks were flying. You two didn’t even know I was in the room. All googly eyes locked on each other. How long since you had a date, anyway?” asked Spence, matching Marlowe’s pace.

  “She’s married, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Happily?”

  “Screw you…twice.”

  Spence laughed until he had trouble catching his breath. Even Marlowe smiled and shook his head. He did hope Spence choked on his coffee.

  With his hand on the door latch, Marlowe noticed Koop and Jonas unloading their gear from the Forensics van. He let go and walked over.

  “Koop, what are you doing here? No dead bodies,” said Marlowe. “I only needed a sweep for prints and fibers.”

  “His majesty the lieutenant decreed I oversee all evidence in this case, from inception through world’s end.”

  “Glad you’re on the job. You’ve been around since the world’s beginning, so you of all people should know the end when you see it,” said Spence.

  Koop scoffed at the remark, but refused to dignify it with a response…for once.

  “Good idea. Coins and cross are in the bedroom. Teams are working the entire house.”

  “I’ll take them back to the lab and have them compared against the others. You’re thinking definitely Seraphim?”

  “Looks like,” said Marlowe.

  “Well, better get to it,” said Koop, moving toward the house.

  Marlowe watched Jonas pulling equipment from the van. As he stepped to the passenger side door, Jonas reached in and retrieved an expensive looking leather jacket. He slung it over his shoulders and thrust in his arms, running his hands over the supple fabric.

  Appreciating a nice new coat?

  “Jonas, sweet jacket.” Marlowe casually stepped up behind him.

  Jonas jumped. “Scared the shit out of me, man. I…I mean Detective.” He hesitated a second “Huh, thanks.”

  “New isn’t it? Still has that great new leather smell.”

  “Had it awhile, don’t wear it much. Too heavy. Doesn’t get cold enough most of the time. Alabama winters, ya know.”

  Jonas, obviously nervous, propped one foot on the van’s side step, tied his shoes and tried to avoid eye contact with Marlowe. Marlowe was not certain if Jonas’s unease rose from his shyness around
superiors or something else. When he noticed the brand new Nike tennis shoes, he had a much better idea which.

  “Run a marathon in those, and it’d feel like clouds under your feet.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He was giving it away—the subtle twitches, the thin line of perspiration in this cold.

  “Natasha Peirce is paying you well, huh?”

  Jonas could not hide his surprise. He stiffened and refused to glance Marlowe’s way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No? Selling info on the Seraphim to reporters is something that slips your mind?”

  “N-no w-way. I just…” His ashen face and shaking hands were all the confession Marlowe needed.

  “Save it. I’m tempted to run you in for obstruction and interfering with an investigation.”

  “No…how did you…how did you know?”

  “I didn’t.” Marlowe smiled. “Not for certain. Not until now.”

  “Shit,” said Jonas, hanging his head.

  “Since turning you in to the lieutenant would mean Koop’s name got mud on it as well, here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll go back to the morgue and tell Dr. Koopman you’re quitting. Give him whatever reason you want. Then leave, no notice, just leave.”

  “I can’t. I’m only an intern, and it goes toward my scholarship. I won’t get another job if I quit without giving notice. Dr. Koopman will be pissed.”

  “I promise it will be far less than the lieutenant. If he gets wind of this, you might see jail time.”

  Jonas paled further. “I…I could say you’re mistaken. You…you don’t have any proof.”

  Marlowe had to admire the balls on the kid. “Yeah, you could do that. Who do you think they’ll believe? A decorated senior homicide detective, or a lab geek intern?”

  When Jonas offered no reply, Marlowe said, “Glad we have an understanding. Take care, Jonas.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  After the detectives left, Becca allowed her emotions free reign. She sat on the sofa, hugging her knees against her chest. It must be Michael trying to frighten her, to let her know how far he would go to keep her. It worked. Terror laced through her every thought. As a cop, Michael could find out everything about the Seraphim, even information the police withheld from the public and the press. He could kill her and get away with it, make it look like another Seraphim murder.