by Lee Driver
“I spent ten years in a parochial school being taught to believe in something I couldn’t see.” Padre let those words settle in. “Did I ever tell you the real reason I left the seminary, John?” He leaned back in the posh chair, glanced above the chief’s shoulder where a picture of the two of them from a fishing trip hung. Padre studied his hands in thought. He had always told people it was a last minute change of heart after taking a course in law enforcement.
“It really isn’t that hard to get people to believe in God,” Padre continued. “The parents enroll kids in catechism where they learn that God is good, God rewards them for being good, God punishes those who are evil. But then you grow up and you realize God doesn’t punish the evil. That it’s up to society to punish the evil. People see the likes of Gacy, Dahmer, Speck, Gein. It’s a damn laundry list. We all sit back and wait for lightning to strike them. But it doesn’t. It strikes the innocent child with leukemia, a young mother with breast cancer, the father of six with a head-on collision.”
“So you lost your faith in God?” John asked.
Padre shook his head no. “I just don’t think he has all the control everyone gives him credit for. You can’t have the image of a man in your head when you think of God because man has too many imperfections.” Padre twirled his wedding band as he spoke. “There is a power out there, call it force of Nature if you want. God can only do so much. It’s up to us to remove the evil from society. Just as I can’t say what possessed Gein to dance in the moonlight wearing the skin of his victims, I can’t say what is possessing this…” he looked over at Sherlock whose hands were clasped and eyes closed as if in prayer, “killer to do what he does. All I can do is try to stop…it.”
Sherlock’s eyes opened, as though prayer time were over. There was silence in the room as Chief Wozniak pondered Padre’s words. After several minutes he asked them, “What is your game plan?”
The three men sitting in front of Wozniak’s desk searched each other’s faces, moved around uncomfortably. Marty Flynn cleared his throat and mumbled, “We don’t have one.”
CHAPTER 15
October 10, 1:05 p.m.
“Just leave it be,” Leyton Monroe barked.
“But, that’s how many homicides this year? Fifteen? And it’s only October. We never have more than seven or eight.”
Leyton pulled the cigar from his hog-jowled face and pointed a finger at his daughter. “The breaking news is the corruption at City Hall.” He set his cigar in an ashtray and shuffled the papers on his cluttered desk. He found what he was looking for and handed it to her. “I have it on good authority that the feds are going to arrest Building Inspector Andrew Lesner for bribery and extortion. You be on top of it.”
Sheila studied her father’s notes with little interest. She placed the report in her lap. “Daddddyy.” She strung out his name like an eight-year-old trying to get a new bike out of her father. “First, the cops are very hush hush about the woman officer.”
“They already arrested her boyfriend. Shoulda known better than to mix races,” he added under his breath. He jammed his cigar in his mouth and leaned back in his Corinthian leather chair.
“And the hit and run,” Sheila plodded on. “There’s more to that. Sergeant Martinez brings in an Indianapolis cop and some professor from Purdue University. Not to mention, Martinez has been meeting secretly with Dagger and then calls him out to the crime scene.”
Leyton sprung forward at the mention of Dagger’s name. “So that’s what this is about? You stay as far away from that no class detective as you can. Hasn’t he caused you enough grief? Leaving you stranded at the altar.” He gazed down at the ring on his daughter’s left hand. “You are making an absolute fool of yourself over him. GIVE IT UP.” He pointed toward the door. “Now go work on a real case or I’ll just give the damn story to Caroline.”
Sheila stormed out of her father’s office and slammed the door. She walked past Caroline’s desk and barked, “In my office.” One thing Sheila had always been good at was giving an assignment to an assistant and then putting her name on the by-line. Her father always stood by her, believed it was his daughter who actually wrote the story. Now was a good time to indoctrinate her new assistant in Sheila’s version of the Monroe Doctrine.
The tattooed remains of Simeon ‘Tex’ Miller lay on tables four and five in the medical examiner’s office. It was a full house with Senior Examiner Luther Jamison, Gretchen, Chief Wozniak, Padre, Flynn, and Sherlock.
It was too macabre seeing a head on one table and the body on another. Tex had been a big man, his torso resembling a huge mound of dirt covered by a sheet. Luther pulled the sheet down to the victim’s waist. A scene of the crucifixion was tattooed on his chest, angels floated near clouds, two women wept at the feet of Christ. On each of his arms was a tattoo of a serpent being impaled with an arrow.
Luther pointed to the neck of the deceased. It wasn’t a clean cut. Part of the spine and muscles were exposed. “Really bizarre markings.” The M.E. pointed to four wounds on each side of the neck.
The men leaned closer, studied the bruised puncture wounds.
“What do you think made them?” Chief Wozniak asked.
Luther peered at the men over his square bifocals and shrugged his bony shoulders. “Could take a stab at it but you’d think I was insane.”
“Try us,” Marty said, averting his curious gaze to the head on the next table.
“Okay.” Luther studied the body, hesitated, glanced at each of the men, shrugged his bony shoulders again, like a wrestler trying to determine the best way to approach his opponent. Then he held his hands out, palms up, fingers extended and pointed directly at the location of the wounds. “If you were Mulder and Scully, I’d have no problem telling you with a straight face that this guy’s head was literally lifted right off his body.”
“Talons,” Sherlock whispered.
“Jezzus.” The word floated from Chief Wozniak’s mouth on a lengthy exhale.
It was so still in the room that the ticking of the clock above the door echoed like a bass drum. They stared at the remains as if each were trying to come up with a more logical explanation. Padre studied the image of the crucifixion. “Looks like lightning struck the wrong person again.”
Einstein was chatty as ever and seemed in good spirits. So Sara didn’t put the medicine in his water. She set out bowls of fresh vegetables and fruit for Einstein and then closed the aviary door.
Dagger was in the kitchen on the phone with Padre and when he hung up he kept staring at the phone.
“Bad news?”
Dagger turned and forced a smile. “Did I tell you how great you handled those two idiots?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Yes, you did, and what did Padre say?” She trailed after him as he walked to his desk and sat down behind the keyboard. Crossing her arms, she waited while Dagger sifted through yellow sticky notes dotting the desk. “Well?” she tried again.
Dagger leaned back in his chair and studied the young woman. Thoughts of how she handled the two men in the parking lot brought a smile to his face. He wished he could be a fly on the wall when those two yokels retold the story to friends.
“It’s a little bizarre.”
“What else is new?” She gathered her thick hair to one side and braided it while Dagger told her Luther’s explanation of what had happened to Tex Miller. When he got to the part about his head being lifted off of his body, her fingers paused in mid-braid. “Lifted off?”
“Yep. Padre saw the puncture marks. Of course, Sherlock believes they were caused by foot-long talons.” Dagger laughed, still not quite sure what to make of the case. He dialed Skizzy’s number and waited for his face to pop up on the monitor.
“Skizzy, how is the investigation going? Have you narrowed it down any?”
“Well, gee, give me more than ten minutes why don’t you?”
“Don’t have ten minutes to spare. We’ve got people dropping like flies.”
“I
’ve got Micks running all over the place, reports cluttering up my floor, a dang sicko werewolf running around.” There was a slight pause. “This a secure line?”
“Always. What did you find? Did you narrow it down any?”
“Just hold your pants on.” On the screen, Skizzy was shifting through papers until he found what he wanted. “I used your photo of the Paul Addison dude to compare to drivers license photos, gun registration photos, and any other I.D.s. Got weight, height, all other pertinent poop. Eliminated suspects currently incarcerated, and my list in the age range given is about six-hundred-and-eighty-seven.”
“Eliminate those buying a house. I think this guy is a transient who will strictly rent.”
“What about birth date?” Sara asked. “When did Professor Sherlock say Paul Addison was born?”
Dagger peered under stacks of folders looking for notes. Sara handed him a file folder with Paul Addison’s name on it. She had already made a case file. She was too damn organized. “Thanks,” he mouthed. To Skizzy he said, “Focus on those who have given a birth date of November 13, 1970.”
“Nice time to tell me that. And all fine and good if they all filled out personal information. What else?”
“Any activity with our Micks?”
“Not yet but I’ll be monitoring it all afternoon and evening.”
“I’ll keep mine on, too.” They said their good-byes as Skizzy’s face faded from the screen.
Sara looked at the calendar on Dagger’s desk and then the clock. “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”
He watched her climb the stairs. Ten minutes later he was serving coffee to Simon in the kitchen.
“Is this a quiz?” Simon said over the rim of his cup.
“Sort of.” Dagger dragged a stool around to the other side of the counter across from his friend. “I’ve gone over it myself. I’m just trying to get a different perspective.”
“Shoot.”
“If you didn’t want anyone to find you, other than changing your name, hair color, and all your identifications, what would you do?”
Simon stared at him for the longest time, his gaze shifting to his surroundings as though studying the furnishings for the first time, then the outside property. His gaze rested back on Dagger’s face.
His voice was soft, the twinkle in his eyes gone. In almost a whisper, Simon said, “That’s a strange question coming from you, Dagger.”
Dagger stared at his friend who seemed to always know what was going on in town but in the five years he had known him, had never pried into Dagger’s past, never pestered him with the what and why fors. Dagger had rented office space above a bar, no lease, no paperwork. Never advertised his business. It was all word of mouth.
Dagger’s dark eyes were just as serious and in a deadpan voice, the edges of his lips curling up in a smile, said, “Humor me.”
“Wouldn’t pack a lot of clothes. Travel light.”
“What else.”
“Get a fictitious occupation, something low profile, like a delivery guy, writer maybe, a job I can do at home.” Simon took another sip of coffee in thought, then continued. “I’d probably move in with someone whose name is already on the lease.” He paused a few beats, then added, “What’s up?”
Dagger filled him in on the full moon case. He watched his friend’s movements, hands frozen to his cup, eyes bulged over the rim.
“Full moon and a Friday the thirteenth?” Simon set his cup down, his burly head shaking. “Can’t you ever get a dull case?”
CHAPTER 16
October 10, 5:05 p.m.
Skizzy shoveled a forkful of prime rib into his mouth, a culinary gift from Dagger who had found a supplier, a farmer who didn’t believe in injecting his cattle with growth hormones. Dagger would purchase half a cow to stock both his and Skizzy’s freezers. The meat was tender and the baked potato had been cooking in the oven for the past hour.
He was attaching pages of his suspect search to an Email to Dagger while the other monitor kept a close eye on the Micks in the Evidence Room. He clicked SEND for the Email to Dagger and ran upstairs for salt. By the time he returned, the Email attachment had uploaded and Skizzy signed off of the Internet. A movement on the other monitor made him jerk his head around. Someone was in the Evidence Room.
“Well, well. We have a visitor.”
The man was youthful looking and was wearing a brown uniform and baseball cap. Skizzy dialed Dagger’s phone to see if he was watching. All he got was a recording. He hung up and decided to wait and watch to see if anything happened that was worth reporting. Then he would call Dagger’s computer.
The man seemed to have a destination. At the end of the aisle he pulled out a long bin, unsnapped the lid, withdrew something with a long barrel and stuffed it into a duffel bag.
“Uh oh. Robber alert.” Skizzy dialed Dagger’s computer line. “Where the hell ya been?”
“In the shower. And I see you have movement.” Dagger checked his computer to make sure it was taping.
“Roger that. We’ve got movement,” Skizzy reported, his voice coming through the speakers.
Sara emerged from the kitchen which was emitting fabulous odors. She leaned on the paneled wall and watched.
Einstein was a blur of vibrant colors as he flew over to the perch by Dagger’s desk.
“AWK, SHOW TIME.”
“Feeling better, huh?” Sara kissed the top of Einstein’s head, then turned her attention back to the monitor.
They studied the face of the man, which was partially shielded by the baseball cap and sunglasses. The man hesitated again, this time he seemed to listen for footsteps as he backed around the end of one aisle and waited.
“This could be perfect.” Skizzy clicked the mouse directing one of the Micks to move, the one on the shelf above the man’s head. It slowly crawled down the wooden frame and onto the baseball cap. It attached itself to a metal pin on the hat that said Go Sox.
Sara asked, “What are you doing, Skizzy?”
“Having fun,” he replied with noticeable glee in his voice. “Now wherever our boy goes, Mick follows.”
They watched the screen and saw the man leave the Evidence Room in a rush. Once out of eyesight of the surveillance Micks, Skizzy switched cameras where they could watch the scene from the viewpoint of the Mick on the baseball cap. Aisles and doorways bounced in and out of view as the man rushed to the outside parking lot. He approached a brown paneled van with the words AAA Vending painted on the side.
“No license plate?” Sara asked.
“Not on the front of the vehicle,” Skizzy said. “In Indiana you only have to put one license plate on and it has to be on the rear of the vehicle.”
But the picture on the monitor soon jarred and stopped, showing what looked like the floor of the truck.
“Damn,” Skizzy muttered. “The guy took the hat off.”
“That’s okay. He has to put it on or maybe take it with him when he gets home. Just keep recording that monitor but back up the first tape,” Dagger said.
The monitor was gray as Skizzy backed up the tape on his end. “Just about ready.”
Several seconds later the monitor showed a man in a vendor’s uniform and baseball cap looking around the area, then approaching the scanner. He pressed a finger to the scanner and a green light flashed to allow the man access.
Dagger said, “No vendor gains access. Rewind and give me a close-up, Skizzy.”
After a pause, the image on the screen showed the man approaching the scanner. The close-up gave a clear picture of the man’s finger as it pressed down on another finger, gray and mottled, which he was holding.
“Damn, if Girlie wasn’t right,” Skizzy’s voice sounded over the speaker.
“The name is Sara,” she reminded him.
“GIRLIE, GIRLIE,” Einstein repeated.
“Great, now you’ve got Einstein saying it.”
“Not exactly Demolition Man, but close.” Dagger froze the image on the scr
een and printed several glossy eight-by-tens of the finger being scanned and then the man whose face was shielded by the hat and sunglasses. To Skizzy he said, “Keep an eye on our wayward Mick and let me know if you get any activity.”
“Roger,” Skizzy said again and clicked off.
Dagger looked at the macaw. “AAA Vending, Einstein.” Einstein cocked his head in thought and soon blurted out,
“FIVE FIVE FIVE EIGHT OH EIGHT THREE. AWK.”
“How would he know that?” Sara asked. “Have you ever used them?”
“I never remember what Simon or I may have talked about and only hope the number I need is something Einstein would have in his memory bank.” He opened his desk drawer and retrieved a Brazil nut. “Good work.” Einstein took his treat and flew back into the aviary.
After calling AAA and catching the owner just before he left for the day, Dagger called Padre to tell him their latest findings.
“Oh, jezzus. That means Lou Riley is dead somewhere. I’ll have my men call the bus stations and airports to have their security look for Riley’s car. O’Hare is the biggest so we’ll start with that one.” Padre’s sigh was laden with fatigue and frustration. “What the hell is happening? And I don’t want to hear about Mercury converging in Pluto’s air space or some damn mumbo jumbo.”
“Hey,” Dagger laughed, “you’re the one who sicced the full moon syndrome guy on me. Maybe there’s some validity to it, as far as people being crazier than normal.” They agreed to meet at AAA in fifteen minutes.
Sara turned off the heat under the chili and brought the pan of corn bread out of the oven. Dagger would be gone for a while and although it was an agreement between them that each eats when they are hungry, not wait for the other person, she wasn’t quite hungry yet. But she was curious, curious about the murders.
After checking that the door to the aviary was closed and that the alarm on the front gate was set, Sara ran upstairs and slid open the screen door to the balcony. She closed her eyes briefly and focused on the gray hawk. Instantly she shifted and flew out onto the railing. The sun was warm and the soft breeze riffled through its plummage. It shoved off the railing and took flight.
