GHOSTS: 2014 edition (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 1)

by Noel Hynd

  “Heck of a crowd back there at the police station this morning,” the doctor said, now adding an edge of irritation to his voice.

  “Heck of a crowd,” Brooks agreed.

  “Horrible thing, that girl getting killed like that,” Youmans said, shaking his head. The doctor was a burly stooped man with a shaggy mustache and thinning white hair. “The island’s not like it used to be, is it, Timmy? Something like that would never have happened a few years ago.”

  “It’s a nasty world,” Brooks agreed, not addressing Dr. Youmans’ point. He watched as Youmans wound his reel, dragging a lure through very still ocean water. He remained silent until the lure came up out of the water and Youmans cast it forty yards back out into the ocean.

  “I took the liberty of wandering down to your office,” the doctor explained. “I felt I needed to have a word with you. And I didn’t feel like waiting with all those two-bit scribblers. ‘Knights of the Keyboard.’ That’s what Ted Williams used to call them. So I left again. Hope you don’t mind. Ted Williams knew a few things, you know. Best hitter I ever saw. DiMaggio couldn’t carry Williams’ jockstrap.”

  “No problem,” Brooks said. “You’re always welcome in my office, doc.”

  “Thanks, Timmy.” Youmans’ eyes searched the younger man. “You probably know that your commander thinks I’m soft in the head.”

  “I haven’t heard much about it,” Brooks said.

  “Well, I’m not so soft in the head that I don’t know that Bill Agannis can be a stubborn jackass sometimes,” the doctor said. “You can bank on that.”

  Brooks grinned in response. Even an insult from Dr. Youmans rang with authority.

  Youmans let his lure play in the water for several seconds. Normally in this location, one of Youmans’ favorite for blues or bass, there was a gentle surf. Today the water was smooth, resembling polished marble as the sun played upon it.

  “I tried to reach you by phone a few times,” Brooks said. “Missed you each time. How are the bluefish?”

  “One evening at Surfside they were so thick you could walk across them,” Youmans said. “Caught fourteen, threw back twelve. The next day it was spottier. Ah, hell. Fish are like women. You never know, do you?”

  Brooks shook his head.

  “’Course, I didn’t bring you here to talk to you about fish, Timmy. Or women. You know that.”

  “I do. So what’s up?”

  “There’s an oversized manila envelope on the seat of my Ford, Timmy,” the doctor said. “It bears my name, plus a return address to the local hospital. Go get it.”

  Brooks walked back up the beach to Youmans’ Jeep and found the envelope. The fisherman was casting again when Brooks returned. Youmans had the stodgy slow movements of an older man whose body didn’t always obey his command. But somehow his beech pole followed his wishes.

  “Open it,” said Youmans of the envelope, slowly winding his lure toward shore again. “I came across something a little quirky. The DiMarco case. It’s worthy of note by someone. I mentioned it to your friends back there in town. Gelman and Rodzienko.” He made a dispirited expression.

  “Uh huh,” said Brooks. The doctor was a bookish learned man at heart. Yale ’57. He was no Bolshevik himself, but he didn’t care much for the other cops’ latter-day “Terminator” mentality, either.

  “Your colleagues—those two other detectives—didn’t seem to appreciate my thoughts,” he explained, wrapping an extra layer of disdain around the word detectives. “Then I mentioned it to Lieutenant Agannis and he didn’t seem to want to know about it, either.”

  The doctor paused.

  “I don’t even know what to make of it,” the doctor continued. “But you like to worry about everything, Timmy. And you like to poke your nose into everyone’s business, too. So I thought I’d drop it on you, as well.”

  “I’m honored,” Brooks said, gently facetious. He grinned reluctantly to indicate that Youmans could ramble onward.

  “Do as I say. Open the envelope,” said the doctor.

  Brooks did. The water rippled slightly into surf.

  The detective pulled out a pair of X-rays, each ten by fifteen inches and centered upon two different skeletal images of human torsos, viewed from the shoulders upward. Brooks held one X-ray in his right hand and the other in his left. His brows knitted as he glanced back and forth.

  “So what are these?” the policeman finally asked.

  “Part of two official PMs,” Dr. Youmans said. “Postmortems on both DiMarco and the Canadian boy who died at the beach. Markley? Was that his name?”

  Brooks said it was as he continued to look at the black and white transparencies. He held them against the sky. There was plenty of light. After a moment, he lowered them and looked at the doctor.

  Youmans held his fishing rod in one hand and moved unsteadily to a spot at Brooks’ side. He pointed with a forefinger as he spoke.

  “Heaven knows, each taken individually, there’s nothing unusual about either of these,” the doctor explained. “Taken together…? What is it SJ. Perlman used to say? They put ‘a Charlie Horse in the long arm of coincidence.’

  “Brooks still didn’t understand. Dr. Youmans forged ahead. “The DiMarco girl died of a massive trauma to the head and neck,” the doctor affirmed. “You know all that, so bear with me.”

  Brooks raised the X-rays again and Youmans pointed to shaded areas as he spoke, shadows and fracture marks on the X-rays.

  “Her neck was broken,” Youmans said. “Spinal cord severed. But you know, that’s not enough to kill a human. It’s enough to leave a human paralyzed and it can kill you without medical intervention. But it doesn’t kill you by itself. You following this? If I remember, your forensic instincts were always pretty sharp, Timmy.”

  Brooks said he was following. So far.

  “It’s the way she landed,” Youmans said. “It’s just my theory and I’m just a white-haired old island doctor, Timmy. Which is to say that no one wants to listen to me. But I think she was maybe lifted to a great height. Ten, fifteen feet. Maybe twenty. Then smashed downward. That accounts for the trauma to the parietal portion of the cranium you see here—he continued to point as he spoke—“as well as the fracture marks to the left clavicle.”

  He paused and let Brooks lower the X-rays. But both men still viewed them.

  “I think the head was smashed downward into the ground,” the doctor said. “Then the deceased’s neck was twisted around in such a way that she couldn’t draw breath. Similarly, Timmy, look at this. See this spot here?”

  Youmans’ blunt finger moved authoritatively to the top of the deceased girl’s neck.

  “That’s where the occipital bone meets the ‘atlas,’ the first vertebrae,” the doctor said. “The ‘atlas’ is the part of the neck that supports the head. The joints here were torn as if they’d been caught in a machine. Ripped the spinal cord right where it should pass through the occipital bone. Again, that’s enough to cause paralysis. But it was the fact that her trachea was crushed—you can see that here—that caused her to expire.”

  Brooks blinked twice and pondered the point. “Died instantly?” he asked.

  “Let’s say, ‘very quickly.’ By suffocation. A human being can’t draw breath following a trauma of that sort. No access to oxygen. “

  Brooks thought about it for a moment more.

  “Well, how is that inconsistent with what Gelman and Rodzienko allege?” the detective asked. “They claim Eddie Lloyd beat her and strangled her.”

  A disturbing look crossed the doctor’s face. He worked his lure back to shore and put down his pole for a moment.

  “I suppose what your peers are saying isn’t totally inconsistent with the injuries,” Youmans said. “They claim that the Lloyd boy assaulted her ferociously. Beat her around the head, causing the trauma marks, then strangled her. When she resisted, the struggle caused the injuries to her vertebrae and subsequently to the trachea.”

  “But you don’t think
that?” Brooks probed.

  “Timmy, I don’t know what to think. It’s an arguable point. And they’ll parade another physician into court—some young hotshot with a fresh med school diploma. They’ll get the testimony they want no matter what I say.” He paused. “There’s only one thing I can maintain for sure. No one can refute me. And this is what bothers me. This is why I’m here.”

  “I’m waiting,” Brooks said. “What is it?”

  “The body of the Canadian boy shows parallel injuries. And that’s being marked death by drowning.”

  It took a moment to sink in.

  Then, “What?” Brooks said loudly and incredulously.

  “The same injuries,” the physician repeated. “Look at this,” Youmans said, moving to the second X-ray and taking it in his hand. “It’s frightening how similar the trauma is.”

  It was. Similar and frightening.

  There were almost identical injuries to the head and the neck, Dr. Youmans explained. He pointed to the parallel markings from one X-ray to the other. Once again, it was as if the neck area had been battered by some great force or dropped against something hard from a great height.

  “What could be out there in a riptide that could cause similar injuries?” Brooks asked.

  Youmans shook his head. “And what’s out there in a vacant field at night that could pick up a girl and smash her down to the ground from an elevation of fifteen feet?” the medical examiner asked.

  Brooks stared at the doctor. At the back of his neck he felt the icy hands of fear again. Touching him. Taunting him. Caressing him. Goose bumps rose.

  “I suppose Markley could have been pulled into the undertow and battered against some underground rocks,” the doctor mused. “I suppose it’s possible that his neck was wrenched violently by the force of the riptide.” He paused. “I suppose a lot of things for the sake of argument.” He raised his eyes to meet Brooks’ gaze. “But I don’t really believe a bit of it.”

  “What’s the official medical cause of death?” Brooks asked.

  “Death by drowning,” Youmans said. “That’s as accurate as it is misleading. Sure, drowning: just as everyone knew all along. But what happened first, Timmy? The trauma to the neck? Or the drowning? If the deceased drowned in the riptide, then the injuries about the cranium and vertebrae could then have followed as the tide carried his inert body.”

  “But if the trauma to the neck came first?” Brooks asked, reasoning along with the doctor. “If something…some force… wrenched his neck in the water… ?”

  “Then Markley’s spinal cord would have been severed, resulting in paralysis,” Dr. Youmans said, taking up his pole again. “Paralyzed, he would have been unable to swim. And he would have drowned.”

  Brooks considered it. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to tell which happened first,” he asked.

  Youmans shook his head. “Fate is mocking us on this one,” he said. “It’s very strange, Timmy,” Dr. Youmans concluded. “In fifty years as a practicing MD I’ve never seen this exact injury. Now I’ve seen it twice in a few days, both times resulting in a fatality. One on land, one in the water, but both in the same community.” He drew a breath. “If this were epidemiology, we’d be on to something.”

  Brooks caught the strong pulse of suspicion in Dr. Youmans’ tone. He could also tell that the doctor wasn’t quite finished. Youmans threw another long cast into the ocean and let his lure settle.

  “Timmy, you’re pretty well read. An educated sort of young swine for a policeman,” Youmans announced easily. “May I ask you something unusual in this context? A literary question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever read Poe’s short story, Murder in the Rue Morgue? Or maybe you saw the old film with the wonderful Bela Lugosi?”

  “Can’t slip a classic past me, doc. That’s the story with the trained ape that goes around Paris killing people,” Brooks said. “Right?”

  “Right,” Dr. Youmans said, nodding. “Well, I can’t help but being reminded of that story here. You see why? In the Poe story, the killer was so strong that it seemed superhuman. Which in fact, it was. The strength. The ferocity of the injuries to the victims. The apparent senselessness and inhumanity of the attacks.”

  Brooks measured the physician very carefully and made a last-ditch plea for a rational worldly argument.

  “Doc,” Brooks said. “Markley drowned, right? We’re not talking about an attack in the water. He was swimming with friends and there was a riptide. There’s half a dozen witnesses to that.”

  With a free hand, the doctor worked a butterscotch Life Saver out of a roll. Brooks returned the X-rays to their envelope.

  “Uh huh,” the medical examiner said. “That’s the conventional wisdom around here, isn’t it? Accident. The boy drowned. And did anyone bother to think about the fact that he was the best swimmer of the three?”

  “I checked that angle, doc. He was also used to lake swimming in Ontario. He was inexperienced with ocean and heavy surf.”

  “Uh huh,” Dr. Youmans said again. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  The Life Saver made a clicking sound against the older man’s teeth. Then Dr. Youmans’ gaze settled directly upon the detective. Brooks was aware of an extra tension, an extra sense of interrogation within the doctor’s eyes.

  “What are you suggesting?” Brooks finally asked.

  “Tell me honestly, Timmy,” the medical examiner said after a heavy pause. “Is there something strange happening on this island? Something the police aren’t talking about? Something that’s being kept from the public?”

  “What makes you ask me that?”

  “Two reasons. First, it’s a hunch I have. And second,” Youmans said as he nodded toward the X-rays, “on account of everything I just said.”

  Brooks thought about his response for several moments. He was surprised when Dr. Youmans kept speaking.

  “I’ve been coming out on this water for more than half a century, Tim,” Youmans said. “I’ve seen a lot of sunlight. A lot of very bright days. But what’s always struck me,” he said as he worked his line again, “is the hard face of the ocean’s surface. Yet right through that impenetrable surface, God created another world. One we can’t even begin to comprehend.” The old man’s brow furrowed and he glanced at his younger friend. “Imagine that. We’re inches away from another world, we touch it, we see it, and we dip into it now and then. But we don’t understand it at all.”

  Brooks thought about it. “So?” he asked.

  Youmans shrugged. “Something very strange happened to the DiMarco girl and the Canadian boy. I could almost prove it if anyone would listen to me. So I’m asking you again. What’s this all about, Timmy?”

  To his abiding shame, Brooks was able to lie. “There’s absolutely nothing, doc,” Brooks said. “Nothing unusual is going on at all.”

  “That’s bunk, Timmy,” Youmans said with disappointment. “We both know it.” He turned his attention back to fishing. “I’m here when you need me, all right?”

  “May I hang onto the X-rays?” Brooks asked.

  “Sure. Just in case, huh?”

  “Thanks, doc,” Brooks said. He laid a hand on Youmans’ shoulder and turned to leave. The doctor called after him.

  “Timmy?”

  Brooks turned.

  “Be careful,” Youmans said without taking his eyes off the water. “Be very careful.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  When his shift ended late that afternoon, Tim Brooks drove to George Osaro’s church. The pastor was not in his office. Nor had any of the church’s daily volunteers seen the minister that day. And Reverend Osaro’s appointment book, the church secretary revealed when Brooks inquired, was blank for that date.

  Unusual.

  Normally, there was something each day.

  Brooks continued to the minister’s house. There was a strange stillness there, too. No battered van in the driveway. No Reverend Osaro. Brooks stood for several minutes on the past
or’s front step, trying to pick up vibrations.

  Brooks had an extra sense sometimes, a faculty that any good detective develops over the years. It was an ability to add all the odd parts of a mystery and still come out with a higher total than one should. Something told him—something hollered out at him—that there was something unnatural about his friend’s disappearance.

  Brooks held this thought for several seconds. Then another unwelcome idea was upon him. Something told him that George was lying dead somewhere, his spirit gone from his body. Brooks suppressed a nasty tremor and rejected the notion.

  No, he thought. Not so. George Osaro is alive. But where? And what is he doing? And why did he leave no word at the church as to where he could be reached? Osaro was the only person he knew who didn’t have a cell phone. Why did he have such an elusive nature some times?

  Brooks played with the idea of breaking into Osaro’s house. Had Brooks been a private citizen, he might have. But as a policeman, there were proper procedures to be followed. Unofficial break-ins were not part of any regulations or orthodoxy. Brooks walked back to his car, pursued anew by aggressive questions from an unquiet place in his mind.

  “There are perfectly logical answers for each of those questions,” he told himself. “Aren’t there?”

  Reverend Osaro did not schedule a particular day off each week. Osaro worked as his parish needed him, Monday through Sunday, fifty-two weeks a year. He grabbed a day of leisure when his appointment book happened to come up empty. No weddings to plan… No funerals… No meetings with the trustees of the church… And so on.

  Brooks started his car and pulled away from the parish house, still deep in thought. George had taken some time for himself, right? A long walk on one of the remote beaches, perhaps, followed by a day trip to Hyannis via ferry. Whatever it was, the man had a right to his own business. Maybe he had a dentist’s appointment off island. No, Brooks reminded himself next. Something like that would have appeared on the pastor’s calendar.

  Brooks sighed, pulling onto Orange Street. This feeling was upon him that he was unable to dismiss. He needed to locate the pastor. He took a perfunctory drive past the basketball courts. A father played with a young boy, shirts off, one-on-one in the diminishing sunshine of late afternoon. Brooks next drove out past the beaches which he knew the minister to like, eyes sharpened for the white Voyager. Still nothing. He also came up cold in the airport parking lot and the ferry parking spaces. Still no Voyager. No George Osaro.