by Emby Press
If it really was a ghost, then the link would have to be even more substantial. There were certain rules that governed the manifestation of spirits, unseen laws that controlled the intrusion of the supernatural into the mundane. Byron had devoted many years to studying these nebulous phenomenon and invariably he’d found that a spirit required an anchor to manifest itself in the mortal world.
That anchor was usually a specific place. With the murders scattered across the city, location couldn’t be the answer. That left only two options. The spirit could be attached to a living person and using them as the focus of its manifestations. Such instances were recorded across the globe as demonic possession. If so, then wherever the spirit’s host went, it would go as well.
The third possibility was that the ghost had attached itself to some specific object. Byron had read of many instances of such incidents. Just as a house could be deemed haunted by a ghost, so could an object acquire the reputation of being cursed for similar reasons. There were the famed examples of the Hope Diamond and the Black Orlov, both of which were credited with malefic emanations. It was just possible that some object rather than some person linked the victims. In searching through the possessions of the dead man, he hoped to find anything that formed a bond between them.
“I don’t suppose there is any connection between this victim and the last one?” Byron asked.
“I don’t think there could be,” Caffran said. He jabbed a thumb at the covered remains. “That used to be Peter Bradley. Worked as a soda jerk at Garcia’s Pharmacy, at least since his last stint in jail. He’s been a guest of the state on burglary charges four times. Not much reason to think he gave up the old profession because of the lucrative wage he was getting to pour drinks for bobby-soxers. Can you think of any reason why he might know a sixty-five year old lady halfway across town?”
Byron considered that question, running it over in his mind. “There’s one thing you might look into,” he said. “Has anyone taken possession of the last victim’s home?”
Caffran scratched at his disfigured ear, something the burly detective often resorted to when trying to recall some tiny detail from his memory. “Far as I’m aware, her only living relative is somewhere in Illinois. I can’t say if they’ve come out to attend to her effects or not.”
“Look into it,” Byron advised. The idea that had started to form in his mind was speeding ahead now, sending a shiver of excitement through his veins. It was the thrill of the hunt, that moment when he felt that he’d taken his first step towards a solution to a problem. The destination might be murky, but at least he’d found the trail. “Check the contents of the home with the inventory you made during your investigation.”
“Say,” Caffran almost gasped, catching Byron’s suggestion, “you don’t mean Pete might have nicked some stuff from the old lady’s home?”
“That would be one way of connecting the two,” Byron said. He held up his hand, ticking off each victim on his fingers. “First we have a railyard guard, then we have a foreman at a slaughterhouse. They are linked by some mutual acquaintances, but nothing direct. Next is an old widow woman, but she has a direct connection to our foreman as his landlady. Now, you have a petty burglar.”
“I still don’t see what you’re shooting for,” Caffran said. “I know you’ve done the department a few good turns breaking up these séance rackets, but this is murder and all your hocus-pocus is really out of its element.”
“Just check your inventory,” Byron asked. “Humour me that far at least. See if it’s possible that this man stole something from that house.”
“Something that was handed around from one victim to the next?” Caffran scoffed. “I’ll look into it, but I think it’s a waste of time. Anything else you want while I’m at it?”
Byron matched Caffran’s condescending smile. “Only a photo of the dead man.”
“Going to hold your own séance and ask him who done it?” Caffran laughed.
The look Byron gave the detective was as hot as the desert sun. “I was going to take it to the pawn shops. See if your victim had sold anything recently. I should think that would be standard procedure in a situation like this. The man was, after all, a known thief.”
The detective lost much of his bluster at having something so obvious pointed out to him. “I… I have men already looking into that,” he said after a pause.
Byron just smiled and walked away. “Do let me know what they find.”
*
The pawn shop on Van Buren Avenue was packed to the ceiling with the wreckage of broken lives. Byron could feel the despair rising up from the selection of wedding rings arranged inside a rotating display case. There was a piteous quality about the set of china nestled between some old records and a big mahogany grandfather clock, causing Byron to wonder what the story might be behind those bowls and plates. He didn’t profess to be psychic, not to any real degree, but there were times he could pick up on the ‘mood’ of a place or an object. Nothing tangible or definite, just a general impression.
As he approached the counter where the pawnbroker was inspecting an ivory broach his latest patron had brought him, Byron’s attention was immediately drawn to something hanging on the wall behind the counter. The feeling that object provoked was far stronger than a mere impression. He felt his breath catch in his chest as he stared up at the thing.
Byron shook his head, wondering if he wasn’t letting imagination run away with him. The object evoked the one nagging omission in the letters. Not for an instant had Byron accepted Caffran’s idea that an axe had been used to deal such horrible wounds, but at the same time he’d been unable to present an alternative. The mysterious writer had never mentioned how his ghost killed, only saying that it did kill and what sort of scene it left behind. Now he found himself looking at just the sort of weapon that could cut a man in two.
The thing hanging on the wall as a katana, vulgarly called a ‘samurai sword’. It was beautiful, in its own sinister way, with a sharkskin grip and pearl-inlaid guard. The blade itself was curved, almost two feet in length. Looking at it Byron felt his pulse quicken. He drew the picture of Peter Bradley from his coat, listening with steadily increasing irritation as he waited for the pawnbroker to finish haggling. After a small eternity, the broach was finally sold and the man shuffled along behind his counter to where Byron stood.
“See something you like?” the pawnbroker asked.
“Maybe,” Byron said. He slid the photo across the counter. “Did this man sell you anything in the last few days?”
The pawnbroker didn’t so much as glance at the photo, but kept a wise grin on his face as he shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody sells me anything. They bring me collateral and I give them a loan. Nothing becomes mine until they welch on their payments. Then whatever they have in hock is forfeit. All perfectly legitimate. You see something you think is stolen, we’ll just have to check on whoever brought it to me. Allowing I can remember.”
Byron tapped the photo with his thumb. “I’m asking about this man. Did he bring you anything? That sword on the wall, for instance?” He could tell his supposition was too close for the pawnbroker’s liking by the way the man flinched when he heard the question.
“I ain’t no fence,” the man insisted. “You think something was stolen, we’ll just have to dig through the register and see who it was that hocked it.”
“I’m not with the police,” Byron explained. “I’m just trying to establish if this man Bradley left some items with you… before he died.”
Sweat began to drip from the pawnbroker’s forehead. Byron had gauged the man’s anxiety rightly enough, but he hadn’t reckoned on what the result would be. Instead of divulging what he knew, he clammed up completely. “I know my rights. You want to search this place, you go get a warrant. Just because you’ve got a badge doesn’t make you the KGB.”
“I’m not with the police,” Byron repeated. “And this could be a matter of life and death. I’m trying to establish
a connection between Bradley and three other murders.”
“Tell it to my lawyer,” the pawnbroker declared, folding his arms across his chest and glowering at Byron. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
Byron sighed and replaced the photo in his coat. He set a business card down on the counter instead. “If you change your mind, you can reach me at that number. I cannot emphasize how important talking to me is. It really could mean someone’s life.” He looked back at the katana, feeling a sensation of lurking menace hanging about the sword. “It might even be your own life that is at risk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the pawnbroker said. “Now if you’d care to leave, I was about to close up for my lunch hour.”
Byron studied the katana as he was ushered out of the shop. It was a curious thing to find such an exotic weapon in a dusty Phoenix pawnshop. There was a story there, if he could just find the key to unlocking it. Instead, he found himself on the sidewalk as a different key closed the door behind him.
Through the glass in the door, Byron watched the pawnbroker shuffle off into some backroom. He wondered if the man would have much appetite if he told him about the threat he believed was hanging over his head.
*
“A visitor to see you.” The words were barely out of Beverly’s mouth before Detective Caffran was pushing his way past her and into Byron’s office. From the look on his face, it seemed the cop was deeply conflicted, unable to decide between anger or smug superiority as he confronted the occult investigator.
“We got the warrant and turned Daimler’s shop inside out,” Caffran snarled. “No fancy Nip sword in the entire place.”
Byron leaned back in his chair. “There was such an item missing from the old lady’s house. I tell you it was in that pawnshop. Bradley went there to fence the goods he stole from your crime scene.”
Caffran scowled. “Daimler’s been run in before for receiving stolen goods,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I believe any of this spook-stuff you’re trying to sell.” The detective’s tirade fell short as Byron handed him a slip of paper. Caffran had seen identical letters before, and always under gruesome circumstances.
“That came this morning,” Byron said as Caffran read the letter.
“This sounds like he’s describing Daimler,” Caffran observed after a quick read. “I’ll get some men to guard him. This nut just overplayed his hand! Now we know where he’ll strike. We can be ready for him.”
Byron turned and looked over at the kachina doll. “I don’t think your men can help,” he stated. “Besides, if you read that letter, it sounds like Daimler slips your guards. Unless for some reason they decide a back alley is the best place to hide him.”
“Don’t give me that ghost stuff again,” Caffran grumbled. “The man we’re after is some kind of maniac. Now that we know who his next target is, we’ll catch him.”
Standing away from his desk, Byron walked over to one of the bookshelves lining the walls of his office. He removed one of the volumes, turning it open to a spot he had marked. “There have been many recorded instances of objects acquiring supernatural qualities throughout history. When they exhibit a positive influence, they are revered as holy relics. When their effects are malignant, we call them cursed.”
“Bunk,” Caffran said.
Byron shut the book and glowered at the detective. “I did some investigating of my own,” he told Caffran. “Once I knew what to look for, the questions I should be asking. We know that Ms. Franco had possession of the sword and that it is no longer in her home. A sword matching that description was in Daimler’s shop, and now a man sounding very much like him is described as the next victim in this newest letter. We can logically assume that Peter Bradley was the facilitator of removing the sword from Ms. Franco’s house and into the pawnshop. Bradley, who was also murdered.”
“If the sword was there,” Caffran said. “So far, the only person who saw it there was you. I’d hardly say that corroborates your theory.”
“Then maybe you could explain what I found out when I interviewed some of the foreman Martin’s friends,” Byron challenged. “When I asked them about whether Martin had ever owned a Japanese sword, they recalled a curious incident. He’d been in a poker game with Ernie Saunderson, the first victim. Saunderson lost heavily – more heavily than the men I interviewed had ever seen him loose – and he offered up this sword he had in his truck to cover a five dollar wager. The incident stuck in the other players’ minds because it seemed to them that Saunderson was actually eager to lose the hand to Martin.”
Caffran started tugged at his ear as he digested Byron’s statement. “You’re actually telling me both of those men owned this same sword?”
“No,” Byron corrected him. “I’m telling you that all four victims – and now Daimler – have had possession of this sword. Surely that strains the word ‘coincidence’ to the breaking point.”
The detective looked around Byron’s office, as though seeing it for the first time, his gaze lingering on the Zuni fetish mask hanging on the wall and the Maori lion-spear standing in one corner. “Okay,” he conceded, a note of uneasiness in his tone, “I’ll admit that all of these people potentially having ownership of this sword of yours is unusual. I’ll put a few men looking into it, asking around. We’ll make another check of Daimler’s too.”
“I don’t think that’ll do any good,” Byron sighed. “I think I made a mistake confronting Daimler. I think I scared him. I think he’s already gotten rid of the sword.”
Caffran nodded slowly. “Then, according to this theory of yours, whoever got the sword from Daimler is going to be murdered too.”
Byron sat back in his chair, trying to hide the shiver that passed through him. “Yes,” he said. “And it’s all my fault.”
*
The Phoenix Police Department was headquartered in the city-council building on 2nd Avenue. Byron had been there several times before, always stunned by the bustle of activity that invariably surrounded the place. An officer escorted him through the confusion, hurrying him to Detective Caffran’s desk.
“Well, we have him,” Caffran beamed from his chair as Byron was led to him. “Have him right upstairs in a cell. Thomas William Stark, former security guard for the Copperhead Mining Company. The county sheriff was already looking for him in connection with his wife’s stabbing a few months back.”
“I believe I recall that crime,” Byron said, remembering the details he’d read in the paper at the time. “She was stabbed once in the heart. Rather neat and tidy compared to these other crimes.”
Caffran grinned at the investigator. “That’s what set him off,” he declared. “He planned out the murder of his wife, but after he killed her he wasn’t able to deal with the guilt and his brain went screwy. He became like a mad dog.”
“A mad dog that deliberately targeted specific victims?” Byron wondered.
“I’ll have to admit you helped us there,” Caffran said. “It was getting us looking for that sword which helped us track down Stark. He’d been close friends with Saunderson – they served in the Marines together – and was hiding out at a property owned by his old buddy. We never did find the weapon Stark used to kill his wife, but now it seems clear it was this sword. After the crime he went to Saunderson and his friend helped him get rid of the murder weapon by losing it in a poker game.
“But Stark can’t relax,” Caffran stated. “His mind is still brooding on what he did and the fear he’ll get caught. So, in his sick way, he tries to cover his tracks by killing anybody who has that sword.”
“Why wouldn’t he just take it back and dispose of it?” Byron asked.
“Because he’s a nut!” Caffran swore. The detective slid a piece of paper across the desk to Byron. “We took down a statement when we booked him. Does that handwriting look familiar? Stark is the guy who’s been writing these letters to you.”
“I’d like to see him,” Byron said.
Caffran nodded. “
Thought you might.” The detective smiled as he rose from his chair. “Cheaper than the zoo, anyway.”
Byron followed Caffran through the busy police station. A guard admitted them into the locked stairway leading up to the cells. The top two floors of the building had been fitted to serve as the local jail, holding minor offenders and more serious criminals until they had been processed and transferred to a more secure prison. The grey walls and steel cages lining the corridor had that sanitized, lifeless quality Byron associated with all modern institutions. Utility had become the byword of progress, leaving no room for pride and craftsmanship. He thought about the grand public structures he’d seen in France, where even the prisons had a certain grim vitality about them. This place had all the soul of a combustion engine or a vacuum tube. It was an atmosphere of such sterility that never failed to discomfit his heightened senses.
They passed more guards, cheerless men in cold blue uniforms and ugly truncheons hanging from their belts. Some of the cells they passed held equally cheerless men, their hair plastered to their dour faces by the sweat streaming from their bodies. There was small comfort in the upper floors of the council building, and little more than a few fans to keep the air circulating and combat the Arizona summer.
“Have to hand it to you,” Caffran grudgingly confessed as they walked down the corridor. “That bit about the sword was a real bit of deduction. How’d you figure that one out?”
“You might call it intuition,” Byron said, not really listening to the detective. Something about the atmosphere in the jail had changed, some quality that was asserting itself beyond the sterile climate. He couldn’t quite describe the sensation, but it was definitely making itself felt.
Caffran shrugged. “Sometimes we all get hunches. Even cops. Not anything you can make stand in court of course, not unless you get some facts to back your hunch up.” He turned and gave a suspicious glance at Byron. “You sure Stark didn’t write you about that sword? Maybe in another letter you forgot to show me?”
