Leslie thought, maybe this guy is the perfect foil; he’s added his own compulsive brand of humor to my show.
Now frustrated, Fred attacked the container with unleashed intensity. He looked at the unit’s every seam, pushed on each part checking for movement and hidden spaces. He re-examined the top to see if there was a hidden release lever. But in the end he found nothing that would allow someone inside to escape.
He asked Leslie, “Are you going to move the unit before your assistant enters it?” Fred guessed that if Leslie moved the unit next to the stage curtain, the accomplice could somehow escape behind the curtain unnoticed.
Leslie asked, “Do you want me to move it?’
Fred said, “No.”
“Would you arrest me if I did?”
“That’s a very strong possibility,” Fred said smiling.
“Then I don’t think I will.”
Finally Fred returned to the audience where he watched in amazement as Leslie’s assistant disappeared from the box.
Maureen whispered, “How did he do it, Fred?”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea.”
After thunderous applause, Leslie said, “You’ve been a great audience so I will perform one more trick for you before you leave.” Leslie asked for two audience volunteers. Two young women bounded to the stage giggling as they ascended the steps. Leslie told them both to stand in one area of the stage where he proclaimed that his powers were the most concentrated.
“Sure, his powers are the greatest there,” Fred whispered sarcastically. “It’s trap door time.”
Mesmerized by Leslie’s performance, Maureen responded just above a whisper, “Shut the hell up, Fred.”
Then Leslie did something that Fred was totally unprepared for. Leslie closed his eyes, placed his arms out in front of him and pointed toward each of the women. In an instant they both disappeared. There was no camouflaging smoke, no bombardment of flashing lights; nothing to disturb or alter the audience’s clear view of what was happening on the stage.
Suddenly caught up with the same emotion that the audience was exhibiting, Fred said, “I can’t believe it, I saw it but I still can’t believe it.”
Maureen said, “I knew you would be impressed but you kept bitching about going to the show all week long.”
At that moment the two girls suddenly appeared at the back of the theater and ran down the center aisle toward the stage giggling all the way.
After the show, audience members were invited to greet the Great Leslie in person.
“Let’s go Fred, I want to meet him.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Then I’ll go by myself.”
Fred didn’t respond as he reluctantly followed behind Maureen to the stage.
Leslie said, “Fred, I seem to remember your picture in the papers a few years back as the person who captured that mass murder, Donna Lang.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Let me shake your hand. My best friend was one of her numerous victims; if I can ever help you in anything at all, let me know.”
“Sure, I’ll keep that in mind,” Fred said insincerely. Fred couldn’t imagine how a magician, even as good as he was, could ever help out in a police lieutenant’s investigation.
Fred could see that Leslie was immediately infatuated with Maureen’s beauty; in a short time the two were engaged in an animated conversation.
As the two of them were occupied, Fred went into the area behind the stage to view a complex array of magical contraptions. Fred decided to first investigate the Death by Sword prop where Leslie’s assistant had been enclosed in a horizontal box and Leslie proceeded to, one by one, put several swords into pre-drilled slots. From Fred’s distant seat in the auditorium it had appeared that there was no way his assistant could have survived the assault of the swords. Fred started to raise the box’s lid; Leslie yelled, “Please don’t do that, you might get injured. Please—do your own magic tricks at home! ”
Fred wandered over to the area where the two girls had mysteriously disappeared. There was no trap door, just an open stage in full view of the audience.
Before Fred left the stage, he said, “Leslie, I know you won’t tell me, but let me ask you anyway. How in hell did you accomplish the disappearing tricks?”
“Remember, Fred, in magic tricks as in politics, the key is always to divert your audience’s attention into a different direction while you execute the deed.”
“That doesn’t help a hell of a lot,” Fred said.
“Not now perhaps, but who knows, maybe someday that advice will help you.”
The next morning Maureen asked Fred if he had determined how the disappearing acts had been accomplished.
“Maybe if I had more time, but no not yet—hell, maybe he is magic.”
Maureen laughed and said, “Great damn detective you are.” She kissed him on the cheek. She loved him most when he seemed to be the most vulnerable. Lately that seemed to be happening more and more frequently.
Chapter 5
That evening, Maureen looked out into the darkening gloom of her front yard from her living room’s large picture window. She religiously avoided looking out that window whenever the sky started to darken. But when a couple of her dinner guests had protested that she should fully open her drapes to allow Florida’s cool evening air to seep into the house, she had reluctantly acquiesced.
Maureen was a much sought after practicing clinical psychologist; and in that role she couldn’t admit to anyone other than Fred that she, of all people, was troubled by a childhood fear. It was the continuous dread of the deep dark night, and with it her perceived fear of the existence of a ubiquitous swarm of imaginary creatures that might be lurking there. She knew that many people in her profession went into the practice to attempt to deal with their own psychoses and neuroses; she recognized that she was not an exception. This particular murky night there was a powerful northerly wind bringing in a fierce rainstorm. The unrelenting wind gave curious animation and violent movements to the row of front yard palms that Fred had recently had planted. That movement, combined with the dim glow of a distant street light filtering through the palm’s fronds, created a disturbing undulating image which represented in Maureen’s mind, dark, hideous sub-humans with elongated arms and pointed fingers sweeping in unison across her yard. As she turned away, she sensed that the unknown evil residing in her front yard was now oozing under the tiny space between her front door and the heavily polished golden oak floor beneath it. She channeled all her energy, blanked her mind, shivered, and turned away from the imaginary vision, re-directing her full attention toward the brightly lit dining room and the emotional warmth exuded by her evening’s guests.
Had Maureen observed her yard more clearly, and not let her imagination distort the reality of what was happening just outside, she would have observed a dark figure moving silently and purposely toward the side of her house. And if she possessed her husband’s intuitive powers, she might have also known that the person out in the darkness was in fact pure evil. As a psychologist, she didn’t believe evil really existed. A deity perhaps, but she was even ambivalent about that. Empirical evidence about magical white lights during death experiences was starting to turn around her agnostic beliefs. On the other hand, she knew that selective brain activity induced by dying cells might well be the reason for the illusion of a godly white light. But the existence of a devil—no way.
Oh, sure she thought, some people were activated by hate, mental distress, indifference to human life and all sorts of anti-social and criminal behavior—but evil? Never! Evil was for those fundamentalists who literally embraced all elements of the Bible, and didn’t understand that all human behavior is formed through successive generations of genetic footprints and personal interactions. In her mind all undesirable tendencies could, over-time, be re-programmed and modulated. At least that was what she thought she believed; and if she really didn’t believe it, she would have to resign
from her job out of ethical considerations, as she was a highly ethical person. So damn it—she did believe!
But, regardless of Maureen’s convictions, evil did lurk just outside of her house, an evil that didn’t just thrive in the night as Maureen might have really believed. And it was just about to enter her house.
Chapter 6
Fred was well beyond being fashionably late for Maureen’s party. Being tardy in Harris’ case was not uncommon; he had been unsuccessfully trying to solve a string of robberies in his hometown of Sarasota for the past month. As a result he was frequently caught up in an endless deliberation pattern and often was the last officer on his shift to leave the station. Earlier he had received a call from the veterinarian’s technical assistant. She said, “Who Knows is ready for your pickup.”
Fred said, “‘Who Knows’? What are you talking about?”
“You know, Who Knows, the stray dog you dropped off yesterday.”
Fred laughed. Apparently, when the vet had asked the dog’s name, and Fred had replied, “Who knows?” the vet thought that was really his name. Fred asked, “How about boarding him tonight and I’ll pick him up tomorrow.”
He knew his extended work hours didn’t fit well with his married life; but over the years Maureen seemed to have at least partially adjusted to it. He didn’t want to spend any additional time with his new found dog, that might subtract from his already limited hours with Maureen. He gunned his bright red 94 Miata’s accelerator, far exceeding the residential speed limit in the process. But, hey—he was a cop, what the hell! Anyway the streets were generally deserted this time of the evening because Sarasota was basically a retirement community; and many of its occupants, having dined on “early bird” specials, were now back home, falling asleep in front of their TV’s.
In his mind’s eye, he drove an alien car; some time earlier, his beloved Miata had been destroyed during when someone had attempted to run him down, and had crashed into his car. In retrospect he hated the destruction of his tiny sports car almost more than the unsuccessful attempt on his life. Although the car he now drove was almost exactly like the one he lost, even to the worn ebony paint on the gear shift knob, there always seemed to be something missing—something that he could not describe but something essential to the core feeling of oneness with his machine. Maureen would never feel or share in that feeling; but for Fred, as seemingly insignificant as it was, it was a necessary component of the quality of life that was now absent.
He was still a few miles from his home. As he drove he reflected back on the past four years. It was almost the anniversary of the day he had captured Donna Lang, the brilliant and attractive individual solely responsible for the greatest killing streak in the history of Sarasota. As intelligent as Donna was, her ESP skills had been even greater by comparison. Donna had successfully mentally programmed two innocent individuals to kill several people to cover up the concurrent elimination of her key rivals who worked in the Analysis Unlimited Company, or AU as it had become known. During his investigation, Fred had visited her ominous work place several times—a secret downtown operation populated by extraordinary personnel with superior paranormal capabilities. The operation was funded by the feds for some highly classified operations, which Fred never fully understood. Over the years, Fred had grown to be a close friend of George Schultz, the head of the company, who was one of the guests at his party this evening. George was an egoist of the first order and a man of uncompromising regularity. He was also the guest most likely to be the most distressed at Fred’s tardiness.
Fred recalled that Donna had employed almost unexcelled ESP abilities to implement her crimes. She had been able to mentally creep into unsuspecting individuals minds and alter their concept of reality. She could then use them as her agents—they never suspected her involvement because she left no mental bread crumbs or external clues to her identity. But she was only able to accomplish this artificially, by the use of a sophisticated paranormal device, created by AU analysts and successfully inserted and integrated into her brain by a company surgeon. She was also the individual who had attempted to run Fred down and had destroyed his beloved Miata in the process.
When they had finally met in a deserted Sarasota warehouse four years ago, Fred was positive she was going to kill him. But Fred had been saved by a fellow worker of hers, Marv Atwell. He was the individual whose extraordinary psychic talent was primarily responsible for the development of the sophisticated software code contained in the paranormal device that was resident in Donna’s brain at the time.
In the end Donna was convicted of first degree murder, a life sentence with no possibility for parole. Earlier, the special mechanism had been removed from her brain by the same skilled surgeon who implanted it, seemingly ensuring that she could never again use artificial paranormal assistance. The loss of that very special contraption had reduced Donna to just one of many ordinary Florida prisoners held in a maximum security prison. And the device that had once inhabited Donna’s homicidal brain was the same one that had been gathering dust on Fred’s bedroom dresser for the past four years.
Atwell had made one last appearance in the Sarasota jury room where Donna was being tried. Since much of the evidence remained classified and could not be introduced to the jury, the odds at the time were that Donna would be released because of insufficient proof. However, Atwell, through his uncanny telepathic ability, was successful in swaying each jury member to vote guilty. In the four years that passed, Fred never heard from him again—a non-event which made Fred quite content.
During the past four years, Fred had been offered a promotion to station captain. Fred and Maureen debated long and hard over the one-time opportunity he had been granted; and against his best judgment he had relented, and took the position. But eventually they both decided job satisfaction was more important than a fatter paycheck; and within six months of his promotion he had returned to his old job. The next logical choice in the selection process was that of Fred’s best friend in the department. But in order to accomplish that, all convention protocol had to be bypassed since he had to jump two slots in advancement. Not being able to coax Fred to return, station bosses had settled on the next best, and Jim Hebert was promoted to station captain.
As Fred skidded to an abrupt stop next to the curb facing his house, he could see, through its large picture window, the moving silhouettes of his friends. As he entered his front door; without even looking, he immediately discerned the cold, unforgiving glare of his wife in the adjoining dinning room. At the same time he sensed that she was conflicted in some way that he could not determine. In fact, could he read her mind, he would have known that she longed to get away from the festive party guests, and enter the security of his loving arms to obliterate her fears of the host of potential terrors that she thought resided in the darkness outside. For reasons she could not understand, those terrors seemed to be more real tonight than ever.
Fred knew that Maureen in many ways remained child-like and highly dependent. The self-assured professional veneer that she displayed at work could easily crumble under the right circumstances. Having recently tragically lost her last parent, she felt that only Fred was qualified to protect her from life’s unknowns.
Fred saw the smiling face of his boss and best friend, Captain Jim Hebert, as well as those of his long time poker buddies, Bill Cole and John Stevens. Fred still felt the loss of Ernest James, the fourth of the original quartet, who had been murdered during one of Donna’s directed killing rampages. Since then, Dan, the former station’s captain, had smoothly filled in as the fourth player.
Missing from the party was Maureen’s friend Sue Granton, who had declined the invitation because of a severe toothache. Sue lived two doors down the street from them. Until she had helped out a couple of months ago when Maureen’s car broke down, they had never even met. But in the subsequent months the two had become the best of friends.
George Schulz, always the “A” personality type, was the
first to speak, “Fred, I was beginning to believe you would never show—it’s just like you, Fred!” Fred knew that the remark was etched with powerful scorn but that was to be expected from Schulz. In spite of his perpetual cynicism, Schulz had become a close friend. Fred’s smiling response was directed to Maureen, not Schultz, when he said, “Oh I’m like that proverbial bad penny, I always turn up again.” Maureen smiled and, as usual, instantly forgave him, even though she had delayed dinner for over an hour waiting for him.
In the corner dining room chair sat Dan, an imposing presence who appeared almost oblivious to Fred’s arrival. He was munching on the last of a batch of a large plate of spiced shrimp; he had already devoured the entire evening’s supply of stuffed green olives.
Even so, Fred could sense that Dan was eagerly awaiting the long overdue main course. Dan had been a top rated Florida State lineman many years ago, but after his days of glory, his appetite had resulted in noticeable weight gain. Although already extremely overweight when he retired from the force four years ago, he had gained at least another fifty pounds since. Fred feared he was the personification of a perennial heart attack waiting to happen, and his former chief was too good a friend for Fred to want that to happen.
It was a custom at these parties for one of the guests to provide Fred with a word puzzle. Fred was a master at solving them, much to the entertainment of his dinner guests. It was Maureen’s turn to give Fred tonight’s conundrum. She opened the kitchen’s café door, and turning toward the guests she said, “Okay, this time I guarantee that Fred can’t solve this puzzle. There are four players and each player sat down and played for hours. They all played for cash; but at the end of the night none of them lost any cash. So, Fred, who were the men?”
Fred pondered, “That’s a tough one. I’ll have to think about it a bit. ”
The Monolith Murders Page 3
