Perfect Trust argi-3

by M. R. Sellars

  His hand went up to smooth back a shock of his coal black hair and lingered once again at his neck, a mannerism that told anyone who knew him that he had something on his mind.

  “You worry too much,” I said as I dropped my eyes back to the photo.

  “Yeah, you keep sayin’ that, but I know how ya’ are,” he returned.

  He was correct. He did know how I was. Until recently, he knew most of the details-though certainly not all-of the nightmares I had experienced, both during and after the investigations surrounding two separate serial killers. Both of which had terrorized Saint Louis in the span of less than one year. He had personally witnessed me involuntarily channeling the victims-and their horrific ends. He had even saved my life in both instances when I had recklessly taken on the killers myself.

  He was fully aware of the emotional toll the investigations, and especially the supernatural elements of them, had taken on me. I had been affected on many levels. Because of this and his deep loyalty as a friend, he worried more about my mental health than I did. The fact that I had only become involved in the cases at his request played more than a small part in it as well.

  “I’m not going to wig out on you, Ben,” I returned in a fully serious tone. “I’m okay.”

  “Yeah, but all that Twilight Zone shit you go through…” he let his voice trail off.

  “Really, Ben. I’m fine,” I offered and then changed back to the subject at hand. “How did you find out who he is? I thought the evidence was inconclusive, and there were no identifiable fingerprints in his van. Besides, it’s been almost a year now.”

  “Dumb fucking luck,” he answered. “A coupl’a weeks ago, County got a call from a distraught woman babblin’ about somethin’ she found in her basement. Turns out she was the owner of the house where this wingnut was doin’ his thing.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, no shit. Right outta the blue. The house was a piece of rental property she’d inherited. She lives outta state, and it was hung up in probate for a while, so she didn’t even know he was livin’ there. She thought it was vacant. Anyhow, the legal BS finally got cleared up, and then she got around ta’ comin’ inta town ta’ get it fixed up for sale. Well, when she starts cleanin’ up, guess what she finds in the basement? The fuckin’ holy torture chamber. The shrine, the candles, all of it. Everything just like you described from that vision thing ya’ had. Even found a copy of that book ya’ kept talkin’ about.”

  “The Malleus Maleficarum?” I offered, referencing the fifteenth century Witch hunting manual the killer had adopted as his manifesto.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” He nodded. “So anyway, the copper that took the call gets a hinky feelin’ and calls Deckert over at County Homicide. He goes and has a look, then calls me before he even leaves the place.”

  Carl Deckert was a mutual friend who had also been assigned to the Major Case Squad during the investigation. He was intimately familiar with the case, and I’m sure that when he’d seen the basement of that house it had set off more than one alarm.

  “So, why didn’t you call me?”

  “For the same goddamn reason I’ve been packin’ that friggin’ mug shot around for a week,” he explained. “I wasn’t so sure it was somethin’ you needed ta’ see.”

  “You’re being overprotective, Ben.”

  “So sue me. Hell, I’m still not so sure I should be showin’ it to ya’ now.” He sighed and then added, “Why do ya’ think I’m doin’ it here instead of droppin’ by your place?”

  “Because you don’t want Felicity to know about it,” I returned, knowing for certain that he was alluding to my wife.

  “‘Zactly.” He nodded. “After everything that happened, I promised ‘er I’d keep some distance between you and the cop shit. She finds out and she’ll pull ‘er damn face off.”

  “She’s being overprotective too.”

  “He looks real pleasant,” a feminine voice came from behind me, interrupting us before Ben could object further. I looked up to see that the waitress had reappeared at our table and was looking at the mug shot over my shoulder. “Number three, scrambled with cheddar,” she continued un-fazed and slid a plate in front of me. “…And a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her while laying the card to the side, face down and out of sight. I suspect it was just a reflex on my part, as she didn’t seem bothered by the photo at all. With the diner being a cop hangout, she’d probably seen and heard more than her share of things like this-probably even worse.

  “Kitchen sink omelet with chili and extra onions.” She stressed the word extra as she planted a steaming plate before Ben with a wide grin. “Anything else I can get you two? More coffee?”

  “We’re good. Thanks, Wendy,” Ben answered.

  As was my habit, I took a moment to twist the cap off of the pepper shaker and liberally blacken my scrambled eggs while Ben watched, and then I returned the condiment to its original state before offering it to him.

  “Jeezus, Row. That stuff’ll kill ya’,” he told me as he accepted the glass shaker but set it aside without using it.

  “And what’s on your plate won’t?” I countered. “So anyway,” I continued, pointing toward the card with my fork. “That’s him all right. It’s an old picture, but it’s him.”

  “Yeah, when we compared it to the sketch that was made from your description, there was pretty much no doubt. We found enough good prints in the house ta’ get a match through AFIS, and in no time we had ‘is file from the TDC. Seems ‘e was a guest of the Lone Star state for a few years. Once we had the file, everything fell inta place. Blood type, all that jazz.”

  “What was he in prison for?”

  “Aggravated assault and manslaughter,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “So have you notified NCIC or put out an APB or whatever acronym it is that you law enforcement types like to do?”

  “A BOLO? What for?” He shrugged.

  “So you can be on the look out for the guy, maybe?” I stated incredulously. “I’m assuming that’s what BOLO means?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it means…But Jeez, Row, you ain’t gonna start that again, are ya’? The asshole is dead.”

  “Did you ever find a body?” I demanded.

  “No. So what?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s suckin’ mud on the bottom of the river.”

  “The body would have surfaced by now, Ben.”

  “Not necessarily, Row.” He shook his head. “What goes down don’t always come up. Trust me. Plus, the river flooded pretty good this spring. Maybe I am wrong and ‘e ain’t suckin’ mud at all. Maybe ‘e ended up bein’ fish food in the gulf or somethin’. At any rate, he’s gone. Dead. Eighty-sixed.”

  “I’m telling you he isn’t, Ben.”

  “All right, tell me. How do ya know?”

  “It’s just a feeling, but I know I’m right.”

  “Like I’ve told ya’ before, white man, this is just one feelin’ I can’t get with you on. I think you’ve just got some left over heebee jeebees or somethin’.”

  “No, Ben,” I spat back tersely. “It’s more than that.”

  “Okay,” he took on his own hard edge, “then where is he? Why hasn’t he killed again? Hell, why hasn’t he come after you again?”

  I had to admit that I didn’t have the answers to these questions. It was somewhat of an ongoing theme between Ben and me. Something would tickle the back of my brain, and I would have some manner of instinctual feeling or precognitive episode. I would tell my friend, stressing the urgency of the vision, and he would start asking questions. Then like an idiot, I would sit there and say, “I don’t know.”

  I had to give him credit though; he had come a long way. The first time I had helped him with an investigation, he had been a complete and total skeptic. This last time around, he had been extremely open-minded and willing to chase down the avenues I pointed out with only my word as a catalyst. />
  The real truth was that I had even been a bit of a skeptic myself at first. Even though Magick is a very real part of my religious path, until recently, I’d never experienced it to anywhere near the extent that I had during my time helping with the murder investigations. That’s the funny thing about faith. Believing in something is one thing. Having it sneak up and bat you over the head is something else entirely.

  Suffice it to say, I was only now getting over the resulting headache.

  But as accepting as he had become, on this particular point of contention between us Ben was not about to budge. He was firmly convinced that the now identified Eldon Andrew Porter was dead, never to return.

  This was one instance where I wished with every fiber of my being that he was correct and that I was completely and unequivocally wrong. But that itch in the back of my head just wouldn’t go away.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” my friend finally replied to my silence then let out a sigh. “Look, Row, I’m not tryin’ to be an ass here. And this is exactly what I was afraid was gonna happen. I know your intuition is pretty good. Hell, I’ve come to rely on all that hocus-pocus stuff at times, but I really think you’re wrong on this one. ID’n this whack-job was just a piece’a blind luck, and it’s nothin’ but clerical shit now. It’s just a name an’ face ta’ stick in the case file. The closed case file.”

  I didn’t argue. Belaboring the point was going to cause nothing more than strife between us. Besides, I really and truly did want him to be correct this time instead of me.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay. So if we’re settled on that, here’s somethin’ else we found out about ‘im that ya’ might find interesting,” Ben offered, as if giving me a consolation prize for losing the disagreement.

  “What’s that?”

  “During his trial it seems there was a bit of a ruckus over his mental state,” he explained. “Coupl’a expert witnesses rattlin’ a bunch of psycho babble about ‘im being highly suggestible and incapable of distinguishin’ right from wrong. But as it was, he had an overworked and under funded PD for an attorney. Just couldn’t get the jury to go for the insanity defense.”

  “So you think he was insane?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugged. “I think any asshole that goes around killin’ people is insane, but then I also don’t think they should get off scot-free because of it.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, but I’m not sure I follow.”

  “That’s ‘cause you haven’t heard the really hinky part yet.”

  “And that is?”

  “When they put ‘im away he ended up in a special kind of cell block. Somethin’ called a God Pod.”

  “God Pod?”

  “Yeah, it’s a cell block that’s run by a prison ministry. Rehabilitation by gettin’ religion.”

  “That’s not entirely a bad thing, Ben,” I said. “Faith can be an important part of a person’s life. It can provide a moral compass to those who need direction.”

  “Yeah, but this is some pretty strict shit, Row,” he returned then scooped up a forkful of the dangerous looking omelet. “They pretty much brow-beat the inmates with the holy scripture.”

  “And you think that if he was insane to begin with…” I let my voice fade, leaving the end of the sentence unspoken. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. It was the fact that the thought of the penal system having created this monster suddenly overtook me, and my earlier brush with nausea was returning.

  Ben picked up where I left off, expressing his own thoughts aloud. “What I think is that if ya’ got a mentally unstable fruitcake who’s that open ta’ suggestion, and ya’ subject ‘im to Bible study and prayer meetins’ from sunup ta’ sundown, seven days a week, somethin’s bound to snap. Maybe it snaps good. Maybe it snaps bad. I think ya’ can guess which direction I think this wingnut went.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I shook my head in disbelief, “They preach Evangelical, Old Testament.”

  “From what I understand, yeah. Why? That mean somethin’?”

  “It would explain a slight discrepancy that bothered me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, he embraced the Malleus Maleficarum along with a very old, very outdated, and no longer accepted Catholic ideal-that being the literal eradication of heretics. He even went so far as to dress as a priest,” I explained. “But, in my encounter with him, he seemed to come at things from a far more fire and brimstone approach, as opposed to the calmer, ritualistic trappings of Catholicism. The words he spoke were more than a sectarian ceremony for him. He was, for all intents and purposes, preaching.”

  “Like I said, that’s one screwed up wingnut,” Ben offered. “But I guess it’d be a hell of a sermon.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  “Guess it’s a good thing he’s history then,” he stated before shoveling a portion of the formidable breakfast into his mouth.

  The twinge that had lanced through my shoulder earlier now returned with a treble hook of barbs trailing in its wake. The pain deep in the joint burrowed its way up the side of my neck and joined with that unforgiving itch in the back of my brain.

  Now I had two problems to worry about. But for now they were mine-and mine alone.

  I didn’t say a word.

  December 18

  Saint Louis, Missouri

  CHAPTER 2

  I was trying very hard to remember exactly what it was that I was doing here. For some unknown reason, I was at a complete loss. Truth was, I didn’t even know how I had come to be anywhere other than my own warm bed, and it was more than just a little disconcerting. Still, it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this phenomena recently, although the sickening feel of personal defilement was conspicuously absent this time. While somewhat of a consolation, that fact still did nothing to quell the oncoming panic, so I forced myself to remain calm and try to think it through.

  Cognitive reasoning isn’t exactly an easy task when you feel like a refugee from the amnesia ward. My thoughts felt jumbled, but I was heartened that I actually had some of them for a change. Unfortunately, I don’t really think that they all belonged to me. Every now and then I would grapple with one of the memories as it tumbled through my numbed consciousness, inspecting it closely before it could get away. I was reasonably certain that such thoughts as “which pair of shoes I should wear with my new dress,” and “setting up an appointment to have my nails done before the party” belonged to someone else entirely. It was also a safe bet that said someone was female. What I was doing with her memories I couldn’t say, but they were fading from existence as quickly as they came in, and that wasn’t going to make it any easier to figure out.

  There were, however, two things that kept circulating around my muddled grey matter with an uncharacteristically sharp clarity. One was a large glowing yellow rectangle. The other was a particularly nasty, and relatively familiar, burning sensation on the side of my neck coupled with a feeling of utter helplessness and disorientation. I couldn’t quite tell which of us should lay claim to this pair of thoughts. Until recently I’d thought of them purely as my own. Now in retrospect, I had to wonder. Of course, I suppose it was always possible that they were being shared by both of us.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and continued to stare at the scene before me while pondering the greater meaning of luminescent geometric shapes and inexplicable pains. For the moment I resigned myself to the present situation in hopes some thought of lesser obscurity would finally provide an answer.

  The tableau beyond the slightly fogged window strobed frantically with patches of red, blue, and white like an insane outdoor disco. Strings of holiday lights entwined through evergreen hedgerows were winking in and out of time with the brighter flashes in a futile attempt to find dominance over the darkness. I should have found the panorama saddening, but instead I felt little empathy for much of anything.

  Flickering light bars mounted atop emergency veh
icles were things to which I was growing far too accustomed. I reached this conclusion quickly with no resistance whatsoever from my rational self. It was undeniable. There was a time, when gathered in such an excessive number, the flashing beacons would have reminded me of severe tragedy. At this particular moment, however, they were simply an annoyance that my eyes were being forced to contend with.

  Once upon a different time in my life a garish slash of yellow crime scene tape would have insinuated itself into my soul, bringing with it quick fear and deep sorrow. Now, an example of that thin plastic barrier was close by, slowly undulating on a cold winter breeze. In this instance it seemed simply a part of the everyday landscape. At least that is how it seemed to the me I had become.

  Even the squawking radios and idling engines that tainted the night with their continuous disharmony seemed nothing more than a normal slice of reality. They neither belonged nor didn’t belong. They were very simply just there.

  The bare truth was that nothing mattered to me now. Nothing but the yellow rectangle of light pouring through the open door of the townhouse apartment, a haunting incandescent spill that was being easily absorbed by a thirsty sponge of darkness.

  Regrettably, it looked like I was going to have to answer some serious questions before I got anywhere near that doorway. At least that was the impression I was getting from the stern look molded onto Detective Benjamin Storm’s features.

  I hadn’t seen my friend since meeting him for breakfast earlier in the month. It wasn’t surprising really, what with the holidays barreling in upon us-Chanukah had already arrived, securing first place in a yearly contest; with Yule, Christmas, and Kwanzaa lining up in the queue. Schedules were tight-being full of parties, relatives, and even in light of the season, work. I had hoped that the next time we saw one another, it would be at a gathering of family and friends where we could share a drink and forget about the everyday rigors of the world.