The Mayhem Children (A Project Specter Mystery Book 1)

by Paul Seiple

  “Hayes is dead,” Chief Brackett said.

  “X-files type stuff, sir,” Terrence said.

  “Say it isn’t so, Terrence. She’s got you believing this too?”

  “Can you help us?” Kim asked.

  Chief Brackett unlocked his phone, swiped through his contacts, and made a call. “Cathy, I need you to do a favor for me. Strode and Simms are on their way to see you. Let them in Evidence. Give them fifteen minutes, and then escort them out the maintenance entrance.” Brackett didn’t wait for an answer. He tapped End on the phone. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Kim scrunched her nose. “We may need to take something.”

  Chief Brackett turned his back to walk away. “I don’t want to know.” He faced Kim. “And, this is the last time you can pull the ‘you owe my dad’ card.

  “I can’t believe he said yes,” Terrence said.

  “He really does owe Dad.”

  “I’m not sure what you two are up to, but I better not get in trouble.”

  A short, barely a shade over five-feet-tall woman with a nest of gray hair waddled towards Kim and Terrence. She had a set of keys on a hoop chain jangling in her left hand.

  “You won’t get in trouble, Cathy. I promise,” Kim said.

  “How’s your father?” Cathy asked, walking between Kim and Terrence toward the end of a hallway that led to stairs.

  “Amazing,” Kim said. “He’s on a mini-vacation right now, and the fresh air is the best medicine.”

  “Maybe I need some of that. My hips are killing me,” Cathy said, bracing for the first stair down.

  “Why don’t you just give us the keys,” Terrence said.

  Cathy smiled. “Not a chance, hot stuff. I’m doing this for Chief. You two are in some sort of trouble. No offense, but I need to keep an eye on you. Not that that is a bad thing.”

  “At least let me help you down the stairs,” Terrence said.

  Cathy extended her arm. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Can you two flirt another time? We only have a few minutes,” Kim said.

  Cathy whispered to Terrence, “She’s jealous.”

  Kim could never get used to the smell in Evidence. It didn’t matter how many times she entered the room, the stale moldiness took her breath. She thought she would occasionally get a whiff of death, but she told herself it was in her mind. There was plenty of death and decay in Evidence, but no bodies, just the events that led up to the end of someone’s life.

  Cathy rearranged the gold-banded watch on her chunky wrist. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Cathy was in charge of the evidence room, and Cathy was meticulous about organization. Kim weaved between two rows of file cabinets to a metal shelf system labeled “1976.”

  “The panties should be in here,” Kim said.

  “OK, you’re messing with me now,” Terrence said.

  “Of course I am.”

  Kim sifted through a few boxes before moving them to the side. There were two boxes on third shelf marked “Hayes Discovery 1976 SC.”

  “Got it,” Kim said.

  She dug through a few hand tools to find a manila envelope containing at least ten pair of panties, each individually sealed in plastic bags.

  “This is what we need.” Kim tucked the envelope underneath her arm.

  “We’re taking all of them?” Terrence asked.

  “Could be multiple samples of DNA,” Kim said.

  “I just don’t want to get Cathy and Chief in trouble,” Terrence said.

  “Relax. No one is going to look for this. And in the slight chance they do, we will have these back before they can find this.” Kim held up an inventory note for the box. She walked over to another shelf system labeled “1996” and buried the paper underneath a stack of evidence.

  “We could get in so much trouble,” Terrence said.

  “We’re dealing with demons here, Terry. You need to lose the Goody Two Shoes act.”

  “OK, well, explain to me how you’re going to get that by Cathy,” Terrence said.

  “Tuck it in your waistband,” Kim said, handing the envelope to Terrence.

  “What?”

  “Your backside. Your jacket will hide it,” Kim said. “If you flirt with her, she won’t notice.”

  “You got two minutes,” Cathy said. “Then I’m coming in and escorting you out.”

  “Take it.” Kim shook the evidence at Terrence.

  Terrence grabbed the envelope, stuffed it into his waistband, and turned his back to Kim.

  “Perfect. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to grab your ass,” Kim said.

  “So you’re telling me this toy is indestructible? Someone burned it, and ‘poof’ it just came back good as new?” Sam Strode asked, pointing to a Ouija board incased in four-inch-thick glass.

  “It’s not a toy,” Mason said. “That very board called upon Lilith. The unfortunate gentleman who summoned her is no longer with us.”

  “Actually, anyone associated with Daniel Haley met an untimely end,” Don said.

  “And you think it’s because of this wooden board stamped by Parker Brothers?” Sam said.

  “It could be said those who have an attachment to Elvin Hayes are suffering a similar fate,” Don said.

  “Hayes was a one-of-a-kind evil son-of-a-bitch. You couldn’t find him stacked on a shelf at Kay-Bee toys,” Sam said. He moved on to a weathered, wooden box with two doors with tarnished medallions on them. “And what are these supposed to be?”

  “Gargoyles,” Don said. “It’s the Daemonic Rex Cube.”

  “Demon King? You’re going to tell me there’s a demon in that rickety old case?” Sam asked.

  “Well, I don’t know, Sam. I’ve never opened it, but is it so hard to believe considering a demon follows you?” Don asked.

  Sam smiled and pointed at Don. “Good point, my friend.”

  The creaking of the front door opening drew everyone’s attention. Kim walked in holding the evidence envelope above her head.

  “Got it,” Kim said.

  “Excellent,” Mason said, taking the envelope. “I’ll get this to Rosalind now.”

  “How long will it take?” Kim asked.

  “Two days at the most,” Mason said as he tugged an iPhone from his jacket pocket. He walked around the corner and disappeared into Don’s office.

  “Hey, Kim, did you know this flute is supposed to summon…” Sam paused and bent down to read the plaque on the front of a glass case. “…Aibell?”

  “Aibell is a banshee. She commands an army of banshees,” Don said.

  “No, I didn’t know that, Dad,” Kim said. “It’s probably a good idea if you don’t try play it. We already have our hands full with demons.”

  “I’d say it’s hogwash, but I’m not going to argue with my smart daughter,” Sam said.

  “Rosalind is going to stop by after her classes today,” Mason said, reappearing from the back with a fresh cup of coffee.”

  “Classes?” Kim asked.

  “She teaches at UNC-C,” Mason said. “We should have results by the time you get back.”

  “Oh shit. What time is it, Terry?” Kim asked.

  Terrence tapped his watch. “8:45.”

  “We need to get going,” Kim said. She walked to Sam and hugged him. “Don’t stir any more demons, OK?” She smiled and kissed Sam on the cheek.

  Twenty-Four

  The line at Starbucks was nearing the front door. Terrence and Kim where about ten people back. Terrence eyed a clock that read 5:30am. He sighed loud enough to draw attention to the couple in front of him.

  “What’s wrong?” Kim asked.

  “This place just opened. It’s too early for a line like this,” Terrence said.

  “Apparently, it’s never too early for Starbucks,” Kim said.

  “First you stick me on a red eye, and now I can’t get coffee.”

  “You really aren’t a morning person, are you?” Kim asked.

  “
Forgive me, but since the demons moved in next door, I’ve not been myself,” Terrence said.

  The woman in front of Terrence turned her head and flashed him a bewildered glance.

  “Neighbors. I probably shouldn’t have called them demons, but they play that band Nickelback really loud at all hours of the night,” Terrence said.

  The woman shook her head and went back to skimming Instagram on her phone.

  “I never got into that social media thing,” Terrence said to Kim.

  “So I shouldn’t be offended that you don’t follow me on Instagram?”

  “I never pegged you for the Instagram type,” Terrence said.

  Kim swiped across her phone and opened the app. “Well, if anything good has come from this case, it’s bringing us closer together. I don’t post much. Mainly my shoes for the day, things like…” Kim cut her words off.

  “What is it?” Terrence asked.

  Kim focused on a photo of her eating a cone of black ice cream from a local shop in Charlotte. The image of Joey Carpenter was looking over her left shoulder, smiling.

  “Do you see that?” Kim asked, handing the phone to Terrence.

  “Black ice cream? Looks like ash. What did it taste like?”

  “No. Look over my shoulder.” Kim placed her finger on the screen. “Here.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  Kim took the phone. Joey Carpenter was no longer in the picture. She scrolled through a few more. There was no sign of the boy.

  “What did you see?” Terrence asked.

  “Joey Carpenter. It’s not possible, though. It’s probably my mind tricking me from being on the red-eye.”

  “I can take the next guest,” the barista said.

  “Finally. Caffeine,” Kim said.

  Wesley Palmer committed his first crime when he was eight years old. He stole a G.I. Joe action figure from the local Sears. Four years later, he broke into a neighbor’s house and stole a few Beatles records and fifty dollars. In 1971, he discovered Black Sabbath and fell in love with the “figure in black standing in front of him.” It was Wesley’s introduction to Satan. It was a relationship that would see him spend over twenty years behind bars.

  Wesley dabbled in Satanism while listening to Black Sabbath records. It was more of a curiosity than a religion for him. That changed after he watched an interview with Elvin Hayes. The man had a charisma that drew Wesley in. Hayes proclaimed he took his orders from Satan and in turn for being a good servant, Satan granted him powers. Similar to Charles Manson, Elvin Hayes had a way of hypnotizing those who were lost looking for purpose.

  Wesley wrote his first letter to Hayes about four months after the sentencing. It took six letters to get a response. Hayes applauded Wesley’s “total devotion” and told him the number six was the “most special number in the universe.” It held all the power. Hayes wrote nothing more in that letter and signed it “in 666 we trust.”

  The letter gave Wes hope that someone was listening to him. Growing up, his parents never paid him much attention. Kids his age ignored him. The older kids used him as scapegoat for their crimes. Knowing that Hayes took the time to acknowledge him was all Wesley needed to become a devoted follower. Wesley introduced the term “Haydes” to Hayes in his next letter. A bond was born.

  Wesley had a knack for finding lost souls. He was one himself until Hayes gave him the path. He recruited soldiers for Hayes’s army. There were members all over the United States. Each was given the task of getting a P.O. box and sending out letters weekly to potential members. Haydes had around 220 members at its height. When Hayes was executed, the number had dwindled to a little under a hundred. For most, devil worship was a fad. For Wesley, it was lifeblood.

  Wesley was never allowed to visit Hayes at the penitentiary. Hayes developed a celebrity-like status and was denied any visitors other than immediate family. No one ever came to visit Hayes.

  By 1980, Wesley thought of Hayes as his savior. Hayes never taught him much about the Black Arts. Wesley viewed that as intentional. Hayes wanted him to learn. For Hayes, the days were coming to an end. Execution was inching closer. He assured Wesley that he was next in line.

  The thought of never getting to meet Hayes ate away at Wesley’s soul. He knew everything and probably more about Satanism than Hayes. He needed to show Hayes he was worthy of the “throne,” as Hayes called it in a letter. Late in October of 1980, Wesley robbed a convenience store. He tied the two clerks to lockers in the stockroom and pistol-whipped one to unconsciousness. He walked back to the front of the store and pushed the panic button beneath the cash register, signaling the police. He sat in the middle of the floor and waited. Wesley thought he would be sent to Mecklenburg Correctional. There, he could interact with Hayes.

  Wesley went to Mecklenburg a year and a half after Hayes’ execution. He felt it was God’s way of mocking him. It made him turn to Satan more. For years, Wesley pledged his life to the devil. Wesley walked out of Mecklenburg after serving twenty-two years. He walked out a changed man. He walked out a born-again Christian.

  Wesley met Father Max Preston sometime around the year 2000. Father Preston stood six-feet-four and weighed about two hundred and twenty pounds. Everyone at the penitentiary called him “Lanky.”

  Wesley’s first couple of interactions with Lanky were expletive tirades aimed at God and Christianity. Lanky didn’t give up on Wesley. One October afternoon, Lanky stopped by the table where Wesley was having lunch. He dropped a copy of The Satanic Bible onto the plate of food, splashing instant mashed potatoes on Wesley.

  “Tell me what you believe,” Lanky said.

  “I’m eating my goddamn lunch,” Wesley said.

  “No need to blame God for that shitty food,” Lanky said.

  Wesley dropped his fork and eyed Lanky.

  “Yeah, I can cuss too. It’s not scary,” Lanky said.

  “Go the fuck away,” Wesley said.

  Lanky pulled the chair out beside Wesley and sat down. “No.”

  Wesley chanted something unrecognizable. Lanky placed a bottle of holy water beside Wesley’s left hand.

  “Are we really going to do this?” Lanky asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Play my god is better than your god,” Lanky said, picking up Wesley’s spoon. He plowed it into the mashed potatoes and took a bite. He turned his nose up, made a sour face, and said, “Wow, that is shitty. Why don’t we just talk about something other than religion? Do you know how many wars the subject has started?”

  Lanky was a bad ass. A different kind of bad ass than Hayes, but a bad ass nonetheless. Lanky was a priest, but not the holy-roller type Wesley pictured when he thought of God’s army. It was the beginning of a friendship that saw Wesley denounce Satan and become a follower of Christ.

  Lanky got Wesley a job as a youth counselor when he left prison. A few years later, Wesley became a priest and followed Lanky’s footsteps as a prison counselor. At age sixty-eight, Wesley continued to mentor those who were lost. He would until he no longer could. He owed it to Lanky for helping him find the light in a dark world.

  “What’s the plan if this guy is still hardcore into Satanism?” Terrence asked.

  “I guess we will wing it,” Kim said.

  “You know, sometimes I wish you would just have a plan,” Terrence said.

  “What’s stopping you from coming up with something?” Kim asked.

  “Hey, I’m not the one with a demon child filter on Instagram.”

  “For someone who doesn’t do social media, you sure do know a lot about it,” Kim said.

  “I read things.”

  “OK. Take a right. Looks like it’s going to be the third house on the left,” Kim said.

  Terrence pulled the rental to the curb in front a small, well-maintained house that would have been the perfect cottage for a vacation. The white siding sparkled. The red shutters looked as though they were freshly painted. The walkway to the porch was lined with purple, yellow, and whi
te flowers.

  “This is a good sign,” Terrence said.

  “Why is that?” Kim asked.

  “I’m not sure a devil worshiper would have this welcoming of a home. You sure you got the right address?”

  “Yep,” Kim said opening the car door.

  An older man with a full head of gray hair swooping to the left rocked in a chair on the porch. His muscular arms were sleeved in tattoos. He put his mug on a small table as Kim and Terrence made their way to the house.

  “Which one was it this time?”

  “Excuse me?” Kim said.

  “It was Morrison? Wasn’t it? I just cannot seem to get through to him. He’s not ready to listen.”

  “Are you Wesley Palmer?” Kim asked.

  “In the flesh. I take it you’re not with corrections,” Wesley said.

  “No. I’m Kim Strode. This is Terrence Simms. We are with the homicide division in Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “Homicide?” Wesley asked.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Elvin Hayes,” Kim said.

  “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” Wesley stood up. His physique was exceptional for a man of his age. He looked as healthy as Terrence. “Let’s go inside. It’s trash day. Soon you won’t be able to hear anything out here.”

  A garbage truck rounded the corner with a deafening roar.

  Wesley held the door open. “See.” He motioned for Kim and Terrence to go inside.

  The house was as immaculately kept as the landscape. The scent of lemon filled the air.

  “Lemon’s in the diffuser. It helps me get a clear start to the day. If it bothers you, I can turn it off,” Wesley said.

  “I’m good,” Terrence said.

  “We’re fine. Forgive me, but you’re not what I was expecting,” Kim said.

  “You mean I’m not an angry Satanist?” Wesley laughed. “Gave that up years ago. I counsel prisoners now. Try to get them on the right path. I thought you were coming to tell me one of them had gotten into more trouble,” Wesley said. “Can I offer you some tea? I’m sorry I don’t keep coffee. I can’t drink it without sugar, and I try not to have much sugar.”