by D P Lyle
"Any useful evidence from this morning?" Lisa asked, pulling Sam from her reverie.
“We lifted half a dozen good prints,” Sam said. “I transmitted them to Sacramento. Hopefully, we’ll get lucky. I can tell you, they aren’t Garrett’s. I’ve seen enough of his prints in the past eight weeks that I know them by heart. Hell, I dream about them.”
“Any idea who might’ve done this?” Lisa asked.
“Not a clue.” Sam lifted her cup as Millie added a dollop of fresh coffee. “Do you think this will affect Westbrooke’s sentencing?”
“Don’t know,” Lisa said. She dabbed a smudge of peach jam from the corner of her mouth. “I have a meeting with him in half an hour. Want to sit in, give Westbrooke the story?”
“Sure.”
A half hour later, Sam, Lisa, and Mark Levy entered Judge Westbrooke’s spacious, dimly lit office. After seating them opposite his heavy oak desk, he sank into a high-backed ox blood leather chair, flanked by California and United States flags. Floor to ceiling shelves, filled with thick legal volumes, encircled the office, which was as intimidating as Westbrooke was soothing.
He listened quietly while Sam laid out the facts concerning the murder of Roger and Miriam Hargrove. When she finished, he cleaned his glasses with a tissue, his brow knitted with concern. Replacing his glasses, which slid half way down his nose so he could peer over them, he said, “I must admit this is bothersome. Not that I think Garrett’s innocent, but if he has an accomplice, questions could be raised as to who did the actual killing of the children. If that were the case, I might feel obligated to change his sentence to life rather than death.”
“But, your honor...” Sam began. Westbrooke cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“Deputy Cody, you are here solely to present the facts regarding these murders. It would be inappropriate for you to make further statements.” He softened his reprimand with a smile as would a grammar school teacher disciplining a student for talking without permission, then turned his gaze to Mark Levy. “Mr. Levy, do you have any comments?”
“Your Honor, I just learned about this as you did. I’m shocked to say the least.”
“Do you wish to place a motion before the court at this time?”
“No. I need to confer with my client first.”
Westbrooke tilted his head toward Lisa. “Ms. McFarland. Anything you wish to say?”
“No, your Honor.”
“Very well.” Westbrooke stood, indicating the meeting was over.
Sam and Lisa left Westbrooke’s chambers and walked to Starbucks, while Mark went to see Garrett. They purchased two cappuccinos and sat at a corner table. Sam preferred Millie’s plain coffee to this fancy, trendy stuff, but any port in a storm. Despite the three cups she had had earlier, she found she needed the lift this more potent brew would provide.
“Could Garrett have an accomplice?” Lisa asked.
“Yesterday, I would have said no way, he’s a loner. But, today? Who knows?”
“His groupies maybe?”
“I doubt it. They couldn’t organize a one-car funeral. I’m going to have a little chat with them anyway.”
“If not them, then who did the Hargroves?”
Sam shrugged, staring into her cup. They sat silently for a moment, then two. “You don’t really think Westbrooke will back pedal on this do you?” Sam asked.
“Stranger things have happened. If he did opt for life, surely it would be without parole.”
“And if not, it would mean thirty years of parole hearings...for you, me, and the families.” Sam exhaled loudly. “Or one of the liberal morons on the Ninth Circuit Court might overturn his conviction and we’d have to do all this again.”
Depression and anger vied with each other to dominate her mood. Just when the light at the end of the tunnel came into view, this crap had to happen. Another two weeks, three at the most, and Garrett would be on his way to San Quentin and out of Mercer’s Corner, out of her life. Now, what?
*
Mark Levy was a native son who had left Mercer’s Corner for Los Angeles and USC for college and law school before returning home to practice. Drawing Garrett as a client had been his bad luck, which he regretted daily. He wasn’t in the least unhappy he had lost the case.
Wearing a faintly pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and red power tie, he looked every bit the competent attorney he was as he waited for Thelma to unlock the door to the jail area. He thanked her and stepped inside. He placed a folding chair next to Garrett’s cell and sat down. Garrett sat on his bunk, expressionless.
“Mister Garrett,” Mark began.
“I am not Garrett.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am Beelzebub.”
“I see.” Mark hated Garrett. He hated being near him, talking to him. And he damn sure hated defending him. How did he get assigned this psycho in the first place? The man was guilty. Far beyond a reasonable doubt. All the way to absolute certainty. That wasn’t supposed to make a difference, but it did. Especially considering what he was guilty of doing. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“If you want me to help you.”
“Like you already have.”
“Mister Garr...uh...Mister Beelzebub, last night two people were murdered. Do you know anything about it?”
“Only that it happened. That their hearts were removed.”
“How did you know that?” Sam had said that Garrett knew of the murders, but none of the details.
“I know. How is unimportant.”
“Actually, it may be very important.”
Garrett said nothing, stared at him impassively.
“Is there another? An accomplice?”
“Yes.”
Mark was shocked and didn’t hide it well. Like everyone else involved in this case, he was certain Garrett was a loner. He was just too flat weird to work with anyone. Had they been wrong? Could Garrett be part of a team? Could they have convicted the wrong man? Everything he knew said no. But. “Who?”
“Lucifer.”
God, he hated this arrogant prick. “Look, we played that card and the jury didn’t buy it. Was there a flesh and blood accomplice or not?”
“Of sorts.”
“What does that mean.”
Garrett shrugged.
“If someone else was involved, someone who actually did the killings of the kids, of the Hargroves, I might convince Judge Westbrooke to ignore the jury’s recommendation and give you life. I might even convince him to reopen the penalty phase.”
“Do as you wish.”
“What do you want?”
“Only to complete my bond with my master. Things of this Earth are of little importance to me.”
Five minutes later, Mark walked into Judge Westbrooke’s office. Westbrooke offered him a seat, then sat behind his massive desk.
“Should I get Lisa McFarland in here?” Westbrooke asked.
“No. I’ll see her right after I leave here.”
“I take it that means you’re not going to enter a motion.”
“No.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
“Client disinterest.”
After leaving the court building, Mark headed toward Starbucks to meet Sam and Lisa. A half a block away, he saw them coming up the street toward him. They were quiet a pair. Both attractive. Especially Sam. He loved to look at her. Always had. He had been infatuated with her since the eighth grade. She was five-seven, trim and fit, without an ounce of fat, and possessed deep green eyes and a smile that melted his heart. Just as it had in high school. If he weren’t married, he might pursue her, even if it jeopardized their friendship.
*
“What’s the story?” Sam asked as they approached Mark.
“Nothing. Garrett could care less about any of this. Apparently, ‘things of this world’ don’t interest Mister Garrett. Or is it Beelzebub?”
“He pull that crap on you, too?” Sam asked.
“Yeah
,” Mark said. “But, I have no idea what it means.”
“Paradise Lost,” Sam said. Then, to answer the quizzical look on Lisa’s face, she continued. “Garrett has it in his head that he’s Satan’s right hand man. Remember high school Lit? John Milton? Paradise Lost? Beelzebub was Satan’s helper.”
“Vaguely.”
“You must have ditched that day.” Sam poked Lisa in her ribs.
Lisa laughed. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” She looked at Mark. “So, Garrett doesn’t want anything done?”
“Nope.”
“That’s a relief,” Lisa said.
“Either of you or Charlie tell Garrett about the Hargroves’ hearts being removed?” Mark asked.
Dread crept up Sam’s spine. Her heartbeat quickened to a gallop. She glanced at Lisa, who shook her head. “No. Why?” Sam said.
“He knew.”
The words reverberated in her head like a dynamite blast. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. He knew their hearts had been removed.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. He said Satan told him.”
“Or his partner.”
“He did say he has an accomplice ‘of sorts.’”
“Of sorts?”
“That’s how he put it. I assumed he meant Satan again.”
“Satan didn’t kill Roger and Miriam,” Sam said. “Someone with two feet, two hands, and fingerprints did.”
Chapter 10
By noon, the morning’s blanket of gray clouds had slid eastward, leaving behind a clear blue sky and a harsh sun, which beat down on the white Jeep as Sam headed out of town. Her mind swirled with the events of the past seventy-two hours.
Connie’s death at the hands of an intoxicated trucker. Roger and Miriam’s grisly murders. The possibility of an accomplice or a copycat. Who? Wasn’t one psycho enough, for Christ sakes? Garrett knowing about Roger and Miriam’s mutilations. And about the trucker’s intoxication. How? Who could have told him? In the trucker’s case, no one could have because no one knew. Juan and Carlos dying in the cell next to Garrett and he saw nothing. Or so he said.
The chaos in her head pounded against the back of her eyes.
Two miles south of town, she turned east on to Salt Creek Road. Another half mile and she approached four black vans and several two-person tents, huddled near the desiccated creek bed from which the rutted dirt track took its name.
Each crudely painted vehicle bore decorative pentagrams and other Satanic figures. One had “666” painted on its side panel in two-foot yellow letters, while another sported a misty scene of a fiery lake, populated with half-human, half-serpent creatures. Obviously, somebody’s image of Hell. All showed patches of rust and well-worn tires.
The sun had consumed the morning shadows and begun heating the desert floor. Though the day was cool, Sam was sure the interiors of the vans must be twenty degrees hotter. There was no sign of activity. Apparently, Satan wasn’t an early riser.
She parked off the road and stepped from the Jeep. Two crows, their black forms silhouetted against the blue sky, soared overhead and cawed at each other as if arguing.
She approached one of the vans, keeping a vigilant watch on the others, and rapped on the side panel. Hearing stirring inside, she stepped back as the door slid open and the tall brunette she had so often seen in town peeked out, followed by a waft of warm air and the unmistakable smell of marijuana. The girl stepped to the ground, rubbed her eyes, and blinked under the assault of the sun. Tucking her black tee shirt into her dirty jeans, she finally focused on Sam.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Up late last night?”
The girl shielded the sun from her eyes, scanned Sam up and down, and then focused on the badge wallet, which hung from Sam’s belt. “What do you want? We didn’t do anything.”
“Why do you assume I thought you did something?”
“You’re a cop. Cops always think we’re up to something.”
“And are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then, why are you still here? The trial is over?”
“We’re merely voicing our religious beliefs and supporting our Earthly master. I think the Constitution allows us to do that.”
“Yes, it does. You can believe in anything you wish. You can follow that psycho Garrett around all you want. But, you can’t break the law. If you do, you’ll have to deal with me and Sheriff Walker.”
“I’m terrified,” she said sarcastically.
Another young girl, the blonde, rolled out of the van. Even her dirty, disheveled clothes and sleep puffed eyes couldn’t mask her beauty--pert nose, high cheeks, pouty lips, emerald eyes. Her short blonde hair looked like a trampled cornfield.
A dozen or so others came from the other vans or crawled from the tents, forming a vacant-eyed group. They looked like children of the damned.
“What’s your name?” Sam asked the brunette.
“Penelope.”
“Penelope what?”
“Just Penelope.”
“And you?” Sam directed to the blonde.
“Melissa.”
“Let me guess? Just Melissa?”
The girl offered no response.
“Where were all of you last night?” Sam continued.
“Here.” Penelope waved her hand toward the remnants of a campfire twenty feet to her left. Melissa nodded her agreement. The others stood motionless like mushrooms sprouted from the sandy soil.
Adjacent to the fire’s ashes, sat an altar, crudely constructed from rocks, which were painted with the drippings of black candles. Empty beer cans and several joint remnants littered the ground.
“All night? All of you?”
“Yes.” Penelope propped her hands on her hips.
Sam scanned the group. She figured half of them didn’t understand the question and the other half didn’t understand the answer. Melissa snuggled against Penelope, who wrapped a protective arm around her.
“You’re sure about that?” Sam asked.
“We left town about 7, stopped by the store for supplies, and got here about 7:30.”
“Then, what?”
Penelope shrugged. “We cooked, ate, had a few beers. Then, held a prayer service.”
“Prayer service?”
“Christians aren’t the only ones who pray,” Melissa said. “They just pray to the wrong God. We pray to the God of Darkness.”
“And a little marijuana helps him hear, I guess?” Sam shot back.
Melissa stared at her but again offered no response. Instead, she hooked a finger in the waistband of Penelope’s jeans and lay her head against Penelope’s shoulder.
“Look,” Sam continued, “I’m not here to harass you or violate your religious freedoms, such as they are, but a family was killed about a mile from here. You know anything about it?”
Melissa looked up, wide-eyed.
“No. Why should we?” Penelope said.
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“We aren’t killers,” Penelope said. “We’re here to support one of our own. He has no one on his side except us.”
“Do you know Richard Earl Garrett? Ever actually met him?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky. He’s a psycho child killer, nothing more.”
“You’re wrong,” Penelope said. “He’s Satan’s chosen disciple, his personification here on Earth.”
Sam looked at the dirty, young faces before her and couldn’t help wondering why these kids had slid down the path they were on. Why they had chosen Satan over college or a job or a family. Why they had latched on to Garrett as a symbol of hope and redemption.
“Anybody see you here last night?” she asked.
“Yeah. Dude named Ed something came by in a pick-up. Asked what we were doing.” Penelope cocked her head to one side, eying Sam defiantly.
“And?”
“We told him. He said not to leave beer cans or trash when we left and he drove away.”
Ed Campbell, Sam thought. He lived on a small spread a couple of miles further down Salt Creek Road.
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Must have been midnight or so.”
“You camp here every night?”
“Along here somewhere,” Penelope said. “Where ever feels right. Of course, we’re in town every day. We don’t have anything to hide.”
“Then, you wouldn’t mind coming by the Sheriff’s Department this afternoon and giving us your fingerprints?”
“Are you arresting us?” Penelope asked.
“No. But, if you give us your prints and they check out, maybe I won’t have to come back out here and ask more questions.”
“That’s fair. We just want to be left alone and be near our master.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll check with Ed. See if he corroborates your story.” Sam turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to the group. “And don’t smoke that shit in town or I’ll bust you. Out here, I don’t care what you do, but in town, you don’t even pick your nose. Understand?”
No response, blank stares.
She climbed in her Jeep, whipped a U-turn, and pointed it toward town.
*
As Sam drove toward town, she mentally formulated a suspect list for this morning’s murders. None of her choices excited her. Garrett, the groupies, an unknown accomplice, the Manson Family, space aliens. Hell, she might as well consider a joint suicide, for that matter.
She discarded aliens and suicide since she included them only as an attempt to find a scrap of humor in all this. Garrett was in jail, which eliminated him. Mostly.
She knew the groupies weren’t the killers. They didn’t hack up the Hargroves in some misguided attempt to free Richard Earl Garrett. No way. Lost, confused, rebellious, sure, but not murderers. Everything--her nose, her gut, her common sense--told her they weren’t involved. Of course, she would finger print them anyway. And, if they didn’t show up voluntarily she would haul their butts in.
She had to admit the murders of Roger and Miriam were Mansonesque in many respects. The shear madness of the murders, the mutilations, the overkill, the removal of their hearts. Manson’s outfit could have done all this, and more. She remembered reading that Sharon Tate’s unborn child had been cut from her womb by the cult. And more recently, she had read that as many as a hundred members of his so called “family” still resided in California. Could they have heard about Garrett and come here to reignite Charlie’s “Helter Smelter” fantasy? Could any of Garrett’s groupies have a connection with Manson’s “family”? They were all too young to even remember the murders. Sam was, too. Still, cults had a way surviving, multiplying, spawning splinter groups.
