A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  Michael was mean and controlling, but would he really go so far? Would he threaten her like this? He wasn’t normally one for subtlety; if true, his ingenuity surprised her.

  She turned on the television and tried to push the fears aside, to forget this entire mess, just for a little while. Her mind wandered to Detective Gentry. Something in the way he looked at her made her anxious, but also excited. Such depth in those dark, green eyes—passion, focus. Hard eyes, but underneath swam kindness and sympathy that seemed genuine. Not a man to put on affectations. No, what you saw was what you got with the detective.

  Stop it. Like I need any more complications in my life.

  She flipped through the channels, finding nothing but news about Seraphim, the last thing she wanted to see right now.

  Why can’t some campy comedy be on when I need it?

  About to click to the next channel, she froze. The screen showed a two-story house in a scenic subdivision encircled by hordes of reporters…her house.

  WRZK has learned an intended victim of the Seraphim escaped an attack last evening. Dr. Rebecca Drenning is now the only known person to survive this killer….

  She rushed to the window. Half a dozen reporters were set up outside her house, mounted lights and microphones everywhere. Vans with raised antenna arms lined the street. And storming up the drive…Michael.

  He shoved past, nearly knocking her to the floor. Anger radiated off him in waves, his eyes darting about the room as if looking for something to throw or break. This could get bad.

  “What. The. Hell?” he said, unconcerned if the reporters outside, or the next state over, heard. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “What? He attacked me. What was I supposed to do?” asked an incredulous Becca.

  “Tell me. Let me handle it. I am a cop, you know. It’s sort of what I do.”

  “You’re not high on my list of people to trust.” Her belligerence shocked even her. There’s my Becca, said Mom in her mind.

  Michael eyes squinted to hateful slits.

  “I can’t have fucking reporters and the goddamn police around here.”

  Ah, so that was it. He worried they would get wind of his little side enterprise. Of course, Michael did not try to frighten her. He’d never be able to come up with something so clever. He wanted to protect himself. Which meant…the Seraphim did attack her.

  “I don’t understand how the reporters even found out.”

  “You really are stupid, aren’t you? They’re dialed into police scanners and have people camped out at Metro. Any call goes out from dispatch, they check into it. Anyway, when the detectives working that case leave the station, the reporters follow. They can’t take a piss without a flock of those vultures swooping in. It ain’t rocket science. For someone so smart, you sure are dumb as a bag of rocks.” He glared out the window.

  “Sorry dear, but you weren’t exactly my top priority when I woke and discovered a serial killer had been in my house.”

  Michael spun toward her and took a step forward, but held up. Not even he would strike her with the world observing through a dozen camera lenses. Maybe that’s what gave her the sudden nerve to defy him. Or maybe she just did not care anymore. Now two psychos seemed to want her dead. She felt stuck between huddling in a corner in fear, and laughing at the utter absurdity of it all.

  Michael pointed his finger at her, teeth grinding so hard she heard his jaw pop. ‘This is not over,’ his eyes screamed with piercing rage. He stormed out the front door, got into his patrol car, and sped away with the whole city watching.

  * * *

  “They’re the same?” asked Marlowe.

  “The same,” replied Koop. “The coins and cross found at Dr. Drenning’s home match those Seraphim left at the other crime scenes. No mistake, it was him. By some small miracle, I even got a partial index off one of them the Doctor didn’t smudge.”

  “So you know who this is?” Marlowe’s heart raced with hope.

  Koop held his hands up. “The Red Sea exhausted me. I only work minor miracles now.”

  Spence chuckled. “Damn, I knew your ass was old.” He pivoted his head toward Marlowe. “Still, this makes no sense. She didn’t appear depressed, certainly not suicidal. Think your theory is wrong? And how the hell did a little thing like her get away? I have trouble believing she overpowered him.”

  “She didn’t. He let her go,” said Marlowe.

  “What?” said Koop and Spence in unison.

  “Gut feeling, but she was out cold. Even if she fought, he subdued her in the end.”

  “Maybe she hurt him. He left to heal up and regroup,” said Spence.

  Marlowe paced the floor, one hand rubbing his chin, deep in thought. Could he be mistaken? No, suicidal ideation was the only possible connection. “We need to follow up with Dr. Drenning. Something’s out of kilter.”

  Spence grinned. “Why don’t you handle it by yourself? I’ve got some…well, things to do.”

  Marlowe offered a surly expression in reply. Spence and his attempts at matchmaking. He seemed to forget Dr. Drenning was married, and more, a key witness in the biggest case this city had seen since the 16th Street bombings. Even so, Marlowe felt in no mood to argue. Frustrated, he waved and walked toward the exit with Spence chuckling in the background.

  A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind as he drove toward the hospital. Marlowe tried to grasp them one at time, but they coalesced into nonsensical images or danced out of focus. Something about Dr. Drenning, Becca, stirred emotions he had fought every day for five years to suppress.

  Visions of his family never left him, always close, and the accompanying emotions were dangerous. Since the first Seraphim crime scene, controlling those feelings had grown more difficult. Already he had lost control on more than one occasion, and each brought him nearer to obsession. Most frightening of all, he found himself not wanting to resist them anymore. His thoughts turned in a direction he would have thought abhorrent five years ago.

  Life, or more aptly death, had changed him. Now, he could imagine how good it would feel to let go and give in to the rage. How quickly could he get to Seraphim with the chains off?

  Too many goddamned rules. Did the city want to be safe or not? There was a price to pay for safety. They clung to their civil liberties while expecting him to keep the wolf from the door with one hand tied behind his back.

  If he could kill his idealism, smash the moral compass, things would be so much easier. Find the evidence by any means necessary and follow where it led. Any person with nothing to hide should not care if he looked around their house and possessions. Why should they need a lawyer just to talk to him?

  He teetered at the top of a slippery slope from which turning back would prove impossible, he knew. Frustration had him so damned exasperated. He had to find something to break this case fast, before it drove him mad.

  Arriving at the hospital, he pushed the thoughts away. He needed his mind sharp. Breaks did not fall out of the sky. A suspicious look, an off-hand comment, any tiny detail could make the difference. With his mind so clouded, the essential clue might slap him in the face and he would not recognize it.

  Marlowe found Patient Counseling Services on the fifth floor. His timing proved fortuitous, as Dr. Drenning wrapped up early with her last appointment. He sat in the waiting room half-listening to a program on a “whole wellness” approach to cancer.

  A nurse, stout in both stature and demeanor, escorted him to the doctor’s office. Dr. Drenning sat at her desk and rose when he entered the room. Before, at her home, without make-up and her eyes showing a lack of sleep, he found her lovely. Now, however, she struck an impressive figure indeed.

  Her black, silky hair fell over her shoulders, glistening in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window. When she smiled, an infectious smile, he felt certain his heart skipped a beat. Marlowe took her in fully, some inner mechanism behind his eyes controlling him. He marveled at her every feature, from the outline of her
body beneath the lab coat, to the tiny heart-shaped birthmark on her neck.

  As frightening as his own feelings, her eyes, the most brilliant blue, seemed to pierce through his veneer and see what no one else could see. He felt naked before her gaze. Shifting his stance nervously, he pulled his jacket tight, and buttoned it closed.

  Focus. Christ, you aren’t sixteen. Keep the hormones in check.

  “Dr. Drenning, thank you for seeing me.” Marlowe attempted to wipe the sweat from his palms inconspicuously, raking them along his sleeves.

  “Not at all. And it’s Becca, remember.”

  “Right, sorry. I wanted to let you know we’ve confirmed Seraphim did invade your home.”

  “I don’t understand. The news said the killer only came after…”

  “That’s what I needed to talk to you about. I noticed some bruising around your waistline.”

  She reddened and averted her eyes. “Yes…well I…he must have done it when I tried to fight him off.”

  “I don’t think so. Seraphim never hurts his victims. No injuries are inflicted while they are conscious; in fact, he seems to take great measures to ensure it doesn’t happen.”

  “Maybe it was different with me. Maybe the others didn’t fight back.” Becca tapped a shoe against the floor and twirled her hair around one finger, a tell Marlowe had noticed before.

  “We don’t know for certain you did fight. The positioning of those bruises suggests the person who caused them purposefully placed them in an inconspicuous location. The Seraphim would have no need to do such a thing. I think they were put there by someone trying to hide them, someone covering up their abuse. Someone like…a husband.”

  Marlowe studied her reaction. The logic in his theory bore its share of holes, but he committed to the play. It was obvious his guess was spot on. Becca appeared on the verge of tears.

  “How did you…?” she said, her voice breaking.

  “After I noticed the bruises, I suspected. Most husbands would be at their wife’s side after such a traumatic event. I’ve seen many domestic abuse cases, and the signs were all there. Your office clinched it.”

  “My office?”

  “No sign of your husband. No wedding photos, no pictures of a vacation, nothing.” Marlowe waved one hand around the room.

  “I like to keep it professional.” She turned her face away from him, refusing to make eye contact.

  “There’s a photo of you and…your mother? Another there with a friend, colleague maybe?”

  “Okay, okay. We have our problems, and perhaps Michael can get carried away sometimes. That doesn’t mean I’m suicidal.” Tears inched their way over fluttering eyelids, spilling down her cheeks. It did not please him to prove his hunch correct, but it did provide some answers.

  “I know what it’s like to feel trapped in a life you don’t want. One where pain is the only constant you can count on. Every day you think you can’t take it anymore. To just want peace.” He was not certain why he said it. The words came from somewhere deep inside, and he knew the accompanying hurt must have shown on his face.

  “Will you tell me? I need to hear.” The urgency in her tone disarmed him. He held his secrets and emotions close, reluctant to share them. Quid pro quo was not his normal method of getting a witness to talk, yet, her vulnerability weakened his guard. The fact she reminded him so much of Katy did not help.

  He considered her plea for a long moment. Marlowe had not discussed it with anyone. Even the department shrink the brass demanded he talk to could not get more than a few words out of him. He suspected they finally cleared him out of sheer annoyance. Marlowe took a deep breath. “Do you remember the Churchill Murders from a few years ago?”

  “Of course, the news ran it day and night. You were on that case?”

  “Lead detective, yes. I spent eight months chasing the sick bastard. Teddy Brumbeloe, a real piece of work. We tracked him to a rundown shack and took him out. Wasn’t the plan, but he gave us no choice. Gave me no choice.”

  “I think I recall that. I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Yeah, they plastered my face on everything. City’s hero. The brass loved it, and I didn’t shy away. Only one problem. We only had it half right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Becca.

  “Remember the killer’s MO? Cigar burns all over the victim’s body, strangulation with a leather belt, and the sign of the Gemini carved into their stomachs? We decided early on, the Gemini, the zodiac symbol represented by the Twins, referred to the dual killings. Always two men in their fifties, killed a few hours apart. I suspected two killers, even voiced my theory, but always enough time existed for one person to make the trip between murders.” Marlowe straightened in his seat, uncomfortable with the retelling.

  Becca crossed her legs, hands in her lap, and listened intently.

  “Plus, we found only one person’s DNA at the scenes, other than the victims’ of course. After Teddy went down, no one even considered another psycho remained out there. The higher-ups wanted to ride the wave of public support, and didn’t want me bucking matters. I wasn’t doing much bucking anyway, content with my temporary fame.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. It doesn’t sound like anyone could have known.”

  “Maybe not, but I feel like I should have. It seemed obvious in hindsight, when it turned out the killers were twin brothers. Teddy and Frank. Parents must have been Roosevelt fans. They seared their victims with the same type of cigar their father burned them with as children, and strangled them with a leather belt just as he had beaten them with.

  “As identical twins, of course any DNA at the scenes would match. A one-killer theory seemed air-tight.”

  “But you didn’t know any of this at the time, right?” Becca fiddled with a gold locket hanging at the hollow of her neck.

  “No, we didn’t learn any of their background until later. So, I’m at a bar with some fellow detectives celebrating our great victory when I get a call on my cell. My wife’s number, but a man’s voice.”

  Marlowe slipped back to that terrible day.

  “Hello Detective Gentry. Enjoying your day in the sun?”

  “Who is this? How did you get that phone? Where’s my wife?”

  “Oh she’s here. Wanna talk to her?”

  “Marlowe, he’s got Paige. Oh my god, he’s got our baby.” Agonized desperation filled Katy’s voice.

  “You took my family from me, now I’m going to take your family from you.”

  “Hurt them and I will kill you. You hear me, you bastard!”

  Despite Marlowe fighting to hide his feelings, pain and guilt pushed to the surface. “The phone went dead. I drove home, breaking every traffic law on the books. When I entered the kitchen, Frank held Katy with a knife poised against her neck, my little girl cowered, terrified in the corner. He killed my wife, Paige’s goddamn mother, and the bastard made us watch.”

  “Oh my god, she saw…” Becca’s hand went to her mouth for a moment. “I can’t begin to imagine…”

  “I tried to talk him down. I fucked up. I should’ve shot him. Maybe, if I had, Katy would…”

  Becca leaned forward and touched his knee. “It’s exhausting to tread water in a sea of doubt. You’ll never know. You’ll never come up with answers to make the questions stop. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  “I know. I feel like I’m drowning sometimes.” Marlowe averted his eyes, fingers digging into his thighs.

  “How is your daughter coping now?”

  “It’s been tough. After the murder, she spent six months in a facility. They wouldn’t let me see her for the first several weeks, which was hell. But I knew she needed help, and I wasn’t in any shape to care for her. I had my own…well…issues. The doctors finally sent her home after telling me she might snap out of it in a day or year. The bastards didn’t know a damn thing. It’s been almost two years, and Paige still hasn’t spoken a word. Two years…not a word. Sorry, I know they’re your co
lleagues.”

  “I understand.” Becca shook her head with a wistful smile. “No offense taken.”

  “I hired a nanny trained to work with special needs children, got my shit together, and went back to work. I had to. I would’ve gone crazy sitting home.”

  The overwhelming sympathy in Becca’s eyes nearly broke him. He had believed every tear he would ever cry drained away long ago, but it took all his will now to hold the flood back. Every time he thought of Paige’s impassive stare, he imagined her little voice asking him why he let Mommy die.

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you must have felt, what you must still feel. I hear such heartbreaking stories every day, people battling for their lives, but to see your family that way…. She stared down onto her lap. When her head rose, Marlowe knew she was ready. “You’re right. Michael has beaten me for years. I took it. I guess I thought there wasn’t anything I could do about it. You can’t understand…or maybe you can, with all you’ve seen and been through. His control over me, my weakness, didn’t happen all at once. It crept in over ten long years.”

  Becca paused. Marlowe could tell she struggled with how much to tell him.

  “He raped me…or tried to. I called the police, but they defended him. It made me feel like I’d fallen deep into a hole I’d never be able to climb out of. Michael could do whatever he wanted to me and make up any story he liked. I did think about suicide. Anywhere I ran, he would find me. I saw no way out. Still, I could never kill myself. I wallowed in self-pity for a bit, but snapped out of it quickly and reconciled to finding another answer.”

  “Good,” Marlowe said. “Good for you.”

  “So, you think that’s why Seraphim came after me?”

  “Yes, and I think it’s why you’re still alive.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “First, I need your professional expertise. Tell me about empathy. Could a person tell another felt suicidal without knowing them or even talking to them? Just by watching them?”