by Ben Miller
Tina finally made eye contact with Camilla, faintly smiling. “Both.”
Camilla smiled back.
“Tina,” Jack began, shifting in his seat a bit, creating a pause to signal a corresponding shift in the conversation. “Do you know anyone involved with the occult?”
Tina’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that? Like, Satanism n’ shit?”
“Sort of. Have you known anyone with an interest in that sort of stuff? Or heard anything around the neighborhood?”
Her eyes widened, pupils dilated. Her tough façade melted. “Shit! Do you think my baby was taken for, like, some satanic ritual or something?”
“We have no reason to believe that at this point. We’re just exploring every possibility, chasing down any theory.”
“Oh, God,” Tina said.
Jack leaned forward, calmly prodding Tina. Given the dramatic response in comparison to Tina’s previous demeanor, he wondered if they had touched a nerve. “Tina? Do you know anybody interested in that kind of stuff?”
Tina shook her head. “No. Nothin’.”
Jack and Camilla made peripheral eye contact, indicating they both had noticed the change in Tina’s affect. While the notion of one’s baby being sacrificed to satisfy the devil could shock anyone, Jack made a mental note to return to this line of questioning with Tina Langenbahn at some point in the near future. However, he thought now would be a strategic time to end their interview. They offered their business cards to Tina before leaving, imploring her to call any time if she could think of anything else that they should know.
Rita drove her unmarked company sedan, and Camilla sat in the front passenger seat. Jack leaned forward from the back. “Rita, was Tina always like that, since you first questioned her?”
“A pain in the ass?”
Jack tilted his head— not the terminology he would have used, but it did suit Tina Langenbahn. “Yeah, I suppose.”
Rita rubbed her lips with her right index and middle fingers, a maneuver Jack had seen many former-smokers make. “I think so.”
“She seems so apathetic,” Camilla agreed.
“Disaffected.” Jack nodded.
“Is it a defense mechanism, to keep her from getting more hurt in all this?” Camilla asked.
“Probably,” Jack answered.
“What’s the alternative explanation?” Rita questioned. “I mean, I know a ton of chicks who act like that. They’re above everything, too tough to let life bring them down, when, in fact, they tend to fall apart at the drop of a hat.”
Camilla looked back at Jack, who shrugged. “Maybe she really has no feelings about losing her baby. Maybe she doesn’t seem broken up because she’s not,” he hypothesized.
Camilla looked at Rita, perhaps trying to get a read on her impression of this theory. “Was this a wanted pregnancy? Do we know?”
Rita glanced at Camilla out of the corner of her eye. “I can’t assume so. She’s a young single girl who gets knocked up by a loser bartender.”
“Unplanned doesn’t necessarily mean unwanted,” Camilla said.
Rita guffawed. “Semantics.” In less than half a day together, Jack concluded Rita Ferroni’s lack of tact did not really represent some rebellious charade. She truly didn’t give a fuck.
“We’ll have to add that question next time we talk to Tina,” Jack reminded them.
“Next time?” Rita asked.
Jack nodded. “I don’t think we’re done with Tina Langenbahn.”
Rita slowed down and pulled over to the side of the street, putting the car in park. She put her left forearm on the top of the steering wheel and turned to face Jack. “Do you think she might be involved in this? Her own baby’s kidnapping?”
Jack took a deep breath and let it out deliberately. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’re in a position to disregard any theory at this point.”
16
Fiona Evans knew she should be studying. She had a shit ton of things to do this weekend, and she had nearly caught up on her work for this week. She didn’t want to fall behind in classwork and try to catch up next week, not with a test coming up on Wednesday. Her current study break of checking Facebook had lasted twice as long as she had allotted.
One of her friends had posted, “Hug your babies and keep them close…,” above a link to a video from local station WCVB. Fiona watched the video long enough to find out about the recent kidnappings of young infants in her area. She didn’t get into it enough to find out why the headline mentioned “The Piper.” She assumed it had something to do with crack, or drug dealers, or something along those lines. What a sad, sick world, Fiona thought.
After scrolling through a few more posts, she decided to update her status before getting back to work. “Trying to finish studying for the week, but what a struggle! Busy day tomorrow, starting with diaper run at Wal-Mart. Wish me luck!” she posted.
She closed out Facebook just as her phone rang. Aiden. Shit.
“Hey,” she said.
“Yeah, hey, um, when can I see Tyler?” Aiden said on the other end.
“What? Aiden—”
“When can I see him? He’s my kid too! It’s my turn. I wanna see him. I wanna, I wanna see my kid!” He spoke fast, pressured.
“Are you high or coked out or something?”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
“What?! Listen, Aiden. You can’t call up and just demand to see him. And insult me.”
“Fuck that! I wanna have my kid, Fiona!”
“OK. Like I said before, you can come over and spend time with him here first. You don’t know anything about taking care of him. But you have to sober up first.” Fiona kept her voice even, calm. She had spent enough time with high assholes—shit, it wasn’t too long ago that she was the high asshole herself—to know how to deal with them. Gently, like approaching a wild animal. No sudden movements.
“Aw, fuck.” His voice trailed off, like he took the phone away from his face.
“Call me tomorrow, OK?”
She got no response. Apparently Aiden had hung up.
She hung up too, involuntarily shaking her head. She guessed he wouldn’t call tomorrow, either because he would stop caring before then or he was so high right now that he would forget. She leaned over her textbook and cleared her head of Aiden.
She actually enjoyed her Child Growth and Development class. Having a real-world example right in front of her in Tyler made studying so much easier and more interesting. She couldn’t wait to watch her adorable little man achieve his upcoming milestones: rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking. Everyone told her how fast the time would fly, but she just couldn’t wait.
17
As he walked through the door and the overwhelming odor of incense hit him, Jack wondered why Rita had brought Camilla and him to a head shop. At closer inspection, though, he noticed a different theme from that of a traditional head shop. Gone were the tied-dyed shirts, hemp necklaces, and glass cases displaying “tobacco paraphernalia”—which, everyone knew, got used for pot and other drugs. Instead this store had huge stacks of books (most appeared leather-bound), some clothes (all black, also composed mostly of leather), and lots of jewelry and other ornate objects, much of which resembled some form of a goat. Jack noted the majority of the jewelry contained at least one five-pointed star, which, in this setting Jack supposed, was better known as a pentagram.
Rita walked up to the counter near the back of the store, and Jack and Camilla followed. The deeper into the store they moved the darker it seemed to get, more so than Jack would expect based merely on the distance from the small window in the front door. He hoped it was just his imagination.
A man in his late twenties with freshly shorn black hair sat on a stool behind the counter, reading one of those leather-bound tomes. His wiry build resembled the rectangular rims of his glasses. The store was otherwise empty.
Rita pulled out her badge and introduced herself and her two companions. The man looked up from his
book and studied Rita’s face, ignoring her badge. He slowly closed the massive volume in front of him without taking his eyes off Rita. Jack tried to read the title on the front cover, but he couldn’t make it out. Several seconds of silence passed. Jack expected the man to say something—“Nice to meet you,” or, “How can I help you?” or, “My name is Creepy McFuckwad,” or something—but he just looked at Rita. Eventually the corners of his mouth raised almost imperceptibly; Jack guessed this was as close as Creepy got to showing a smile.
Rita broke their staring contest to look around the store. “Can we ask you a few questions?”
“You can, and you may,” the man replied in a voice with a much deeper timbre than Jack would have guessed based on his slender frame.
Rita looked back at the man and nearly scowled. He flashed his subtle smile, this time with a hint of smugness after correcting her grammar.
Rita took out a notebook and pulled a pen out of its resting place in the binding. “And what’s your name, sir?”
“Cole.”
Rita looked up from her notebook. “You have a last name, Cole?”
“I do.”
Rita took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Jack could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. He and Camilla met eyes and shared a glance, deciding to stay out of this interview for now.
When Rita completed her drawn-out exhalation, she took another deliberate breath. “OK, Cole. I’m not sure what little game you think you’re playing here, but it’s not fucking cute. I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I need to, and I certainly don’t want you wasting any more of mine. So let’s cut the shit, and you start being helpful. OK?”
Cole did not look away from Rita. Jack concluded this was not the first time Cole had been interrogated by the police. “Nierling.”
“Nierling?” Rita replied.
“Nierling,” he repeated, then spelled it for her. He proceeded to confirm he was the storeowner. He had only one employee, who had the day off.
“Tell me about your room upstairs,” Rita commanded.
Cole broke his gaze from Rita for the first time and looked up to the ceiling. He stared at it for several seconds. Jack imagined Cole having a telepathic conversation with the room upstairs, asking it for guidance in answering this question. He gradually lowered his eyes to again meet Rita’s. He shrugged and stuck out his chin. “It’s a room. Pretty non-descript.”
“That’s not what I heard. Mind if we take a look at it?” she asked.
“Mind if I ask what this is all about?” he queried in return.
Rita nodded. “We’re investigating the disappearance of a couple of infants in this general area over the last month. Have you heard about it?”
Cole’s eyes narrowed and he looked away in disgust, displaying more emotion than he had during the entire conversation thus far. After taking a few seconds to collect himself, he looked back at Rita. “This is profiling, Officer Ferroni. You know nothing about me except your perceptions about my beliefs. Yet here you are casting aspersions at me.”
“I’m not casting any-fucking-thing,” Rita responded calmly. “I’m investigating these crimes, and my investigation has brought me here. And, if you’ll allow it, I’d like to see your sanctuary upstairs. Unless you have something to hide.”
Cole sat up straighter on his stool. “I have nothing to hide. And I have nothing to do with this or any other crime. I am a small business owner who faithfully pays his taxes—and hence your salaries, by the way. Once a week I host a spiritual gathering in our temple upstairs. We keep to ourselves and don’t harm anyone.”
Camilla stepped forward. “Help dispel our misperceptions. Tell us about what you do, what you believe in.”
Cole regarded Camilla. Pleased, he relaxed on his stool. “You are an honest truth-seeker, Agent Vanderbilt.” He got up off his stool and came from behind the counter. He walked to a shelf on the opposite side of the store. “I am a Theistic Satanist. We believe in individuality and freedom of thought. Our greatest achievement is self-actualization through attaining knowledge.” He pulled a book off the shelf and began to walk back toward them. “While we do believe in the power of ritual as a means of achieving self-actualization, our rituals do not involve sacrifices or any such thing. We do not practice violence.”
He handed the book to Camilla. “Complimentary,” he said. “While I don’t think there is one definitive text that encompasses Theistic Satanism, most cite this as the closest thing.”
Camilla looked down at the book in her hands, The Complete Book of Demonolatry by S. Connolly. Jack watched this exchange, half-expecting her fingers to burst into flame when she touched the manual.
“Who does practice violence?” Jack asked. “Are there different sects—some more involved in self-actualization and others involved more in…destruction?”
“Violent people practice violence,” Cole answered calmly. “A small number of them try to blame it on Satan, but they lie. Satanists don’t condone violence as a practice. Now devil-worshipping is a different matter.”
“What?” Rita uttered. “Satan, devil. Same thing.”
“Wrong,” Cole said. “Everyone thinks Satanists and devil-worshippers are synonymous, but this is simply not true. People come in here all the time asking about information on the devil, and I turn them away.”
“All right, well, I’m thoroughly fucking confused,” Rita said.
Cole shrugged. “I’m sure you’re welcome to read that book when Agent Vanderbilt finishes it.”
“Could we see your temple upstairs?” Camilla asked. “I think it will enlighten us further.”
Cole looked deeply into her eyes, identical to his initial stare at Rita. Just when it began to get uncomfortable again, he said, “Yes. Follow me.”
18
Did that really just happen?
Stanton Newkirk hung up his cell phone and placed it on his desk beside him. He replayed the details of the phone call in his head. He couldn’t tell if his elevated pulse were due to excitement or guilt, yet he was pretty sure the situation could warrant either emotion. Or both.
It had been over three years since his and Kim’s most recent huge disappointment. Their adoption agency had introduced them to Maddie Novak, a poor pregnant waif in her early twenties, with the countenance of an angel and the means of a pauper. She had selected them from a book of dozens of prospective parents; Stanton and Kim would adopt her unborn child, a boy, and raise him as their own.
The three of them had signed an agreement at the agency office—a standard contract, according to their adoption agent. Stanton voiced concerns that the baby’s father might surface and make a claim to their son. Maddie’s boyfriend had left her high and dry after getting her pregnant. She couldn’t even locate him to sign papers relinquishing his right to custody. The agent assured them that his failure to sign papers after ninety days—which had already passed— served as an equivalent to giving up parental rights. The contract stated Maddie had the right to change her mind and maintain custody at any moment up until the infant reached six months of age, but she assured them that she had no interest in—and no means to—raise a baby.
The deal stipulated the Newkirks could accompany Maddie to the obstetrician appointments and the ultrasounds. She had no health insurance (the Affordable Health Care Act hadn’t yet taken effect), so the Newkirks paid out of pocket for her medical expenses. During one of the early OB appointments, the doctor expressed concern about Maddie’s inappropriately low weight gain. Despite the expectation that she should gain about one pound per week, Maddie had virtually no weight change since conception. She said her welfare checks didn’t quite provide enough to pay for the extra food she needed, now that she was pregnant. After that appointment, and outside the regulations of their contract with the agency—but not necessarily against them— Stanton and Kim gave Maddie a stipend to help support her. Initially they paid her $500 per month, but, due to continued poor weight gain, this ballooned u
p to $1700 per month by the end of the second trimester. Luckily, the OB stated Maddie’s struggles with her weight did not appear to be having any ill effects on the fetus thus far.
Stanton and Kim finally had a reason to get rid of the old furniture in their second guest bedroom. He painted the walls a pale blue; she stenciled in a variety of letters, numbers, and friendly animal faces in bold pastel colors. They furnished it with a sturdy cherry crib with matching dressers and a changing table. They got one of those fancy jogging strollers, though neither had done much jogging for years. They had a countdown on the calendar in the kitchen.
When Maddie didn’t show up for the 36-week appointment at the OB’s office, Stanton was immediately concerned. She had never even been late to an appointment, let alone missed one. After sitting in the waiting room for an hour after the scheduled appointment time, he knew something bad had happened to her. He tried to put on an air of comfort for Kim, but he felt dread in his bones. He dropped Kim off at home and went to Maddie’s apartment.
Even though they had her address from their first meeting, neither he nor Kim had ever been to her place. She always met them at the agency, doctor’s office, or radiology suite at the hospital. He parked in front of the dilapidated building and nearly tripped on the crumbling concrete steps up to the front stoop. When she didn’t answer after a dozen buzzes over a ten-minute span, he grabbed his cell and dialed the management company’s phone number listed on the rusty intercom. He explained the situation to the disinterested woman on the other end, probably in far too much detail for her liking. She said she would send someone over right away.
He continued to press the button to her apartment every three minutes while he waited for the company’s representative to arrive, which took well over an hour. Right when Stanton got his phone out again, deciding to just call the police, the man from the rental company finally showed.
The door to apartment 12 swung open, revealing an empty apartment save for the threadbare and stained furniture that came with the rental. No clothes, no personal belongings, nothing. Stanton stared at the emptiness, straight-faced, uncomprehending. He finally looked at the guy from the rental company, who met his eyes, looking equally baffled.
