The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  “Well?” I ask when Rick hangs up.

  “His boss was about to can him for no-call-no-show. Manning only took two days off three weeks ago, but other than his being absent up without calling out, he had a good work history. Boss said he got along with people, no accidents, no complaints. He hadn’t been at their current work site since Thursday of last week.”

  “So, he misses Friday and Monday. We have him being killed after two in the morning on Tuesday.” I frown. “So where was he over the weekend?”

  “A damn good question,” says Rick, locking his computer. “Want to start with his place or raid the high school for devil worshipers?”

  I copy Manning’s address onto a note. “Let’s check out his apartment first.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  No Trouble

  Walter Manning lives―or lived―northeast of the city center by the tip of the East Bay.

  I drive this time, and our trip to the Bayview Apartments complex is uneventful. Little conversation happens along the way since Rick’s all over his coffee cup like it’s his wife on their wedding night. My head’s trying to compartmentalize the idea of potentially looking at high school kids for such a grisly killing. I keep circling back to that little diamond, and some ‘sweet little angel’ losing it in the midst of cutting a guy open.

  I’m not so naïve as to think it impossible for, say, a sixteen-year-old girl to kill. Psychosis doesn’t have a minimum age, or gender requirement, though I would like to believe such a thing is rare. A few documented cases of young female murderers come to mind, but usually, their victims had been even younger than the killer―or abusive caretakers. Maybe this girl stood around watching while the boys did the dirty work? I suppose the kids could have been up to something dark two months ago, perhaps that’s why she’d gotten so drunk… though it still doesn’t feel right to me. Also, how would Manning have wound up tight enough in the social circles of high schoolers to get drunk with them?

  Maybe one of the teenagers tried to slip that GHB to the girl who lost the earring? A generic image of a drunken young girl staggering face-first into a tree and losing an earring flashes across my brain. What if Manning found the kids in the woods, helped himself to some beer, and got the one meant for this girl?

  No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would they kill him at all then, much less throw his guts all over the place? Could he have attacked them, or attacked this girl in the past? His file had nothing even remotely close to a sex crime. Walter was a thief, and not all that good of one. Damn. That doesn’t feel right either. What is the connection between Walter Manning and that group of kids?

  “You look ready to turn someone into a toad,” says Rick.

  I’m laughing before I realize it. “Wow… Thanks. I needed that.”

  “What? Turning someone into a frog?”

  “No, jackass.” I take a left into the apartment place and park by the rental office sign. “The laugh. Did you find anything that looks like a connection between the vic and those kids?”

  “Only the ritual site.” Rick opens his door. “If this was part of some actual Satanic killing, there probably isn’t a connection. Random sacrifice victim.”

  “Is that a thing?” I ask. “Random sacrifice victim?”

  “I have a book or two on it.”

  That, I don’t doubt. Rick read up on serial killers the way most people read James Patterson. If he says it’s a thing, it’s a thing. I say, “Except for the small detail of Manning being drugged first in his drink. That suggests he had some familiarity with his killer.”

  “There’s that.” Rick nods.

  “Which means, he either somehow knew those kids and went drinking with them, or we are missing something.” I hop out, shove the car door closed, and approach the apartment leasing office.

  “I get the feeling you’re leaning toward missing something.”

  “Yeah. How many thirty-six-year-old men routinely go drinking with high schoolers?” I pause, one hand on the doorknob and glance over at Rick. “Excluding predators.”

  He makes a ‘you got me there’ face.

  A pleasant auburn-haired woman in her middle forties looks up from behind a desk when we walk into a room that smells like pumpkin spice candles. Her beige sweater either belonged to her mother or she’s trying to get a head start on being elderly. I return her smile and introduce us while showing my badge.

  “Oh… homicide detectives, I hope nothing’s happened here.” The woman appears equal parts concerned and frightened.

  “We’re investigating the death of one of your tenants,” says Rick. “Walter Manning.”

  She gasps. “Oh, my. Who would want to hurt him?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping you could help us with,” I say. “Miss?”

  “Betty Hanley. I run the leasing office here and help the property owner out with paperwork and whatnot. I know all the tenants, but I can’t think of anyone who might have an issue with Walter.”

  “So, he didn’t cause any trouble, have any problems with anyone?” asks Rick.

  Betty shakes her head. “No, not really. The landlord was initially a little nervous about his prior conviction, but after meeting with him, decided to give him a chance. We haven’t had a single problem with him in the two years he’s lived here.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” I ask.

  “Well…” Betty leans back in her chair, rubbing her chin. “Sometimes, he’d drive a big truck home with some construction company logo on it. He mostly kept to himself, though. Friendly if you walked up to him, but he tended to avoid people. Can’t say I ever saw him having any women around, or really anyone, for that matter, who visited him. If he had a social life, he kept it elsewhere.”

  I nod while jotting down notes. “We’d like to have a look around his apartment.”

  “Also, we’d appreciate it if Mr. Manning’s residence remained undisturbed until we either get a crew to go over it or determine an investigation unnecessary.” Rick smiles.

  “Of course.” Betty holds up a ‘one moment’ finger and places a call from her desk phone to a man named Lou, explaining that the police need access to an apartment. The call is brief, and she hangs up looking pleased. “Lou’s on his way. He’s the property manager. He’ll take you over there and let you in.”

  “Great. Thank you,” I say.

  Rick makes idle chatter with Betty about the huge fish tank in the leasing office for a few minutes, and we unwillingly (but with smiles) learn the names of all fourteen occupants. I slip in a few questions about Walter and discover he didn’t miss rent payments and the management here considered him a model tenant. One person did complain about him, once, but only because they had discovered his criminal record and ‘didn’t feel safe.’ The other tenant had been advised that Walter was being monitored, and any questionable conduct would terminate his lease. We take down the name of the person who complained, a Jacob Yost. It’s a bit of a stretch to go from not wanting a convict in your apartment complex to slicing a guy to bits, but it’s worth checking on.

  The door opens, admitting a large-bellied man in a white button-down shirt, bolo tie with a wolf-head clasp, and jeans. He’s got long, straight grey hair, a boulder-shaped face with prominent cheekbones, and radiates a grandfatherly curmudgeonry. My inner sense tells me he’s a kind soul, but for whatever reason likes to put up a gruff exterior. As soon as he notices my pentacles, his energy shifts to a mixture of deference and unease. I can’t tell if he respects me as some sort of shaman or thinks I’m giving off ‘bad energy’ and wants no part of it. Great. Now, I’m at unease too.

  “Hello.” I offer a hand. “I’m Detective Wimsey; this is my partner, Detective Santiago.”

  “Lou Hawk,” says the older man, while shaking our hands. “Betty says you two need to see inside one of the rooms?”

  “Right. Walter Manning’s place.”

  “Oh.” Lou’s eyebrows climb. “Thought that boy had things sorted out. He’s in
trouble?”

  I look down. “No, Mr. Hawk. He’s been killed. We’re investigating.”

  “Shame, that.” Lou waves for us to follow and goes back outside.

  On the way to the apartment, we repeat the usual questions, but Lou the property manager also doesn’t know anyone who’d have an interest in harming Mr. Manning, and backs up Betty’s opinion that the man kept to himself and stayed out of people’s way. He unlocks the door of a modest one-bedroom apartment, which is reasonably well-kept for a man living alone. A hint of machine smell hangs in the air, like I’m standing next to a piece of heavy construction equipment. Given the brown coat hanging near the door, the fragrance is likely soaked into it.

  We pull on gloves and do a basic walk-around, though there’s nothing obvious here that suggests violence occurred. All the windows look secure, the door showed no signs of tampering, no scent of cleaning products or signs of blood anywhere. I do find a cell phone on his desk, and collect it plus a desktop computer. After ten minutes, Rick and I meet again in the living room with equally grim expressions.

  “Whatever happened, didn’t happen here,” says Rick.

  I glance at the forty-inch TV, covered in dust. “I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Should we invoke the Tyvek legion?” Rick grins.

  “Not sure it’s worth it just yet. I think our guy met his fate elsewhere. He left his cell phone behind, so he either went somewhere in a hurry or….”

  “Left without wanting to.” Rick glances around. “Maybe we ought to get them here?”

  I heft the computer box. “Let’s see if we can find any communication in his last hours alive first. Not really looking forward to Greer giving us a ‘talking to’ about wasting resources.”

  Rick nods and turns to Lou. “We may still need this place intact. How long can you keep it before it becomes a burden not cleaning it out and re-renting it?”

  Lou shrugs. “Rent’s due by the seventh of each month. He’s paid this one, so you got a couple weeks yet.”

  “Great. Appreciate your help.” Rick is about to turn away when he pauses and asks, “You wouldn’t happen to know if he has any next of kin or relatives? Say, anything on his rental application?”

  “Did he list an emergency contact?” I ask.

  Lou points across the parking lot. “That’s a Betty question. She’s got all that in her computer.”

  I nod. “Okay. Thank you.”

  While Lou wanders off in another direction, Rick and I head back to the leasing office, and wait for a moment while she accepts a past-due rent check from a tenant. As soon as the man leaves, I approach the desk.

  “Back again. Can you tell us if there is an emergency notification contact on Walter’s lease? Any next of kin?” I ask.

  Betty nods while typing. “Yes. Julia Manning,” she reports a moment later, squinting at the screen. “Younger sister, according to the document.” She jots down a phone number with a Portland, Oregon, area code on a Post-it note and hands it to me. “Mr. Manning didn’t give an address for her.”

  “Thanks.” I hold the note up, smiling. “This is a big help.”

  Meanwhile, Rick’s been busy writing out an official receipt for the evidence we are removing from the apartment. He hands it to Betty.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asks.

  Rick shrugs. “Put it in his file.”

  “Will the computer be returned?” She looks at the receipt, narrowing her eyes. “And his phone?”

  “Doubtful. Once we’re done with it, it’ll sit in a room for a while waiting to be claimed. His next of kin can always put in a request later, once the case is closed.”

  She shrugs. “Not that I care. Never seen his sister, or anyone, really. I hope you catch the bastard that did this to him.”

  “We do, too, ma’am,” I say.

  Next, we look up that complaining neighbor, Yost, but since it’s the middle of the day, he isn’t home. Back at the car, while I’m stashing the computer in the trunk, Rick scoots in behind the wheel and sticks his tongue out at me like a little boy. Sighing out a weak laugh, I walk around to the passenger side and get in before tossing him the key.

  “So, off to the high school?” asks Rick.

  “Before we scare the shit out of a bunch of teens, I think we should see what we can get from Walter’s electronics.”

  “Fair enough.” Rick drops the car in gear.

  ***

  It’s unsettling how fast our tech guys hack into Walter’s computer and phone.

  I guess privacy really is all an illusion. I’ve heard people say that it shouldn’t bother those who have nothing to hide, and while there’s some truth there, I do have issues with the government being able to see everything. Granted, it works to my benefit here since it’s my job to find out who killed Mr. Manning… and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the invasion since it might help make someone answer for his death. But generally, government is still made up of people, and people have human flaws. A total lack of privacy is ripe to be exploited by a corrupt government. If only we could find a perfect balance.

  Anyway, Manning’s computer is not the shining pile of information I had hoped it would be. His Facebook presence is nearly nonexistent, like he logged in once to see it and never went back. Couple of video games, a resume file, bunch of emails to his parole officer which all look routine. I hand that off to Rick while I keep digging.

  Speaking of digging, the Portland phone number for his sister is disconnected, and I strike out trying to find a Julia Manning anywhere within 500 miles who is related to him. Walter might’ve done it to be evasive, which, given his criminal record, is possible―or he’s alone and just put something there to put something there.

  Rick gets off the phone with Manning’s parole officer and shares the lack of usefulness there. “Oh, he did mention Walter saying he had a couple friends. Kinda odd that they didn’t visit him at home, right?”

  “Maybe they did and no one noticed?” I close the emails and turn my attention to the phone records our lab extracted from his cellular. The tech highlighted three numbers with frequent repeat contact over the past few months. “Hmm. Maybe I found the friends.”

  One number turns out to be his boss at the construction company, but the other two look promising. I like promising.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Couple of Demons

  A little after eleven in the morning on Thursday, we arrive at Olympia’s #1 Toyota, a dealership where the owner of one of Manning’s frequent dials works.

  The number belongs to a Mr. David Swanson, age thirty-four. Like Manning, he’s had a few run-ins with the law, though his criminal career is less extensive. Juvenile shoplifting, and a charge of grand theft auto three days after he turned eighteen, though it looks like the judge felt sorry for him and let the ‘joyrider’ off with probation and community service since the vehicle was recovered without damage.

  Since that, he’s been clean―or at least good enough not to get caught.

  Not three steps into the service entrance, a whistle catcall breaks the relative silence. A weaselly-looking guy in a polo shirt and khakis slides up next to me and asks, “Hey, baby. Do you need your chassis inspected?”

  I harden my glare at him (despite Rick always teasing me that my glare has all the intimidation value of a growling hamster) and set my hands on my hips, pushing my jacket back to expose my sidearm and badge. “I wasn’t aware that sexual harassment was part of the ‘full service’ maintenance.”

  The guy goes white in the face and stammers. Two other men behind small service-counter desks stare at their computers, diligently avoiding looking at me. A woman at the third desk shoots me a giant grin.

  Rick, easily a full head taller than this guy, looms over him. “Hey, baby. Do you need your face realigned?”

  “Easy, man. It was just a joke. I thought she was someone else.”

  “Another redhead, right?”

  He shrugs. “You all look the s
ame to me.”

  Okay, that got a grin from me. “Cut the shit,” I say. “Where can we find David Swanson?”

  “Uhh.” The weasel points at a hallway to the right. “In the garage. Just go on in and yell for Dave.”

  “Right,” says Rick.

  As we head down the indicated corridor, I give Rick the side eye. “Face realigned?”

  “The first thing that occurred to me. Lame, I know.”

  “No, it was sweet. Thanks.”

  We head past two bathrooms and a cashier’s desk, and I stiff-arm open a pair of swinging blue double-doors. The garage is large and loud, with ten service bays all in operation.

  “Dave Swanson?” I shout.

  A small army of jumpsuit-clad mechanics freezes in their tracks, all of them staring at me.

  I feel like the only woman in a men’s prison for a second until the mood shifts more like I’m the Irish girl who just walked into the wrong New York bar in 1860. Undeterred, I narrow my eyes and walk forward.

  “Olympia PD. I need to talk to David Swanson.”

  My hair picks that exact moment to fling off its clip, and fluff down over my face.

  A few strands flutter on my sigh, as the men all chuckle. Well, I suppose amused is better than lecherous and/or hostile.

  “You sure you don’t want to cut it?” whispers Rick beside me.

  “I’m sure,” I mutter.

  A dark-skinned, possibly Native American, man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit approaches and hands me back the clip. Ooh, score. It didn’t break this time, just flew off.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it and pinning my hair back again, this time, a little more loosely.

  Tension broken, the men resume doing what they had been doing.