Eleven Days

by Donald Harstad

  “What I want to know,” I said, “is what the hell happened to McGuire?”

  “Beats me. You’ve gotta find his hand, or where it was chopped off.”

  “We’ve tried.”

  “I know. But that’s what I mean about good police work. You’ve gotta do your homework and handle the case like a routine murder.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I said. “We don’t have routine murders—we have about one every three or four years.”

  Saperstein laughed and shook his head. “Must be nice.”

  “We like it,” said Art, “but it shorts us on practice.”

  “Well,” said Saperstein, “from what Hal said, what I think you’ve got is this. Somebody knocked off a large part of a group. The group was composed of individuals with a common purpose. The motive for the killings is not known, but I think we can guess at revenge. If I’m wrong there, then there could be an inner-group motive, and you could call that political.

  “So somebody wanted them dead. Either did it himself or got somebody else to do it for him. Whoever did it was psychotic, at least at the time of the murders. Whoever did it stayed in a psychotic state for a considerable length of time. That means that, unless you have a crazy running around that you all know is capable of it, and in a small area like this you would probably know him, there are two possibilities. One, the killer is an import from an area far enough away that you won’t know who it is, or, two, the killer was in an artificially induced state of psychosis. I think two is your case here.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Art. “By artificial, you mean dope?”

  “Possibly. But artificial can include extreme emotional stress, too. Maybe helped out by chemicals.

  “Now,” continued Saperstein, “your perp is obviously acquainted with Satanism. Not necessarily involved in the practice, but he knows something about it. He may be using the Satanic-related things to cover his tracks, or he might be saying to the victims, ‘Look, you live by the sword, you die by the sword.’ ”

  Not to try to claim credit for what Saperstein was saying, but it all sounded like the echoes of incomplete thoughts I’d been having all along. Better organized, more concise. But they had been there for a time. The “ring of truth” sometimes simply consists of stating the obvious in a new way.

  “All of which,” said Saperstein ruefully, “leaves you where you were yesterday.”

  “True enough,” said Hal.

  “But,” said Saperstein, “somebody knows. That’s your key. And if this Rachel is still around, she is the one who’ll open it up for you.”

  “If we ever find her.”

  “Oh, you’ll find her. Maybe five years from now, but you’ll find her.”

  “I think,” said Art, “we’d better do better than five years.”

  “And,” said the New York detective, “there’s at least one other who knows, too.”

  “Right, the perpetrator.”

  “You got it, Carl.”

  “But why did he come back and burn the McGuire house?”

  “Ah,” said Saperstein. “Good question. Cleansing ritual? Likely, but it may not be your killer at all.”

  “No?”

  “No, it could easily be another member of the cult, cleansing the place that’s been defiled by somebody else. You’ll probably have at least an attempt at the other place, too. You look into it long enough, and you get lucky, I’ll be willing to bet that most of the really dark ceremonies took place at McGuire’s.”

  A ray of light.

  “We have some names of some other members,” I said. “We’ll interview them shortly, probably starting tonight.”

  Art looked at me sharply. “We do?”

  “Yeah, I haven’t been able to get ahold of you and didn’t want to leave a note.”

  “Does Theo know?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s hope yet.”

  “Who’s Theo?” asked Saperstein.

  “Our investigator.”

  “What, you got a problem with him?”

  “Oh, yeah, you could say that.”

  “What is it? He talk too much?”

  “Well,” I said, “that, too. He’s a little heavy-handed, and he’s not too swift.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I’m being charitable,” I said.

  “How’d he get to be investigator?”

  “Long story,” said Art. Not wanting to air our dirty laundry in front of a stranger.

  “Think of him like inflation,” I said. “Just something you have to live with.”

  “He the only one like that you got?” asked Saperstein.

  “Yes.”

  “It must be nice to work in a small department.”

  We could hear a small commotion at the main entrance. The pizza was arriving.

  We all trooped back to the kitchen, via the dispatch center.

  “Who’s the little redhead?” asked Saperstein.

  “Oh,” I said, “that’s Sally.”

  “Hummmm …”

  I grinned at him. “That’s just an impression. Actually, she’s very quiet and well behaved.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she has a lot of big brothers.”

  “No kidding? Large family?”

  “No,” I said. “Large deputies.”

  “Oh.”

  During supper, Lamar told us that we were now organized into teams, with specific objectives. Art, Hal, and myself were assigned to the Satanic group, along with Ed Yarnell, who worked day shift. Theo, Hester, and Quint were assigned to work the general public, to gather information about associates and habits. I’d thought that had been done. Mike, Eddie, and Judd were assigned the arson, and the prevention task at Herkaman’s, just in case.

  The homicides themselves were assigned to a composite team composed of Hal, Hester, Theo, Art, and me. With the emphasis on Hester and Theo. Ouch. All information was to go through the county attorney or his assistant, and Lamar, of course.

  In addition, Theo and Ed Yarnell were to cover the funeral of the victims, which was scheduled to take place tomorrow. They were told to take photographs of everybody they could get, both at the church and at the cemetery.

  Each team would have a minimum of one member meet with Lamar and the county attorney every day, at 17:00, to report on their progress.

  Lamar, who is about as nice a guy as you could find, was beginning to get a little pissed off. He wanted this case solved, and wanted it solved now. Getting it done before the media could screw it up was a pretty strong motive. So was the public feeling that the unknown killer could “strike again, anywhere, anytime,” or some such bullshit as that. The public was wrong, but like they say, it’s not the truth that’s important, it’s what’s perceived as the truth.

  The meeting broke about 19:15, which gave me forty-five minutes to get home, shower and shave, and get my uniform on so that I could start my eight-hour shift at 20:00.

  19

  Saturday, April 27

  19:16 hours

  When I got home, Sue was a little angry. I’d neglected to leave her a note about the meeting. Consequently, supper had turned out to be a problem. She’d taken care of it by making a taco-type soup, so it was still warm when I got there. She’d eaten.

  I grabbed a bowl and sat at the dining room table with her while I ate it. I apologized for not letting her know.

  She’d had a bad day, with the administration at the school playing musical chairs with special programs, trying to shift assignments and responsibilities, and trying to tell some of their better teachers how to teach. She and two other teachers from her department had been meeting at school for most of the day.

  My mother had called, and was having trouble with her heart again, and had been admitted to the local hospital for observation. Damn.

  Sue’s brother Jack had called, too, and was coming to visit from Minnesota. Good! Jack was an attorney, and one of my favorite people. He would be in the next Satur
day. I could talk the entire case over with him and he would never tell a soul. And he would offer excellent suggestions. Good deal.

  I rushed through the shower and shave, and threw on my uniform. I called the office and told them that I would be up in a while, but that there was an individual at the hospital I had to talk to first. Didn’t say who. It was best that way, because if they thought it was official business they would be less likely to bother me with little things until I told them I was back in service. If they knew it was Mom, on the other hand, they would feel free to call her room. I didn’t want that.

  Mom looked pretty pale. IVs, but no oxygen. Heart monitor going in the background. She was watching TV.

  “Hi, there, kiddo,” I said. “How you doin’?”

  “Oh! Hello, well, you didn’t have to come up.”

  “Just in the neighborhood. How you feeling?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, my heart has been doing funny things, but Henry says it’s not too serious. But you know how I worry, after the heart attack.”

  “Yeah. You’re looking pretty good.”

  “Oh no I’m not. My hair is a mess.”

  “Well, that’s okay. It looks good to me, anyway.”

  We talked for a while. She was, of course, more worried about me and my tap on the head. I told her it was nothing, and that I was okay, and all that. She was worried about my job, and the dangers. I reassured her that there was no danger at all, and if there was, I would avoid it.

  “You didn’t raise any dummy, Mom.”

  She smiled. Obligatory. Didn’t believe a word I said.

  Then she asked about the case. I told her I couldn’t say anything, and she said that she understood. Well, she might have understood, but she didn’t like it. After all, what was the use of having a son in my line of work if he won’t tell you anything?

  “I can tell you that you’re in no danger, unless you have a pact with the devil or something.”

  “Everybody’s worried, you know.”

  “I know they are, Mom. But I don’t think they have to be.”

  “One of them worked here, you know,” she whispered.

  “Well, everybody has to work someplace.”

  “But … come closer … maybe there are others,” she hissed.

  Now, here’s a quandary, I thought. My mother, a heart patient, worried about Satanic nurses, with some grounds to feel that way. What can I tell her to make it all right?

  I leaned back. “Don’t worry. Really. I can’t tell you why, but the rest of the staff here had nothing to do with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. The rest of the staff here are really nice people, they really are. They were as shocked as anybody else, believe me. They had nothing to do with that business.”

  “Thank you,” said a soft feminine voice from behind me.

  I turned around. A small, dark-haired nurse, with enormous eyes, about twenty-five, was standing in the door.

  “Well, uh, you’re welcome.”

  She went to Mom and checked her pulse, asked if everything was all right. Mother, being a mother, introduced me. The nurse was named Lori Phillips, according to her tag. I didn’t know her.

  “You don’t have to worry, Mom, until Lori here comes in a black uniform with candles in her hands.”

  Mom laughed. Lori didn’t. It really hadn’t occurred to me that the hospital would take a hit on this case, but I could tell that they had. Understandable. And in a small community, with a predominantly older population, that could be serious. Rural hospitals are always in financial trouble, anyway, and if the patients weren’t comfortable, they could really get hurt.

  Lori left as quietly as she came.

  “I didn’t see her,” said Mom. “You were in the way, I guess.”

  “I didn’t even hear her. Well, look, I have to be leaving, so take care of yourself. I’ll drop up tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to, I know how busy you must be.”

  “Oh, I think I can find the time.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and left.

  Nurse Lori collared me in the hall.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “In here,” she said, indicating a small room with a table and a couple of chairs. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  It was the nurses’ lounge, apparently. A sweater draped over a chair, plastic furniture, no ashtray. A coffeepot on a small stand, and a couple of travel posters on the wall. The coffeepot intrigued me. It was pretty clear that the nurses didn’t like the hospital coffee, either. I made a mental note that, the next time I brought a victim in at 3:00 A.M., I’d check this place for coffee before trying the kitchen. They also had a Tupperware bucket of homemade cookies.

  Lori came back with an older nurse in tow. Her I knew from a previous stay of my own. Nice, gave the impression of being very stable and levelheaded. About forty, stocky. Curly hair. Named Carrie something.

  They both looked concerned and anxious. They shut the door.

  “We have a little problem,” said Carrie.

  “What’s that?”

  They looked at each other. “It’s about Phyllis,” said Carrie.

  “What about her?”

  “Well, when she … when it all happened, we were pretty shook. Things didn’t happen quite the way they were supposed to. Anyway, we remembered her locker, so, well, we decided to take the things out of it, and we thought that they should be turned over to the next of kin. It’s not like we were snooping or anything …”

  “That’s fine. I’ll just give you a receipt, and we’ll take care of it.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “What, then?”

  They exchanged glances again.

  “We found this,” said Carrie, and reached under her cardigan and produced a spiral notebook. She handed it to me.

  It was thin, the kind you find anywhere. Light blue cover, with the brand name on the front. And in black ink, very carefully drawn, was the word “GRYMNYAR.” Below it was a star, point down, within a circle. Very finely drawn. On the lower right-hand corner was the name “Phyllis H.”

  I leafed through it quickly. It was a sort of a diary, with dates, events, things like that. A couple of sketches. Several pages appeared to be oaths, or something of the sort.

  “I think I’d better keep this.”

  I went to my car and put the book in the trunk. I came back in, gave Carrie a receipt for the notebook, and obtained a written statement from both of them, detailing how it had come into their possession.

  “Are we going to have to get involved in this?” asked Lori.

  “You’re sort of involved already. But, no, not really, I don’t think. I don’t know, though.”

  “Will we have to testify?” asked Carrie.

  I grinned at her. “Not unless we solve this one.”

  Lori looked up at me with those enormous dark eyes. “Do you know who did it?”

  “We have some idea,” I said. What I didn’t say was that we had it narrowed down to a human.

  “I hope you get him soon.”

  “So do we.” She looked pretty concerned. “Listen, if you’re spooked or anything, just call the office. Ask for one of us to come up. If you have any cookies left, ask for me personally.”

  “All right.”

  “By the way, have you been interviewed regarding this case at all? Except now?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have the feeling you will be.”

  20

  Saturday, April 27

  20:56 hours

  I went directly to the office, grabbed the notebook out of the trunk, and told the dispatcher that I would be a little busy for a while. I turned on the Xerox machine and put on a pot of coffee. My first task was to copy the notebook: it was going to have to go in as evidence, and I wanted to be able to read it at my leisure. I also had the feeling that, as soon as it
was submitted, it would disappear into DCI and never come back.

  We had a box of surgical gloves in the evidence room, to be used when dusting for prints—not so much to keep your prints off the surface being examined as to keep the damned dust off your hands. I put a pair on and Xeroxed the little notebook. There were only about fifty pages that had been used, out of about a hundred.

  When I was finished, I put my copy in a manila envelope and took it out to my car. I came back in, called the motel, and asked for Hal. I told him what I had, and asked him and Hester to come to the office. He said they would.

  Then I told Sally to get hold of Art on the radio and see if he could meet me at the office within an hour.

  I kept my gloves on, and using a toothpick to turn the pages, I began to read the notebook. The first page was sort of a title sheet: “The Recording of the Progress of the Coven of the Dark Messiah.” Oh brother. “The Second Book. The Chronicle of Our Journey to Become One with the Prince of Darkness, As Recorded by Shade, a Humble Servant of Your Spirit. From the 11th Day of September to”—with no final date. That was understandable.

  The second page listed the members of the group. Unfortunately they were listed by their coven names. They were: Darkness, Virgil, Shade, Dark Princess, Handmaiden, Soothsayer, Benefactor, Nathane, Mystic Fog, Shaman, Dusk, Mist Queen, and Dirge, in that order.

  Darkness we already knew about, and since he was first, it was a confirmation that he was the high priest. Shade was pretty obviously Phyllis Herkaman. Eleven to go.

  On page three, the chronicle began with the date of September 11.

  “The preparations for the ultimate sacrifice continue. All will be complete by the anniversary of the birth of the ultimate fool and the great misleader. Handmaiden will provide. Darkness approaches communion. The Benefactor has achieved.”

  That’s as far as I got when Hal, Hester, and Saperstein came in the door.

  “You got something?” asked Hal.

  “Oh,” I said, “I believe so.” I turned the book back to the title page and pushed it across the desk. “From Phyllis Herkaman’s locker at the hospital.”

  I pulled off my gloves and lit a cigarette, while they read the first page and used my toothpick to turn to the second and third.