by Paul Seiple
Chasing Fireflies
By Paul Seiple
Copyright © 2014 All Rights Reserved.
Cover Art: Jason Miller http://www.truetilldeath.net/
Cover Design: http://www.alchemybookcovers.com/
Formatting: http://indiemobi.wordpress.com/
Proofing: http://grammar-rulesatoz.blogspot.com/
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without proper written permission of the copyright owner.
Chasing Fireflies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
For my parents, Steve and Pat Seiple
"Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil."
-Aristotle
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
2005
Green rooms make me nervous. Their purpose is to give someone a little time to relax before being interviewed. It's supposed to create a calming atmosphere, but for me, it's the opposite — a few moments to be alone with your thoughts, staring into the abyss in which your secrets are buried. The producer will trick you with misleading comforts such as — it's just a simple interview. Just a few questions to get to know you — your favorite song, your favorite television show, favorite food?
Maybe. Highly unlikely. People don’t care about the mundane. They want the dirt. Dirt sells. Secrets buried for years carry a truckload of dirt.
This must be what it’s like for criminals as they wait to be interrogated. To have their transgressions dissected in front of a captive audience. Knowing curious eyes are watching, waiting for a sign of deceit. Eyes trained to dig inside the soul for mysteries that wish to remain hidden. At least with criminals, they are prepared for the questions that will be asked. They’ve had time to formulate answers to proclaim their innocence. Live television is tightrope walking without a net. Sure, you have an interview itinerary, but you never know when the interviewer may jump from the script and pry into the locked doors of the mind in hopes of going viral and becoming the next big name in evening news. Dealing with murderers is easy. No surprises. You know their intent is harm. Killers show you the knife just before they place it against your jugular. Journalists hide knives behind their backs; befriend you with a false sense of caring, all the while waiting for the opportune moment to stab you in your back. It's all in the name of ratings. A murdered reputation is just a casualty in the ongoing war to grab the public's attention. There's no medals, no honor, no tribute — just fallout for everyone in the victim's life.
I track the most violent criminals and yet these interviews are life hazards. I'm here today to tell the world of how I caught Johnny Ragsdale, the Roadside Romeo Killer. For three years, Ragsdale terrorized rest stops along the East Coast. The audience will want to hear the gruesome details of death. The fear, it's what keeps them coming back. Once the killer is off the streets, the story dies, unless you go into details about how sadistic humans can be. And though it's wrong, I feed that beast because it keeps the dogs off of my trail.
I decided long ago that I wanted to put bad guys away. But I swear I’d rather take my chances sharing a Coke with George Trepal than have to answer some of the questions asked of me. How was your childhood? What happened in your life to make you want to catch serial killers? How can you look evil in the eye and not blink? Yes, it was worded to me that way. Crime show sensationalism. I’m a private person, but my job makes privacy the anxious dog looking for any escape from its cage. General curiosity dictates that people want to know why I choose to chase horrors that most would run for their lives from. It's a fascination to step inside the shoes of someone who runs down death. The comfort comes in knowing that you can kick the shoes off, bare feet hitting pavement, just before the boogeyman snatches you.
I became a cop nearly thirty years ago. I suppose my future was written at an early age. Cop life is in my blood. My father was police chief of Winston Salem, North Carolina for twenty years before he confronted an assailant he couldn’t stop — lung cancer. They say smoking a pack a day takes close to four hours of your life away every day. I don’t really care about the math. I just know my father was taken too soon. When I joined the force, I heard the whisperings of preferential treatment. I made detective in the Violent Crimes Unit three weeks before my twenty-third birthday. Other cops, who were on the force while I was at home watching Scooby Doo, were overlooked when Hamilton retired. There was dissension in the ranks. I didn’t care. I knew that I got the promotion because of my desire to catch bad guys and not the fact that the Twelfth Precinct took the nickname “Iron Fist” after my father. There wasn’t a story about James Callahan that didn’t end with, “He was fair, but that iron fist was one helluva right.”
I worked my first serial murder shortly after joining the VCU. A psychopath who called himself Murmur. That was decades ago and it’s still the elephant in the room every time I sit down to do an interview. The case is buried deep enough that it's nearly impossible to have the truth traced backed to me. But I'm not naïve; I know there is that one treasure hunter willing to risk everything to uncover the story that will make him rich. I always have to be guarded. I can't let the slightest glimmer of gold shine through. There is still that sickness in my stomach when an interviewer asks about the case that sticks with me the most. I lie. I have to. The truth is something that murdered my future. Killed my life as homicide cop Michael Callahan. I hate it. I saw evil in its most intimate form. I stared it in the face and didn’t blink, no matter how watery my eyes became. I'm helpless to the fact that Murmur kills me a little more every morning that I wake up. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how my future would be different if fate hadn’t wed me to Murmur. It's impossible to let someone in. To trust in someone enough to stop putting up the façade and just be myself. To stop the lies.
Even though I know more pain will come. More loneliness will follow. I wake up every morning. I have to. Evil's not bringing a gift to my pity party.
I’m James Beamer. And I catch serial killers.
Fall of 1980
Chapter 1
He sat, staring at the battle-scarred typewriter. Many words, too many to count, had come from the faded keys. Dents in the rounded edges of the typewriter suggested that the dead horse was beaten to death, but the typewriter refused to accept its fate. Opening lines bounced through his mind like balled-up paper hitting the rim of a trashcan. The perfect introduction evaded him. A memorable first impression meant success. If he was too vague, then his words might be tossed aside as a mere prank. A plea for attention. If he said too much, the air of mystery would be too thin. He wanted it thick. Like a dense fog encompassing the world in vulnerability. He wanted Michael Callahan to choke on the mystique, to suffocate from anxiety while anticipating his next move.
The shadow of a low flame, resonating from a candle, danced across the tip of the yellowing paper taunting him for the writer’s block. He brushed a small spider away from the typewriter as it peeked from underneath the T key. Antique was too kind of an adjective to describe the typewriter. A more fitting description would have been junk. The typewriter held no sentimental value. It wasn’t a keepsake from his father. It wasn’t even his best option. A blank notebook and pen lay on the picnic table opposite of him. He used the typewriter because it was part of the vision.
A cold crept between the gap in the concrete floor and the aluminum door. Wind beat against the metal walls, begging to be let in. He wrapped a scarf tighter around his neck. A storage locker was not the place he imagined starting his masterpiece, but it was perfect. A true artist needed to suffer for his art. No one would think to find him in here with winter approaching. Late fall nights in North Carolina brought chilly temperatures. Concrete and metal held the cold in a white-knuckle grasp. The storage locker was an icebox. He couldn’t get caught. He had a purpose. The fate of the world depended on it. Sacrificing his body to hypothermia was just a scar from the coming war.
The locker was bare except for the picnic table that he picked up from a heap of trash in front of the storage facility. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. The only light came from the flame of the citronella candle he stole from someone’s patio. He hated the smell of citronella, but after a while he got used to it. Handwritten notes quoting Revelations were taped to the walls with duct tape, making the room look like a playbook for the apocalypse. Each note inspired him, reminded him of how important he was to this dying world. He held a role in the future of mankind. His father made sure he never took that responsibility lightly. On the center of the wall, directly in front of him, hung a photo of four shadows riding horses surrounded by fire and destruction.
He smiled. His lip curled upwards in the same manner of a Cheshire cat. His long fingers and manicured nails, free from the blood that was about to spill, hit the typewriter keys. Several more spiders fled from underneath. The clicking created a mental spark. He knew what to write.
I’m going t… With his fingers suspended over the next keys, he laughed. The O key stuck. Instead of trying to fix the problem, he tore the paper from the typewriter, balled it up, and tossed it into the stack that had accumulated at his feet. He started typing again.
I’m g ing t tell y u a st ry. A st ry where the bad guy wins and the g d guy dies.
He stopped to admire his words. The silhouette from the candle’s flame no longer mocked him. It hung to the edge of the paper waiting, in anticipation, for the next sentence. Cryptic. His words left the lasting impression he had hoped for. He cracked his knuckles and kept typing.
S n it will begin. Y u’ll kn w the first. I’m sure y u’ve seen her in y ur dreams t . Y u’ve pr bably seen them all by n w. P r thing! Y u can’t save her, Michael. I already have her. Y u can’t save any f them. I already have them all.
He took a deep breath. Inhaling the citronella made him cough. He cracked his knuckles again and typed.
F r I am the arrival f the M rning Star. In the end, it is his light that will shine brightest.
He pulled the paper from the typewriter, sending dust particles through the air like fine snowflakes. The shadow from the flame faded in a blink as though it was running from the monster being born. He held the paper next to the candle and read it again.
I’m going to tell you a story. A story where the bad guy wins and the good guy dies. Soon it will begin. You’ll know the first. I’m sure you’ve seen her in your dreams. You’ve probably seen them all by now. Poor thing! You can’t save her, Michael. I already have her. You can’t save any of them. I already have them all.
For I am the arrival of the Morning Star. In the end, it is his light that will shine brightest.
Satisfied with his introduction to the world, he placed the letter in an envelope and dropped it next to a black and white photo of a girl standing on a street corner, next to a man in a wheelchair. He traced her outline and said, “Good morning, Sunshine.”
Chapter 2
My eyes drew heavy as I lay on the couch. Springs pushed through the floral fabric, poking and prodding me like an annual check-up. The couch had to be at least fifteen-years-old. That’s about the time I started meeting with Father Abraham. My mother thought it was a good idea after she caught me smoking with my best friend John behind the house. I’d veered off the righteous path. The good Father was the detour to get me back on track. The ugliness of the pastel flowers never could make me forget how uncomfortable I was on the couch. Not a physical discomfort, a mental anguish. It wasn't the idea of religion that made me uneasy. Being expected to confess my every impure thought to Father Abraham felt like wearing shirt too tight in the collar. The springs nudged my spine, egging me on, as if to tell me I wasn’t divulging enough information. I closed my eyes in a vain attempt to relax. There wasn’t a chance I’d fall asleep. Sleep left me like a cheating spouse a long time ago.
The room smelled of vanilla. I knew it was a ploy to make people feel more relaxed as they divulged their sins. But it only reminded me that I hadn’t had lunch yet. And a vanilla shake sounded like the prefect fix for everything that ailed me.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home, Michael. Maybe I’m in the wrong business. I hear head shrinks make a killing.”
Father Abraham was only half kidding. He wasn’t your typical preacher. With a gut cresting just above his belt, like a dam that could break after a few more burgers, and a warming personality, jolly was a fitting word to describe the man. He didn’t treat religion like a horse pill that must be swallowed, straight with no chaser. Father Abraham was an expert at weaving the Bible’s teachings into any situation without turning things into a head-on collision with damnation. Over the years, I became more comfortable with him. I’m not sure I was ever comfortable enough to discuss the dreams. But there came a point that the bloat of keeping them bottled up became too much.
“I had another dream.”
Father Abraham’s fingertips disappeared into his gray beard. As he scratched his chin a bead of sweat formed on his balding head. Not surprising, even though it was a chilly sixty-five degrees in the room. Overweight men tend to sweat more. I know. I used to be a fat kid. Hell, I’d sweat from just getting up to get more chips. That was before the growth spurt evened me out.
“Did it end as the others?” Father Abraham asked, wiping the wetness from his forehead with a Jesus Saves bandana.
If my mind hadn’t been so preoccupied with the dream I probably would have made some distasteful joke about Jesus turning water into wine. But I couldn’t shake the girl’s face. Her fright. Her pain.
The dreams started when I turned eighteen. At first, I brushed them off, blaming them on watching horror movies while under the influence of way too much alcohol. At twenty-one, I stopped drinking and joined the police academy as a tribute to a fallen hero — my father, James Callah
an, who for twenty years was the police chief of Winston Salem. I spent my teen years worrying that my father would be killed by some raging lunatic with a gun and an aversion to being locked up. The raging lunatic turned out to be lung cancer. After being diagnosed, he was gone in three weeks. I wish he had lost his life to the gun-waving degenerate. Not because it would be more heroic. I can't catch cancer; lock it up for the rest of its life, knowing every day will be hell trapped inside a six by eight foot room. Cancer is the criminal that gets away with the perfect crime and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
I figured the long days at the academy coupled with going cold turkey would send the dreams crawling back under the rock they came from. That was not the case. They got worse. More vivid. More real. The violence was gut-wrenching, even for a guy that ate while studying crime scene photos. Each sequence of dreams ended with the life of an innocent being stolen by the hands of the same sadistic killer with a familiar face.
“Yes, I killed her.” I said.
“They are just dreams, Michael.”
Father Abraham’s tone was comforting but not convincing.
“It’s more than that. She is real. She’s blond, tall, long legs. I can see the horror on her face as she runs through the woods for her life. I hang back, watching, feeding on her fear. My mouth is watering with hunger at the thought of ending her life.”
“Michael, that’s something like Ted Bundy would do. It’s not you. You have to separate yourself from the job. Take a vacation.”
Father Abraham had been a confidant for as long as I could remember. He kept me on the straight and narrow when the teenage demon wanted to derail me. He mentored me when I came face-to-face with evil. He was the only person I could tell this secret — I murdered women in my dreams. But he was nothing more than an outlet to ease the bloat for a little while. He dismissed my dreams as a product of being a homicide detective. It felt good to talk about them even though I knew there would be no breakthrough. He couldn't make them stop. Father Abraham was convinced I wasn't a killer. I was one of the good guys.
