In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

  Constance stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then asked, “You picked up all that from a quick glance?”

  “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?” he huffed.

  “Well… No… It was that obvious, huh?”

  “Yeah, it was. To me, anyway. Don’t they teach you kids anything at Quantico these days?”

  Constance ignored the gibe. “I have to say, Sheriff, your powers of observation and deduction border on uncanny.”

  “For a sheriff of Podunk, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Were you in law enforcement before-”

  He verbally truncated her question with one of his own. “You mean, ‘was I a hotshot homicide detective on some major metropolitan police force before burning out and retiring to the rural Midwest where I could be an Andy Taylor clone and not even have to carry a gun?’ That’d be kinda cliche, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “You’re right, it is. And, I am. All except the part about Andy Taylor and the fact that I’m not stupid enough to think I can get away without carrying a sidearm in this day and age. Even here in Hulis.”

  “But you were, as you put it, a hotshot homicide detective.” Her words were a statement and not a question.

  “I cleared a few cases in my day,” he grunted while looking around his desk, lifting papers and shifting file folders in the process. “I take it none of this information was in the file you read?”

  “The file was on the case, not you.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he replied absently, still searching for something in the clutter. “Heard that one before. All I have to say is that’s some piss-poor police work for a bunch of Feds. If your research is that bad, my opinion of you G-men just ratcheted down another couple of notches.”

  “Well, hopefully I can change that.”

  “Yeah, I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Seven murders in seven years, all on the same damn day; we’re still at square one, and I’ve got my fifth new Fed to babysit. No offense, but from where I am, you’ve got your work cut out for you changin’ my mind.”

  Constance ignored the negative commentary and pressed forward. “So, speaking of the murders, has the card arrived yet?”

  “Yeah, it was waitin’ for me when I got here this morning, just like clockwork… Hang on a sec…” Sheriff Carmichael gave up his apparently futile search and pressed the side of his hand on the talk button of an intercom box that looked only slightly newer than the chair and desk, then called out, “Hey, Clovis?”

  A handful of seconds later the speaker crackled, “What do you need, Skip?”

  “Have you seen my coffee cup?”

  “It’s out here on top of the filing cabinet where you left it an hour ago.”

  “Dammit…” he muttered.

  There was a short hiss, and then Clovis’s voice rattled from the tinny box again. “Want me to bring it in to you?”

  “What time is it?” he asked, a mildly absent quality to his voice as he circumvented the original question.

  “Eleven-thirty,” she replied. “I swear, Skip, you need a watch.”

  “Why? You’ve got one.”

  “Skip…”

  The sheriff sighed, then smoothed his bushy mustache before turning his attention back to Constance. “You have lunch yet, Special Agent Mandalay?”

  “No, actually… And you can call me Constance, by the way.”

  “Skip? You want me to bring you your cup?” Clovis’s voice came over the speaker again.

  He depressed the button. “No, hon… Thanks anyway. I think I’m gonna take the Fed over to That Place. You want me to bring you back anything?”

  The intercom crackled. “I brought lunch today, but I sure could go for a piece of pie… Oh…but I really shouldn’t.”

  “Coconut cream like usual?” he asked.

  “I really shouldn’t,” she replied.

  “Coconut cream it is,” he grunted.

  “That Place?” Constance asked when he was finished.

  “It’s the diner across the street,” he replied as he rolled back, then pushed up from his chair and ambled over to a bentwood coat rack in the corner, stopping for a moment to hitch up his belt before pulling down his jacket.

  “Does it have a name?” she asked as she stood.

  “Yeah, That Place.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch and see if I can get you up to speed on all this.”

  “What about the card?”

  “What about it?”

  “May I see it?”

  The sheriff hefted his jacket back onto a hook then walked back to the desk. “Exactly the same as all the others,” he grunted, shuffling through the papers and extracting a manila envelope labeled EVIDENCE, along with a few scribbles of information such as the date and time. Handing it to her he added, “Got it bagged for you; not that you’ll find anything. Your lab geeks never do.”

  “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Eventually the killer will slip up.” She added a paraphrased retort, “ They always do.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  “You seem a little jaded,” Constance said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a pair of surgical gloves.

  “Like I said, seven murders, seven years, five Feds, square one,” he replied. “And now I’m staring at number eight in about three days time. You’ll have to excuse me if I sound less than hopeful regarding an outcome at this point.”

  “I understand,” she replied, unwrapping the string closure and then carefully emptying the contents out into her gloved hand.

  The Christmas card was nothing particularly unique. Printed on inexpensive stock, the front of it was a detailed color rendering of a serene, somewhat darkened living room. A fireplace dominated the center of the picture, with a bulging, bright red, gift-laden stocking hanging from the mantle. A pair of black boots attached to telltale red-suited legs were dangling down from the flue and into the dormant fireplace.

  In the foreground was a small plate, upon it resting a half-eaten cookie and what appeared to have once been a full glass of milk, now mostly empty. Adjacent to it was a note written in a child’s hand that said, “For Santa, Marry Crismis. Luv Susie.”

  Above it all, gracing the top of the scene, were the words ‘Twas The Night Before… printed in an embossed, bold script.

  Inside the card was blank. On the back was only the simple logo of a generic greeting card manufacturer that had long since gone out of business according to the case file.

  Constance turned the card over in her hands, looking at the back, at the blank inside, and finally lingering over the artistically depicted tableau on the front. Sheriff Carmichael watched her silently for several minutes.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat and muttered, “Exact same damn card every year, stuffed right through the mail slot… Always on December twenty-second. No envelope, no prints, no DNA, no hair, no fiber, no nothing… Didn’t make the connection until the second year.” He paused for a second then spat, “Anyway… Every Christmas we find a man’s body…or I guess I should say pieces of one. They pretty much add up to a whole, except for…”

  As the sheriff’s voice trailed off, Constance verbally filled in the blank. “The external genitalia.”

  Out of reflex he nodded assent while he spoke. “Yeah. Always missing.”

  “Just like John Horace Colson,” she breathed.

  “Except Colson happened thirty-five years ago, and there’s no question who killed him…and why.”

  “I know.”

  “Yeah. You read the file,” he replied. “Then you also know we find the victim in the exact same spot Colson was found.”

  “I do.”

  “After number two, we started watchin’ the place. Full on, around the clock, starting the week before Christmas every damn year. This year’ll be the fourth where I’ve sat out
there myself. Nobody in, nobody out, but on Christmas morning, the body is always there.”

  “That was in the file too.”

  “Good. Then maybe you can explain that one, because I sure as hell can’t.” He paused, then brought the present thread of the conversation back full circle. “You know, right around Thanksgiving every year I start wondering if the sonofabitch has finally run out of cards so that maybe this nightmare can stop. Then one shows up. Maybe this will be the last one…but I really doubt it.”

  “Do you just wonder, or is that one of your uncanny observations?” she asked, turning to look at him.

  He shook his head. “More like a Christmas wish. It’s the same one everybody in Hulis makes. Been a lot of wishbones snapped on it, believe me.”

  Looking back to the card in her hands, she dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “Everybody in Hulis except for one, apparently.”

  “No,” he told her. “This isn’t someone from around here. This is an outsider.”

  “That’s just one theory.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the theory I’m sticking with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes me too damn sick to think otherwise.”

  Constance slid the card back into the evidence envelope and secured the flap shut with the closure string.

  As she peeled off the surgical gloves, in a matter-of-fact tone she remarked, “You know I have to talk to her.”

  “I assume you mean…” he allowed the name to go unspoken.

  “Merrie Callahan, yes.”

  The sheriff sighed heavily, then reached up beneath the rim of his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung his head and shook it slightly. “Do you really think that’s necessary? You said you read the file.”

  “Yes, it is, and yes, I did.”

  “Well? There should have been interviews in there from the other four Feds.”

  “There were, but they didn’t…”

  “…say anything of any consequence.” He finished the sentence for her. “My point exactly. Believe me, this ain’t my first rodeo with you folks. What makes you think you’ll get anything different this time?”

  “I won’t know unless I try.”

  “Well,” Sheriff Carmichael sighed again. “I think you’re just wasting your time and mine too. I’ll take you to see her if you insist, but let’s go across the street and have lunch first.”

  “Honestly, I’m not really all that hungry,” she objected.

  “Maybe you aren’t, but I am,” he explained. “Besides, we need to talk about this first.”

  Constance shook her head to punctuate her hard response. “You aren’t going to change my mind about this, Sheriff.”

  “Not gonna try,” he replied. “I’m just gonna give you the facts so you don’t go in unarmed. Decision’s still yours. And I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Skip.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Thanks, Stella,” Sheriff Carmichael said, looking up with a slight grin at the young woman who was refilling his coffee.

  She smiled back. The expression was strained and thin, but still noticeable. “Your meatloaf should be up in just a minute or two, Skip.” She leaned a bit closer and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I told Max to put a couple of double thick slices on there for you.”

  “You’re too good to me, Stella.”

  That Place was more of a U-shaped lunch counter than anything else. It was crammed tightly into a narrow storefront across from the sheriff’s department and kitty corner from the town hall. The decor was typical small-town diner of the late 50’s or early 60’s-chrome and Formica counters with vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor at evenly spaced intervals. Just as the sheriff’s office looked like a throwback to the 40’s, so did the small diner look as if it had been frozen in its own particular era for the rest of time.

  The establishment was surprisingly slow for lunchtime, especially during the week. Besides the sheriff and Constance, there was only one other patron, and he was at the far end of the U. She took passing notice that he appeared lost in his own little world, his hands folded in front of him on the counter as he quietly contemplated his coffee cup.

  However, there was something else about the diner that struck Constance as even odder still. It was December 22 ^nd, and with the exception of a poinsettia on the counter, the restaurant was devoid of holiday decorations, Christmas or otherwise. Just like the sheriff’s office had been.

  The waitress glanced over at Constance and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” she replied with a shallow nod.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll be back out in just a minute or two.”

  As she started away toward the kitchen at the back, Sheriff Carmichael called after her, “Oh, hey, Stella, I almost forgot. Clovis wants a piece of your mom’s coconut cream pie. Think you could box up a slice for me to take over to her? Just put it on my tab.”

  “No problem,” she answered. “I’ll have it ready to go when you are.”

  Once Stella disappeared through the swinging doors at the back, Constance twisted a quarter turn on her stool and focused on Sheriff Carmichael. “She seems a little tense.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “That’s ‘cause she knows who you are and why you’re here.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  “Like I told you, we’ve heard that before. Folks don’t get their hopes up anymore.”

  She glanced around again at the lack of visible cheer. “So… People don’t decorate for the holidays in Hulis?”

  “Not many,” he grunted. “Not for a few years now. Nobody wants to think about what Christmas brings to this town. Hell, my wife and I don’t even put up a tree anymore. Don’t know many folks around here that do.”

  “That’s kind of sad.”

  “It’s reality,” he countered.

  “That doesn’t make it any less sad. It’s as if the town itself is a victim too.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “That’s the difference between a small town like Hulis and a big city like Saint Louis. We’ve got a population of less than a thousand folks. What happens here is personal.”

  “As I understand it, so far none of the victims have been from Hulis though.” Constance gestured with her index finger to indicate the surrounding area. “In fact, they’ve all been unidentified according to the reports.”

  “True,” he replied. “But this is where they’re found, so that makes it personal, no matter who they are. You have to understand, Constance, people here aren’t afraid of being a victim of this killer. But they’re damned well on edge about this. Doesn’t exactly help our reputation, and the population is dwindling. This keeps up, Hulis could cease to exist.”

  A quiet interlude fell between them as she weighed the gravity of what he’d just said. On the surface it was merely a statement of fact, but beneath the words, stark emotion was grappling with the logic, and it was winning.

  The cafe doors leading to and from the kitchen swung open and Stella reappeared, plate in hand. A moment later she slid it in front of the sheriff, a waft of aromatic steam still rising from the pool of gravy welled in the center of the mashed potatoes that flanked an easily five-inch thick slab of glazed meatloaf.

  Once the waitress had disappeared again, Constance re-started the conversation. “So, what is it we need to talk about, Skip?”

  Sheriff Carmichael used his fork to carve a trench into the side of the mashed potato volcano on his plate then watched in silence as the gravy began to spill out. It flowed down the side and began spreading across the plate toward the meatloaf.

  Eventually, the weighty pause ended and he asked, “Exactly what did your file have to say about John Horace Colson?”

  She shrugged. “The pertinent details. He had a record ranging from petty larceny to aggravated battery. There was also a conviction for sexual assault on a minor. He did just under a year in the adult correctional institution at Gumbo Flats for the la
tter. And, of course, there was the abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan, and then his subsequent murder.”

  He finished chewing the hunk of the meatloaf he had stuffed into his mouth, then swallowed hard. After taking a sip of his coffee to wash it down, he repeated her words with a razor sharp edge of bitterness. “The abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan… Makes it sound like a made-for-TV movie from one of those damn cable channels.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I’m just answering your question. I didn’t mean to sound callous.”

  “I know, I know… Truth is, the story might as well be a movie. It sure as hell plays out like one… It just doesn’t have a very happy ending.” He nodded as he spoke, waving a hand and sighing in apology himself. After staring wordlessly at his plate, he finally laid the fork aside and combed his fingers through the snowy brush on his upper lip. When he finally started speaking again, there was a fire in his voice that seemed unquenchable.

  “Thirty-five years ago Merrie Callahan was ten years old,” he began. “She was a bright, freckle-faced kid, with a mop of chestnut hair and a personality too big to fit her body.

  “Late on the afternoon of December twenty-second, Merrie’s mother picked her up from school. It was the last day before Christmas break. They were Catholic, so she went to the Immaculate Conception school over in Mais. That’s the next town west of here. Since there wasn’t any bus service, Elizabeth-that’d be her mother-would shuttle her back and forth. On the way home she stopped over at Norris’s Market, just up the street here, to do some last minute grocery shopping for their big Christmas Eve dinner.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the direction.

  “As the story goes, Merrie’s little sister, Rebecca, was pitching a fit about wanting to see Santa Claus and give him her list,” he continued. “Just so happened, Norris’s was pretty much right next door to the Five-and-Dime. Back then we had a little more by way of population, including kids, so they always had a Santa Claus. Usually it was Elvis Babbs, the manager’s husband, but he’d come down sick that year so they hired themselves a replacement for that last week before Christmas. Anyway, Merrie, being the sweetheart she was, volunteered to take her sister next door so that her mother could finish the shopping in peace.”