In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

“I mean she vanished. It was like she was never there. No trace. Anyway, then in oh-four when I called after receiving the same Christmas card as before, we had an Agent by the name of Graham show up. During the interview to get him up to speed, I told him about finding Merrie and such. All of it… The bare naked truth, every bit… Right then and there he decided I was either insane or covering something up. To be honest, after what happened in oh-three I was almost inclined to believe him on the insane part.

  “Either way, because of all that I went right to the top of his suspect list. We sat in my office the whole night Christmas Eve, and on into the morning Christmas Day, with him profiling me. Once we got the call he headed straight to the scene, but I made a detour… As crazy as it seemed, I had to go look. And…as I’m sure you can guess, I found Merrie again.”

  Constance offered a matter-of-fact observation. “And that’s when you brought her here for the first time.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a shallow nod. “Still don’t know what made me do it, but obviously it was the right thing.”

  Skip paused for a moment, then shrugged and continued relating the history. “Then, in oh-five when I got another card, I called again. Graham showed up and turns out I was still his prime suspect. He just figured I had an accomplice. He beat that horse to death for a while then finally gave up. At that point he was just convinced that I was a head-case. Insisted I be evaluated by a shrink. That was a mess.

  “Then, oh-six rolled around. Another card, another call, and he was back again, but that time he staked out the house with us and saw everything first hand, including Merrie coming out the front door. He didn’t handle that so well. In fact, he left town before we ever started processing the scene, and that’s the last time we ever saw him around here. After that, I stopped calling you Feds. Sorta figured I was on my own with this. Kind of like my own private hell, I guess.”

  “So you haven’t contacted the bureau for help on this case since two-thousand six?”

  “Nope. Hasn’t stopped any of you from showing up though, regular as clockwork. It’s just been a new face every year. Either way, ever since the first unsolicited visit in oh-seven I’ve kept my mouth shut and just let you all see it first hand for yourselves.” He shook his head. “Of course, don’t know that it’s worked any better that way either.”

  Constance mulled over what he had just said. Her tired brain was having enough trouble processing everything she had seen tonight, and these latest revelations definitely were not helping her to make sense of the situation. As if there weren’t enough curiosities about this case already, the fact that the SAC had implied that the assignment came out of DC was even more intriguing now.

  After a moment she offered, “I’m not really sure what to say about all that, Skip…”

  “I suppose there’s not much you can,” he grunted. “Just so you realize that the lack of up-front information on my part wasn’t anything personal against you. Seeing is believing, I guess… Don’t know what to tell you about the lack of support at your end, other than join the club… I haven’t been getting any either.”

  “Yeah… I’m not exactly clear on that myself,” she admitted.

  Skip suppressed a snort, then nodded. “I hear you… Well… I’ll say this much, Special Agent Mandalay, you’re different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After what you’ve seen and learned in the past hour, you’re still here. I can’t say the same was ever true for most of your colleagues.”

  Constance paused, still digesting the influx of bizarre data. Eventually she blew out a heavy sigh and looked at Sheriff Carmichael. “So, what now?”

  “We grab some coffee and go process a crime scene,” he replied, then bobbed his head toward the door next to them. “In about two hours Merrie will wake up just like usual, and for her, it’ll be Christmas Day nineteen seventy-four all over again.”

  “Which one of them, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “There’s only one Merrie, Constance.”

  “But you just-”

  He cut her off. “I know.”

  She cocked her head and blinked. “And all of the other Merries?”

  “Trust me, Special Agent Mandalay. There’s only one Merrie Frances Callahan.”

  CHAPTER 28

  6:17 A.M. – December 25, 2010

  632 Evergreen Lane

  Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

  QUIET is a relative term, especially at 6 A.M. on Christmas morning. Constance was certain, however, that no matter the day, the hour, or the point of reference used to define the concept of relative quiet, the portable generator parked outside the abandoned house on Evergreen Lane didn’t qualify as such-even though the words Super-Quiet were emblazoned on the side right next to the manufacturer’s logo.

  The pulsing thrum of the running engine was spilling into the frosty air in competition with the moan of the wind through the trees. The incessant staccato popping of the exhaust was being carried aloft on the undulating breeze, and together they were most assuredly splitting what little calm remained of the pre-dawn darkness. The melange of noise wasn’t helping Constance’s headache either, nor were the extra-strength aspirin Martha had given her back at Holly-Oak. At this point, the only thing that would do her any good would be sleep, but that was a prescription she couldn’t fill just yet.

  She followed the ropes of multi-colored, heavy-duty extension cords that snaked away from the generator and across the porch, running in through the front door. Inside, the harsh glow of a halogen work light illuminated the way through the front room. A second of the adjustable lamps was positioned farther inward to light the hallway.

  The bulk of the cords continued along the floor of the main room until they bent sharply into the corridor at the archway and angled across its length. After running diagonally across the floor for several feet, they hooked to the left and disappeared through the open basement doorway-a twisted green, orange, and yellow stripe that marked an obvious path toward the remnants of horror that waited below.

  The tight bundle of electrical cords ran down the stairs-carefully arranged, safely out of the way-against the uprights that supported the handrail. At the bottom they spilled out across the concrete floor in a bright pile of coils before shooting off in a spindly fan, each ending in its own caged, halogen work lamp.

  Constance lowered herself down from the double-height step at the bottom of the staircase and then tiptoed gingerly around the pile of cables. To her back, the basement was still bathed in oblique shadows, illuminated only by residual glow. But in front of her, beyond the semicircle of tripod-mounted lamps, a man-made sun had risen. Even during the day, there hadn’t been anywhere near this amount of light filling the subterranean room, but then again, during the day there had only been rough outlines to see. Now those outlines were grotesquely filled in.

  Deputy Broderick was facing away from the spotlighted carnage, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His face was harshly shadowed due to the angle at which he was standing. The reflected wash of brilliance from the nearest lamp fell in an oblique swath across him, and what little of his face it revealed was sickeningly pale.

  He looked up at Constance and nodded. After a moment he said, “Sorry about…you know…earlier.”

  She returned the nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

  They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats until the awkward silence became too deafening to endure.

  Broderick gave in first. Lolling his head to the side and angling it toward the dismembered victim, he offered in a quiet voice, “Fourth Christmas for me. Wish it would get easier… You know… Seeing it and all…”

  “No,” Constance replied without hesitation. “Trust me, Deputy; you really don’t.”

  He appeared to frown then gave a shallow nod in response to her statement. A second later a fresh pair of footsteps began to echo from the stairs, and the sullen officer cast his flat expression upward toward the source.

  “Mar
tin called,” Broderick announced as Sheriff Carmichael came into view and continued down the staircase. “He’s having trouble getting the hearse to turn over this morning, so he’s running behind.”

  “Yeah,” Skip replied, stepping off the bottom precipice with a grunt. “I just got off the radio with Johnson. He told me.” Hitching up his belt, he picked his way through the tangle of electrical wires and drew himself up next to Mandalay.

  “Is Martin your County Coroner?” Constance asked.

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “Martin Hornbeak. He owns the funeral home here in town too.”

  She acknowledged with a nod.

  The sheriff sucked in a deep breath then blew it out in a loud huff, as if to state unequivocally for the record just exactly how they all were feeling. After a long measure with nothing more than the muffled drone of the generator outside to fill the space, he grumbled, “Deja goddamn vu… Every year… Every goddamn year…”

  “Do you have a Crime Scene Unit on the way?” Constance asked.

  “You’re looking at it,” he snorted. “We could process this scene in our sleep.”

  “I’m not doubting you, Skip,” she replied. “But have you considered calling in outside investigators? Maybe from the MHP Crime Lab?”

  “Sure,” he told her. “But not for a few years now.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve made it clear that they prefer to leave this one alone,” he explained.

  “Why?

  “Hold that thought,” Carmichael said, then turned his gaze toward the deputy. “You take the pictures yet?”

  “Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as last year.”

  “And the year before; yeah, I know,” Skip grunted. “Bag the axe?”

  The deputy nodded. “Yeah. Bagged and tagged. Whiskey bottle too. Just waiting on Martin to show up for the remains. I’ll take prints and do a DNA swab over there. Called Doc Harper too. She said to let her know if Special Agent Mandalay wants an official autopsy, otherwise just have Martin sign off on the death certificate as usual.”

  After a pause the sheriff asked, “Did you check…?”

  He purposely left the half-asked question dangling in the air. While not fully spoken, it seemed that between the two of them it was implicitly understood.

  “Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as always.”

  “Good,” the sheriff replied with an approving nod. “Give Constance a glove.”

  Broderick dug around in his coat pocket, then produced a latex glove and handed it over to Mandalay.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Skip…” she said.

  “I know, but I’m about to,” Skip told her and indicated for her to follow as he started across the basement. “Go ahead and put the glove on. I need to show you something.”

  She followed along behind him, stretching the sheath over her hand and working it onto her fingers as they stepped out in front of the arc of halogen work lights. Their shadows fell against the far wall in harsh, misshapen silhouettes. After skirting around the congealed pools of rusting blood, which were already showing the first-stage signs of freezing to the floor, they stopped amid the scattered remains of the butchered victim.

  “Have a look,” Skip said, pointing at the severed head a few feet away.

  Constance furrowed her brow at the sheriff. She had worked far too many cases involving violent death to be squeamish as a rule, so she wasn’t exactly a lightweight when it came to crime scenes. However, the egg salad sandwich was still lodged sideways in her gut, and her headache wasn’t helping either. Getting up close and personal with a dismembered corpse wasn’t exactly high on her priority list.

  Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward, then gathered her coat and squatted down in front of the disembodied head. She tilted her gaze, inspecting the grotesque tableau.

  “What am I looking for?” she finally asked.

  “You can move it,” the sheriff answered. “Get yourself a better look.”

  Somewhat reluctantly but with great care, Constance reached out with her gloved hand and carefully rolled the head up to fully reveal the face. The victim’s expression was flaccid, mouth open, eyes half-lidded and staring lifelessly back into hers. Blood bathed the chin and most of the face, as well as the ragged portion of the neck that was still attached. A deep gash ran from the cheekbone just below his left eye, down across the jaw, revealing raw muscle and crushed bone. It had apparently been a wild strike from the blade of the axe-not unexpected given the circumstances.

  However, even with the severe marring and excessive blood, the features were intact and distinct. The image of a mug shot filled Constance’s already overtaxed brain.

  After a prolonged hush, with the petite federal agent motionless and staring at the severed head, Skip cleared his throat.

  “Recognize him at all?” he finally asked.

  A heartbeat later Constance replied, her voice flat and soft but clearly audible in the still basement. “It’s John Horace Colson…”

  “Yeah,” Skip grunted. “The sonofabitch hasn’t changed a bit. Not bad for a guy that’s been dead for thirty-five years.”

  CHAPTER 29

  7:53 P.M. – December 25, 2010

  Highland County Regional Hospital

  Psychiatric Wing

  Mais – Northern Missouri

  Twinkling lights chased each other in a tightening upward spiral with ever-increasing speed, dancing briefly on the tips of lightly flocked green plastic branches. The miniature glimmers of color reflected wildly from glass ornaments that dangled as shiny obstacles in their paths. Finally, the racing points of brilliance reached an ornate silver-trimmed starburst at the top, and its own hidden cluster of tiny bulbs sprang to life in a radiating display of commercialized holiday cheer.

  Constance quietly watched the flickering decorations on the Christmas tree as the strands of lights rolled through a half-dozen differing patterns before going dark for a moment and then starting the sequence from the beginning once again. As the chase began anew, she turned her face away from the animated distraction, lazily uncrossed her legs, and then leaned forward in the molded plastic waiting room chair. She pursed her lips then arched them into a hard frown as she hunched over and rested her forearms atop her knees. Staring downward, she thumbed a button to illuminate the screen of the cell phone she held cradled in her hands. She’d been sitting here waiting for almost twenty-five minutes now. Any other time she would already be well on her way to annoyed, but not this evening. She was willing to wait as long as necessary.

  Somewhat more than twelve hours ago, sleep had finally come screaming at her with the throttle wide open and no brakes to speak of. She had seen it coming and her only course of action at that point had been to brace herself and let it happen, so that was exactly what she did. No sooner had she returned to her motel room from the crime scene than the exhaustion struck head on and the pillow came rushing into her face like a deploying airbag. Fortunately, she had just enough time to extract herself from the Kevlar and get undressed before impact.

  After that she didn’t remember much of anything. All she knew was that according to the clock, she had spent slightly more than nine hours horizontal and for a change, she’d been blissfully unconscious and devoid of the terrors that had been plaguing her previous attempts at sleep. Beneficial as that was, it still simply wasn’t enough. While the restful slumber had definitely taken the edge off, she needed much more.

  Unfortunately, she was well aware that more sleep wouldn’t fix the other problem at hand. She could have sacked out for three days straight and still would have awakened to the realization that none of what had transpired in the early hours of the morning was a dream. It was most definitely a nightmare-of that much she was certain-but it wasn’t the kind that went away when you opened your eyes. That point was driven firmly home when she awoke to find a text message impatiently waiting on her chirping cell phone.

  And now, here she was in
Mais, hoping to fit a few more pieces of the puzzle into place.

  She yawned, then allowed herself a tired sigh and closed her eyes. Even though she kept herself in excellent shape, she had dealt out some serious self-abuse over the past few days. On top of that, no matter how much training you did, you could never truly prepare your body for what a serious dose of adrenalin and a sudden fight would do to cold, stiff muscles. She had felt those effects the moment she rolled out of the bed, and she knew she’d be paying the price for at least another day or so. She didn’t think there was any serious damage, but she was definitely sore, wearing a couple of new bruises, and had aches on top of aches. She was fairly certain that meant the pains were procreating. However, she had dulled them as best she could with a pair of ibuprofen caplets and would take some time to whine about it later. Right now, she was chasing answers-or so she hoped. The way things had been working out since this all started, she wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that she was really chasing yet another impossible question.

  Constance fluttered her eyes open and saw that the cell phone screen had timed out, winking itself into dormant darkness. She thumbed a random button to wake it up. She had been waiting almost a full half-hour now. No big deal. She had time.

  She scrolled to the text folder then pulled the message back into view and read it for the thousandth time. Then she read it again just for good measure.

  It hadn’t disappeared, and it hadn’t changed-not that she expected it would, but in a way she wished it had. Something of that sort happening would be much easier to fathom than most anything else regarding this case so far.

  Across the room there finally came a sharp click, followed by the whooshing sound of a door. Constance looked up expecting the nurse, but was greeted instead by a new face.

  “Good,” she thought. Though unexpected, it was exactly what she wanted. She slipped the cell phone into the pocket of her coat on the chair next to her and stood.

  “Good evening,” the man said as he approached. “I’m Doctor Poe.”