In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  I followed his gaze, but didn’t detect anything odd—at least nothing paranormally odd.

  “Afraid so.”

  “I guess we all can see a big difference tonight,” observed Tony, without looking up until he finished his task. “As long as she’ll stay nice to us, that’s all I frigging care about. I don’t need any more bitches to deal with—especially after the shitty boatload of escalations I took from the douche-bag queue today.”

  Yeah, that would do it. Glad I didn’t have too much of that crap to put up with at the call center that afternoon.

  “Well, the good news is we’ll only be here for about an hour, and then we can leave this scene,” I told them, feeling a little more relieved as I said this.

  “What? You mean we went to all this trouble for just a frigging hour?”

  Normally happy-go-lucky, Justin sounded pissed. He looked pissed too.

  “We’ll just have to move around here a little faster tonight,” I told him, going into my supervisor mode. Hell, I deal with this type of thing all day, so it ain’t no big thing…at least not yet. That all depended on what Crazy Charlain did next. “As soon as we complete our walk-through on the main floor, we can see about trading places with the girls and Tom.”

  That idea seemed to brighten Justin’s countenance, though not as much as it did Tony’s.

  “What the hell are we waiting for!” he enthused, getting his camera and EMF detector out.

  I glanced over at Justin, who apparently had finagled Tony’s new audio recorder from him. His camera already prepped, he motioned for us to follow him out of the living room. Before we made it to the kitchen, Charlain greeted us.

  “Would you like to see where he hung me…the rafter above where he beat and raped me?”

  Holy shit!!

  I do believe Justin nearly dropped poor Tony’s recorder. Really, in a way it should be ‘poor Justin’, since he didn’t see her until he bumped into her bosom. It made for a very awkward moment, and a complete invasion of his personal space as she delivered her latest bizarre statement. He’s probably destined for some nightmares…nothing like a face-to-face encounter with a crazy-eyed white bitch talking rape and murder. Good thing this is the twenty-first century and not the nineteenth.

  “Wh-h-o did that to you?” he asked, backing into us while trying to get away from her. Our Dragon Lady completely freaked him out.

  “Why…he did!”

  She pointed at me. As she did, her smile faded…faded fast actually. Her expression changed to anger, and the only positive out of this were her empty hands. No sharp objects in them…yet.

  Shit, where’s Fiona when I need her??

  “Jimmy? No, you’ve got the wrong guy, Ms Thompson,” said Tony. “I’ve known this guy for years, and he couldn’t hurt a puppy dog…much less another person.”

  I’m sure he expected his well-intentioned supportive comment to ease the growing tension around us. I hoped so, too—prayed it would. But the frigging look in her eyes changed…. Were they turning black? No way. No frigging way!

  “Jimmy?!” she repeated, her tone derisive while eyeing us both angrily. “No…no Jimmy. This is Jeremiah! My stepfather. He tried to kill me, and I’ve been waiting so-o-o-o long to pay him back!!”

  There were still no visible weapons—thank God! But it was definitely time to go! Time to get the hell away from this place…this Twilight Zone house. Fiona told me how the more ‘normal’ Charlain told her how chairs get stacked upon each other throughout the main floor. Charlain’s kids also confirmed this, she told me, and their worsening terror was largely responsible for Fiona moving this investigation up near the top of our ‘to-do’ list. Maybe all along Charlain has been responsible for this freaky funhouse.

  “Oh, okay—I get it!” laughed Justin, slapping at his knee and nearly dropping the recorder again. “You’re acting like Lizzy Robertson, the girl who killed herself like, what…a hundred and forty years ago? Right??”

  Her expression went blank for a moment, and the normal color of Charlain’s eyes returned. They were light gray with a touch of blue around the irises. She looked like she might lose her balance, but then she caught herself. Her eyes turned dark again, and she leaned forward, bringing her face close to Justin’s. He couldn’t back up, because Tony and I couldn’t move. Frozen where we stood. Not cool…definitely not a good scene to be in.

  “You’re wrong, black man,” she whispered, her tone harsh and yet sultry at the same time. “I’m alive…very much, alive!”

  Though it could’ve been a sick joke…a ruse to make our ghost hunter group look stupid and incompetent, I couldn’t be sure this wasn’t somehow real. I mean, what made her eyes do that? As I thought about it, the air around us got noticeably cooler…and it was charged with energy in her presence.

  It might sound really crazy and cause some to lose respect for my claim to level-headedness. However, I began to seriously believe a mischievous spirit had somehow possessed Charlain. Not necessarily Lizzy Robertson, since my own personal research into Catholic exorcisms has turned up case after case of deceased entities claiming to be someone they’re not. Spirits lie, and demons more so.

  If it was indeed the case, there was little we could do about it that night. It’s not like we could top the night off with a good ole Southern-styled exorcism. That would never happen. Fiona’s significant gifts notwithstanding, we always stick to investigations of the paranormal. We’re fact gatherers who present evidence with merely a suggested explanation, and one that’s always open to other interpretations. Of course, that wasn’t gonna do jack for us right then.

  So, what was our reaction to this craziness?

  Once I got a little feeling back in my legs, I turned around and ran out of there. Actually, I tried to go upstairs to round up everyone else, but by then Psycho Bitch had grabbed a butcher knife from a large wooden block on the nearest island in the kitchen. Justin and Tony pulled me out of the house.

  The investigation had lasted less than twenty minutes, and the only thing I accomplished was to scream Fiona’s name and for her and the others upstairs to take cover until the police got there. No sooner than we reached the driveway, an unmarked cruiser came toward us. Ed Silver’s car.

  For the first time ever, I do believe, I felt glad to see him. Not sure why he came, but his timing couldn’t have been better….well a little earlier would’ve been better. A lot better, as it turned out.

  A bloodcurdling scream resounded from upstairs. Ed quickly called for back-up and ran inside the house, with me and Justin following behind him…despite telling us to stay back. Only Tony listened.

  The lights had been turned off throughout much of the main floor, with the large chandelier above the foyer the main source of illumination. A shadowed form swung slowly back and forth beneath the gallery’s banister, holding a glistening steel blade in one hand.

  Charlain Thompson had hung herself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I c-can’t believe this happened…. Why??”

  There was nothing I could say to help. I just needed to be there to hold her close…my wife.

  “I wish I knew,” I told Fiona, gently, pausing to look over at Ed and the others.

  They were gathered around the ambulance, the flashing lights from it and the two police cars reflected eerily upon the Thompson’s front windows. Ed was busy interviewing Angie and Tom, who seemed to be the most composed members of our team at the moment. Jackie was still in tears and Tony tried his best to comfort her. It’s not his forte, especially dealing with a woman not attracted to men. It shouldn’t matter, in my book, but other folks are free to evolve at their own pace.

  Justin looked almost as upset as Jackie, and I’m sure he’d endure at least some psychological trauma after what went down roughly an hour ago. Approaching nine-thirty, we’d be packed up and gone by now if not for the forensic team. They wouldn’t finish for another half hour or so, according to our detective link to how business is handled at
the Nashville Coroner’s office.

  Charlain was probably already dead by the time she finished plummeting to the floor with a bed-sheet noose around her neck. It must’ve been the high thread count that did her in…probably the finest Egyptian weave money can buy. Her neck snapped immediately, and the terrible scream we heard came from Jackie, who watched our suicidal host balance herself on the banister and dive over the edge.

  I would’ve screamed, too…well at least yelled for her to stop.

  But in truth, no one could’ve prevented this from happening. I still wonder if something possessed Charlain—especially after Fiona told me that Lizzy Robertson did the exact same thing, one hundred and thirty-seven years ago to the day—July 26th.

  That’s so messed up, man. It’s the shit urban legends are born from. Only this one could be rooted in much more fact than fiction, depending on whether you believe in spirit possession leading to suicidal tendencies or not.

  “Charlain…she never deserved this!” said Fiona, her delivery a hoarse whisper after crying for much of the past hour. Her heart is a big one, overflowing with compassion and easy to break. “And her children…so young. I’m worried for them.”

  True. Christina recently turned nine, and Paul would be seven in December. More stunned than distraught, Ed allowed Fiona and Angie to take them out of the house before they had a chance to see their mother lying dead on the floor, cut down from the banister by Ed and myself. Their dad, Peter Thompson, arrived to pick them up a few minutes ago, but police procedures here require an official release before he can take them with him.

  Never in our wildest imaginations would we have expected this tonight. And all those mean things I personally thought, despite their close proximity to the truth about her, were now little daggers tearing at my innards…my soul included.

  Some bells you can’t un-ring…definitely not the ones for Charlain.

  “Okay, y’all can go on in there and remove your equipment now,” Ed advised, motioning to Tom and Tony before walking over to where Fiona and I sat together, at the base of the stone steps leading up to the mansion’s front door. “I need to have a word with Fiona.”

  I thought it might be easier on her if I joined the guys in gathering our stuff.

  “I want Jimmy to stay for this,” she told him, tightening her grip on my arm to keep me from standing up.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t confess to some supreme satisfaction in the wounded puppy look on Dick Tracy’s face—though I don’t completely dislike the guy. Hell, if he didn’t have such an obvious attraction for my wife, I might not hold any animosity toward him whatsoever.

  He started to say something—probably why no way in hell that’d be possible—but then he stopped himself. Instead, he told everyone else, including the four other police officers and the coroner’s people, that he’d like a word with Fiona and me in private.

  “There’s some recent developments that affect y’all—definitely Fiona,” he said, after he led us over to a wrought-iron bench beneath a tall willow tree near the driveway, next to where his cruiser was parked.

  “What kind of developments?” she asked.

  I’m sure she already knew, or at least had a good idea where this would lead. Often, her tone will tell me whether she’s hearing something for the first time, or instead, she’s preparing to check the facts she already knows against what’s about to come pouring out of a person’s mouth. An excruciating experience if she believes you’re bullshitting her.

  Of course, I had absolutely no idea what he’d tell us.

  Ed took a deep breath and released it slowly, and then began

  “Okay…the best way for me has always been to lay things out there, and then answer whatever questions anyone might have,” he said, glancing at me as he said the last part.

  An immediate nod came from me, and it was followed by a delayed whispered ‘okay’ from Fiona.

  “Two more homicides took place this past weekend, discovered earlier today,” he continued. “A neighbor filed a complaint about a crying dog chained in a backyard since Saturday morning. Animal Services contacted us after discovering congealed blood in a small pool on the back porch this morning. When two officers were dispatched to the address, they found a man and woman dead inside the house. Relatives have been notified, so the media will release the details at ten o’clock tonight, and we already know the crime is related to the other homicides. That’s why I came here tonight.”

  “Two more people related to Candi?” asked Fiona, her somber tone revealed she expected this part. Not sure if she had any inkling about the victims’ identities, though.

  “Yes,” he said, quietly. “They are….Susan Marelli, and her boyfriend, Paul Masterson.”

  “Oh, my God!” she gasped, bringing her hands up to hide her mouth left gaping open by what she just heard. She had no inkling about who the victims could be…none at all. “How did it happen?”

  Did she really want to go there? I’d say not so much…but maybe she needed to hear the details to understand more about the killer’s planned progression since the murders started last week.

  “These killings appear similar to what happened to Dickey,” said Ed, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “The couple was shot and then tortured to death using the same sharp edged instrument Dickey was killed with.”

  “Susan was Candi’s best friend,” whispered Fiona, shaking her head sorrowfully. “They knew each other since childhood and grew up together in Trenton, New Jersey. Susan moved out here with Candi three years ago…she hated her ‘artist’ name. ‘What’s wrong with using Candice Miller?’ she used to say.”

  My wife began to weep again, and I moved to pull her closer to me with my arm wrapped around her shoulders. I felt Ed flinch.

  “And, Paul…what a great guy. The best…,” she continued, her voice cracking. “You remember hanging out with them last year, don’t you Jimmy? Weren’t they the sweetest couple?”

  “Yeah they were,” I agreed. I hated thinking about people we’d lost and the stream of memories brought to the forefront by tragic news…. I never have been good with that. I had nightmares for nearly three years after my maternal grandfather died when I was a kid. When my Grandma Louise followed a year later, it was even worse. “I spoke with Paul last month, after he found out about my band’s upcoming gig next weekend. He told me Susan had it marked on their calendar, since one of the producers looking at us is a cousin of his.”

  That image kind of choked me up, too. I hadn’t interacted much with either Paul or Susan, but the times we shared were good ones.

  “Candice Miller…,” said Ed, reflectively. “Have you ever heard of Candice Travini?”

  “No,” said Fiona.

  I shook my head, ready to hear what one Candice had to do with the other.

  “Travini is Candi’s married name,” he explained. “She changed it officially after her divorce was finalized a year before her move to Tennessee.”

  “That figures,” said Fiona, shaking her head again, as if she should’ve made this connection long ago. “And, you’re about to tell us that Travini is related to some New Jersey crime family. Right?”

  “Not bad,” he replied, chuckling for a moment. “That’s why we keep you on the payroll, I suppose. Travini is a notable Mafia name. From what I understand, you don’t get trash picked up or concrete poured in Trenton without dealing with this family. Candice’s ex-husband has a long history of questionable activity. Everything from money laundering to murder, he’s been sent up twice for second-degree murder. The first was as a kid, when he killed a convenience store clerk. Later, he killed a bouncer at a bar during a brawl. His weapon of choice, and used in both killings? A meat cleaver, which fits the blade striation pattern on Dickey and Candi’s bodies. He made similar attempts to disembowel his victims too.”

  “Why haven’t we heard about this connection before now?” I asked, putting forth my best effort to not sound condescending. “It might’ve saved a few
lives, don’t you think?”

  Dick Tracy nodded thoughtfully, probably wondering how he could use the very same weapon to dismember me and dispose of my body parts into the Cumberland River behind the Thompson’s house.

  “We didn’t know,” he confessed. “At least not enough to make a solid connection. Since then, we’ve been working tirelessly with the authorities and crime family specialists in New Jersey. We all feel her death and those of her close associates are linked to one killer, and the most likely suspect is Vito Travini”

  Ed paused to pull out a photograph. A large mug shot of Mr. Travini. He handed the picture to Fiona.

  “This was taken when he was last incarcerated, five years ago,” he explained. “The testimony that put him away came from Candi herself. Now that he’s been paroled, it makes perfect sense he would seek revenge.”

  “When did they let him out of prison?” I asked, trying to get a good mental picture of the most likely timeline.

  “Three weeks ago,” Ed replied, turning his complete attention to me while Fiona continued to examine Vito’s jail photo. “He disappeared soon after that, when he was scheduled for his first check-in with his parole officer. Based on the description of the van pursuing you lately, Jimmy, Travini prefers Buicks, black in color, with plenty of room for ‘guests’.”

  “I see.”

  Not completely, but enough to understand how lucky I am that my ass wasn’t in a morgue right then.

  “I’m not so sure he’s our guy,” said Fiona, drawing surprised looks from us both. As before, she shook her head, this time wearing a deeper frown.

  “How so?” asked Ed.

  I expected him to be pissed off, since obviously he and his police partners in Nashville and Trenton had gone to a lot of trouble to collect this information. But, he wasn’t pissed…just a little perplexed by Fiona’s response. Her track record apparently carries more weight than I previously realized.

  “The killer is a red head with a fair complexion—I’m certain of it,” she told him, nodding toward me before going on. “This Travini guy’s hair is dark and his complexion isn’t so fair. However, his slender build fits…so maybe he dyed his hair to avoid detection as he fled New Jersey.”