A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters

by David Ruggerio

  The damn Ford Explorer that doubled as the sheriff’s truck, had been giving Tom a boatload of trouble. There was a recall on the fuel pump and the sooner he could get it in, the better. The drive to the office was enjoyable; a hell of a lot better than that commute he suffered through for years in Philly. As he came down from the mountain towards the village, he could see the Little Red House through the slash in the trees where the Niagara Mohawk Power pylons ran on a northwest to southeast line. As the road veered east, you had to slow down; just as you conveniently drove past the Bowlen Farms. They bottled and sold their own milk. The logo had been a smiling cow under the brand name, “God’s Fresh Milk from the Bowlen Farm.” He smiled, had enjoyed a bowl full of corn flakes that morning with quite a bit of God’s delicious milk…life was good.

  Bessy Embury, the gray “office everything” put the phone down when Tom entered (he’s always late, it just makes me so mad), “Sheriff, Banger Doyle been waiting for you in your office. He brought in two fellows that were trespassing in the cemetery last night. Joe (the thirty-year veteran who never got above a deputy) put them in a cell.” Bessy looked for some type of visible acknowledgment from her boss, “Oh and Sheriff, there’s fresh coffee on your desk.”

  “Well good morning Bessy, and thanks for the coffee.”

  (‘Heavens to Murgatroyd’)

  Banger was a local fixture in and around Brunswick for decades. The town of Brunswick heavily relied on him, and him alone, to take care of the cemetery. Banger had a lot of pull down at City Hall.

  His face was dark and enigmatic, a roadmap that revealed all the troubles and tribulations of a hard-fought life. He had a retreating forehead, a bulbous sunken nose, projecting jaw, protruding teeth, and thick hoary mutton chops—and a pronounced listless, at times; vacant demeanor. At first look, you may presume his manner was meant to exaggerate the disadvantage of his countrymen. When he was just fifteen, he escaped a drunken father’s rage. He, along with his seventeen-year-old brother Quinn and his ten-year-old sister Finola, fled from Drogheda, Ireland. The coldhearted streets of Drogheda were full of creatures that had only a distant and hideous resemblance to human beings; grey-haired old men, whose faces had hardened into a settled leer of beggary, simious and half-human. The women were no better; filthier and lewder than the harpies. His father; Amhlaoibh, was a mean, vindictive man. Always angry; angered for being poor, angered for being on the dole, and most of all, angered for being a widower who was left to raise three children. Banger, his brother and his sister immigrated to Gloucester, Massachusetts, where they had an aunt and uncle. Soon after, Finola developed consumption. Watching his little sister suffer tore the inner heart from Banger. He and his brother would take around the clock shifts, cooling her from night sweats, cleaning the bloody phloem, and most importantly trying to get her to eat. In a few months, despite their efforts, she had become like a skeleton. Before she had succumbed, Quinn also developed the disease. Six months later Banger was left alone in the world. At seventeen; with the consent of his uncle, he enlisted in the army. On September 1st, 1951 he was shipped off to the U.S. 2nd Infantry Division, 23rd Regiment in Korea. This was truly baptism by fire; less than two weeks later he was knee deep in blood and gore, charging up the muddy hills of Heartbreak Ridge. Any youthfulness was wiped away as he and his regiment struggled to take out one enemy bunker after another. The fighting got so bad, it went from grenade, to bullet, to trench knife and finally to fist. The face of a Korean soldier that he eviscerated with his bayonet would never leave his psyche. His nightmares were chilling, to this day filled with the faces of his dying brother, his beloved sister, and the moribund Korean.

  . . .

  “Well say there Sheriff, top of the morning.” (Young punk; had me waiting for so long. I bet he sits at the end of the bed and picks his damn feet in the morning)

  Tom handed Banger a hot cup of coffee and took his place behind the enormous desk (Old Sheriff Hallard Corneille had wanted a desk that large to intimidate the locals). He took a sip; he would have supposed after so many decades Bessy could make good coffee, it was terrible.

  “So, Bessy tells me that you caught a couple of troublemakers in the old cemetery. Did they cause any damage?”

  “Don’t know yet Sheriff, twas waiting for you sir. I’ll make me rounds of the old place and see if they caused a wee bit of trouble or not.”

  “Banger you let me know straight away, I’ll run their priors and we’ll then decide together what to do with the two of them.”

  “Straight away me Sheriff.” Banger stood and gave an animated salute.

  Tom always felt there was something peculiar with Banger; at times his accent seemed to magically disappear. Sizing him up, Tom had the inkling that this guy had gotten into serious trouble in the past, but Banger wasn’t the issue now. He grabbed his keys and made his way to the cell area. The two brothers jumped to attention, “Good morning gentleman, I’m Sheriff Landtmann.” He opened the cell and led the two to the office’s lone interrogation room, at times which also doubled as the donation room for the bi-annual Lady’s Auxiliary Bake-off and the repotting room for the annual Rensselaer Christian Association Flower Extravaganza at Eastertime.

  Tom took a glance at them; his background as a detective was inescapable. They both were dressed in designer jeans, knit shirts and one was wearing a Fila jacket, not from any place close to Brunswick. They were filthy and alcohol was permeating from every pore in their bodies.

  “Ok fellas, where are you two from?”

  “Jersey sir, we drove here because we saw cool things on the internet about this town.”

  Tom sighed (should have known), “The internet! And I suppose the items that you read were about things that go bump in the dark?”

  The two dense brothers nodded in agreement.

  “Now tell me the truth, because I will find out soon enough, what type of damage did you boys cause out there last night?”

  Before Joey could screw it up for both, Bobby took control, “Sheriff I swear to God, we didn’t damage anything. We were going to spend the night out there, you know, we just wanted to see the headless angel that bleeds at night.”

  Tom chuckled a bit, “another bunch of thrill seeker. Do you kids really believe all that baloney about goblins and ghouls?”

  The two simultaneously nodded in agreement.

  “Damn fools. That cemetery is private property. Now tell me, what do you have planned for the rest of your stay here?”

  Joey jumped in, “Sir, absolutely nothing. Cross my heart and hope to die (he did the sign of the cross on his chest as he said it). We were attacked last night by a crazy lady and her wild dog. That dog chased us all through the graveyard.”

  “Did you see the animal?’

  “Ah no, not really. But we heard it growl. It got awful close. And by the way Sheriff, that guy Bugger,”

  “You mean Banger.”

  “Yeah, Banger, he’s one creepy dude. He gave me the heebie-jeebies. On the way over here last night I thought he was going to eat us for lunch!”

  Tom looked at the two with one eye opened, “Be honest you two, was there more than alcohol involved?”

  Bobby took over again, the last thing they needed at this point was honesty, “Sheriff, all we had was a couple of beers.”

  Joey interjected, “Yes sir, cross my heart and hope to…”

  Bobby slapped Joey’s hand, “Will you stop that shit,” He turned to Tom, “Sheriff, you have to excuse my brother, he means no harm.”

  At that Bessy entered the office, “Sheriff, its Banger on the phone.” As she turned to return to her desk, her eyes seemed to glow red as she gave the two a sinister look. Joey squirmed in his seat, in a hushed voice he poked at Bobby; “Did y
ou see that old broads’ eyes, I think everyone here is a vampire or something.” He felt around his neck, making sure his trusty gold cross was at the ready.

  Bobby put his hand over his brother’s mouth, “Will you sit quiet, you’re going to make everything worse.”

  After a minute or two of ah-huh, ah-huh, Tom thanked Banger and hung up. “OK, it seems as though there was no damage, so I’m willing to let you two go with a warning, if you trespass again, I will lock you up for real.”

  Joey couldn’t contain his excitement, “Yo bro…that’s great!”

  “I’m not your bro and remember what I just told you two.” The brothers shook their heads in unison and thanked Tom hardily, and as they were about to leave Tom had to ask, “What the bejesus do I smell; did you two piss your pants?” Before Bobby could say a word, Joey pointed at Bobby, “Sir it was him, I swear.”

  . . .

  Tom Landtmann had law enforcement in his blood, having been a detective on the Philly PD for nearly twelve years. He, like his father and his grandfather before, were proud Philly cops. They had lived its mantra; Honor, Integrity, Service. He began as a beat cop patrolling North Philly for four years, before receiving his detective’s shield and going upstairs. He adored his job, spending his entire career in the department’s infamous 39th District. This was the home of North Philadelphia’s Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. These renegade cops were notorious for raiding crack houses and drug distribution hubs. They’d conveniently not report these “raids”, stealing both the drugs and cash they’d find. Tom had been implicated, but after extensive investigations, nothing could be pinned on him. With so much notoriety, it was time for Landtmann to find another job and move as far away as conceivable. An ex-Philadelphia detective had offered him a rank of detective in Denver, but the offer from Brunswick was as the Town Sheriff; here he felt he would be his own boss with no one looking over his shoulder.

  Despite the gout, Tom tried to maintain a regular routine of exercise. He had been doing it since becoming a cop, getting up at five every morning and lifting weights. He was no Schwarzenegger, but he knew quite well, with his physique and good looks, he could land any female he wanted.

  Soon after arriving in Brunswick, despite Bessy’s’ strong objections (damn noisy turd, I hope he goes back to Philly soon), Tom dove headlong into a back room of the office. It was chock-full of junk, street and road signs, shovels and hundreds of pounds of salt (why isn’t the county taking care of this?) and files dating back to the 1800’s. He sorted through boxes upon boxes, early on, there were reports on everything. Crimes, misdemeanor and just plain gossip. He chuckled when he saw files on a farmer’s wife who carried on an affair with the local German baker. The report even went into detail on how the pair would rendezvous in a clearing on the east side of Bald Mountain and how a pair of children came upon them as the Baker had his pants around his ankles while he mounted the farmer’s wife from behind. If only all the reports would go into such detail.

  He then found a box that was hidden behind a giant, life-like corn on the cob that was used for the fall festival. There was no description on the outside. When he cut the tape on the sides and lifted the cover, he was shocked to find that it was the all-important cold case files. This grouping of files should have been in a place of importance, but he rationalized it, a quiet town like this, how many unsolved crimes and murders could there be? The thick coating of dust told him that the past sheriffs were content with just spending all their afternoons manning speed traps.

  As he dove in, he found that not only was the box hidden, but all the files were in complete disarray, back in Philadelphia; the commanding officer would have had his head for such a mess. As he began to organize them, a common thread began to emerge. Most files pertained to one major type of crime; an alarming amount of unsolved horrific mutilations of local adolescent girls. Even in a jaded city such as Philadelphia, murders of children took over the front pages of every newspaper. Here in Brunswick, the powers that be just wanted to bury them.

  . . .

  Bessy had been manning the phones at the sheriff’s office for nearly forty years. She was a spinster who lived with her sister and her husband in a small frame house three blocks away from the office. Many a week began with a freshly baked fruit pie that Bessy brought with her to work. Since beginning with the department, she had only known two bosses. The department had been governed by a pair of former sheriffs, wielding their powers as though it was a dictatorship. To say the office and its employees were pretty much set in their ways was an understatement.

  Sheriff Hallard Corneille was a seventy years old codger when Bessy was first hired. Even with the age disparagement, the two seemed to fancy each other and caused quite a bit of scuttlebutt around the village. Whether anything had ever happened between the two, it was still great fodder for the gals at the local laundromat.

  Her father, Ansgar, had spent every Friday night of his adult life playing pinochle with Hallard. The two, along with ole Ronald Booksworth, who owned the Brunswick Feed and Garden store, sat around smoking Pall Malls, eating can after can of Vienna sausages, and rationing Hallard’s secret stash of Four Roses bourbon. He would gripe every week; “You know, was bad enough during prohibition, but I would like to know who the damn fool was who decided to take my bourbon off the shelves.” He had luckily been forewarned by Reed Feerings, the owner of the liquor store over in Troy, so he stockpiled as much as he could afford, but his stash was beginning to dwindle. With Ansgar and the sheriff being such bosom buddies, a job interview wasn’t going to be necessary for Bessy.

  Hallard was gruff and abrupt with the townsfolk; and without his say-so, modernization had begun to creep into the office, angering him to no end (truth be told, everything angered him). When it was suggested to him by his fellow officers over in Troy that he “get with the times” and computerize, it turned his stomach, “Mind your own damn business! Be a cold day in hell when one of those damn come-pu-tors, or whatever you call them, comes into my office!”

  It wasn’t till a year or so after Hallard that the first IBM computer was installed.

  Eleven months after Bessy started working, Sheriff Hallard was suddenly found dead in his home. The women who congregated outside the Suds n’ Socks laundromat began cackling that it certainly was some type of foul play.

  Hallard had never been late one minute in his life, so when 9:30am rolled around on that fateful Monday morning, Bessy was in a complete panic. Eibert Dansbury, a new deputy on the force was sent over to check on him. The night before, during his favorite show, Gunsmoke, the main fuse in the ancient fuse box blew. He called Jimmy Boyard, the local electrician and town flimflammer, who warned the sheriff that he needed to enter the new century and go for a breaker panel (a damn cold day in hell!). Wearing nothing but his boxers, Hallard maneuvered down his dark cellar steps with a long flashlight he had placed in his mouth to keep his hands free. As he reached for the long string that turned on the overhead lightbulb, he missed the last two steps and fell face first with the flashlight ramming into the base of his skull as he hit the basement floor. Dansbury was so disturbed at the sight of the old sheriff, the flashlight rammed through the back of his throat, he quit the force.

  It wasn’t long after that Hallard was replaced by his deputy; Roman Armentrout. If it had been up to Hallard, it would never have been Roman, he used to belittle the deputy daily, saying that he was “slow” and “stupid.” Despite Roman’s quiet dislike for Hallard, he would continue the office as it had been for decades.

  As Tom thumbed through the files, he could see that, in the past, these cases of the children’s murders had been neatly swept under the rug. The presiding mindset in the office was that the officers involved were to deal with them quickly and quietly. The last thing Brunswick needed was for some hoity-toity New York Times reporte
r to show up and start nosing about. The method by which the cases were handled, or more exactly not handled simply equated to a consensus of fait accompli. As Tom arranged the unsolved files on a large folding table in his office, it became apparent by the swift way they had been filed away by both Hallard and Roman, it was obvious these law enforcement officers wanted them to vanish forever.

  Tom thumbed through one file after another, the pattern was identical. Leads were never followed and few witnesses, if any, were ever questioned. He had a large yellow pad and made notes as to the similarities in each folder. By the time he had looked at the third of what seemed like nineteen, they were all nearly identical! The ages of all the girls were six to eight years old. The lacerations were not made by any sharp instrument, instead they resembled animalistic wounds. His next stop was going to take him to Troy and the county coroner.

  . . .

  Tom understood the importance of an employee such as Bessy; she was such a rarity. She knew everyone in town on a first name basis. She also knew the office inside and out, which plug to use for the coffeemaker, the right guy to call when they needed more traffic ticket books printed, where the salt was from last winter and the personal number of the district attorney who never returned calls. Since she had been hired, she had taken responsibility of filing each form and report, the scourge of every police officer who walks a beat. Not only could she show him where possibly missing reports were, he’d bet bells to whistles that she knew why certain things were left out.