by Glenn Porzig
"That's just it. I don't know. Just for kicks? Kids are so decadent these days, I sometimes wonder if there's even a real motive for the atrocities we encounter in the streets on a nearly daily basis."
"But I know you think it's more than that."
"You're right. I can feel it. In my gut. There is more to this, something—dark—beyond just a psychopath. There is a real evil at the root of this… I can't discuss what we found today, but it confirms my suspicions. There is some sort of ritual being performed and the girls are being offered up as sacrifices..."
"Alex… try not to dwell on all that dark stuff, working homicide is tough enough without having to put your soul on the line."
"I can handle it."
"I know you. You won't let this rest until the killer has been brought down. Don't beat yourself up over this case."
"But another girl died…"
"…and it's not your fault. You can't take this personally, it will wear you down until there's nothing left. Get out there and give it your all—but when you come home you have to leave it at the door. All of it."
"I know, you taught me that…"
"But are you listening to me? Do you really have anything to return home to? I know losing Angela was hard, but you have to let the past go. You have to get out there and live a little. You've got this one life—make it count."
"There'll be time for that after I solve this case."
"You always were hardheaded…" O'Bannon shook his head.
"I learned from the best."
***
Drake stood impatiently outside the lecture hall. As he waited he looked out over the campus he'd once been so accustomed to. Everything had changed. The differences were subtle, but they were there. Some things had deteriorated, others had been rebuilt or replaced. It was like being in an alternate universe version of his once familiar alma mater. But it was just the inexorable passage of time that had made the changes.
The doors to the hall suddenly swung open and snapped him out of his reverie. Dozens of chatting students poured from the hall, all carrying tablets and cell phones. Gone were the large bags that weighed down his youthful shoulders with a full day's worth of heavy old books. They all looked so young. Was he ever that young? Youth is wasted on the young, he thought to himself. He couldn't remember who had said that, but standing here today he felt it to be true.
The flow of students slowed to a trickle and then eventually stopped. Drake continued waiting until a lone older gentleman in a suit coat and jeans emerged from the now empty hall. The man was fiddling with papers that were spilling out of his laptop bag. Once he seemed secure in the knowledge that the papers wouldn't go flying away he began to dig in his coat pocket, still staring down absentmindedly as he walked past Drake. Eventually he pulled out an old pipe and stuck it in his mouth.
"Hey Doc, I thought this was a smoke free campus," said Drake.
"Alex?" replied the startled professor, the pipe nearly falling from his mouth as he spun around. "I don't actually light it, you know. Some habits just die hard." He was the poster boy of a college professor… from the nineteen fifties. His dark brown hair was slicked back and parted to the side, gray just starting at his temples. Horn rimmed glasses and a pipe to top off the look. "And it's Professor."
"Whatever you say 'Doc'."
"So what brings you out here to the campus, Detective?"
"You mean what is so important that I'd get off my butt and drive out here instead of just shooting you an e-mail like usual?"
"I imagine it's something to do with the girls that have been abducted, they've all been college girls I seem to recall. Do you have a lead? Some cryptic reference you need my specific occult knowledge to decode?"
"Sorry Doc, nothing so fanciful. You do make it sound interesting though, like some Dan Brown novel."
"Oh, alright then, what is it?"
Drake looked Professor Flora straight in the eyes, carefully watching for his reaction.
"I think the cult may be active again."
"Seriously? The Circle? How could that be? You and I both know that O'Bannon and Father Martin sent them running years ago."
"Lee Miller was in the Circle. He had the brand," Drake deadpanned.
"Yes, but Miller was just a teen when they were disbanded. He was only a remnant of that group…"
"Sure their leader was killed, 'Take out the head' and all of that, but the others may have just been driven underground."
"So you think these latest killings…"
"Sacrifices," Drake corrected him.
"…sacrifices, are work of the Circle. You think they are gathering power for a return?"
"It can't be a coincidence—first Miller, and now this."
"Who do you think is behind it? Have you identified any of the old players?"
"That's just it. My best lead so far is a young man. He doesn't fit the profile at all."
"What do you mean? Who is he?"
"Thomas Baron."
"The son of the man running for governor?"
"Yeah, I just can't figure out what he has to gain from this."
"As you well know, anytime someone makes a pact with a demon they are offering up their soul in return for something. Usually power."
"I know, I know. What does he have to gain?"
"As the son of a wealthy and powerful man, with his youth and good looks? I can't imagine he'd squander his soul for anything—what could he possibly be tempted by for such a steep price?"
"That's what I'm asking you, Doc."
"I think you're just too close to this. Too haunted by the Circle. Maybe this time you're just dealing with a sociopath—possibly inspired by the work that Miller was doing?"
"Maybe you're right. Maybe he's just a spoiled little rich kid dabbling with Satanism…" Drake wrung his hands together and then gave Professor Flora a wan smile. "Well, it was good to see you again."
"It's always good to see you Alexander. Oh, before you go, I was meaning to tell you something…You'd recently written me about my collection of esoteric books. I'm afraid at this point you've already borrowed and read them all… twice."
"That's okay, I figured that would be your response."
"I thought you'd be interested to know that the very impressive collection of esoteric books once owned by the writer James Nichols will soon be up for auction as a part of his estate sale."
"Oh, really? Where did you hear about that?"
"I received an e-mail invitation to the auction. I'm afraid it's a little out of my league."
"Did you know Nichols?"
"Oh, I never met the man, he was a notorious recluse after all. We corresponded for a while when he was working on his book 'Confession of the Damned'."
"Well, it's a small world after all." Drake mused.
"Especially when you travel in these small secret circles."
"It was good to see you, Doc. Until next time!" Drake gave a small bow at the waist.
"Take care my friend—and trust no one."
***
The bright yellow sports car finally pulled over. Drake had been tailing it since it left the Baron estate over twenty minutes ago. He hadn't made any effort to hide the fact that he'd been following it. He wanted to be seen. He wanted Thomas to know that he knew he was guilty. He wanted him to sweat. He wanted him to screw up and make a mistake that would get him caught.
The detective pulled up across the street from where Thomas had parked. He watched him get out and hand his keys to a valet. When Thomas glanced up and saw him, Drake gave him a nod to make it clear that they were each aware of the other's presence. After his car was driven off Thomas stood there in front of the doors to the night club and stared at the detective.
Drake didn't flinch. Eventually it was too much for Thomas and he walked across the street towards the El Camino. He didn't even bother looking before he crossed, like such an action was beneath him somehow. Traffic screeched to a halt around him but he didn't acknowledge it.
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"Can I help you with something, officer?" Asked Thomas as he put his hands on the frame of the El Camino's open window.
"You can get your hands off my car, I just waxed it."
"I noticed you've been following me. Have I done something wrong?"
"Well, for starters you just jaywalked and almost caused an accident…"
Thomas kept his hands on the car door and leaned in closer to the window.
"I've done nothing wrong. This is harassment. Stop following me or my father will have your badge."
"That escalated quickly. Do you have something that you aren't telling me?"
"I'm late. I have friends inside that are expecting me and I'm always punctual."
"Are you here looking to meet a girl? I hear blonds are your type."
"Blonds?"
"I could have sworn I saw you with a cute little blond girl the other day—Nancy Witt. Do you know her?"
"Can't say that I do officer… but she sounds delightful."
They stared at each other for a moment and then Thomas reached behind his back. Drake involuntarily tensed, was he reaching for a weapon? No. Thomas pulled out his wallet and removed a card from it. He handed it to the detective.
"Here, if you see that Nancy girl have her give me a call, won't you?"
Thomas smiled his mischievous grin. Drake gritted his teeth.
"If that's all you need I'll be going inside to the party. Have fun out here in your car… I plan to be in there for a while."
Thomas turned and nonchalantly walked back towards the club once again causing another car to screech to a halt to avoid hitting him.
Drake fumed. Thomas certainly seemed more like someone that was guilty and too crazy to be concerned about being caught than someone who wasn't aware of the crime he was suspected of committing.
"Enjoy yourself," Drake called out, "while you can."
***
The door to police chief Underwood's office swung open and a well dressed man in a wheelchair rolled in and stopped directly in front of his desk. Another man walked through behind the man in the wheelchair. This man was wearing a gray sharkskin suit, he was balding and what hair he did have was naturally curly.
"I'm Mitch Goldberg, I'm sure you recognize my client."
Underwood straightened up when he recognized the man in the wheelchair.
"I do. What can I do for you Councilman Baron?"
Jackson Baron sat stone faced. His lawyer spoke for him once again.
"I imagine you're aware that before long my client will be the next governor of Pennsylvania."
"Yes, yes. Good luck with your campaign, sir." Underwood said, nervously glancing down at the man in the wheelchair.
The lawyer continued. "It has come to our attention that a certain detective of yours has been harassing the son of my client…"
"I assure you that I don't know what you're talking about. None of my officers would do anything like that."
"It's the same officer that assaulted those two school boys at a party last weekend. I'd say it looks like you've got a rogue policeman in your ranks. I'd advise that you reign him in. Otherwise you'll be hearing from me in a more official capacity… and I may just have to check with those poor boys, who were brutalized by an officer in your department, to see if they need any legal representation."
"That won't be necessary. I'm sure it was all just a misunderstanding. I'll have a word with my detective and let him know that he isn't to bother your son any more."
"That sounds like a wise decision. It would be a shame if there were some sort of lawsuit against your department for defamation that could lead to lost votes for my client… and lost campaign donations."
"I understand. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'll take care of it."
The lawyer grabbed the handles of Baron's wheelchair and spun it around to face the door.
"See that you do."
***
"You wanted to see me?" asked Drake as he leaned into Chief Underwood's office. Solomon Price was standing behind him.
"Get your ass in here and close the door."
Drake walked in and started to close the door behind him.
"No, him too." Underwood motioned for Price to join them. "I want him to hear this too… to make sure we're all on the same page."
Price followed the detective into the office and they both sat down across from the chief.
Underwood leaned across his desk, glaring down at the detective.
"Do you know what this is about?"
"Not a clue," replied the detective.
"Not a clue? You think you're funny, Detective?"
Solomon Price tried not to smirk, but it was a losing battle. He quickly raised his hand to cover his widening grin and let out a small cough as if to clear his throat.
Underwood gave a quick glance at Price, as if to say 'Don't make me regret bringing you in on this case'.
"No sir." Answered Drake.
"This is a serious matter. You've had a formal complaint lodged against you. Why, if it wasn't for your expertise in these matters, I'd have pulled you from the case today."
Drake sat grim faced looking up at Underwood.
"But just because I chose to let you have another shot doesn't mean you have free reign to do whatever you feel. To harass who ever you want."
"Harass sir?"
"I know you're smarter than that. You know I'm talking about the son of the man that's running for the friggin' governor of Pennsylvania!"
"Sir, I have reason to believe…"
"I have reason to believe that you'd better watch what you say. Jackson Baron and his lawyer were here in this very office earlier today. That man has deep pockets and is the very definition of politically connected. This department, and you specifically, can't afford to make accusations about that man or his family. You and I both know that the mayor will have us both out of here if a high profile case like that is brought against the department."
"Everything is pointing towards him. That kid is dirty—I don't care who his parents are!"
"You will care when you're out of a job and being sued for libel… or slander… I can never keep those straight."
"It would be slander if he spoke it…" Price interjected.
"I didn't ask you!" Underwood shot Price a deadly stare.
"It's only slander if it's not true." Drake said.
"I'm moments away from kicking you out of my office," Underwood pointed at Drake. "You lay off the Baron family, they are off limits!" He swung his finger around to point at Price. "And you need to keep him in line!"
The detective and the spiritualist both sat in stunned silence.
"If I hear you are hassling the Barons again, you are off the case! If another girl winds up dead, you are off the case! If you even look at me wrong, you are off the case! Now get out of here!"
***
Drake squeezed the trigger and the slide on his Colt 1911 rocked back and then forward again, chambering another round. He held his breath and quickly let off another shot. The .45 round tore through the air with a loud crack.
He kept firing until the slide snapped back and held in place signaling his magazine was empty. The last shot was still echoing off the concrete walls as he slipped off his hearing protection.
He sat his empty pistol down on the small table in front of him and reached up to press the big yellow button on the post beside him. As the overhead track whirred to life and inched his target towards him, he took off his shooting glasses and hung them from the collar of his black T-shirt.
Not bad, he thought to himself.
It was hard to focus with the pressure of the case as well as his lack of sleep. With being off from work for six months he'd been told he needed to re-qualify as soon as possible. He always found the range relaxing, so he made a point to schedule his target practice as soon as he could.
They were always trying to get him to switch to a 9mm, but he was grandfathered in with his .45 and he res
pected the stopping power of the classic caliber. Sure, the newer 9mm's could hold a lot more rounds, but what was the advantage of carrying twice as much ammo if it took twice as many shots to do the same job?
Drake felt a well placed round from his Colt would have a better chance of stopping whatever was coming his way than the faster, lighter rounds most officers carried. Sure there was the option of the .40 caliber, but his 1911 held sentimental value.
The Colt had been a gift from Chief O'Bannon. It had been given to him to celebrate earning his detective's shield. It was the same sidearm that O'Bannon had carried when he was still a detective.
Drake reached up and pulled down the paper target from the clip. He held it up so the light could stream through the holes and smiled. He hadn't lost his touch. Taped over the standard target was a picture of Solomon Price—with a nice tight grouping of holes right in his forehead.
***
A photo of Nancy Witt filled the screen, a caption beneath read: LATEST MURDER VICTIM. Caroline Phipps was narrating over the picture. "Word on the street is that Nancy Witt, the latest victim of the Heartbreaker, was abducted right under the nose of the lead detective on the case. This was the same night that the same detective allegedly assaulted two students."
Phipps had a no nonsense expression as she stared out at her audience through the studio camera, a feeling of concern conveyed in her voice. "We here at WYKN want to know what you think. Are the police being competent in the handling of this serial killer case? Families have been contacting us to say that they are scared to let their children out at night. Afraid they may never return. Three beautiful young women with bright futures are no longer with us. Abducted, tortured and killed. What is happening to our society? Why is the government failing to keep us safe?"
I had the pleasure of speaking with the man running for governor, Jackson Baron, earlier today and I asked him about the violence facing our city."
A prerecorded interview began. Baron was in his wheelchair, behind him was a flurry of activity as people appeared to be departing from a fancy political luncheon.
