Black Bird

by Greg Enslen

  “As you all know, the body of a missing girl was found early this morning,” the Sheriff said, glancing over at Simon Jeffers, hero of the day. “As of right now we have no suspects, and there have been no new developments in the case since we distributed the press release this morning. I can tell you that every member of my police force is dedicated to solving this horrible crime as quickly as possible, and a member of the State Police, Lieutenant Blake, will be arriving within hours to assist us in solving the case as quickly as possible.” He smiled even as he spoke those hated words - they didn’t need any outside help! He and his men were perfectly capable of solving this murder, and Sheriff Brown was certainly going to be the one right there when the case was solved, taking the credit for it. If he played his cards right, he could definitely turn this whole messy affair to his advantage - but now there was this Lieutenant Blake coming in ‘to assist’, probably some know-it-all who’d try to take over. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, not as long as Sheriff Jes Brown had something to gain out of the situation.

  The Sheriff looked around at the assembled press corps representing a good portion of Virginia’s media and inwardly grinned, the visions of promotion and exposure and higher office dancing in his eyes. Maybe the State boys could use a good cop, the kind of cop that knew how to work with people, making them see what he wanted them to see. Maybe if he could wrap all of this up soon, he could start thinking about moving down to the state capitol of Richmond, where the State Police had their headquarters. Yeah, and it would get him out of this boring little town. Some days he liked all the power of running his own little town, but other days, it bored him.

  “Any questions?”

  A dozen hands shot up into the air. The sheriff nodded at a pretty woman in the second row.

  She stood. “How was she killed?”

  Brown waited for a second before answering, savoring the incredible power of all of these cameras and tape recorders and anxious people waiting for him to speak - it really was intoxicating. He could get used to this. “The Fredericksburg County coroner is still determining the cause of death now,” he said, already looking around to choose his next person, looking for someone from one of the bigger TV markets. “We should have a time and method of death soon. Our people are working in direct cooperation with the State boys.”

  It wasn’t exactly true - Brown didn’t have any ‘people’ in his county to do autopsies, so all questionable deaths were autopsied by the county coroner’s down in Fredericksburg.

  Another nod of the sheriff’s head, and the man from the Washington Post stood. Brown had had one of the deputy’s find out which reporters were from what media outlet - he needed exposure, and that meant calling on the right people. “Was there any evidence of sexual harassment of the victim?”

  Brown gaped at the man, amazed at the callousness and blatant commercialism of these people - they were worse than he was! He took a moment to compose himself before he answered - it was one thing to take advantage of a situation, but a completely different thing to talk about it in such a way as to make it worse.

  “We don’t know about that yet. Again, we’ll have to wait on that.” The Post reporter sat down, looking disappointed - certainly the question had been crass and unfeeling and highly emotional, but sometimes it paid off to ask a shocking question, because sometimes it resulted in a shocking, headline-friendly answer.

  Sheriff Brown continued as if he felt the answer he’d given had not been enough. “Earlier evidence pointed to the victim being bound and gagged, and the cause of death was most likely strangulation. Beyond that, we are not prepared to give out any more information.”

  His answer was far more graphic and explanatory than it needed to be, but Brown was thinking more about his own exposure on TV than the feelings of the family and friends of the victim, many of whom might not have heard all the gruesome facts in the case but were watching the newscast that was being carried on the local cable station live. These thoughts did not enter his mind, though - he was thinking about the reporter from the Post and making sure he got as much information out there as possible, no matter who it hurt.

  A few more questions were asked and answered, the assembled journalists scribbling down every word the Sheriff said, before the one Simon had been dreading came up. He had been standing at the back of the platform, hoping that everyone had forgotten all about him, but that wasn’t going to happen. As soon as the question about the finding of the body was asked, Sheriff Brown turned to Simon and gestured him up to the podium. His heart started pounding in his chest twice as fast, and on leaden legs he stepped the three steps to the podium, grasping the microphone tightly in one white-knuckled hand.

  Simon opened his mouth and slowly told his gruesome story once again, his voice cracking as he stared out over the heads of all of these people, trying to ignore them. He concentrated on staring out the windows towards the parking lot, where the rain had actually stopped and the sun was out, shining down on the cars and news vans in the parking lot and streaming in the windows. He would’ve given anything to be out there right now, just standing in the warm sunshine.

  The details were the same, and with each repetition of his story they imprinted themselves on his mind more. Simon Jeffers felt that if he had to describe what he’d seen and what he’d done when he’d found that poor girls’ body one more time, he might crack.

  But this telling was even worse. His hands sweated, his voice wavered, and even though he’d told the story a half-dozen times already, this time he left out some crucial details and had to go back and add them in later, making him sound like an idiot. During his entire speech he kept glancing out the windows into the parking lot outside, wishing this whole thing could be over and he could just leave. He could feel their eyes on him, boring through him like a hundred little lasers, and he hurried to finish, audibly sighing when he was done.

  As he finished, though, more hands jumped into the air. He didn’t want to take any questions, no sir; all he wanted was to get away from this craziness, but when he glanced at Brown for deliverance, the Sheriff only nodded and gestured to the press. Simon might have imagined it as his heart pounded heavy in his chest, but it looked like the Sheriff might have been wearing a slight smile.

  Bastard, Simon thought as he turned back to the assembled press of an entire state, trying hard to not think about all the people who would be seeing his face on their TV’s tonight, and he nodded at a nice-looking lady near the back. His didn’t point - he didn’t want to take his hands out of his pockets, they would shake too much.

  “Tina Linsey, Pittsburgh Times. Did you say that the girl looked like she was scared, like she was pointing at something?”

  Simon nodded, thanking God it was an easy question. Nothing he couldn’t talk about. “Her hand was propped up on the wheel like it was pointing at something, and her eyes and mouth were open.”

  Simon didn’t mention the tongue - Brown had told him not to. That little bit of information was being closely held.

  “She looked scared to me, probably because her eyes were wide open like she’d just seen something horrible, and at first it looked like she was pointing at something. That’s all I meant.”

  He started to nod at another reporter when the woman from Pittsburgh remained standing and shouted out a follow-up question:

  “But isn’t it true that the victim’s tongue had been cut out, too?”

  The room fell deathly silent, all eyes on Simon Jeffers. They were all looking at him, but his mind was racing and his heart was pounding and all he could think about was yes, the moment had come and HERE IT WAS, FOLKS - SEE THE MAN’S HEART EXPLODE RIGHT OUT OF HIS CHEST, he screamed inside his head. The silence, the stares, everything effected Simon in the worst way, and he tugged at his collar as if the temperature in the room had skyrocketed a hundred degrees. All he wanted was to leave, to run away and not see their eyes anymore...

  “Ah, yes that’s true, but we didn’t have any...”


  He was angrily shoved away from the podium by Sheriff Brown and Simon barely caught his balance before stumbling off the platform and down the aisle between the rows of desks, heading for the only safe place he could think of, Sheriff Brown’s office. He wanted to leave, to get outside, but the doors were blocked by all those reporters, and he’d never get past them.

  The reporters were in an uproar, all of them except the woman from Pittsburgh who’d asked the question to begin with - she was working her way toward the Sheriff’s office to talk to Simon Jeffers. She’d figured out that the Sheriff was a pompous ass and had nothing new to say, and the real story would be that man closing the door behind him, hiding from the press. She’d have to talk to him if she wanted more information.

  “Please, please, everybody, now just calm down!” the Sheriff was shouting from the podium as the reporters shouted their questions to him, and suddenly he wasn’t having as much fun being in the public spotlight. The tongue thing had been kept from the reporters for two reasons: it was both a gruesome piece of information and a valuable one when and if a suspect was ever charged.

  Police departments routinely held back pieces of information to weed out anyone who might pretend to have important insight into the case but actually only wanted some attention. Or, worse yet, someone who confessed to a crime they didn’t commit.

  Sheriff Brown had heard of that happening before in the big cities, but nothing big enough had happened in Liberty in such a long time, he had no experience in that sort of thing. He and his men also had no experience in keeping secrets like this close to the vest, and probably one of his deputies had let the information slip into the wrong ear.

  “Ladies! Gentlemen! We will be ending the press conference now. Another one will be held tonight at 6 p.m.” Brown left the podium amid a cacophony of shouted, indignant questions, and ignored them all, walking into his office. He passed the Linsey reporter from Pittsburgh and cast her a glaring look, but she only smiled in return - she’d faced down much worse than this small town cop.

  Brown opened the door and saw the Simon Jeffers was on his knees beside the Sheriff’s trashcan next to the Sheriff’s desk, gripping both sides as he threw up. The Sheriff quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him before the reporters could see.

  “...reports of high winds and heavy rains have moved into the Middle Atlantic states as Hurricane Mandy continues its slow movement up the coast. Record rainfall amounts were reported overnight in several cities in Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina. South Carolina governor George Jaeger said today that State police and transportation officials will work in cooperation with county and local officials to repair bridges and roads washed out by flash floods that have occurred in his state over the past two days. One location in South Carolina reported a total of four inches of rain in less than two hours. Hurricane Mandy still continues on its northerly path, the eye of the storm moving past Savannah, Georgia at 1:00 p.m. today, and forecasters predict that the storm will continue to move up the coast, bringing the strongest winds and rains of the year to cities up and down the East Coast.

  “To repeat our top news, Hurricane Mandy continues to move north and is now centered south of Charleston, South Carolina, bringing torrential rains and hurricane-force winds. Beach erosion has many local officials worried, and coastal evacuations have been ordered in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland. Seventeen deaths in Florida and Georgia have been attributed to the storm, and officials at the National Hurricane Center in Coral Gables, Florida said today that Hurricane Mandy is one of the most powerful hurricanes ever recorded, with sustained winds near the eye in the 160 mph range and gusting to over 200 hundred. Several solid days of rain has caused flooding in many parts of the south, and flash floods destroyed several bridges in Georgia, stranding towns and communities. Reports of high winds and heavy rains have moved into the Middle Atlantic states and Hurricane Mandy continues its slow movement...”

  David reached up and snapped the radio off. He didn’t particularly want to hear about the weather back in Virginia, but it did concern him. He had been through a few hurricanes in Liberty, but he couldn’t remember one that got so much coverage on the news. Was it really that bad?

  The hurricane sounded like a bad one, and from what David could tell from the radio reports, it was only going to get worse. He had heard some weather expert talking about trying to forecast the path of the storm, but even the weather guy didn’t sound too sure about things.

  Maybe it was a sign that he was supposed to go back.

  Stupid, but nonetheless, David wanted to go back. Not because he wanted to return to his old life with all of those old-life problems, but he did want to know if his aunt was okay. She was so busy lately with moving to the new townhouse and everything, and combined with her drinking that had temporarily slacked off but was probably just as heavy again by now, he hoped that she was being careful. They might not have gotten along that well before, but David got the feeling that, in the last couple of days at least, he and his aunt might have made some type of connection that hadn’t been there before. If only she could get sober.

  And what had he done about it? He’d packed up and left, left her alone there to deal with it all on her own. Great job.

  Abe will be there for her, his mind volunteered.

  Yeah, but he’s not family. He’s close, but he’s no member of their tiny little two-person family, and David suddenly felt very guilty about leaving his aunt there alone to fend for herself. And along with the guilt came the protective feeling he had for her, a feeling that had grown out of the frequent occasions he had found her so toasted that she had fallen on her face and needed his help to do just about everything, even use the bathroom. The feelings were natural, he knew, but that didn’t make them any easier to deal with.

  And he loved her, too.

  You could call her, just to see how she’s doing.

  And then there was Bethany. He glanced over at the passenger seat and saw the red binder there, laying right where Bethany had sat so many times, going to the movies, going to school, driving up into the mountains, going into D.C. to see a concert. All of the things they had done together, and all of the things he had done to her to push her away. And even after all of that, she’d still loved him, deeply, almost as if he was the only thing in the world that meant anything to her. He still had another hour of driving or so before he got to where he wanted to stop tonight and get a hotel room, so he reached over and picked up the binder, flipping it open against the steering wheel, and began reading.

  There was a quiet knock on her office door, and Julie Noble looked up from her stack of reports, telling whoever it was to come in.

  Chris Hanson pushed the door open with his foot because his hands were too busy carrying another thick stack of reports. He brought them in and set them down on the corner of her desk.

  “That’s the result of your second search. ‘Fingers’ is on top and ‘toes’ in on the bottom,” he said, plopping down into a nice leather chair she’d ‘borrowed’ from one of the abandoned offices on her floor. Her office was so small that the chair took up most of the usable room, but it made the office feel a little more ‘official’.

  She pushed the initial search report aside, the one on both fingers and toes, and pulled the ‘fingers’ one over to her side of the desk, leafing through it. The first report had turned up far more cases than Julie or Chris had expected, and after it had finished printing, she’d had Chris run separate reports for each. Evidently the search engine somehow marked each file as it searched through the massive database, so second and third searches across the same material took far less time. The first report had turned up over 1500 unsolved cases in the past 30 years that had somehow involved a missing digit, and now these shorter reports further narrowed the information down.

  The ‘finger’ list was 1143 entries long, a headache just waiting for her. The ‘toe’ list was much shorter, but she decided to take them both home and work on them. It
was a Tuesday night and she had nothing to do until ‘NYPD Blue’ came on, one of her favorite shows, and she hadn’t had any homework since the Academy. From what she had seen on the master list, many of the cases could be eliminated from her search parameters, going on what little she knew about collectors and their habits. Oh, that reminded her - she needed to check with the Library and see if there were any reports or books she could read tonight that might give her some insight into the mind of a collector.

  She heard somebody clear their throat and glanced up to see Chris staring at her.

  “Oh, sorry Chris. Just trying to decide how I’m going to tackle all of this,” she said, smiling at him. “Thanks for running these reports, and I promise I won’t bother you too much tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” Chris said, standing up. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to stare at those things all night and come back in here tomorrow with lots of work for me to do. And complaining of bad dreams, too.”

  She was flipping through the ‘finger’ listing and something on one of the pages jumped out at her. The fourth listing down on the page contained an interesting entry - “BDK”. She asked Chris about it.

  “Oh, I looked that up. That’s a reference to a case that might have had some connection to the Black Diamond Killer. Remember all those terrible murders they had up in the Seattle area in the early 80’s? Killed 15 or 20 girls and they never caught the guy, as far as I know. But I thought Ted Bundy confessed to doing those before he died, didn’t he?”

  “No, no. I know what you’re talking about - he was interviewed by some writer and asked about his opinion and insights on the case. He didn’t confess.” She made a mental note to find a copy of that book and read it soon, too. Lots of reading in her immediate future - not exciting, but good. “This case here,” she said, pointing at the sheet. “Is this one of them? It’s got the code by it.”