Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 4
The boy sprang onto the arm of the sofa, lithe as a cat, and studied her. His threadbare cap sat off centre on his head, as if thrown on in haste. He stared at her for a moment, mute as a store window mannequin, and then his head rotated on his spindly neck as he turned to look at the bedroom door. The lines of his pale face were drawn and grim.
“You know who he is,” Billie said. She folded her arms. “I don’t have to explain him to you.”
His expression didn’t change. Disdained and disapproving.
“It’s Gantry you don’t like, remember?” She wagged her chin in the direction of the bedroom. “He’s the nice one.”
She studied him this time, this phantom child about whom she knew absolutely nothing. Outside of her own childhood, she hadn’t had much experience with kids. No nieces or nephews to learn from. She tried to guess Half-Boy’s age, pegging him around eight- or nine-years-old at the time of his death. No time to learn about the adult world or make sense of anything like love. Romantic love, that is. He didn’t understand why the policeman was here so late, in her bed. How was she going to explain this to him?
“I like him. And he’s going to be here a lot more.” Billie sat down on the sofa, a few feet from the ghost. Even at that distance, she felt the cold pouring off of him like a meat locker left open. “He’s a good man. Honest. He’s a policeman.”
The scowl on his face deepened at her words. She was making it worse somehow. Billie leaned back into the cushion, blowing her cheeks out in frustration. Then she turned to look at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He didn’t move.
“Did you know my mother?” she went on. “Her name was Mary Agnes. I thought I saw you with her at the cemetery, but I wasn’t sure. Did she contact you somehow?”
Half-Boy dropped to the floor and scuttled across the room, like he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
Her frustration deepened and her tone became flinty. “You know, you could try to answer me sometimes. Nod your head or something.”
The wooden floor creaked, but not in the direction the boy had scampered to. Mockler stood in the bedroom door, his hair disheveled in a way she liked. The look in his eyes was wary and alert, as if sensing trouble.
“What are you doing up?” he grumbled, his vocal cords still sleepy.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She tried not to sound startled.
Mockler cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I have trouble sleeping sometimes.”
He looked over the living room, the door to the kitchen. “Who were you talking to?”
The look in his eyes was troublesome. Did he think she was crazy, talking to herself or did he sense something else was going on? How could she explain the Half-Boy to him? He’d hoof it out the door and never come back. He might insist they spend their nights at his house after that and that was something she couldn’t do. “No one,” she answered.
A white lie and they both knew it, but he let it ride. Not the best way to start a relationship, she scolded herself. Billie rose to her feet and came to him. “Let’s go back to bed.”
“What time is it?” he asked, eyes searching the room for a clock.
Billie took a step back to where she could see the microwave in the kitchen. “Almost five.”
“I should go,” he said.
“Now?” She couldn’t mask her disappointment.
“Early start today. I gotta get home first and change.”
Billie leaned into him, her palm flattening against his chest. “Do you want some coffee?”
“I’ll grab some on the way. You go back to bed.”
“I will if you come with me.” Her smile was hopeful. A tad mischievous.
“Next time,” he said, kissing her.
A scraping noise near the window interrupted them. The sash in the window slid up all on its own, letting in the cold air. Seated on the sill was a wine bottle topped with a candle. It toppled over, banged against the floor and rolled into a corner.
Mockler blinked at it for a moment and then turned to go back into the bedroom. “I’m gonna get dressed,” was all he said.
~
Standing under the hot shower, Mockler tried a thousand different ways to explain away or dismiss the sight of the window opening under its own volition. The wind had caught it at some strange angle. It was old, operating on a rope and pulley system like the windows of his childhood home. A squirrel in the wall scampered up the sash cord, tripping the pulley upward. The logic became increasingly more complicated as the steam fogged the glass in the mirror. Shutting off the water, he smacked his hands against his cheeks to dispel the crazy thoughts altogether.
You know what it was. You just don’t want to admit it.
Fine, he concluded. That’s what it was. He knew Billie was different. He knew the things she could do. It was the disappointment that was clawing at his nerves. He hoped it was over. With the Murder House razed, and Billie’s mother found and laid to rest, he had hoped the spooky stuff would end. He’d have to reassess that conclusion. But later, when he had time.
Dressing took less than five minutes, the tie cinching straight the first time. He loosened the collar just a little, hating anything that chafed against his Adam’s apple, and boomed down the stairs to the kitchen.
The house was unchanged, still in its pathetic vacant look of being half-emptied. He hadn’t even bought groceries, let alone furniture. The thought of shopping for all that stuff was flat-out repugnant. Was it any wonder Billie didn’t want to come back to this sad-looking house? The idea of selling it had flitted across his mind twice already. It was too big for one person, especially someone who was routinely called away. Renting it might be more lucrative though. While not a huge house, it was big enough to be split into two apartments and let the tenants cover the mortgage with a little leftover. The renovations would take time though. Would he live in the house during the reno or rent somewhere else for the time being? Too many questions, not enough time.
Locking the front door behind him, he heard a sharp tapping sound ring out from the next yard over. He looked up to see a smartly dressed woman struggling to wield a sledgehammer. Barely able to lift the blunt tool, she tried to hammer a post into the ground, but missed and cursed.
“Morning,” he hollered to her. “Do you want a hand with that?”
The woman looked up, relief blooming over her face. “Would you mind?”
Mockler crossed into his neighbour’s yard and took up the sledgehammer. The woman held a realtor’s sign fixed to the post. “I didn’t know Ivo had listed his house,” he said.
“Yesterday,” the woman said. “It took a lot of hand-holding to do it. He’s still not sure.”
“He’s been here a long time.” Mockler looked at the photograph of the realtor on the sign. It matched the woman before him. “And you’re Cynthia?”
“Cynthia Trucillo.” She shook his hand. “Thanks for helping. I normally have someone else do this, but Ivo wanted the sign up today.”
“No problem.” He saw that a small hole had already been dug in the grass. He slotted the post in, tapped it until it stood on its own and drove it down with two hard knocks. “There you go,” he said.
“Thanks.” The realtor nodded at his own house across the hedgerow. “Is that your house there?”
“Yup.”
Cynthia Trucillo already had her card out and offered to him. “It’s got charm. If you ever think about selling, give me a call. I promise you won’t have to hammer anymore signs.”
Mockler looked at the card, an exact replica of the shingle on the post. “Thanks, Cynthia,” he said as he walked to his car. “I just might do that.”
Chapter 6
THE PRINTED TYPE on the page blurred in Mockler’s vision. A transcript of an interview with a witness that was as gripping as a telephone directory. Yawning, he dropped the document onto his desk and massaged his eyes with both hands to stave off the fatigue. He couldn’t take anymore coffee, his guts queasy from the overload, and it wasn’t even noon.
“Late night, chief?”
Mockler raised his head to see his partner, Detective Odinbeck, return to his desk with an oversized muffin in his mitt. “Yup,” Mockler replied and then nodded at the pastry. “I thought you swore off that stuff.”
“Fell off the wagon,” Odinbeck shrugged. “So what’s the story? Did you go out last night?”
“Billie’s back in town.”
Odinbeck smirked and winked. “I guess she was glad to see you, huh?”
“Stop.”
“Killjoy. So, what’s the deal? You two an item now?”
Mockler just shrugged. Discussing his love life with Odinbeck was not something he was keen to do. Despite the older detective’s gruff demeanour, Odinbeck was oddly open to it, often prodding his partner with questions about his relationship. Mockler couldn’t tell if the detective was truly interested or if he just got a vicarious thrill out of it. Either way, he never felt comfortable discussing it.
“Don’t be such a prig, Mock. Spill. I want to know the details.”
“Why? So you can mock me?”
“You’re too young to be an uptight schoolmarm. Sometimes, it’s good to talk about these things.”
The desk phone rang. Thank God. Mockler sighed as he reached for it. “Mockler,” he answered.
“Someone here to see you, detective,” came the voice from the lobby reception desk.
Mockler sat up, wondering if Billie was downstairs. “Who is it?”
“His name’s Jameson. Says he needs to talk to you.”
The name wasn’t familiar. “I’ll be right down. Did he say what it’s about?”
“No, sir. Just that he needs to talk to only you.”
Mockler hung up and slung his jacket from the back of his chair. He prayed that it wasn’t another chatty nutjob looking to waste his time with UFO conspiracies and Bigfoot sightings. He had fielded three of those calls last week alone.
The man in the lobby surprised Mockler by his well-groomed appearance and tasteful attire. Casual, but expensive. His eyes clear and intelligent, the handshake firm but the hands soft. White collar all the way. “I’m Detective Mockler. Have we met?”
“Richard Jameson. Thanks for meeting me, detective.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jameson?” Mockler studied the man, noting the way that his eyes darted around the lobby of Division One.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Tucked behind the lobby was a large boardroom that was often used for press conferences. It was empty now. Mockler led the man inside and closed the door behind them. “Have a seat,” he said.
Richard Jameson remained standing. “I won’t take much of your time, detective. You are the lead investigator in the John Gantry case, correct?”
This was getting interesting. “Yes sir. Do you have any information on John Gantry?”
“I need to know something.” Here, Jameson took a breath. He had the odd look of someone making a wish before blowing out birthday candles. “Is he really dead?”
“Yes,” Mockler said. He paused long enough to see the fact register on the man’s face. Immediate relief, the tension slacking out of his shoulders so quickly that he seemed to be deflating. “Did you know Gantry personally?”
“How did it happen? Did someone kill him? I’d heard he had been arrested.”
“That’s true. He was assaulted by another inmate in jail.”
“I think I’ll take that seat after all.” He wheeled the nearest chair over and sunk into it.
Mockler sat down and spoke softly to the man. “You seemed relieved. Tell me how you knew Gantry.”
“He’d often call me for help. Favours.”
The detective fought the urge to dig out his notepad. “What kind of favours?”
“Ridiculous ones. He often needed a lift somewhere. I think it amused him to treat me like a chauffeur. Sometimes, he needed to be stitched up.”
“Stitched up?” The other man nodded and Mockler went on. “You’re a doctor?”
“I was. A surgeon, actually.”
“You don’t practice anymore?”
“No. Mostly consulting work these days.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed, wary all of a sudden. “Detective, this is an informal meeting, yes?”
“We’re just chatting as far as I’m concerned. Don’t worry.” Mockler smiled to put the man at ease. “Were you and Gantry friends? Or did you know him from work?”
“I hated him.”
“But you drove him around and stitched his cuts when he didn’t want to show his face in a hospital?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Jameson shot back.
Mockler softened his tone. He didn’t want to scare Jameson off. “Forget all that. Gantry’s dead and the file is closed as far as I’m concerned. I’m just trying to understand the man. His motivations, his actions.”
Jameson eased back down. He seemed tired all of a sudden. “I once made a mistake. No, two mistakes. The second was asking Gantry for help with the first. Gantry operated like the mob. Once you owed him, you just keep paying. The man was a bastard of a manipulator.”
“So I’ve heard.” Mockler scratched his chin. “Can I ask what he helped you with?”
“Do you need to know, detective? If Gantry’s dead, I mean. It was…personal.”
The conversation was winding down of its own accord. Mockler stood up. “No. I don’t think I need to know. I might want to know more about Gantry himself. Just details, anything. Can I call you if I think of something?”
“Of course.” Jameson retrieved a business card and laid it on the table. “I still find it hard to believe he’s dead. Did you see him when it happened? Was it ghastly?”
“I missed the whole thing,” Mockler admitted. He walked the visitor to the door. “I never got a look at him.”
“That’s odd. Didn’t you examine the body? I thought that was procedure.”
“It is. The body went missing from the morgue.”
The blood ran out of Jameson’s face. “Oh God,” was all he said before marching briskly for the front doors.
Mockler was about to go after him when he felt a hand on his elbow. His partner, huffing it down the corridor. “Heads up, chief. We got a call.”
“What is it?”
“Body found in the woods, out by Crooks Hollow.” Odinbeck took a left to the elevators that would take them down to the motor pool. “Nasty one by the sounds of it.”
“Who took the call?”
“Hoffmann and Latimer. They’re already on site. We’re assisting.”
The two men loaded onto the elevator and Mockler jabbed the button down. “What’s so nasty about it?”
“Latimer wouldn’t elaborate. He said we gotta see it to believe it.”
~
Crooks Hollow was a 25 minute drive from Division One. Across the bay to a forested glen that had once been the site of a mill operation in the late Victorian period. The limestone ruins of the mill still stood and the place was reputed to be haunted. That fact didn’t sit well with Mockler as he drove past the limestone pylons of the bridge. Detective Odinbeck sat quietly in the passenger seat, observing the landscape zipping past them.
Subdivisions gave way to farmland and then forest. A canopy of naked branches arced over the paved road, sunlight dappling the cracked asphalt. Mockler pulled up behind the forensic truck and a uniformed officer led the way through the damp brush. Odinbeck cursed when he emerged from the tangles with spiky burrs clinging to his pant leg. Stepping out of the trees, the two detectives entered a clearing.
“Christ,” muttered Odin.
Another uniformed officer stood nearby, waving them through. Behind him were detectives Hoffmann and Latimer. Sozen, the lead on the forensic team, was kneeling on the ground going over his equipment. Still waiting for the signal to go in.
“Is that the sergeant?” Odinbeck asked. “What’s she doing here?”
Mockler saw their superior standing further away, pacing slowly through the weeds. Nodding to the other detectives, he strode in and saw what had brought the sergeant out to the field.
The dead body was a male Caucasian, naked. The age looked to be between 20 and 30 years. Adult, but not by much. The victim’s arms were wrapped tight around the trunk of a black oak, bound at the wrist and cinched tight. The strain on the arms kept the body upright, the torso pressed tight against the bark of the tree. The skin was almost blue, the legs and hands dark with smeared dirt stains like he had crawled through the mud before being tied to the tree. Blood and dirt stained the victim’s face, obscuring his features. The eyes were open and wide, staring like cold marbles up at the branches overhead. There was something wrong with the victim’s head.
At first glance, Mockler thought that the body was wearing some kind of headdress or strange hat but he could see now that they were horns. Antlers, to be more precise. Like those of a deer. He counted the points on the antlers. Ten in all. A large deer. What he couldn’t figure out was how the antlers stayed on the victim’s head. He saw no strings or wires.
“That’s the craziest shit I ever saw,” blurted Odinbeck.
Latimer came up alongside them, looking out at the body. “You should have seen it in the dawn. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Are those real?” Mockler asked. “The antlers.”
“Yep. Ten point buck. Big animal.”
“How are the antlers staying on? I can’t see the strings.”
“That’s the really fun part. Fucking things are screwed on.”
Odinbeck blanched. “To what? His skull?”
“Straight into the bone.” Latimer shook his head. “We think it was done while he was still alive, too.”
Mockler pointed at three lengths of wood standing upright in the ground. “What are those? They looked burnt.”
“Torches. Old school too, fueled by pitch. We’re guessing they were used to light the scene at night.”
“This guy didn’t have a flashlight?” Odinbeck huffed. “What’s that stuff on his back? Did they draw on him?”
“You know who he is,” Billie said. She folded her arms. “I don’t have to explain him to you.”
His expression didn’t change. Disdained and disapproving.
“It’s Gantry you don’t like, remember?” She wagged her chin in the direction of the bedroom. “He’s the nice one.”
She studied him this time, this phantom child about whom she knew absolutely nothing. Outside of her own childhood, she hadn’t had much experience with kids. No nieces or nephews to learn from. She tried to guess Half-Boy’s age, pegging him around eight- or nine-years-old at the time of his death. No time to learn about the adult world or make sense of anything like love. Romantic love, that is. He didn’t understand why the policeman was here so late, in her bed. How was she going to explain this to him?
“I like him. And he’s going to be here a lot more.” Billie sat down on the sofa, a few feet from the ghost. Even at that distance, she felt the cold pouring off of him like a meat locker left open. “He’s a good man. Honest. He’s a policeman.”
The scowl on his face deepened at her words. She was making it worse somehow. Billie leaned back into the cushion, blowing her cheeks out in frustration. Then she turned to look at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He didn’t move.
“Did you know my mother?” she went on. “Her name was Mary Agnes. I thought I saw you with her at the cemetery, but I wasn’t sure. Did she contact you somehow?”
Half-Boy dropped to the floor and scuttled across the room, like he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
Her frustration deepened and her tone became flinty. “You know, you could try to answer me sometimes. Nod your head or something.”
The wooden floor creaked, but not in the direction the boy had scampered to. Mockler stood in the bedroom door, his hair disheveled in a way she liked. The look in his eyes was wary and alert, as if sensing trouble.
“What are you doing up?” he grumbled, his vocal cords still sleepy.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She tried not to sound startled.
Mockler cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I have trouble sleeping sometimes.”
He looked over the living room, the door to the kitchen. “Who were you talking to?”
The look in his eyes was troublesome. Did he think she was crazy, talking to herself or did he sense something else was going on? How could she explain the Half-Boy to him? He’d hoof it out the door and never come back. He might insist they spend their nights at his house after that and that was something she couldn’t do. “No one,” she answered.
A white lie and they both knew it, but he let it ride. Not the best way to start a relationship, she scolded herself. Billie rose to her feet and came to him. “Let’s go back to bed.”
“What time is it?” he asked, eyes searching the room for a clock.
Billie took a step back to where she could see the microwave in the kitchen. “Almost five.”
“I should go,” he said.
“Now?” She couldn’t mask her disappointment.
“Early start today. I gotta get home first and change.”
Billie leaned into him, her palm flattening against his chest. “Do you want some coffee?”
“I’ll grab some on the way. You go back to bed.”
“I will if you come with me.” Her smile was hopeful. A tad mischievous.
“Next time,” he said, kissing her.
A scraping noise near the window interrupted them. The sash in the window slid up all on its own, letting in the cold air. Seated on the sill was a wine bottle topped with a candle. It toppled over, banged against the floor and rolled into a corner.
Mockler blinked at it for a moment and then turned to go back into the bedroom. “I’m gonna get dressed,” was all he said.
~
Standing under the hot shower, Mockler tried a thousand different ways to explain away or dismiss the sight of the window opening under its own volition. The wind had caught it at some strange angle. It was old, operating on a rope and pulley system like the windows of his childhood home. A squirrel in the wall scampered up the sash cord, tripping the pulley upward. The logic became increasingly more complicated as the steam fogged the glass in the mirror. Shutting off the water, he smacked his hands against his cheeks to dispel the crazy thoughts altogether.
You know what it was. You just don’t want to admit it.
Fine, he concluded. That’s what it was. He knew Billie was different. He knew the things she could do. It was the disappointment that was clawing at his nerves. He hoped it was over. With the Murder House razed, and Billie’s mother found and laid to rest, he had hoped the spooky stuff would end. He’d have to reassess that conclusion. But later, when he had time.
Dressing took less than five minutes, the tie cinching straight the first time. He loosened the collar just a little, hating anything that chafed against his Adam’s apple, and boomed down the stairs to the kitchen.
The house was unchanged, still in its pathetic vacant look of being half-emptied. He hadn’t even bought groceries, let alone furniture. The thought of shopping for all that stuff was flat-out repugnant. Was it any wonder Billie didn’t want to come back to this sad-looking house? The idea of selling it had flitted across his mind twice already. It was too big for one person, especially someone who was routinely called away. Renting it might be more lucrative though. While not a huge house, it was big enough to be split into two apartments and let the tenants cover the mortgage with a little leftover. The renovations would take time though. Would he live in the house during the reno or rent somewhere else for the time being? Too many questions, not enough time.
Locking the front door behind him, he heard a sharp tapping sound ring out from the next yard over. He looked up to see a smartly dressed woman struggling to wield a sledgehammer. Barely able to lift the blunt tool, she tried to hammer a post into the ground, but missed and cursed.
“Morning,” he hollered to her. “Do you want a hand with that?”
The woman looked up, relief blooming over her face. “Would you mind?”
Mockler crossed into his neighbour’s yard and took up the sledgehammer. The woman held a realtor’s sign fixed to the post. “I didn’t know Ivo had listed his house,” he said.
“Yesterday,” the woman said. “It took a lot of hand-holding to do it. He’s still not sure.”
“He’s been here a long time.” Mockler looked at the photograph of the realtor on the sign. It matched the woman before him. “And you’re Cynthia?”
“Cynthia Trucillo.” She shook his hand. “Thanks for helping. I normally have someone else do this, but Ivo wanted the sign up today.”
“No problem.” He saw that a small hole had already been dug in the grass. He slotted the post in, tapped it until it stood on its own and drove it down with two hard knocks. “There you go,” he said.
“Thanks.” The realtor nodded at his own house across the hedgerow. “Is that your house there?”
“Yup.”
Cynthia Trucillo already had her card out and offered to him. “It’s got charm. If you ever think about selling, give me a call. I promise you won’t have to hammer anymore signs.”
Mockler looked at the card, an exact replica of the shingle on the post. “Thanks, Cynthia,” he said as he walked to his car. “I just might do that.”
Chapter 6
THE PRINTED TYPE on the page blurred in Mockler’s vision. A transcript of an interview with a witness that was as gripping as a telephone directory. Yawning, he dropped the document onto his desk and massaged his eyes with both hands to stave off the fatigue. He couldn’t take anymore coffee, his guts queasy from the overload, and it wasn’t even noon.
“Late night, chief?”
Mockler raised his head to see his partner, Detective Odinbeck, return to his desk with an oversized muffin in his mitt. “Yup,” Mockler replied and then nodded at the pastry. “I thought you swore off that stuff.”
“Fell off the wagon,” Odinbeck shrugged. “So what’s the story? Did you go out last night?”
“Billie’s back in town.”
Odinbeck smirked and winked. “I guess she was glad to see you, huh?”
“Stop.”
“Killjoy. So, what’s the deal? You two an item now?”
Mockler just shrugged. Discussing his love life with Odinbeck was not something he was keen to do. Despite the older detective’s gruff demeanour, Odinbeck was oddly open to it, often prodding his partner with questions about his relationship. Mockler couldn’t tell if the detective was truly interested or if he just got a vicarious thrill out of it. Either way, he never felt comfortable discussing it.
“Don’t be such a prig, Mock. Spill. I want to know the details.”
“Why? So you can mock me?”
“You’re too young to be an uptight schoolmarm. Sometimes, it’s good to talk about these things.”
The desk phone rang. Thank God. Mockler sighed as he reached for it. “Mockler,” he answered.
“Someone here to see you, detective,” came the voice from the lobby reception desk.
Mockler sat up, wondering if Billie was downstairs. “Who is it?”
“His name’s Jameson. Says he needs to talk to you.”
The name wasn’t familiar. “I’ll be right down. Did he say what it’s about?”
“No, sir. Just that he needs to talk to only you.”
Mockler hung up and slung his jacket from the back of his chair. He prayed that it wasn’t another chatty nutjob looking to waste his time with UFO conspiracies and Bigfoot sightings. He had fielded three of those calls last week alone.
The man in the lobby surprised Mockler by his well-groomed appearance and tasteful attire. Casual, but expensive. His eyes clear and intelligent, the handshake firm but the hands soft. White collar all the way. “I’m Detective Mockler. Have we met?”
“Richard Jameson. Thanks for meeting me, detective.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jameson?” Mockler studied the man, noting the way that his eyes darted around the lobby of Division One.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Tucked behind the lobby was a large boardroom that was often used for press conferences. It was empty now. Mockler led the man inside and closed the door behind them. “Have a seat,” he said.
Richard Jameson remained standing. “I won’t take much of your time, detective. You are the lead investigator in the John Gantry case, correct?”
This was getting interesting. “Yes sir. Do you have any information on John Gantry?”
“I need to know something.” Here, Jameson took a breath. He had the odd look of someone making a wish before blowing out birthday candles. “Is he really dead?”
“Yes,” Mockler said. He paused long enough to see the fact register on the man’s face. Immediate relief, the tension slacking out of his shoulders so quickly that he seemed to be deflating. “Did you know Gantry personally?”
“How did it happen? Did someone kill him? I’d heard he had been arrested.”
“That’s true. He was assaulted by another inmate in jail.”
“I think I’ll take that seat after all.” He wheeled the nearest chair over and sunk into it.
Mockler sat down and spoke softly to the man. “You seemed relieved. Tell me how you knew Gantry.”
“He’d often call me for help. Favours.”
The detective fought the urge to dig out his notepad. “What kind of favours?”
“Ridiculous ones. He often needed a lift somewhere. I think it amused him to treat me like a chauffeur. Sometimes, he needed to be stitched up.”
“Stitched up?” The other man nodded and Mockler went on. “You’re a doctor?”
“I was. A surgeon, actually.”
“You don’t practice anymore?”
“No. Mostly consulting work these days.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed, wary all of a sudden. “Detective, this is an informal meeting, yes?”
“We’re just chatting as far as I’m concerned. Don’t worry.” Mockler smiled to put the man at ease. “Were you and Gantry friends? Or did you know him from work?”
“I hated him.”
“But you drove him around and stitched his cuts when he didn’t want to show his face in a hospital?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Jameson shot back.
Mockler softened his tone. He didn’t want to scare Jameson off. “Forget all that. Gantry’s dead and the file is closed as far as I’m concerned. I’m just trying to understand the man. His motivations, his actions.”
Jameson eased back down. He seemed tired all of a sudden. “I once made a mistake. No, two mistakes. The second was asking Gantry for help with the first. Gantry operated like the mob. Once you owed him, you just keep paying. The man was a bastard of a manipulator.”
“So I’ve heard.” Mockler scratched his chin. “Can I ask what he helped you with?”
“Do you need to know, detective? If Gantry’s dead, I mean. It was…personal.”
The conversation was winding down of its own accord. Mockler stood up. “No. I don’t think I need to know. I might want to know more about Gantry himself. Just details, anything. Can I call you if I think of something?”
“Of course.” Jameson retrieved a business card and laid it on the table. “I still find it hard to believe he’s dead. Did you see him when it happened? Was it ghastly?”
“I missed the whole thing,” Mockler admitted. He walked the visitor to the door. “I never got a look at him.”
“That’s odd. Didn’t you examine the body? I thought that was procedure.”
“It is. The body went missing from the morgue.”
The blood ran out of Jameson’s face. “Oh God,” was all he said before marching briskly for the front doors.
Mockler was about to go after him when he felt a hand on his elbow. His partner, huffing it down the corridor. “Heads up, chief. We got a call.”
“What is it?”
“Body found in the woods, out by Crooks Hollow.” Odinbeck took a left to the elevators that would take them down to the motor pool. “Nasty one by the sounds of it.”
“Who took the call?”
“Hoffmann and Latimer. They’re already on site. We’re assisting.”
The two men loaded onto the elevator and Mockler jabbed the button down. “What’s so nasty about it?”
“Latimer wouldn’t elaborate. He said we gotta see it to believe it.”
~
Crooks Hollow was a 25 minute drive from Division One. Across the bay to a forested glen that had once been the site of a mill operation in the late Victorian period. The limestone ruins of the mill still stood and the place was reputed to be haunted. That fact didn’t sit well with Mockler as he drove past the limestone pylons of the bridge. Detective Odinbeck sat quietly in the passenger seat, observing the landscape zipping past them.
Subdivisions gave way to farmland and then forest. A canopy of naked branches arced over the paved road, sunlight dappling the cracked asphalt. Mockler pulled up behind the forensic truck and a uniformed officer led the way through the damp brush. Odinbeck cursed when he emerged from the tangles with spiky burrs clinging to his pant leg. Stepping out of the trees, the two detectives entered a clearing.
“Christ,” muttered Odin.
Another uniformed officer stood nearby, waving them through. Behind him were detectives Hoffmann and Latimer. Sozen, the lead on the forensic team, was kneeling on the ground going over his equipment. Still waiting for the signal to go in.
“Is that the sergeant?” Odinbeck asked. “What’s she doing here?”
Mockler saw their superior standing further away, pacing slowly through the weeds. Nodding to the other detectives, he strode in and saw what had brought the sergeant out to the field.
The dead body was a male Caucasian, naked. The age looked to be between 20 and 30 years. Adult, but not by much. The victim’s arms were wrapped tight around the trunk of a black oak, bound at the wrist and cinched tight. The strain on the arms kept the body upright, the torso pressed tight against the bark of the tree. The skin was almost blue, the legs and hands dark with smeared dirt stains like he had crawled through the mud before being tied to the tree. Blood and dirt stained the victim’s face, obscuring his features. The eyes were open and wide, staring like cold marbles up at the branches overhead. There was something wrong with the victim’s head.
At first glance, Mockler thought that the body was wearing some kind of headdress or strange hat but he could see now that they were horns. Antlers, to be more precise. Like those of a deer. He counted the points on the antlers. Ten in all. A large deer. What he couldn’t figure out was how the antlers stayed on the victim’s head. He saw no strings or wires.
“That’s the craziest shit I ever saw,” blurted Odinbeck.
Latimer came up alongside them, looking out at the body. “You should have seen it in the dawn. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Are those real?” Mockler asked. “The antlers.”
“Yep. Ten point buck. Big animal.”
“How are the antlers staying on? I can’t see the strings.”
“That’s the really fun part. Fucking things are screwed on.”
Odinbeck blanched. “To what? His skull?”
“Straight into the bone.” Latimer shook his head. “We think it was done while he was still alive, too.”
Mockler pointed at three lengths of wood standing upright in the ground. “What are those? They looked burnt.”
“Torches. Old school too, fueled by pitch. We’re guessing they were used to light the scene at night.”
“This guy didn’t have a flashlight?” Odinbeck huffed. “What’s that stuff on his back? Did they draw on him?”
