Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 9
The father nodded and went back to staring at a patch of the kitchen floor.
Mockler gave it another minute. “Dennis, did you see or hear from Justin after I was here last? Did he come home or call?”
“No,” Dennis said. His eyes glanced once at the detective and quickly looked away.
Mockler noted the furtive look and scrutinized the grieving man’s movements. The restless hands, the jittery knee. “I know you want to protect him, his memory, but I need to know everything. You saw him again?”
The father exhaled. Little fight was left in him after the weight of the bad news. “He called. Anita answered.”
“When was this?”
“A few days before Halloween? I don’t remember the exact date.”
“Do you know what Justin told his mother?”
“Anita said he didn’t sound right. Not himself. He told her everything was going to be okay. He’d met someone. A woman. They were going to be happy together.”
Mockler opened his notepad and began scribbling bullet points. “Did he mention who this woman was? A name?”
“Evelyn, I think. He said she was sick or something. He was going to help her so they could be together.”
The name still put a chill into Mockler’s spine. “Did he say anything about where he was staying? Or who he was with?”
“No. He told his mother not to worry and then hung up. He didn’t ask to speak to me.”
Those last words turned the father’s eyes red again and he clenched his teeth to push his grief back down. Mockler closed the notepad and stayed quiet. The man’s grief was almost physical, pushing down the air pressure in the room.
“Sheryl,” said the father.
“Sheryl?” Mockler sat up. “Is that someone I can call for you? Family?”
“No. Owen’s mother. You should tell her about this. She’ll want to know.”
“We’re going to see her next.”
“Have you found any trace of Owen?”
“Not yet,” said Mockler.
Dennis Burroughs looked out the window. The sky was dark, the clouds like smoke. “Those two were inseparable. Have been since college. Maybe he got away.”
“I hope so.”
~
Ancaster was a 20 minute drive outside the city, a small town of pretty homes that served as a bedroom community. Yawning in the passenger seat of Jen’s car, Billie still wasn’t awake yet.
“Do you need another coffee?” Jen asked. “We can stop at the Timmy Ho’s in town.”
“Please,” Billie answered. “I’m so tired that I feel hungover.”
“You didn’t have to come this morning.”
“I wanted to,” Billie mumbled. “I miss our flea market runs.”
The flea market trips used to be a regular outing that Billie did with her oldest friend, something they’d done since high school. Jen still went, hunting for goods for the shop, but Billie often had to forgo them because she worked nights. Despite getting home after three in the morning, she was determined not to miss out this time.
After a stop for more java at the drive-through, they travelled on to a farm on the west of town. There were already a dozen cars in the grassy field before the barn. Jen liked to come early before the new goods were picked over entirely. Inside the barn, the pair moved through aisles of cast off ephemera from previous generations. Jen cut a path straight to the clothing in the far corner and started searching through the racks.
Billie sifted through a mound of clothing heaped onto a table, ripe with the smell of mothballs. “Have you heard from Tammy?”
“Couple days ago. A quick call. Why?”
“I haven’t seen her in days. Just wondering how she’s doing.” Billie tugged a coat from the heap and looked at it. A woman’s coat, late sixties. “What about this?”
Jen sized up the garment. “Cute. Any damage to it?”
“Not that I can see,” Billie said after a cursory examination.
“Put it in the ‘possible’ pile,” Jen said and returned to the hunt. “Tammy’s been busy with work. I know she’s had a lot of night shoots.”
“That’s good. She’ll keep out of trouble if she’s busy.”
Jen moved onto the next rack, shoving the hanging clothes back to gain some elbow room. “Why would you worry about her?”
“She gets bored if she’s not busy,” Billie said. “Then, she parties too much. Is she seeing anybody?”
“Tammy? She’s probably rotating through a handful of guys. If there is someone, she hasn’t mentioned it.” Jen plucked a dress from the rack and tossed it over the coat Billie had found. “She gets bored easily with guys. She keeps threatening to go back to being bi-curious.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t already.”
“This is the definitely pile,” Jen said, tossing another garment beside the others. Then, she looked at Billie with a wry smile. “Speaking of boys, how’s your new boyfriend?”
“Stop.”
“What? Aren’t you two dating?”
“Barely,” Billie grumped. She hated being put on the spot. “Not enough to refer to him that way.”
“But you two are dating, right?” When Billie just shrugged, Jen pressed the issue. “Are you just hooking up?”
“It’s not like that,” Billie sighed. “But we haven’t exactly gone on any dates. Not real ones, anyway.”
Jen’s face soured. “None? But he met us at the bar the other night.”
“Well, there’s one date. Sorta.” Billie moved on to another table. “I’d kill for a plain old date, but it’s just not in the cards, I guess.”
“So, you’re just getting to know him?”
“I wouldn’t say that. We’ve spent a lot of time together, but the circumstances are always weird. Murder, dead bodies, haunted houses. Not exactly romantic.” Digging deeper into a mound of clothing, she unearthed a pair of boots and held them up for Jen to see. “Definitely pile?”
“Oh yeah.” Jen held up a skirt, pursed her lips in indecision, and tossed it onto the pile of possibles. “So, whatever happened with his fiancée?”
“They broke up.”
“I figured out that part, but, I mean, was that before you two started up or after?”
Billie frowned. A touchy topic with Jen. “Nothing happened until after they split.”
“That’s good,” Jen replied with no small sense of relief. “I’d like to get to know him better. We should have dinner together, the four of us.”
“That would be nice.” As soon as she’d said it, a warning bell sounded in Billie’s head. “Not right away, but—”
Jen spun, her eyes sparkling with some idea. “You two should come over. Like a dinner party. Adam and I can make something nice.”
“Oh,” Billie said, trying to play up the enthusiasm in her voice. It sounded like a disaster in the making. “Maybe.”
“Are you working Wednesday night?”
“No.”
The gears were already turning. Jen’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll do it Wednesday. I can close the shop early and go home to prep. It’ll be fun!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Billie said.
“Don’t you want to?”
“Of course,” Billie replied. Her friend’s enthusiasm could often be a fault, sweeping things along before they were thought through. “Let me check with Mockler first.”
“Would he be into it?” There was already a lilt of disappointment to Jen’s tone.
“I’m sure he would, but he works odd hours.”
They moved on, making their way through the clothing racks. Drawn to another table, Billie rummaged through an assortment of dishware and glasses to replace all the broken glassware in her kitchen.
“Try and convince him,” Jen said. “I’d just like to get to know him.”
“I will.” Billie smiled at her friend’s honesty.
“Look at this.” Jen held up a raincoat, dark crimson and long. She tossed it to her. “Catch.”
Billie held it up. “Swanky. Too flashy for me.”
“You could use some colour. Try it on.”
Billie slipped it on. A little long in the sleeves, but it felt right. She looked around, but there wasn’t a mirror.
“It suits you,” said Jen. “We can alter the cuffs if you want.”
The material wasn’t leather, but something synthetic and it was cold. Billie shivered once before realizing the chill wasn’t natural. It still belonged to someone. She pivoted around to find the garment’s owner sitting on a table of clothes. A woman around her own age, red hair and deep freckles. Billie stifled her shock, not wanting to alarm Jen.
The red-haired woman looked Billie up and down. “That was my favourite coat,” she said. “My boyfriend bought it for me. Well, he stole it, but it was still a gift.”
Billie’s hand smoothed down the material, drawn to a spot on the left side. A hole in the slick material. The image of a knife flared quickly in her vision.
“Then, he had to go and ruin it for me,” said the dead woman. “Just like he ruined everything.”
Billie shrugged out of the raincoat.
The redhead slid down from the table. “I’m sure the hole can be fixed. Maybe your seamstress friend could mend it.”
“No thanks,” Billie hissed, tossing the coat away.
Jen watched her friend fling it off. “You don’t like it?”
“Not my colour,” Billie said.
The spectre drew closer. “You’re the gypsy girl, aren’t you? The one who can see us.”
Billie turned away. “You got the wrong person.”
Jen looked up, confused. “What?”
The redhead was undeterred. “I’ve always wondered what happened to him. He took off after ruining my coat. He probably just moved on, met a girl. Had a future that he stole from me.”
Billie made for the door. “I’m gonna get some air. Holler when you’re done.”
Jen planted a fist on her hip at her friend’s abrupt retreat. She retrieved the coat and found the damage in the material, already wondering if it could be discreetly stitched up. She heard Billie call back to her over the interior of the barn.
“Leave that,” she hollered out. “Someone died in it.”
~
Mockler swung the car to the curb before a narrow Victorian on Grosvenor Avenue. The driveway was blocked by a hockey net, the frayed ends of the netting flapping in the wind.
“Fer chrissakes,” Odinbeck griped in the passenger seat. “I told those kids a hundred times not to leave the net out.”
Mockler chuckled at his partner’s grousing. Odinbeck had two daughters and a son, all of them hockey players. Mockler had even attended a few of their games. “Looks like they’ve taken over the whole yard.”
“I’m gonna brain the lot of them,” Odinbeck huffed as he clambered out of the car. “Thanks for the lift home. Get some sleep, huh.”
Mockler mumbled goodnight, his mind elsewhere.
The older detective felt his radar ping. He bent down to peer inside the cab. “Hey. What is it?”
“Nothing,” Mockler said. “Just a tough day.”
Odinbeck scowled. “You got that stupid look on your face again. Like you’re thinking too hard. Let it go, bud. It’ll still be there tomorrow, whatever it is.”
“Sure.” Mockler put the car in gear. “G’night.”
“I’m serious,” Odinbeck said as he dragged the hockey net off the driveway and onto the lawn. “Let it go. Go home.”
Detective Mockler assured his partner that he would do just that and swung the car back onto the street, roaring for the lights of King East up ahead. “Right after one more stop,” he muttered to himself.
Neptune Avenue was quiet when Mockler rumbled up and pulled to the curb before the deconsecrated church with the blackened windows. A single car passed, its headlights flaring in the rearview mirror, then the street went dark again. Mockler killed the engine and sat in the dark car, watching the old church.
Just a second look, he told himself. That was all.
Dennis Burroughs had said something earlier about his son’s interest in the occult that kept clanging inside the detective’s skull. It collided with something that Gantry had told him about the old church on Neptune and the peculiar worship that went on there. He had dismissed it at the time as more of the Englishman’s delusions, but it hammered up against the greasy feeling he had been left with after meeting the head of this dubious church with the blacked-out windows.
A quick reconnaissance pass, Mockler told himself. Nothing more. Five minutes and he’d take Odin’s advice and go home.
The church doors opened and two men stepped out, lighting cigarettes under a bare bulb over the entrance. One of the men gesticulated with his hands as he spoke. His companion nodded and, then, they flicked their butts to the sidewalk and went back inside.
Mockler glanced at his watch. “Little late for a church meeting,” he rumbled and then got out of the car.
The tall door swung open and Mockler stepped inside. At first he thought the lights were turned off, but, when his eyes adjusted he could see that the whole interior of the church had been painted black. The walls, pews, floor and windows were all brushed in flat black. Even the ceiling was painted. A few pinpricks of light glowed from candles in the darkness up ahead. The only colour in the space came from an enormous cross suspended upside down over the altar, a deep shade of red. The effect was startling, making the hair on the back of his neck bristle.
He could see three men up near the transept of the church, but sensed there were more, hidden in the darkness. Two of them turned when the door clicked shut and immediately marched for the intruder. Big bruiser types, like linebackers dressed in black suits.
“You,” barked one. “Get out. Now.”
Mockler looked past them to the man near the altar. “Mister LaVey? Got a minute?”
The bruiser grunted at him again to leave, coming in fast and eager to brawl. He outweighed Mockler by a hundred pounds, but he stopped cold when he saw the badge in the detective’s hand.
Szandor LaVey looked up from the oversized book he was consulting, a finger on the page to mark his place. Like the other two, he was clad in black and, against the black painted interior, he appeared as a disembodied head and pair of hands. “Detective, the church is closed which means you are trespassing. Unless, of course, you have a search warrant.”
“I just had a few questions, Mister LaVey.” Mockler walked up the aisle, casting his eyes over the nave. “Interesting colour scheme you chose.”
LaVey slipped a ribbon into the page and closed the massive book. “The church is closed to the public. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m looking for some help, actually. I was hoping you could lend your expertise on an investigation.”
“About the missing Englishman?”
“No,” Mockler said. “About a homicide. One with a ritualistic aspect. To me, it looks like devil-worship, but I’m no expert. I was hoping you could help me identify it.” He watched the man’s brow rise up, intrigued by the notion. Appealing to someone’s expertise always made them more amenable.
LaVey stepped down from the dais and approached the officer. “A homicide? Where did this happen? Who was it?”
“I can’t go into any of the specifics of an active investigation, Mister LaVey, but there’s a few details you could help me clarify.” Mockler leaned against a pew. “The main thing I’m trying to discern is whether this crime was an actual satanic ritual or if it was just meant to look like one.”
The church leader’s hostility receded, replaced with curiosity. “I’ll answer what questions I can.”
“Great. Now, the victim was found naked in a wooded area. On his knees, with his arms lashed around a tree—”
“He?” LaVey interrupted. “The victim was male?”
“Yeah?” Mockler played up the role of ignorant rube, hoping to lure the man in more. “Is that significant?”
“It is. Most rituals require a female as the locus point. A male seems unusual.”
“How so?”
“It depends on the purpose of the ritual, really. Certain fertility rites require a male. Some malignant rituals, too. Do you know what the purpose of the ritual was?”
“No idea. To me, it looked like human sacrifice.”
LaVey folded his arms. “That is unusual. What else?”
“Here’s the weird part,” Mockler replied. “The victim was wearing antlers. They were actually attached to his skull. And there were symbols cut into his flesh.”
“Antlers? That’s barbaric. What kind of symbols?”
The detective produced his phone and flipped through the photo gallery. “This symbol was the common one.”
LaVey squinted at the picture. “It’s a simple pentacle. You see these everywhere.”
“It’s not a Satanic symbol?”
“Inverted like this, yes, but it’s also a pop culture icon, co-opted by rock bands and Hollywood films. It’s ubiquitous.”
Mockler was discreet, observing the other man’s reactions. Looking for the tell. Swiping his thumb over the screen, he brought up another image. A stylized X with arrow points. “What about this one?”
LaVey’s brow furrowed as he scrutinized the picture. “This one is new to me. Are you sure this was deliberate? It looks like random cut marks to me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. So, it’s not a symbol used in your practices?”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
Mockler observed the man but no facial tics betrayed him. “What about the antlers on the head? Is that familiar?”
“I’ve never heard of that practice, let alone seen it done. I think, detective, that these details are meant to divert suspicion.”
“This was only made to look like a Satanic ritual?”
“Yes,” LaVey remarked. “Or it was done by someone with next to no knowledge of our beliefs. All religions attract their share of the deluded. Ours more than most.”
“Do you know of any recent converts or visitors who seemed unstable? Or violent?”
