Read from the Beginning
Read Part 9
It was nearly 5:00 pm when Gilbert finally awoke in his apartment. The sun was already setting on what appeared to have been a cold winter day. He couldn’t remember any details about the weather, only that they were finally making some progress on their murder case. He rolled over and grabbed the phone.
Parme picked up his cell phone on the second ring. “What?”
“Did the lab call? About the DNA.”
“Yeah,” his partner growled on the other end of the line.
Gilbert rolled out of bed, sitting up on the edge and letting his bare feet touch the cold hardwood floor. “Well, are you going to tell me?” He could hear Parme spit on the other end of the line. He must be outside or in his car. Now that he listened, Gilbert could hear street traffic. Not much of a rush hour in this town, it seemed.
“It’s not him. We cut the little bastard loose this afternoon.”
Gilbert blinked. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, he never really believed the little man was capable of the brutal murder he was investigating. On the other hand, he was really looking forward to cracking his first case. He didn’t have to guess how Parme felt about it. He decided not to rub it in.
“So…,” Gilbert started.
“So, we keep working the case. I’ll see you at the diner first thing in the morning. And Rob, don’t be late.” There was an edge to his voice that made tardiness sound like a very bad idea.
“Yeah, right. Good night.” Gilbert hung up the phone. The sun was just falling below the horizon. Darkness was coming. He thought about Eagan. If he hadn’t committed the crime he tried to confess to, he must be crazy. Crazy and alone. And heading home in the dark. Whatever he was afraid of would be waiting for him there.
Gilbert thought briefly of going over to Eagan’s apartment, but the thought withered when his mind went back to the case. You don’t waste time on dead ends. That just creates cold case files. Better to focus on the investigation, continue to run it to ground. Anything else was a waste of his time.
He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
Across town, his partner shut his cell phone and dropped it unceremoniously into the cup holder next to his seat. He couldn’t believe that little shit wasn’t the perp they were looking for, but he’d learned long ago not to question the lab results. That’s a battle the detectives never won.
He had toyed with the idea of pressing charges against him for popping him in the nose, but had decided it wasn’t worth the crap the other detectives would give him. He was too old to chase down punks like Eagan and give them the beating they deserved, so he let it go.
Letting go of things was something Parme had become good at over the years. Everything was a lot easier that way. It was a lesson he wished he had learned on his first ex-wife. He hadn’t. It had taken a second divorce to get the lesson through his thick skull, but now it was one he wouldn’t forget. He was practicing with his current girlfriend. They were close, but he knew that he could drop the whole thing in a heartbeat if he needed to.
He watched her from the car as she left the diner and headed to the curb, making a beeline for his car. She looked as pretty as she had when she’d served him breakfast that morning. She always did. She leaned against the passenger door and put her head in the window.
“Hey, sailor. Give a girl a ride?”
Parme smiled in spite of himself. He knew he looked like a dork when he smiled, but she brought it out of him. He looked down at her blouse, stained from a long day of moving food from counter to table and back again. She still wore “Barb” on her name tag because it was the same old pin her mother had worn. Not good at letting go, this girl.
“Sure,” he said. “Get in.”
As Pat was slamming the door of Parme’s car, Arlington Eagon was opening the door of his apartment building. He had been released earlier in the afternoon and took a cab from the precinct house back to his apartment, but at the last minute he had asked the driver to pull over and let him out a few blocks away from his building. He had been wandering around the neighborhood since then, afraid to go home. Now, he was almost frozen and had chosen to enter the building instead of risk hypothermia.
Eagan new he was sick. Crazy, actually. Which might be the same thing, but he wasn’t sure. He had been to doctors and therapists and psychic healers and they’d all told him pretty much the same thing. He had a victim complex and people who had that were going to get victimized. That’s just how it worked.
He had hoped that by simplifying his life, he could avoid much of the confrontation that led to his eventual victimization and it had worked, for a while. But now that he knew he was not in control of his own body when he fell asleep, his fears had taken on a whole new dimension.
He had thought about what he could do about his situation for hours, as he walked the streets of his neighborhood. He kept coming back to the same solution. The only solution. He would have to run. Fast and far. And he would have to start this very night.
Deep down, he knew he hadn’t killed that girl. He was pretty sure he had never hurt anyone in his life. He figured he was probably incapable of it. He froze up during conflict of any kind. The whole confession thing was just a desperate attempt to run away from his apartment. It was a strategy that was woven out of panic and, predictably, it had failed.
This time, he would plan his run to freedom better. He would not panic. He would simply pack up the few things he needed and call a cab. He would meet the cab at the curb and then take it to the nearest hotel, where he would spend the night. Tomorrow, he would check himself into the nearest psychiatric facility, telling them that he was having visions of murder and that he was afraid he would hurt someone. They would have to take him.
They would put him in a room he could not escape, probably give him medication to help him sleep and make sure that he was never lured away into the darkness again. He would finally be safe.
He went over this plan again as he walked up the four flights of stairs to his floor and then down the hallway to his apartment. He was feeling much better when he inserted the key and opened his door. He stepped into his apartment and his plan was immediately forgotten.
There was a man standing in his living room. A large, hairy man. He squinted up at him for a moment and then recognized him as the factory worker who lived down the hall, Mike or Mitch or something, he couldn't remember now. The man was holding a crowbar and staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
The girl on his couch caught his eye when she moved, bringing a lit cigarette to her lips in a smooth motion. She was small and blonde. Eagan couldn’t remember ever having seen her before. She wasn’t wearing much clothing. She had the same half-asleep looking eyes. Were they both on drugs?
“What is this,” Eagan stammered. “I don’t have any drugs...or much money.”
“Do it, Mark,” the girl said calmly. “Do it now.”
The big man took a step toward Eagan and swung the crowbar at his head.
Read Part 11
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
9. A New Relationship
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 8
Gilbert headed home and fell into bed. He had been asleep for about an hour when Mark Boyle started to wake up across town in apartment 407 in Arlington Eagan’s apartment building.
It was just before noon when Boyle's alarm clock jarred him out of a dreamless sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch in the small apartment that had become his entire world. The layout was exactly the same as Eagan’s apartment and every other in the building.
Boyle never slept in the small bedroom. It had another purpose. Most of his time, when he was not at work, was spent in the apartment’s main room. A comfortable leather couch that doubled as a bed shared the space with a big screen television, a gaming console, a couple of cheap shelves filled with video games and an end table for his beer.
There was a nearly empty bottle sitting on the end table. Boyle reached for it and drank the warm beer. He grimaced as it went down and then tossed the empty bottle into a plastic recycling container, half filled with last night’s empty glass beer bottles. At least I recycle, he thought. He used to be proud of that fact. Now, he felt nothing.
He sat back on the couch for a moment, briefly considered going back to sleep and then headed for the shower.
It took awhile for the hot water to make its way to his shower, as it always did. When it was warm, Boyle stepped under the spray and let it bring him back to life. If you could call what he was living a life. He let his head fall forward onto the tiled wall and wondered for the millionth time how he had come to this.
When Boyle left high school, his ambition had been to become a video game programmer. He’d attended technical school where they taught him to program computers that were decades out of date. It should have come as no surprise that when he emerged he was only qualified to work on machines that were as old as he was, which almost no one used anymore.
He found work in a small manufacturing facility that specialized in creating prototypes. He programmed the old CNC equipment to create whatever the engineers wanted and when that was done he programmed it to create something else.
But Boyle didn’t give up on his dream. He set aside the small bedroom in his apartment for his office, bought some used office furniture and started educating himself. He saved up for a cheap computer and an internet connection and then used those to learn how to build a faster machine. Once he had a serviceable computer, he set out to learn the new technologies that powered the latest video games.
He knew what he wanted to create. He had been an avid gamer for as long as he could remember. Instead of cable television, he spent his entertainment budget on a subscription to a gaming network, giving him access to a world of other players and a window out of his crappy apartment and into the world he really wanted to live in.
For a while, he had been learning, a little more each day. But lately, he had been beset by a lingering depression, a feeling that he would never reach his goal, never escape this dreary life. His bedroom/office had fallen into disuse and he spent more time playing old games and drinking beer and less time working on his future. Well, no time, lately. He had fallen into a routine. A rut, to be more accurate.
To add some stress to his depression, there were rumors at the company of another round of layoffs. The older systems were giving way to newer technologies. Instead of relying on programmers to tell them what to do, the new machines had access to a near limitless list of pre-programmed jobs. Untrained workers could tell the machines what to do by pressing a few buttons. The only good news what that the new tools were expensive and it wasn’t clear whether his firm would invest. But the threat of it filled him with dread.
The hot water started to run out and he hadn’t washed his hair yet. Quickly, he lathered up and rinsed before the warm water was completely gone. He threw on his clothes, briefly considered shaving but abandoned the idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter on his way out of the apartment.
His apartment was at the front of the building so he didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairwell. He started down and was surprised to see the door to the 3rd floor hallway open and Sandy Gallagher leaning against it.
“Hi, Mark,” she purred at him. He stopped short.
Mark had spoken to her once, about a year ago or so at one of the ill-fated building holiday parties that the new manager had thrown in an attempt to create a sense of community. It was an awful little affair held on the small square of lawn behind the building. No one had anything in common with each other, so they sipped free bottles of beer and waited together for the delivery pizza to arrive.
Sandy had been (and remained) the only other person in the building who seemed to be near his age, so he had introduced himself. There were maybe a couple dozen words shared and then it was over, all but the pizza eating anyway.
She had never looked at him again, though he sometimes pretended it was because he came and went on an odd schedule. And now she smiled at him from the doorway to the third floor, in her nightgown. A question about why she was home at this hour was playing in the back of his mind, but it couldn’t get to the front because he was wondering why she was nearly naked. He realized he could see through the thin, white material to her small nipples.
“Um, hi,” he replied when his attention made it back up to her eyes and he realized she was waiting.
“Can you help me with something?” she asked.
“I was on my way to work.”
“It will only take a second.” She smiled at him and led him across the hallway to her apartment, which was situated directly beneath his.
She led him through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling a light bulb, still in its box, off the shelf as the went. “Can you help me put this in,” she asked sweetly. “I can’t reach it. See?” She stretched up toward the light socket, she was a few inches too short. Boyle didn’t notice that as he was caught up in the movement of her short top rising up her legs until he could see the white strap of a thong, high on her hip.
His eyes slid off her exposed legs to the kitchen chair behind her, a steady enough platform to allow a person much heavier than her reach the light. What was going on?
Boyle was not the kind of guy that girls came on to. He had been, when he was younger, but the more dedicated he became to pursuing his dream of becoming a game designer, the more ridiculous he began to look in the eyes of potential dates. He became accustomed to the confused look a date would get when he finally told her that he hoped to make a living making video games one day. It usually put a serious road block between him and a second date, to say nothing of sex.
“Well, are you going to do me...this favor or aren’t you,” she teased.
“Yeah...sure.” He took the bulb, reached up to the fixture and threaded it into the socket. The light, which was already on, came to life in his hand. He flinched and she reacted immediately by throwing her arms around him.
“Wow! That was a little scary,” she smiled up at him.
Certain that she was making fun of him, he untangled himself from her and backed away. “Well, there you go. Nice to see you, Sandy.”
She moved quickly by him and beat him to the front door, closing it securely and turning the deadbolt. “You’re not going to leave without letting me thank you, are you?”
“I’m going to be late for work. I really should go.” He felt like he said these words with some authority, but in reality his mind was spinning and it came out weakly. Logically, he knew that what he desperately hoped was happening couldn’t actually be happening. Even if it was, it would all end as soon as she found out who he really was. She was all smiles, playing with her blonde hair and batting her blue eyes. He really did not want to see her change when she learned what he was all about. That was never pretty.
“I should go,” he started, but she pressed her little hands to his chest, which he noticed had the effect of pushing her breasts together nicely, and pushed him backward to the couch. He fell into it and was surprised by how comfortable it was, but only for as long as it took for Sandy to climb on top of him. Then he forgot everything but her. She put her elbows on his shoulders and looked down into his eyes.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “and I plan to.”
Her eyes had seemed blue before, but for the life of him, Boyle couldn’t tell what color they were now, they were just beautiful. So beautiful. Her lips parted and she kissed him, deeply. He lost his breath and felt the fear start to loosen its grip on him. Maybe she would understand. He opened his eyes and looked into hers again. Yes, he was sure she would understand.
She pulled back and smiled. He realized something was happening to his body that hadn’t happened in the presence of a girl in a long time. She realized it, too, and settled herself onto him more securely.
“I’m going to thank you properly for helping me,” she said. “And then you’re going to do one more favor for me.”
He may have said yes. Later, he would swear that he could not remember anything that had happened after the time he first saw Ms. Gallagher in the stairwell.
Read Part 10
Read Part 8
Gilbert headed home and fell into bed. He had been asleep for about an hour when Mark Boyle started to wake up across town in apartment 407 in Arlington Eagan’s apartment building.
It was just before noon when Boyle's alarm clock jarred him out of a dreamless sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch in the small apartment that had become his entire world. The layout was exactly the same as Eagan’s apartment and every other in the building.
Boyle never slept in the small bedroom. It had another purpose. Most of his time, when he was not at work, was spent in the apartment’s main room. A comfortable leather couch that doubled as a bed shared the space with a big screen television, a gaming console, a couple of cheap shelves filled with video games and an end table for his beer.
There was a nearly empty bottle sitting on the end table. Boyle reached for it and drank the warm beer. He grimaced as it went down and then tossed the empty bottle into a plastic recycling container, half filled with last night’s empty glass beer bottles. At least I recycle, he thought. He used to be proud of that fact. Now, he felt nothing.
He sat back on the couch for a moment, briefly considered going back to sleep and then headed for the shower.
It took awhile for the hot water to make its way to his shower, as it always did. When it was warm, Boyle stepped under the spray and let it bring him back to life. If you could call what he was living a life. He let his head fall forward onto the tiled wall and wondered for the millionth time how he had come to this.
When Boyle left high school, his ambition had been to become a video game programmer. He’d attended technical school where they taught him to program computers that were decades out of date. It should have come as no surprise that when he emerged he was only qualified to work on machines that were as old as he was, which almost no one used anymore.
He found work in a small manufacturing facility that specialized in creating prototypes. He programmed the old CNC equipment to create whatever the engineers wanted and when that was done he programmed it to create something else.
But Boyle didn’t give up on his dream. He set aside the small bedroom in his apartment for his office, bought some used office furniture and started educating himself. He saved up for a cheap computer and an internet connection and then used those to learn how to build a faster machine. Once he had a serviceable computer, he set out to learn the new technologies that powered the latest video games.
He knew what he wanted to create. He had been an avid gamer for as long as he could remember. Instead of cable television, he spent his entertainment budget on a subscription to a gaming network, giving him access to a world of other players and a window out of his crappy apartment and into the world he really wanted to live in.
For a while, he had been learning, a little more each day. But lately, he had been beset by a lingering depression, a feeling that he would never reach his goal, never escape this dreary life. His bedroom/office had fallen into disuse and he spent more time playing old games and drinking beer and less time working on his future. Well, no time, lately. He had fallen into a routine. A rut, to be more accurate.
To add some stress to his depression, there were rumors at the company of another round of layoffs. The older systems were giving way to newer technologies. Instead of relying on programmers to tell them what to do, the new machines had access to a near limitless list of pre-programmed jobs. Untrained workers could tell the machines what to do by pressing a few buttons. The only good news what that the new tools were expensive and it wasn’t clear whether his firm would invest. But the threat of it filled him with dread.
The hot water started to run out and he hadn’t washed his hair yet. Quickly, he lathered up and rinsed before the warm water was completely gone. He threw on his clothes, briefly considered shaving but abandoned the idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter on his way out of the apartment.
His apartment was at the front of the building so he didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairwell. He started down and was surprised to see the door to the 3rd floor hallway open and Sandy Gallagher leaning against it.
“Hi, Mark,” she purred at him. He stopped short.
Mark had spoken to her once, about a year ago or so at one of the ill-fated building holiday parties that the new manager had thrown in an attempt to create a sense of community. It was an awful little affair held on the small square of lawn behind the building. No one had anything in common with each other, so they sipped free bottles of beer and waited together for the delivery pizza to arrive.
Sandy had been (and remained) the only other person in the building who seemed to be near his age, so he had introduced himself. There were maybe a couple dozen words shared and then it was over, all but the pizza eating anyway.
She had never looked at him again, though he sometimes pretended it was because he came and went on an odd schedule. And now she smiled at him from the doorway to the third floor, in her nightgown. A question about why she was home at this hour was playing in the back of his mind, but it couldn’t get to the front because he was wondering why she was nearly naked. He realized he could see through the thin, white material to her small nipples.
“Um, hi,” he replied when his attention made it back up to her eyes and he realized she was waiting.
“Can you help me with something?” she asked.
“I was on my way to work.”
“It will only take a second.” She smiled at him and led him across the hallway to her apartment, which was situated directly beneath his.
She led him through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling a light bulb, still in its box, off the shelf as the went. “Can you help me put this in,” she asked sweetly. “I can’t reach it. See?” She stretched up toward the light socket, she was a few inches too short. Boyle didn’t notice that as he was caught up in the movement of her short top rising up her legs until he could see the white strap of a thong, high on her hip.
His eyes slid off her exposed legs to the kitchen chair behind her, a steady enough platform to allow a person much heavier than her reach the light. What was going on?
Boyle was not the kind of guy that girls came on to. He had been, when he was younger, but the more dedicated he became to pursuing his dream of becoming a game designer, the more ridiculous he began to look in the eyes of potential dates. He became accustomed to the confused look a date would get when he finally told her that he hoped to make a living making video games one day. It usually put a serious road block between him and a second date, to say nothing of sex.
“Well, are you going to do me...this favor or aren’t you,” she teased.
“Yeah...sure.” He took the bulb, reached up to the fixture and threaded it into the socket. The light, which was already on, came to life in his hand. He flinched and she reacted immediately by throwing her arms around him.
“Wow! That was a little scary,” she smiled up at him.
Certain that she was making fun of him, he untangled himself from her and backed away. “Well, there you go. Nice to see you, Sandy.”
She moved quickly by him and beat him to the front door, closing it securely and turning the deadbolt. “You’re not going to leave without letting me thank you, are you?”
“I’m going to be late for work. I really should go.” He felt like he said these words with some authority, but in reality his mind was spinning and it came out weakly. Logically, he knew that what he desperately hoped was happening couldn’t actually be happening. Even if it was, it would all end as soon as she found out who he really was. She was all smiles, playing with her blonde hair and batting her blue eyes. He really did not want to see her change when she learned what he was all about. That was never pretty.
“I should go,” he started, but she pressed her little hands to his chest, which he noticed had the effect of pushing her breasts together nicely, and pushed him backward to the couch. He fell into it and was surprised by how comfortable it was, but only for as long as it took for Sandy to climb on top of him. Then he forgot everything but her. She put her elbows on his shoulders and looked down into his eyes.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “and I plan to.”
Her eyes had seemed blue before, but for the life of him, Boyle couldn’t tell what color they were now, they were just beautiful. So beautiful. Her lips parted and she kissed him, deeply. He lost his breath and felt the fear start to loosen its grip on him. Maybe she would understand. He opened his eyes and looked into hers again. Yes, he was sure she would understand.
She pulled back and smiled. He realized something was happening to his body that hadn’t happened in the presence of a girl in a long time. She realized it, too, and settled herself onto him more securely.
“I’m going to thank you properly for helping me,” she said. “And then you’re going to do one more favor for me.”
He may have said yes. Later, he would swear that he could not remember anything that had happened after the time he first saw Ms. Gallagher in the stairwell.
Read Part 10
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
8. Waiting on the Lab Results
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 7
When Gilbert made it back to the office that he and Parme shared with Tremayne White and his partner, the other three were already there. White’s partner was a rail-thin man sporting a 1970s mustache and an outfit from roughly the same era by the name of Paul Nauscott. He and White were smiling and talking about the last time one of them was smacked in the nose by a suspect.
About the time Gilbert walked in, Parme had just drawn his service revolver and was setting it on the desk in front of him. White and Nauscott abruptly folded up their humor and left the office. The speed of their exit made Gilbert wonder if what White had told him earlier about Parme shooting someone had some truth in it. Would his new partner really shoot him if the mood struck him? Gilbert didn’t wonder on it long as he had more pressing questions to ask.
“What was that all about?” he asked Parme.
His partner dabbed his nose with a tissue and looked up at him under heavy brows. He made no reply.
“I thought you liked Eagan for the murder,” Gilbert said.
“I do.”
“Then why did you tell me to uncuff him?” Gilbert sat down in the chair across from his partner and suddenly realized how tired he was. Television crime fighters might do the job for 24 hours straight, but Gilbert had now worked longer than that without sleep and he felt like shit.
Parme eyed him for a long moment, with a look that told Gilbert he was trying to decide whether to explain something he thought was quite simple about effective suspect interrogation or just shoot him.
Finally, he said, “Look, the guy is clearly trying to set up an insanity plea. He knows we have him and now he has only two choices, he can flee, in which case we’ll catch him because we’ll have him under surveillance, or he’ll go ape shit crazy in an attempt to convince the court that he’s not competent to stand trial. Now, which do you think taking a swing at me qualifies as?”
Gilbert rubbed his eyes. His college professors hadn’t taught him any of this. He wondered whether he should have paid more for his education or whether he just needed some sleep.
“He may be crazy,” Gilbert started.
“Hell yeah, he’s crazy! He’s lucky I didn’t pound the dogshit out of him in there.”
“But he’s also afraid.”
“He’d damn well better be afraid,” Parme said.
“No, he’s afraid of going home. There’s something in that apartment building that has him scared,” Gilbert said. “I don’t think he was faking that.”
“I don’t know,” Parme said. “And I don’t care. In a day or so, we’ll have the DNA results back from the lab and we’ll be able to link that little shit to the murder scene and we’ll wrap this all up.”
“I think I should go back out to that apartment,” Gilbert said.
“No, you’re going home and getting some sleep,” his partner said. “You look like shit. I’ll continue to work down the list of known offenders in the area just to kill time while the lab gives us some evidence. I’ll see you at the cafe, first thing in the morning.”
Gilbert started to protest but he yawned instead. He said good-bye and headed home.
Read Part 9.
Read Part 7
When Gilbert made it back to the office that he and Parme shared with Tremayne White and his partner, the other three were already there. White’s partner was a rail-thin man sporting a 1970s mustache and an outfit from roughly the same era by the name of Paul Nauscott. He and White were smiling and talking about the last time one of them was smacked in the nose by a suspect.
About the time Gilbert walked in, Parme had just drawn his service revolver and was setting it on the desk in front of him. White and Nauscott abruptly folded up their humor and left the office. The speed of their exit made Gilbert wonder if what White had told him earlier about Parme shooting someone had some truth in it. Would his new partner really shoot him if the mood struck him? Gilbert didn’t wonder on it long as he had more pressing questions to ask.
“What was that all about?” he asked Parme.
His partner dabbed his nose with a tissue and looked up at him under heavy brows. He made no reply.
“I thought you liked Eagan for the murder,” Gilbert said.
“I do.”
“Then why did you tell me to uncuff him?” Gilbert sat down in the chair across from his partner and suddenly realized how tired he was. Television crime fighters might do the job for 24 hours straight, but Gilbert had now worked longer than that without sleep and he felt like shit.
Parme eyed him for a long moment, with a look that told Gilbert he was trying to decide whether to explain something he thought was quite simple about effective suspect interrogation or just shoot him.
Finally, he said, “Look, the guy is clearly trying to set up an insanity plea. He knows we have him and now he has only two choices, he can flee, in which case we’ll catch him because we’ll have him under surveillance, or he’ll go ape shit crazy in an attempt to convince the court that he’s not competent to stand trial. Now, which do you think taking a swing at me qualifies as?”
Gilbert rubbed his eyes. His college professors hadn’t taught him any of this. He wondered whether he should have paid more for his education or whether he just needed some sleep.
“He may be crazy,” Gilbert started.
“Hell yeah, he’s crazy! He’s lucky I didn’t pound the dogshit out of him in there.”
“But he’s also afraid.”
“He’d damn well better be afraid,” Parme said.
“No, he’s afraid of going home. There’s something in that apartment building that has him scared,” Gilbert said. “I don’t think he was faking that.”
“I don’t know,” Parme said. “And I don’t care. In a day or so, we’ll have the DNA results back from the lab and we’ll be able to link that little shit to the murder scene and we’ll wrap this all up.”
“I think I should go back out to that apartment,” Gilbert said.
“No, you’re going home and getting some sleep,” his partner said. “You look like shit. I’ll continue to work down the list of known offenders in the area just to kill time while the lab gives us some evidence. I’ll see you at the cafe, first thing in the morning.”
Gilbert started to protest but he yawned instead. He said good-bye and headed home.
Read Part 9.
Friday, March 28, 2014
7. Just a few questions, please
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 6
It took 45 minutes for the staff to get Eagan cleaned up and dressed in a new jumpsuit. They brought him into the small interrogation room where Parme and Gilbert were waiting and chained him to a metal desk. He sat in a metal chair looking miserable, refusing to make eye contact with either detective. Gilbert sat down across from him and took out his notebook. Parme stood, leaning against the wall behind him.
“What’s your name, sir?” Gilbert began.
Eagan told them who he was, where he lived and certain other details of his miserable life. Gilbert took careful notes. When the preliminaries were over, Parme stepped up to the table.
“Why did you turn yourself in?”
“Because I did something,” Eagan said softly. “Something terrible.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked, sounding like he couldn’t care less.
“I killed that poor girl, the one they found by the high school,” he said. He dropped his head until his chin touched his bony chest and appeared to be weeping.
“Do you mean Paula Kelly?” Gilbert asked. Eagan nodded. A tear rolled down the side of his nose and fell, hitting the metal table.
“Jesus,” Parme rolled his eyes and went back to the wall.
“Tell us how it happened,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up. He tried to rub his nose but the chain wasn’t long enough. It made a noise loud enough to make him jump when it reached its limit. He leaned forward and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his borrowed jumpsuit. “How what happened?”
The two detectives just stared at him. “You mean how I killed her?”
“Yeah,” Parme drawled. “Why don’t you start with that.”
“Well,” Egan fiddled with his chain for a bit and cleared his throat. “Well, I took her out to that building by the school, that little outbuilding they found her in and then I killed her.”
“How?” Parme asked.
“I hit her in the head with a heavy piece of wood that was in the shed.”
“And then what?”
“That’s it. I killed her and then I ran away.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder at Parme and closed his notebook.
“Why are you lying to us, Arlington?” Parme said, approaching the table again with his big hands balled into fists. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”
Eagan cringed away from the table as far as his chains would allow, trying in vain to cover his face with his hands. “No! I’m telling you. I killed that poor girl. And I might do it again. You can’t let me go!”
Parme stared down at the small man with a look of disgust on his face. “Unchain him.”
Gilbert pulled a key from his pocket and moved around the table. Eagan acted more threatened than before and cried out that he was dangerous and that they couldn’t send him home.
“I’m afraid of what will happen!” he cried.
“Shut up!” Parme roared. Eagan deflated and sat in the chair weeping silently as Gilbert unchained him. “You’re lying about your involvement in a murder case. That’s obstruction of justice. You play that game with us again and I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.”
Gilbert shot his partner a warning glance as he moved back around the table and pocketed his notebook. “You don’t have any information about the murder of Paula Kelly, do you Mr. Eagan?” he asked.
Eagan just sat in the chair and wept, his frail body swaying back and forth. “I can’t go back there. I’m afraid,” he said softly.
“Jesus Christ,” Parme swore and shook his head.
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Eagan?” Gilbert asked.
Eagan looked from Gilbert, where he sat in the chair opposite him, to Parme, who was leaning forward on his fists, staring at him with undisguised malice. Eagan’s eyes, rimmed with red, dripping tears narrowed and he bolted out of the chair and flew at Parme, his small fist hitting the larger man squarely on the nose and forcing him two steps back. Gilbert jumped out of his chair and caught Eagan by the wrist but was forced to release him in order to stop Parme from flying over the table at the smaller man.
“You sonuva bitch!” Parme roared. Gilbert struggled to hold his partner back as Eagan sat back down in the chair.
When Gilbert was fairly certain Parme wasn’t going to beat anyone to death, he stepped back away from his partner and turned on Eagan. Before he could speak, Eagan said, “That’s assaulting an officer. I know the law. Now you have to keep me here.”
Parme wiped his nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t, but his eyes were both watering.
“We’re not keeping you here, you little shit. We’re sending you downtown where you can spend the night with some boys that will beat your little ass good.” He turned for the door, still fuming. “See how you like that, you little bastard.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Gilbert was left standing over Eagan, who looked calm for the first time during the interview. “That wasn’t very smart.”
“You can’t send me home now,” Eagan said softly.
“Where you’re going will be worse,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up at him and the tears started to well up again. “No it won’t,” he whispered
Read Part 8
Read Part 6
It took 45 minutes for the staff to get Eagan cleaned up and dressed in a new jumpsuit. They brought him into the small interrogation room where Parme and Gilbert were waiting and chained him to a metal desk. He sat in a metal chair looking miserable, refusing to make eye contact with either detective. Gilbert sat down across from him and took out his notebook. Parme stood, leaning against the wall behind him.
“What’s your name, sir?” Gilbert began.
Eagan told them who he was, where he lived and certain other details of his miserable life. Gilbert took careful notes. When the preliminaries were over, Parme stepped up to the table.
“Why did you turn yourself in?”
“Because I did something,” Eagan said softly. “Something terrible.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked, sounding like he couldn’t care less.
“I killed that poor girl, the one they found by the high school,” he said. He dropped his head until his chin touched his bony chest and appeared to be weeping.
“Do you mean Paula Kelly?” Gilbert asked. Eagan nodded. A tear rolled down the side of his nose and fell, hitting the metal table.
“Jesus,” Parme rolled his eyes and went back to the wall.
“Tell us how it happened,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up. He tried to rub his nose but the chain wasn’t long enough. It made a noise loud enough to make him jump when it reached its limit. He leaned forward and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his borrowed jumpsuit. “How what happened?”
The two detectives just stared at him. “You mean how I killed her?”
“Yeah,” Parme drawled. “Why don’t you start with that.”
“Well,” Egan fiddled with his chain for a bit and cleared his throat. “Well, I took her out to that building by the school, that little outbuilding they found her in and then I killed her.”
“How?” Parme asked.
“I hit her in the head with a heavy piece of wood that was in the shed.”
“And then what?”
“That’s it. I killed her and then I ran away.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder at Parme and closed his notebook.
“Why are you lying to us, Arlington?” Parme said, approaching the table again with his big hands balled into fists. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”
Eagan cringed away from the table as far as his chains would allow, trying in vain to cover his face with his hands. “No! I’m telling you. I killed that poor girl. And I might do it again. You can’t let me go!”
Parme stared down at the small man with a look of disgust on his face. “Unchain him.”
Gilbert pulled a key from his pocket and moved around the table. Eagan acted more threatened than before and cried out that he was dangerous and that they couldn’t send him home.
“I’m afraid of what will happen!” he cried.
“Shut up!” Parme roared. Eagan deflated and sat in the chair weeping silently as Gilbert unchained him. “You’re lying about your involvement in a murder case. That’s obstruction of justice. You play that game with us again and I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.”
Gilbert shot his partner a warning glance as he moved back around the table and pocketed his notebook. “You don’t have any information about the murder of Paula Kelly, do you Mr. Eagan?” he asked.
Eagan just sat in the chair and wept, his frail body swaying back and forth. “I can’t go back there. I’m afraid,” he said softly.
“Jesus Christ,” Parme swore and shook his head.
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Eagan?” Gilbert asked.
Eagan looked from Gilbert, where he sat in the chair opposite him, to Parme, who was leaning forward on his fists, staring at him with undisguised malice. Eagan’s eyes, rimmed with red, dripping tears narrowed and he bolted out of the chair and flew at Parme, his small fist hitting the larger man squarely on the nose and forcing him two steps back. Gilbert jumped out of his chair and caught Eagan by the wrist but was forced to release him in order to stop Parme from flying over the table at the smaller man.
“You sonuva bitch!” Parme roared. Gilbert struggled to hold his partner back as Eagan sat back down in the chair.
When Gilbert was fairly certain Parme wasn’t going to beat anyone to death, he stepped back away from his partner and turned on Eagan. Before he could speak, Eagan said, “That’s assaulting an officer. I know the law. Now you have to keep me here.”
Parme wiped his nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t, but his eyes were both watering.
“We’re not keeping you here, you little shit. We’re sending you downtown where you can spend the night with some boys that will beat your little ass good.” He turned for the door, still fuming. “See how you like that, you little bastard.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Gilbert was left standing over Eagan, who looked calm for the first time during the interview. “That wasn’t very smart.”
“You can’t send me home now,” Eagan said softly.
“Where you’re going will be worse,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up at him and the tears started to well up again. “No it won’t,” he whispered
Read Part 8
Saturday, March 15, 2014
6. Life is a Dream and Then You Die
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 5
Arlington Eagan knew fear. He knew it intimately, every rough edge and jagged claw of it. Introduced in early childhood by events perpetrated by his father against his mother that he was too young to recall, they had grown close over the years. He had some memories of abuses at the hands of his father and neglect from his mother, but as most children do, he later ascribed the resulting emotions to hellish forces intent on his destruction, in an unconscious attempt to preserve the memory of loving parents. Such are children.
As a young boy, he tried to get the upper hand in the relationship, using logic and wisdom from elder teachers and bible school scholars. He sought knowledge of the unexplained and occult, the demonic and just plain mean in an attempt to hold his fear at bay through understanding. He learned a great deal, but it didn’t make him less afraid.
In the process, he gained a little knowledge of many worrisome things and found that a little information can be far worse than none at all, as his active imagination filled in the gaps and explained what could not be explained. And so he retreated to blanket forts lit up by night lights and a rubber doorstop under the closet door at night. He invented countless recipes for avoiding death by a demonic hand. If he brushed his teeth and then took a vitamin, checked the closet door and then said his prayers, he could sleep through the night without the darkness invading his dreams. Miss one part of the formula and he would wake in the night, screaming and alone, calling for parents who were too inebriated to respond, until his tears dried into river stains and he fell back asleep.
By adolescence, Eagan had given up quivering and quaking in response to his fears in favor of active flight, achieved initially through drugs but later through immersion in over a dozen different religious experiences. Some of them patented. Fear would not abate. It was a battle he was doomed to lose. In time, he learned to accept what fear held in store for him with a sort of despondent surrender. When he didn’t die before he was 25, he was shocked.
By that time, both of his parents had met their end, which was no surprise to anyone who knew them. Some who did were surprised that they had a son, having never seen Eagan until one of the funerals. Ill equipped to keep up his parent’s affairs, he lost the house and moved from place to place in the city until he secured the job at the cardboard box company and moved into the apartment on North Willis street.
It wasn’t long before his old fears made their way out of the dark and into his social life. He was unable to relate to most of the people he worked with and couldn’t even speak to a woman. He retreated into his apartment, decorated in a Spartan fashion to avoid shadows and other places where dark things could hide, and tried to live a simple life apart from the many, many things that he found fearful.
And it worked very well until a routine trip to the doctor, the same old man who had been treating him for over 20 years, revealed his condition. It appeared that all those years of fear and trepidation had taken a toll on his heart. He was told to walk and so he bought a fitbit and used it to track his movements to work and back. To increase his step count, he used the stairwell in his apartment building. He thought it was working, until he saw the spikes on his computer chart during times when he thought he was asleep.
The idea that his body might be doing things unbeknownst to him was terrifying. He’d studied enough about the occult to know that a person can be overcome by a demonic force and used for evil purposes. Being asleep made it easier. The more he thought about it, the more he imagined the evil that such an entity could do with his body.
And so he bought the camera to find out exactly what his sleeping self was doing. Watching the video nearly overwhelmed him with horror. Of course, he knew the name Paula Kelly. He’d seen both the television news and the local newspaper. Knowing that he had written that name down filled him with a cold dread and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had played a role in her murder.
But that wasn’t the part of the video that threatened to send him over the edge. In fact, seeing the candle and the parchment probably saved him from running screaming out of his apartment and into the morning traffic. No, what terrified him the most was the idea that he had walked down into the basement in the dark without a light. The idea of him in his pajamas walking down those narrow stairs and into the dark, alone with whatever terrors awaited him there, made him wrap his arms around himself tightly as he shook and wept.
Seeing the name on the parchment and having a bona fide reason to call the police saved him from going over the edge.
He knew he couldn’t go home. The idea that he might fall asleep and go back down those stairs consumed him. And so now, he was alone in a cell, in the dark, afraid to fall asleep. He thought about moving, which seemed like a necessity, but that would take time. He didn’t want to risk spending a single night there. He resolved to tell the police that he had killed Paula Kelly. They would be forced to keep him in jail until they realized he didn’t do it. By then, he would have had time to think up some solution. But it would surely involve moving.
And so his mind went around and around the problem as he lie on the narrow bunk until he finally fell asleep, though he didn’t know it.
He was packing things up in his apartment, ready to move, to start a new life in a safer place, without a creepy basement. He was happy, but tired from the effort of putting what little he owned into cardboard boxes, some of which he had actually made himself, he was proud to note. He sat down on his simple IKEA couch and laid back his head and fell asleep.
As he watched his eyelids fall, he screamed out inside, warning himself not to fall asleep, not to give in to the...but it was too late. He watched himself leave his apartment and walk to the end of the hallway. As he reached the doors to the stairwell, he passed the kid from 407, Boyle was his name, he thought. He worked down at the motor factory and came in late each night.
Inside, Eagan was screaming to Boyle to save him, trying to get his limp arms to reach out and grab him as he passed. Outside, Eagan just nodded to him. Boyle returned the greeting and moved on down the hallway. Eagan proceeded down the stairs.
With each flight down, his fear increased. He could feel his heart beating through his chest and by the time he got to the first floor, it was physically painful, a sledgehammer against the inside of his sternum. He moved down the hall toward the basement door, screaming wildly on the inside, but silent as death on the outside. He made it to the door and stopped. As if in slow motion, he reached out for the doorknob and turned it.
“He’s right down here,” said the officer in charge of the small block of cells housed in the local precinct house. Gilbert had read Smith on his nameplate but couldn’t remember his first name. Rarely were prisoners kept locally, as most were processed and shipped downtown to a much newer and larger facility. “He begged us to keep him in custody.”
Parme gave Gilbert a knowing look.
“Did we get a swab for DNA testing?” Gilbert asked.
“Yep, and prints. If he’s your guy, we should know it shortly.”
Officer Smith opened the last door. At the sound of its opening, a smallish man squatting in the center of the cell spun his head around to face them. His clothing had been ripped up and there were bloody scratches covering his face and torso. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. Spittle ran down his thin chin.
Upon seeing the officers enter, he screamed and rushed the cell door, throwing himself up against the bars hard enough to rattle the cage.
“Please!” he screamed. “Please! You have to wake me up!”
He stood their, pressed against the bars, clawing at the air in an attempt to reach the officers on the other side of the bars, his mouth a frothy mess, blood dripping from his scratches.
Parme looked at Gilbert. “Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe he is crazy.”
Read Part 7.
Read Part 5
Arlington Eagan knew fear. He knew it intimately, every rough edge and jagged claw of it. Introduced in early childhood by events perpetrated by his father against his mother that he was too young to recall, they had grown close over the years. He had some memories of abuses at the hands of his father and neglect from his mother, but as most children do, he later ascribed the resulting emotions to hellish forces intent on his destruction, in an unconscious attempt to preserve the memory of loving parents. Such are children.
As a young boy, he tried to get the upper hand in the relationship, using logic and wisdom from elder teachers and bible school scholars. He sought knowledge of the unexplained and occult, the demonic and just plain mean in an attempt to hold his fear at bay through understanding. He learned a great deal, but it didn’t make him less afraid.
In the process, he gained a little knowledge of many worrisome things and found that a little information can be far worse than none at all, as his active imagination filled in the gaps and explained what could not be explained. And so he retreated to blanket forts lit up by night lights and a rubber doorstop under the closet door at night. He invented countless recipes for avoiding death by a demonic hand. If he brushed his teeth and then took a vitamin, checked the closet door and then said his prayers, he could sleep through the night without the darkness invading his dreams. Miss one part of the formula and he would wake in the night, screaming and alone, calling for parents who were too inebriated to respond, until his tears dried into river stains and he fell back asleep.
By adolescence, Eagan had given up quivering and quaking in response to his fears in favor of active flight, achieved initially through drugs but later through immersion in over a dozen different religious experiences. Some of them patented. Fear would not abate. It was a battle he was doomed to lose. In time, he learned to accept what fear held in store for him with a sort of despondent surrender. When he didn’t die before he was 25, he was shocked.
By that time, both of his parents had met their end, which was no surprise to anyone who knew them. Some who did were surprised that they had a son, having never seen Eagan until one of the funerals. Ill equipped to keep up his parent’s affairs, he lost the house and moved from place to place in the city until he secured the job at the cardboard box company and moved into the apartment on North Willis street.
It wasn’t long before his old fears made their way out of the dark and into his social life. He was unable to relate to most of the people he worked with and couldn’t even speak to a woman. He retreated into his apartment, decorated in a Spartan fashion to avoid shadows and other places where dark things could hide, and tried to live a simple life apart from the many, many things that he found fearful.
And it worked very well until a routine trip to the doctor, the same old man who had been treating him for over 20 years, revealed his condition. It appeared that all those years of fear and trepidation had taken a toll on his heart. He was told to walk and so he bought a fitbit and used it to track his movements to work and back. To increase his step count, he used the stairwell in his apartment building. He thought it was working, until he saw the spikes on his computer chart during times when he thought he was asleep.
The idea that his body might be doing things unbeknownst to him was terrifying. He’d studied enough about the occult to know that a person can be overcome by a demonic force and used for evil purposes. Being asleep made it easier. The more he thought about it, the more he imagined the evil that such an entity could do with his body.
And so he bought the camera to find out exactly what his sleeping self was doing. Watching the video nearly overwhelmed him with horror. Of course, he knew the name Paula Kelly. He’d seen both the television news and the local newspaper. Knowing that he had written that name down filled him with a cold dread and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had played a role in her murder.
But that wasn’t the part of the video that threatened to send him over the edge. In fact, seeing the candle and the parchment probably saved him from running screaming out of his apartment and into the morning traffic. No, what terrified him the most was the idea that he had walked down into the basement in the dark without a light. The idea of him in his pajamas walking down those narrow stairs and into the dark, alone with whatever terrors awaited him there, made him wrap his arms around himself tightly as he shook and wept.
Seeing the name on the parchment and having a bona fide reason to call the police saved him from going over the edge.
He knew he couldn’t go home. The idea that he might fall asleep and go back down those stairs consumed him. And so now, he was alone in a cell, in the dark, afraid to fall asleep. He thought about moving, which seemed like a necessity, but that would take time. He didn’t want to risk spending a single night there. He resolved to tell the police that he had killed Paula Kelly. They would be forced to keep him in jail until they realized he didn’t do it. By then, he would have had time to think up some solution. But it would surely involve moving.
And so his mind went around and around the problem as he lie on the narrow bunk until he finally fell asleep, though he didn’t know it.
He was packing things up in his apartment, ready to move, to start a new life in a safer place, without a creepy basement. He was happy, but tired from the effort of putting what little he owned into cardboard boxes, some of which he had actually made himself, he was proud to note. He sat down on his simple IKEA couch and laid back his head and fell asleep.
As he watched his eyelids fall, he screamed out inside, warning himself not to fall asleep, not to give in to the...but it was too late. He watched himself leave his apartment and walk to the end of the hallway. As he reached the doors to the stairwell, he passed the kid from 407, Boyle was his name, he thought. He worked down at the motor factory and came in late each night.
Inside, Eagan was screaming to Boyle to save him, trying to get his limp arms to reach out and grab him as he passed. Outside, Eagan just nodded to him. Boyle returned the greeting and moved on down the hallway. Eagan proceeded down the stairs.
With each flight down, his fear increased. He could feel his heart beating through his chest and by the time he got to the first floor, it was physically painful, a sledgehammer against the inside of his sternum. He moved down the hall toward the basement door, screaming wildly on the inside, but silent as death on the outside. He made it to the door and stopped. As if in slow motion, he reached out for the doorknob and turned it.
* * *
“He’s right down here,” said the officer in charge of the small block of cells housed in the local precinct house. Gilbert had read Smith on his nameplate but couldn’t remember his first name. Rarely were prisoners kept locally, as most were processed and shipped downtown to a much newer and larger facility. “He begged us to keep him in custody.”
Parme gave Gilbert a knowing look.
“Did we get a swab for DNA testing?” Gilbert asked.
“Yep, and prints. If he’s your guy, we should know it shortly.”
Officer Smith opened the last door. At the sound of its opening, a smallish man squatting in the center of the cell spun his head around to face them. His clothing had been ripped up and there were bloody scratches covering his face and torso. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. Spittle ran down his thin chin.
Upon seeing the officers enter, he screamed and rushed the cell door, throwing himself up against the bars hard enough to rattle the cage.
“Please!” he screamed. “Please! You have to wake me up!”
He stood their, pressed against the bars, clawing at the air in an attempt to reach the officers on the other side of the bars, his mouth a frothy mess, blood dripping from his scratches.
Parme looked at Gilbert. “Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe he is crazy.”
Read Part 7.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
5. Breakfast of Champions
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 4
It was almost 7:00 A.M. before Gilbert had completed his work at the precinct house, which put him perilously close to breaking Parme’s first rule. Since his first day with his new partner, he had been required to meet him every morning at 7 o’clock sharp for breakfast at the cafe down the block. He hastily gathered the notes he had made and bolted from the office he shared with Parme and two other detectives, one of whom was Tremayne White, an imposing block of a man he nearly collided with at the door.
“Whoa, where you goin’ in such a hurry, Rookie?” White asked him with a smile and a clap on the shoulder.
“Gotta meet Parme,” Gilbert replied without slowing down. “I’m late.”
White watched him go, still smiling. “You’d better run, Rookie. You don’t wanna piss Walter off. He’ll shoot you.”
By the time Gilbert blew into the cafe, Parme was already mixing up his eggs and fried potatoes, while a stern looking, middle-aged or better waitress filled up his coffee cup. She looked at Gilbert without smiling, held up the coffee pot for him to see and raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, coffee, please,” he said as he slid into the booth.
Parme didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
Gilbert started to order, but Parme cut him off. “I already ordered for you.” The waitress -- Barb according to the yellowed, plastic tag above her left breast -- finished pouring his coffee and went in search of his breakfast. Parme finished making a mess of his plate and then looked up at his partner. “Jesus, kid. You look like shit.”
Gilbert grabbed two sugar packets and ripped them open over his steaming coffee cup. “That happens when you work all night.”
“Worked all night on what? I like Eagan for this.”
Gilbert stopped pouring his sugar. “What! How do you get that? No evidence at the crime scene…”
“Kid, you’re over thinking it. We have a murder perpetrated by a crazy guy and three weeks later a crazy guy turns himself in. These cases aren’t that hard. All we have to do now is go back to his apartment and ask him some questions and he’ll break down and tell us the whole story. He wants to get caught. That’s why he turned himself in.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’re not so experienced. Give it a few days and everything will come to light. It’s always the same with these guys. He probably knew he was going to get caught, so he came up with this crazy, sleepwalking late night writing crap in a book thing to support an insanity defense, mark my words. We’ll go out to his apartment today to visit with him and you’ll see.”
Barb came back and dropped a platter with a couple of over easy eggs and a pile of greasy, fried potatoes in front of Gilbert. A shriveled up brown thing may have been a strip of bacon. He turned to thank her, but she was already gone.
“We don’t have to,” Gilbert said. Gilbert moved his fork through the eggs. He didn’t really like what he saw. He put his fork down beside his plate.
“Don’t have to what?”
“Don’t have to drive back out to his apartment. He’s still in the lockup.”
“Why? Who charged him?” Parme was beginning to get that look in his eye. It was the same look Gilbert saw when his partner realized they had missed out on the shooting that cost them the collar in their first case together.
“Nobody charged him with anything. He just didn’t want to go home.” Gilbert answered the unasked question in Parme’s face. “He said he was afraid to go home.”
Parme sniffed and went back to the ugly pile of breakfast food on his oversized plate. “He’s playing games. At least we caught him before he started working down his little list.”
“That’s the other thing,” Gilbert took a sip of his coffee as he worked out how he was going to broach this. He had only intended to think through the evidence a bit more when he returned to the office, but the more he got into it, the more he kept going. He realized he may have stepped over a line somewhere. He also realized Parme was looking at him, waiting.
“I spent some time on that list last night. That’s why I didn’t get to bed, actually. Well, that’s part of it.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked quietly.
“Well, I wanted to find out what I could about the people on that list. So, I ran them through our computers.” He paused but Parme didn’t say anything. “And the state police database.” Parme’s eyes started to narrow. “And the FBI…”
“Jesus Christ, Rob!” Parme threw down his fork. It landed in his breakfast pile. From across the room, Barb shot Gilbert a disapproving glance, which he tried to ignore. “Tell me you didn’t find anything so we don’t have a goddam paper trail that requires us to start reporting to every law enforcement authority in the country.”
Gilbert hadn’t considered that. In the aftermath of 9-11, all law enforcement agencies were tasked with improved communication and collaboration, which meant that management was tasked with measuring said communication and collaboration efforts, which meant more paperwork. In most cases a lot more. The result had been the typical unintended consequence that the agencies actually collaborated less to avoid the deluge of paperwork involved. But in light of what he had discovered overnight, it occurred to Gilbert that it might be worth it in this case. He decided to tell him everything quickly, in an attempt to get it all out before his partner pulled his service revolver and shot him.
There were 23 names on the list, not counting the victim in their case. Of those, 18 were not in the database, 4 were currently registered as missing in one or more of the three databases and 1 was the subject of an active murder investigation. He had requested a copy of the file from the state police.
Parme didn’t say anything, so Gilbert told him the rest.
“I figured that just because the names weren’t in our database didn’t mean they shouldn’t be, so I took the list down to Becky Carter to see if she could find out if they matched anyone living in our jurisdiction and what connections, if any, there were between them. Becky works in crime stats down…”
“I know who the fuck she is. What else?” Parme’s tone was low and dangerous.
“I did some research on the symbol on the front of the book. It doesn’t match anything we have in the gang sign database or any of the graphics libraries we have, but it reminded me of something I came across in college, so I did a pattern matching search and came up with this,” Gilbert pulled the folded up sheets of paper from his pocket, pushed his uneaten breakfast out of the way and unfolded one in front of his partner.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s called the Sigillum Dei, or Seal of God. It dates back to the late Middle Ages, 15th Century or so. As you can see, the symbol is quite complex and is composed of two circles, a pentagram, and three heptagons.”
“Stop,” Parme growled. “What the fuck are you talking about? This doesn’t look anything like what was scratched into that book.”
“Well, right, it doesn’t really, but look at this.” Gilbert unfolded another piece of paper.
“What kind of crap classes did you take in college?” Parme asked.
“I don’t know, it was all part of the pre-law curriculum,” he replied.
“Why did you take pre-law to be a cop?”
“I didn’t.” Gilbert finished smoothing out the sheet. “This is the print out of the picture I took with my camera phone. The lighting wasn’t good, there’s a shadow…” Parme made a gutteral sound that served to speed up his partner’s explanation. “See how these marks along the inside of the circle line up with the vertices of the heptagons.”
Parmes eyes rose slowly from the pages to his partner. There was great menace in them.
“Look,” Gilbert said, quickly unfolding a third sheet of paper. “Here is a printout with the camera phone image in red over the Seal in black and white. Look at the overlap. It’s perfect.”
Parme glanced at the printout and then went back to his eggs. “It doesn’t look anything like it.”
Gilbert looked more closely at his work. “Well, you’re right, but that may have been the point. In the Middle Ages, occultists would often bend religious symbols to their own use by changing them. The most famous is the pentagram, but we also see it in the upside down cross and the use of cups as a suit in the Tarot. Although some say the Tarot pre-dates…”
“Will you shut the fuck up,” Parme said. He voice was calm, uncharacteristically so. It made Gilbert lower the paper he was studying and look at his partner. Parme went on calmly. “What you’re talking is a bunch of horse shit and it doesn’t have anything to do with this case. This is a bunch of crazy shit that anyone can look up on the Internet, which is exactly what Eagan did. It all plays into his defense strategy. Besides, there were no occult symbols identified at the crime scene and Wayne’s team handled it so we know he would have found them.”
Gilbert nodded slowly. It made sense that if this were part of the case and had any link to the murder, there would have been some sign at the crime scene. He also had to admit to himself that if it had been there, Singleton and his team would have uncovered it. If they knew what they were looking for.
“Now, let’s forget about your middle ages art class and focus on the case,” Parme said.
“Okay, it’s just that…” Gilbert began.
“Jesus Christ! Who did you share this with?”
“Just an old friend from college. He wasn’t in pre-law, but we crossed paths in Medieval Signs and Symbols. It was a psych class really, focused on how mass psychology is impacted…”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Right. Anyway, he transferred out to a Jesuit school shortly afterward and he actually became a Catholic priest, if you can believe that.”
Parme reached down toward his pistol. The action made Gilbert speak faster.
“His name is Miller, Father Sean Miller and he’s not working with any law enforcement agency...that I know of.”
Parme’s hand returned to the table top carrying his wallet. He raised his other hand over his head for a second, without looking to see if the waitress noticed. She did and made her way over with the check. She dropped it on the table without a word and turned away. Parme pulled out a twenty for an eight dollar check and dropped it on the table. He didn’t look at his partner.
Gilbert realized that, for a second there, he actually thought his partner might shoot him. It was a horrifying realization, but the short burst of endorphins that had resulted from the fact that he hadn’t been fatally wounded by a small caliber weapon at close range emboldened him to change the subject.
“Why do you always tip her so much? She has to be the worse waitress I’ve ever seen.”
Parme pointed to the twenty, “Don’t touch that. I’m going to the office. You’re going home to shower and change. Be back by nine. Then we’ll interview our suspect and put this case to bed before the avalanche of paperwork you’ve created ruins both our careers.”
Parme got up and left without another word. Gilbert shook his head and folded up his notes. He suddenly had a burning desire to take a closer look at the photos Singleton’s team had taken at the crime scene. Just to be sure, he told himself.
Barb reappeared at the table, clearing Parme’s plate and coffee cup. “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”
Gilbert was shocked by the kindness in the voice of a waitress who hadn’t given him or Parme the time of day in the many weeks they had been meeting there. The surprise must have been visible on his face.
“I’m actually not the worst waitress you’ve ever seen.” Gilbert felt himself turning red. “I’m the best. I know all of my customers and I treat them exactly the way they want to be treated.”
Gilbert had to admit, that made sense. Her borderline rude behavior was just the kind of service Parme would reward.
“I’m sorry, I thought…”
“No, you didn’t,” she answered brightly. “But then, thinking about me isn’t your job, is it? You haven’t touched your breakfast. You want something else? We have pie.”
Gilbert reached into his pocket and pulled out the first bill he touched. It was a five. He dropped it on the table and started to get up. “No thanks, Barb. I have to go try to save my job.”
She laughed. It was a surprisingly youthful and pleasant sound coming from a woman who had to be well past the halfway mark. “The name is Pat. Barb hasn’t worked here in years. And you don’t have to worry about keeping your job. Just keep on doing what you’re doing and Wally will stay happy.”
“Wally? Happy? He almost shot me.”
Pat, the waitress Gilbert had previously thought of as Barb, because that’s how she had been labeled, laughed again. “He was impressed. You didn’t notice?” Gilbert's mouth fell open.
She grabbed up the two bills and the check from the table and turned back toward the cash register with a smile. “You really are new, aren’t you?”
Read Part 6
Read Part 4
It was almost 7:00 A.M. before Gilbert had completed his work at the precinct house, which put him perilously close to breaking Parme’s first rule. Since his first day with his new partner, he had been required to meet him every morning at 7 o’clock sharp for breakfast at the cafe down the block. He hastily gathered the notes he had made and bolted from the office he shared with Parme and two other detectives, one of whom was Tremayne White, an imposing block of a man he nearly collided with at the door.
“Whoa, where you goin’ in such a hurry, Rookie?” White asked him with a smile and a clap on the shoulder.
“Gotta meet Parme,” Gilbert replied without slowing down. “I’m late.”
White watched him go, still smiling. “You’d better run, Rookie. You don’t wanna piss Walter off. He’ll shoot you.”
By the time Gilbert blew into the cafe, Parme was already mixing up his eggs and fried potatoes, while a stern looking, middle-aged or better waitress filled up his coffee cup. She looked at Gilbert without smiling, held up the coffee pot for him to see and raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, coffee, please,” he said as he slid into the booth.
Parme didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
Gilbert started to order, but Parme cut him off. “I already ordered for you.” The waitress -- Barb according to the yellowed, plastic tag above her left breast -- finished pouring his coffee and went in search of his breakfast. Parme finished making a mess of his plate and then looked up at his partner. “Jesus, kid. You look like shit.”
Gilbert grabbed two sugar packets and ripped them open over his steaming coffee cup. “That happens when you work all night.”
“Worked all night on what? I like Eagan for this.”
Gilbert stopped pouring his sugar. “What! How do you get that? No evidence at the crime scene…”
“Kid, you’re over thinking it. We have a murder perpetrated by a crazy guy and three weeks later a crazy guy turns himself in. These cases aren’t that hard. All we have to do now is go back to his apartment and ask him some questions and he’ll break down and tell us the whole story. He wants to get caught. That’s why he turned himself in.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’re not so experienced. Give it a few days and everything will come to light. It’s always the same with these guys. He probably knew he was going to get caught, so he came up with this crazy, sleepwalking late night writing crap in a book thing to support an insanity defense, mark my words. We’ll go out to his apartment today to visit with him and you’ll see.”
Barb came back and dropped a platter with a couple of over easy eggs and a pile of greasy, fried potatoes in front of Gilbert. A shriveled up brown thing may have been a strip of bacon. He turned to thank her, but she was already gone.
“We don’t have to,” Gilbert said. Gilbert moved his fork through the eggs. He didn’t really like what he saw. He put his fork down beside his plate.
“Don’t have to what?”
“Don’t have to drive back out to his apartment. He’s still in the lockup.”
“Why? Who charged him?” Parme was beginning to get that look in his eye. It was the same look Gilbert saw when his partner realized they had missed out on the shooting that cost them the collar in their first case together.
“Nobody charged him with anything. He just didn’t want to go home.” Gilbert answered the unasked question in Parme’s face. “He said he was afraid to go home.”
Parme sniffed and went back to the ugly pile of breakfast food on his oversized plate. “He’s playing games. At least we caught him before he started working down his little list.”
“That’s the other thing,” Gilbert took a sip of his coffee as he worked out how he was going to broach this. He had only intended to think through the evidence a bit more when he returned to the office, but the more he got into it, the more he kept going. He realized he may have stepped over a line somewhere. He also realized Parme was looking at him, waiting.
“I spent some time on that list last night. That’s why I didn’t get to bed, actually. Well, that’s part of it.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked quietly.
“Well, I wanted to find out what I could about the people on that list. So, I ran them through our computers.” He paused but Parme didn’t say anything. “And the state police database.” Parme’s eyes started to narrow. “And the FBI…”
“Jesus Christ, Rob!” Parme threw down his fork. It landed in his breakfast pile. From across the room, Barb shot Gilbert a disapproving glance, which he tried to ignore. “Tell me you didn’t find anything so we don’t have a goddam paper trail that requires us to start reporting to every law enforcement authority in the country.”
Gilbert hadn’t considered that. In the aftermath of 9-11, all law enforcement agencies were tasked with improved communication and collaboration, which meant that management was tasked with measuring said communication and collaboration efforts, which meant more paperwork. In most cases a lot more. The result had been the typical unintended consequence that the agencies actually collaborated less to avoid the deluge of paperwork involved. But in light of what he had discovered overnight, it occurred to Gilbert that it might be worth it in this case. He decided to tell him everything quickly, in an attempt to get it all out before his partner pulled his service revolver and shot him.
There were 23 names on the list, not counting the victim in their case. Of those, 18 were not in the database, 4 were currently registered as missing in one or more of the three databases and 1 was the subject of an active murder investigation. He had requested a copy of the file from the state police.
Parme didn’t say anything, so Gilbert told him the rest.
“I figured that just because the names weren’t in our database didn’t mean they shouldn’t be, so I took the list down to Becky Carter to see if she could find out if they matched anyone living in our jurisdiction and what connections, if any, there were between them. Becky works in crime stats down…”
“I know who the fuck she is. What else?” Parme’s tone was low and dangerous.
“I did some research on the symbol on the front of the book. It doesn’t match anything we have in the gang sign database or any of the graphics libraries we have, but it reminded me of something I came across in college, so I did a pattern matching search and came up with this,” Gilbert pulled the folded up sheets of paper from his pocket, pushed his uneaten breakfast out of the way and unfolded one in front of his partner.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s called the Sigillum Dei, or Seal of God. It dates back to the late Middle Ages, 15th Century or so. As you can see, the symbol is quite complex and is composed of two circles, a pentagram, and three heptagons.”
“Stop,” Parme growled. “What the fuck are you talking about? This doesn’t look anything like what was scratched into that book.”
“Well, right, it doesn’t really, but look at this.” Gilbert unfolded another piece of paper.
“What kind of crap classes did you take in college?” Parme asked.
“I don’t know, it was all part of the pre-law curriculum,” he replied.
“Why did you take pre-law to be a cop?”
“I didn’t.” Gilbert finished smoothing out the sheet. “This is the print out of the picture I took with my camera phone. The lighting wasn’t good, there’s a shadow…” Parme made a gutteral sound that served to speed up his partner’s explanation. “See how these marks along the inside of the circle line up with the vertices of the heptagons.”
Parmes eyes rose slowly from the pages to his partner. There was great menace in them.
“Look,” Gilbert said, quickly unfolding a third sheet of paper. “Here is a printout with the camera phone image in red over the Seal in black and white. Look at the overlap. It’s perfect.”
Parme glanced at the printout and then went back to his eggs. “It doesn’t look anything like it.”
Gilbert looked more closely at his work. “Well, you’re right, but that may have been the point. In the Middle Ages, occultists would often bend religious symbols to their own use by changing them. The most famous is the pentagram, but we also see it in the upside down cross and the use of cups as a suit in the Tarot. Although some say the Tarot pre-dates…”
“Will you shut the fuck up,” Parme said. He voice was calm, uncharacteristically so. It made Gilbert lower the paper he was studying and look at his partner. Parme went on calmly. “What you’re talking is a bunch of horse shit and it doesn’t have anything to do with this case. This is a bunch of crazy shit that anyone can look up on the Internet, which is exactly what Eagan did. It all plays into his defense strategy. Besides, there were no occult symbols identified at the crime scene and Wayne’s team handled it so we know he would have found them.”
Gilbert nodded slowly. It made sense that if this were part of the case and had any link to the murder, there would have been some sign at the crime scene. He also had to admit to himself that if it had been there, Singleton and his team would have uncovered it. If they knew what they were looking for.
“Now, let’s forget about your middle ages art class and focus on the case,” Parme said.
“Okay, it’s just that…” Gilbert began.
“Jesus Christ! Who did you share this with?”
“Just an old friend from college. He wasn’t in pre-law, but we crossed paths in Medieval Signs and Symbols. It was a psych class really, focused on how mass psychology is impacted…”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Right. Anyway, he transferred out to a Jesuit school shortly afterward and he actually became a Catholic priest, if you can believe that.”
Parme reached down toward his pistol. The action made Gilbert speak faster.
“His name is Miller, Father Sean Miller and he’s not working with any law enforcement agency...that I know of.”
Parme’s hand returned to the table top carrying his wallet. He raised his other hand over his head for a second, without looking to see if the waitress noticed. She did and made her way over with the check. She dropped it on the table without a word and turned away. Parme pulled out a twenty for an eight dollar check and dropped it on the table. He didn’t look at his partner.
Gilbert realized that, for a second there, he actually thought his partner might shoot him. It was a horrifying realization, but the short burst of endorphins that had resulted from the fact that he hadn’t been fatally wounded by a small caliber weapon at close range emboldened him to change the subject.
“Why do you always tip her so much? She has to be the worse waitress I’ve ever seen.”
Parme pointed to the twenty, “Don’t touch that. I’m going to the office. You’re going home to shower and change. Be back by nine. Then we’ll interview our suspect and put this case to bed before the avalanche of paperwork you’ve created ruins both our careers.”
Parme got up and left without another word. Gilbert shook his head and folded up his notes. He suddenly had a burning desire to take a closer look at the photos Singleton’s team had taken at the crime scene. Just to be sure, he told himself.
Barb reappeared at the table, clearing Parme’s plate and coffee cup. “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”
Gilbert was shocked by the kindness in the voice of a waitress who hadn’t given him or Parme the time of day in the many weeks they had been meeting there. The surprise must have been visible on his face.
“I’m actually not the worst waitress you’ve ever seen.” Gilbert felt himself turning red. “I’m the best. I know all of my customers and I treat them exactly the way they want to be treated.”
Gilbert had to admit, that made sense. Her borderline rude behavior was just the kind of service Parme would reward.
“I’m sorry, I thought…”
“No, you didn’t,” she answered brightly. “But then, thinking about me isn’t your job, is it? You haven’t touched your breakfast. You want something else? We have pie.”
Gilbert reached into his pocket and pulled out the first bill he touched. It was a five. He dropped it on the table and started to get up. “No thanks, Barb. I have to go try to save my job.”
She laughed. It was a surprisingly youthful and pleasant sound coming from a woman who had to be well past the halfway mark. “The name is Pat. Barb hasn’t worked here in years. And you don’t have to worry about keeping your job. Just keep on doing what you’re doing and Wally will stay happy.”
“Wally? Happy? He almost shot me.”
Pat, the waitress Gilbert had previously thought of as Barb, because that’s how she had been labeled, laughed again. “He was impressed. You didn’t notice?” Gilbert's mouth fell open.
She grabbed up the two bills and the check from the table and turned back toward the cash register with a smile. “You really are new, aren’t you?”
Read Part 6
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
4. A Watcher in the Night
Read from the beginning
Read Part 3
Most of the noise Singleton’s team had been making in the fourth floor apartment had been reduced to a low roar by midnight and the other residents on that floor found their way to bed. The only exception was a young man by the name of Mark Boyle who lived in apartment 407. He worked second shift and didn’t even get home until after midnight. By then, the hallway had been cleared, the yellow tape was gone and the team was leaving Eagan’s apartment and heading down to the basement to finish up there.
Boyle passed a couple of the techs on the stairwell, but didn’t pay them any attention. He entered his apartment unaware of the excitement his neighbors had enjoyed earlier in the evening. He watched television until well past 2:00 A.M. and fell asleep on the couch.
At about that time, in the apartment directly below him, Sandy Gallagher got out of bed and without turning on any of the lights made her way to the window and looked down into the street directly in front of the building.
She watched Singleton walk down the steps and out to his car. Then she watched Gilbert as he headed toward his own vehicle and then stopped.
She watched him from her dark bedroom as he turned around to stare at the building. As she watched, she cataloged his features and clothing. She studied his stance and then watched him walk to his vehicle and finally drive away.
Then, calmly, she returned to her bed and closed her eyes. She didn’t have to fall back asleep because she had never been awake.
Read Part 5
Read Part 3
Most of the noise Singleton’s team had been making in the fourth floor apartment had been reduced to a low roar by midnight and the other residents on that floor found their way to bed. The only exception was a young man by the name of Mark Boyle who lived in apartment 407. He worked second shift and didn’t even get home until after midnight. By then, the hallway had been cleared, the yellow tape was gone and the team was leaving Eagan’s apartment and heading down to the basement to finish up there.
Boyle passed a couple of the techs on the stairwell, but didn’t pay them any attention. He entered his apartment unaware of the excitement his neighbors had enjoyed earlier in the evening. He watched television until well past 2:00 A.M. and fell asleep on the couch.
At about that time, in the apartment directly below him, Sandy Gallagher got out of bed and without turning on any of the lights made her way to the window and looked down into the street directly in front of the building.
She watched Singleton walk down the steps and out to his car. Then she watched Gilbert as he headed toward his own vehicle and then stopped.
She watched him from her dark bedroom as he turned around to stare at the building. As she watched, she cataloged his features and clothing. She studied his stance and then watched him walk to his vehicle and finally drive away.
Then, calmly, she returned to her bed and closed her eyes. She didn’t have to fall back asleep because she had never been awake.
Read Part 5
Sunday, March 2, 2014
3. Done for the Night...Almost
Read from the beginning
Read Part 2
Gilbert and Singleton were the last to leave the scene. Gilbert had stopped thinking of it as a crime scene since there was no evidence that any crime had been committed here. Unless there was an ordinance against open flames near piles of old wooden furniture in the basements of apartment buildings. There probably was one, now that he thought about it, but it wasn’t worth staying at work until -- Gilbert glanced down at his watch -- 2:37 A.M.
Gilbert had stayed with Singleton and his team as they photographed, bagged and cataloged everything they could in the basement and up in the fourth floor apartment. It was time consuming work that could easily spell the difference between a case that stood up in court and one that failed on a technicality. Gilbert was impressed with Singleton and his team. He made sure to tell him so.
By the time they were finished, the most interesting thing they recovered from the scene was the book. It was interesting, but Gilbert wasn’t sure yet if it was a clue for use in his ongoing murder case.
He shook hands goodbye with Singleton, pushed open the apartment building’s front door and headed out into the night.
Only a gentle breeze blew now and it didn’t seem as cold. Before it left, the wind had spread a light sheen of snow over the neighborhood. The white crystals that covered the roadway and small yards that fronted the other apartment buildings diffused the glow from the streetlights and made everything brighter, like a night under the full moon he remembered from the small farm town he grew up in. But there was no moon out tonight.
Singleton passed him and moved on down the front stairs, promising to call him tomorrow with any results or insights. Gilbert mumbled his appreciation and followed. At the bottom of the steps, something stopped him and he turned around to regard the building.
It could have been any one of a dozen similar multifamily dwellings in this part of town, with nothing to distinguish it from the others but the numbers on the wall beside the glass front door. But there was definitely something different about this one. This one was home to a man who had dreamed up the name of an 18-year-old murder victim while allegedly sleepwalking in the basement of his building, five stories below his bed.
He got behind the wheel of the Ford Crown Victoria the city had provided for him and fired up the engine. It took a second for the wipers to clear the snow crystals off the windshield. The apartment building came into view as the thin black wipers drove away the snow. It stood there silently, giving up no secrets. He pulled out into the street and headed home.
In truth, it was all but inconceivable that there was any connection between the man who lived in this building and the murdered girl, Gilbert admitted to himself. Eagen could have heard her name on the news and then wrote it out of his subconscious later. The murder, at least the information that had been released about it thus far, had made it into the papers. At least one reporter was still working on the story, if tonight’s visitor was any indication. Logic told him that Eagan could not possibly be connected, but protocol demanded that every lead be investigated.
In a flash, he was back in school. Step one: list the known facts.
Fact one: Paula Kelly, 18, left a high school sporting event to walk home, was reported missing approximately 48 hours later, was located approximately 72 hours after that by a janitor employed by the school in an outbuilding used by the high school to store track and field equipment. She was dead.
Fact two: The manner of her death and subsequent dismemberment were such that the killer could only have been a complete sociopath, almost certainly insane. It was a messy, disorganized crime scene that didn’t fit the profiles of professional murderers. If it was a crime of passion, the passion was extreme anger and it had lasted a long time.
Fact three: No one present at the game, working at the school or living in her neighborhood had seen or heard from her anytime after the game ended that Friday night.
Working under the assumption that anyone capable of committing such a violent murder may have a history of mental instability and prior convictions, the detectives ordered a list of all known offenders and had begun to work it down, checking alibis with the goal of flagging anyone who didn’t have a good enough story about where they were that Friday night. So far, they had uncovered no leads. But there were plenty of names on the list and the work continued.
What they did have was plenty of forensic evidence, including a large amount of DNA information that the lab assured them belonged to someone other than the victim. There were also a number of partial fingerprints in the blood splattered around the shed. It appeared that the killer wore no gloves. No matches to either the partials or the DNA had been uncovered in the local database, nor those of the state police or the FBI. The work continued.
So far, everything he’d learned and experienced about police work had taught him that anything that happened, at least in our modern world, left behind clues. All one had to do to solve any crime was to systematically obtain the clues and decipher their meaning. The more clues you could collect, the faster you could solve the case.
Of course, it always helped if your perpetrator made mistakes. That could quickly reduce the time it took to move from crime scene to collar to arraignment. Anyone who had already made as many mistakes as were present at the crime scene would, sooner or later, make more. Then, they would have him.
Of course, his own history had taught him that solving a case and convicting criminals were not the same thing. Sometimes, you had all the clues and you knew exactly what had happened but you still couldn’t convince a prosecutor, a judge and a jury to return a guilty verdict. There was still the shadow of a doubt to contend with. That shadow had cost him someone very special once.
Well, technically, that wasn’t true, he reminded himself, hearing the voice of Dr. Willenshow as he did so. He hadn’t seen his therapist in many years and, as far as he knew, no one knew of that old relationship. It was buried deep in the protected court records of a minor. But occasionally, the good doctor’s voice would remind him of important things. In this case, he was reminding him that the case in question had unraveled because the police had done a piss poor job of collecting the evidence at the crime scene. The jury was left with no option but to admit that the prosecution’s case was drenched in doubt. That killer had gone free.
But he had been a killer. Of that, Rob Gilbert had absolutely no doubt.
Years of therapy, college training, experience as a beat cop and plenty of time now separated him from that old case. It had also prepared him to work on the case before him now. And in this case, it seemed, the detectives had another clue. Maybe.
Approximately three weeks after the murder of Paula Kelly, her name had been written on a scrap of parchment by a man who lived on the other side of the city while he was allegedly sleepwalking. How was Eagan connected? What was really written in the notebook? Were the other names also victims? Was Eagan crazy? If so, it could explain his ability to create both a chaotic crime scene and a perfectly organized apartment. If he was involved, why would be surrender himself to the authorities.
The not knowing was starting to eat at him. They needed to know more about this man, Eagan.
With a start, Gilbert released his accelerator, letting his vehicle coast down the empty street. For a moment he was disoriented. This wasn’t his neighborhood. Then he saw the police station building coming up on the left. He shook his head. Damn lucky, he thought. Driving without paying attention is a great way to get killed. He pulled into the lot and parked. He needed coffee, and answers. He exited the car and entered the building.
Read Part 4
Read Part 2
Gilbert and Singleton were the last to leave the scene. Gilbert had stopped thinking of it as a crime scene since there was no evidence that any crime had been committed here. Unless there was an ordinance against open flames near piles of old wooden furniture in the basements of apartment buildings. There probably was one, now that he thought about it, but it wasn’t worth staying at work until -- Gilbert glanced down at his watch -- 2:37 A.M.
Gilbert had stayed with Singleton and his team as they photographed, bagged and cataloged everything they could in the basement and up in the fourth floor apartment. It was time consuming work that could easily spell the difference between a case that stood up in court and one that failed on a technicality. Gilbert was impressed with Singleton and his team. He made sure to tell him so.
By the time they were finished, the most interesting thing they recovered from the scene was the book. It was interesting, but Gilbert wasn’t sure yet if it was a clue for use in his ongoing murder case.
He shook hands goodbye with Singleton, pushed open the apartment building’s front door and headed out into the night.
Only a gentle breeze blew now and it didn’t seem as cold. Before it left, the wind had spread a light sheen of snow over the neighborhood. The white crystals that covered the roadway and small yards that fronted the other apartment buildings diffused the glow from the streetlights and made everything brighter, like a night under the full moon he remembered from the small farm town he grew up in. But there was no moon out tonight.
Singleton passed him and moved on down the front stairs, promising to call him tomorrow with any results or insights. Gilbert mumbled his appreciation and followed. At the bottom of the steps, something stopped him and he turned around to regard the building.
It could have been any one of a dozen similar multifamily dwellings in this part of town, with nothing to distinguish it from the others but the numbers on the wall beside the glass front door. But there was definitely something different about this one. This one was home to a man who had dreamed up the name of an 18-year-old murder victim while allegedly sleepwalking in the basement of his building, five stories below his bed.
He got behind the wheel of the Ford Crown Victoria the city had provided for him and fired up the engine. It took a second for the wipers to clear the snow crystals off the windshield. The apartment building came into view as the thin black wipers drove away the snow. It stood there silently, giving up no secrets. He pulled out into the street and headed home.
In truth, it was all but inconceivable that there was any connection between the man who lived in this building and the murdered girl, Gilbert admitted to himself. Eagen could have heard her name on the news and then wrote it out of his subconscious later. The murder, at least the information that had been released about it thus far, had made it into the papers. At least one reporter was still working on the story, if tonight’s visitor was any indication. Logic told him that Eagan could not possibly be connected, but protocol demanded that every lead be investigated.
In a flash, he was back in school. Step one: list the known facts.
Fact one: Paula Kelly, 18, left a high school sporting event to walk home, was reported missing approximately 48 hours later, was located approximately 72 hours after that by a janitor employed by the school in an outbuilding used by the high school to store track and field equipment. She was dead.
Fact two: The manner of her death and subsequent dismemberment were such that the killer could only have been a complete sociopath, almost certainly insane. It was a messy, disorganized crime scene that didn’t fit the profiles of professional murderers. If it was a crime of passion, the passion was extreme anger and it had lasted a long time.
Fact three: No one present at the game, working at the school or living in her neighborhood had seen or heard from her anytime after the game ended that Friday night.
Working under the assumption that anyone capable of committing such a violent murder may have a history of mental instability and prior convictions, the detectives ordered a list of all known offenders and had begun to work it down, checking alibis with the goal of flagging anyone who didn’t have a good enough story about where they were that Friday night. So far, they had uncovered no leads. But there were plenty of names on the list and the work continued.
What they did have was plenty of forensic evidence, including a large amount of DNA information that the lab assured them belonged to someone other than the victim. There were also a number of partial fingerprints in the blood splattered around the shed. It appeared that the killer wore no gloves. No matches to either the partials or the DNA had been uncovered in the local database, nor those of the state police or the FBI. The work continued.
So far, everything he’d learned and experienced about police work had taught him that anything that happened, at least in our modern world, left behind clues. All one had to do to solve any crime was to systematically obtain the clues and decipher their meaning. The more clues you could collect, the faster you could solve the case.
Of course, it always helped if your perpetrator made mistakes. That could quickly reduce the time it took to move from crime scene to collar to arraignment. Anyone who had already made as many mistakes as were present at the crime scene would, sooner or later, make more. Then, they would have him.
Of course, his own history had taught him that solving a case and convicting criminals were not the same thing. Sometimes, you had all the clues and you knew exactly what had happened but you still couldn’t convince a prosecutor, a judge and a jury to return a guilty verdict. There was still the shadow of a doubt to contend with. That shadow had cost him someone very special once.
Well, technically, that wasn’t true, he reminded himself, hearing the voice of Dr. Willenshow as he did so. He hadn’t seen his therapist in many years and, as far as he knew, no one knew of that old relationship. It was buried deep in the protected court records of a minor. But occasionally, the good doctor’s voice would remind him of important things. In this case, he was reminding him that the case in question had unraveled because the police had done a piss poor job of collecting the evidence at the crime scene. The jury was left with no option but to admit that the prosecution’s case was drenched in doubt. That killer had gone free.
But he had been a killer. Of that, Rob Gilbert had absolutely no doubt.
Years of therapy, college training, experience as a beat cop and plenty of time now separated him from that old case. It had also prepared him to work on the case before him now. And in this case, it seemed, the detectives had another clue. Maybe.
Approximately three weeks after the murder of Paula Kelly, her name had been written on a scrap of parchment by a man who lived on the other side of the city while he was allegedly sleepwalking. How was Eagan connected? What was really written in the notebook? Were the other names also victims? Was Eagan crazy? If so, it could explain his ability to create both a chaotic crime scene and a perfectly organized apartment. If he was involved, why would be surrender himself to the authorities.
The not knowing was starting to eat at him. They needed to know more about this man, Eagan.
With a start, Gilbert released his accelerator, letting his vehicle coast down the empty street. For a moment he was disoriented. This wasn’t his neighborhood. Then he saw the police station building coming up on the left. He shook his head. Damn lucky, he thought. Driving without paying attention is a great way to get killed. He pulled into the lot and parked. He needed coffee, and answers. He exited the car and entered the building.
Read Part 4
Saturday, February 22, 2014
2. A Short Trip Underground
Read Part 1
Singleton grabbed one of his techs, armed him with a work light, and led the two detectives out of the apartment and down the hall toward the stairs.
“If you knew the crime scene was in the basement, why didn’t you meet us there,” Parme rumbled as they started down the stairwell.
“Figured you’d want to be there,” Singleton replied. “Besides, not sure it’s a crime scene. Writing by candle light’s not a crime, remember. You said so yourself.”
Parme growled a reply the other men couldn’t quite make out.
“I like being first on the scene,” Gilbert said brightly. Parme just growled some more.
When they got back down to the first floor, they felt the temperature drop. Gilbert imagined the wind outside was picking up, as they exited the stair well and re-entered the vestibule at the front of the building. He started to glance out the front window to confirm his suspicion, but his view was blocked by the same young uniform guarding the front door, and someone else.
The middle-aged man was wearing a light brown jacket and a knit cap. He seemed to come to life when the detectives entered.
“Hey Wally, what’s the story?” he called out, pulling a reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket and clicking the button on the end of a ballpoint pen.
“Get him out of here,” Parme directed the uniform, without breaking stride.
Gilbert glanced back, expecting to see the disappointment on the reporter’s face. Instead, the man was smiling broadly as the uniform pushed him back out into the night. A gust of wind sent a small explosion of snow in through the open door. It fell slowly to the tile as the officer slammed the door.
Gilbert had to hurry to catch the others. They had opened a doorway a short distance down the hallway and were descending a narrow wooden staircase. Parme’s flashlight swept the walls. By the time Gilbert reached the bottom, Parme had found the light switch.
The switch made a loud click as Parme pressed it up and a row of bare bulbs strung down a narrow corridor that ran down the middle of the huge open room. It created a long line of light that cut the darkness in two. At intervals, the light bounced off the sides of square columns. The place smelled of dust and dirt.
“There are lights down here,” Gilbert said, stating the obvious. “Why didn’t he use them?”
“Maybe you don’t need light when you’re sleep walking,” Singleton said and then headed off down the concrete path that ran beneath the string of lights. The other three followed him, Gilbert and Parme together and the technician bringing up the rear.
The basement of the apartment building was the same size as the building above it. The string of lights marked out a line of light that ran roughly in the same direction and directly below the main corridor on the floors above it, effectively cutting the space in two. Instead of apartments on either side of this central line, there were simply storage alcoves, mostly unlit, with crates stacked around the large square pillars that held up the building above them. Unlike the main walkway, these alcoves seemed to have a packed dirt floor. Barn-like walls ran between the columns every 40 feet or so, perpendicular to the walkway, to create the alcoves. There were no walls along the lighted walkway.
“So, who was that guy?” Gilbert asked his partner. “He seemed to know you.”
“Just because an idiot calls me Wally doesn’t mean he knows me,” Parme rumbled.
“Oh, you mean Sean Pennscott, crime reporter extraordinaire for the Daily News,” Singleton answered without looking back. “He and Walt go way back. Went to school together, didn’t you?”
“I forget,” Parme replied.
“We have a newspaper?”
Singleton stopped and looked over his shoulder at Gilbert. “You are new, aren’t ya, kid?”
Parme’s frown deepened. “Come on, Wayne, keep moving.”
“We’re there,” he replied, and danced his light into the alcove on their right.
The light bulbs ran on another 60 feet or so, but Singleton was shining his light into an alcove that seemed to hold nothing but pillars and a pile of old broken furniture. It cast a huge shadow on the concrete wall behind it that seemed to dance as they played their flashlights over the pile.
Gilbert started to ask him how he knew this was the right place, but Singleton just shined his flashlight down onto the floor. There had been no discernable footprints on the concrete walkway, but when his light hit the dirt floor, the prints left by a pair of bare feet were clearly visible.
The technician set up the lights and plugged in a battery back. The alcove was suddently flooded with light. The stack of broken furniture came into sharp relief, its shadow shrinking away. The pile contained everything from old dressers and bed parts to bathroom vanities and tables. In the far back corner of the room, one table had been set aside and positioned up against the wall. Two chairs were next to it. On the table was a single tapered candle in a crystal holder.
Singleton handed gloves to both detectives.
“Where is the paper he was writing on?” Gilbert asked.
Egan hadn’t brought anything with him to the police station when he turned himself in. Neither did the technicians find it in his apartment upstairs, Singleton told them. “It must be here somewhere.”
It took Gilbert a few seconds to find the hidden drawer under the table.
“The kid is good,” Singleton said to Parme, who only grunted. “Don’t take it personally,” Singleton said, giving Gilbert a pat on the shoulder. “He’s this way with all of his new partners.”
Gilbert pulled open the drawer and pulled out a single book and laid it carefully on the table. Three flashlights bounced off the black leather cover and the weird symbol engraved there. The technician’s was still being used to explore the pile of furniture.
“What the hell is that?” Gilbert asked, leaning closer. An ornate symbol had been carved into the cover of the leather binder. It contained a central circle with smaller symbols around the outside, both inside and outside of the circle. It wasn’t a hastily performed mutilation, but rather bore the marks of a leather craftsman who took pride in his work.
Singleton shook his head, but Parme just turned back to the other furniture. “Who knows. Get pictures. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
Gilbert opened the book. Singleton held the cover down so Gilbert could turn the pages. They were a brown parchment, some sewn into the book, others just placed in between those pages. The pages were covered with scrawl that seemed to move as the flashlights played over the pages. Indecipherable. Finally, Gilbert came to a loose leaf he could read.
Parme watched the technician picking through the pile for a moment and then yawned. Without turning to the others, he headed back to the concrete walkway. “Photoraph everything. Bag the book and anything else that looks interesting. Leave the furniture. I’m going home. Call me when you find a real crime scene, Wayne.”
“Wait a second,” Gilbert said softly as he read the page. Parme ignored him. Gilbert flipped over the page and froze. “Detective!”
Parme had just reached the concrete walkway. He paused without looking back. “Yes… detective?”
“I found our victim’s name,” Gilbert said. Parme started to reply but Gilbert continued. “There are 20, maybe 25, other names on this page.”
Parme stood still for a moment. He replied without looking back. “Photograph everything, especially the cover of the book. Meet me in the morning.” Then he left.
Gilbert continued to flip pages in the book, the remainder of which were covered with the unreadable script. Finally, he stepped away from the table, leaving Singleton holding the book open with his pen. He stared at the table.
“You think these are also victims,” Singleton asked. Gilbert just stared at the table. Finally Singleton nudged him.
“What?” Gilbert replied, snapping out of his reverie.
“Do you think these are also victims?”
“I don’t know about that yet,” Gilbert replied, looking over at him. “I was just wondering. Who is the second chair for?”
Read Part 3
Singleton grabbed one of his techs, armed him with a work light, and led the two detectives out of the apartment and down the hall toward the stairs.
“If you knew the crime scene was in the basement, why didn’t you meet us there,” Parme rumbled as they started down the stairwell.
“Figured you’d want to be there,” Singleton replied. “Besides, not sure it’s a crime scene. Writing by candle light’s not a crime, remember. You said so yourself.”
Parme growled a reply the other men couldn’t quite make out.
“I like being first on the scene,” Gilbert said brightly. Parme just growled some more.
When they got back down to the first floor, they felt the temperature drop. Gilbert imagined the wind outside was picking up, as they exited the stair well and re-entered the vestibule at the front of the building. He started to glance out the front window to confirm his suspicion, but his view was blocked by the same young uniform guarding the front door, and someone else.
The middle-aged man was wearing a light brown jacket and a knit cap. He seemed to come to life when the detectives entered.
“Hey Wally, what’s the story?” he called out, pulling a reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket and clicking the button on the end of a ballpoint pen.
“Get him out of here,” Parme directed the uniform, without breaking stride.
Gilbert glanced back, expecting to see the disappointment on the reporter’s face. Instead, the man was smiling broadly as the uniform pushed him back out into the night. A gust of wind sent a small explosion of snow in through the open door. It fell slowly to the tile as the officer slammed the door.
Gilbert had to hurry to catch the others. They had opened a doorway a short distance down the hallway and were descending a narrow wooden staircase. Parme’s flashlight swept the walls. By the time Gilbert reached the bottom, Parme had found the light switch.
The switch made a loud click as Parme pressed it up and a row of bare bulbs strung down a narrow corridor that ran down the middle of the huge open room. It created a long line of light that cut the darkness in two. At intervals, the light bounced off the sides of square columns. The place smelled of dust and dirt.
“There are lights down here,” Gilbert said, stating the obvious. “Why didn’t he use them?”
“Maybe you don’t need light when you’re sleep walking,” Singleton said and then headed off down the concrete path that ran beneath the string of lights. The other three followed him, Gilbert and Parme together and the technician bringing up the rear.
The basement of the apartment building was the same size as the building above it. The string of lights marked out a line of light that ran roughly in the same direction and directly below the main corridor on the floors above it, effectively cutting the space in two. Instead of apartments on either side of this central line, there were simply storage alcoves, mostly unlit, with crates stacked around the large square pillars that held up the building above them. Unlike the main walkway, these alcoves seemed to have a packed dirt floor. Barn-like walls ran between the columns every 40 feet or so, perpendicular to the walkway, to create the alcoves. There were no walls along the lighted walkway.
“So, who was that guy?” Gilbert asked his partner. “He seemed to know you.”
“Just because an idiot calls me Wally doesn’t mean he knows me,” Parme rumbled.
“Oh, you mean Sean Pennscott, crime reporter extraordinaire for the Daily News,” Singleton answered without looking back. “He and Walt go way back. Went to school together, didn’t you?”
“I forget,” Parme replied.
“We have a newspaper?”
Singleton stopped and looked over his shoulder at Gilbert. “You are new, aren’t ya, kid?”
Parme’s frown deepened. “Come on, Wayne, keep moving.”
“We’re there,” he replied, and danced his light into the alcove on their right.
The light bulbs ran on another 60 feet or so, but Singleton was shining his light into an alcove that seemed to hold nothing but pillars and a pile of old broken furniture. It cast a huge shadow on the concrete wall behind it that seemed to dance as they played their flashlights over the pile.
Gilbert started to ask him how he knew this was the right place, but Singleton just shined his flashlight down onto the floor. There had been no discernable footprints on the concrete walkway, but when his light hit the dirt floor, the prints left by a pair of bare feet were clearly visible.
The technician set up the lights and plugged in a battery back. The alcove was suddently flooded with light. The stack of broken furniture came into sharp relief, its shadow shrinking away. The pile contained everything from old dressers and bed parts to bathroom vanities and tables. In the far back corner of the room, one table had been set aside and positioned up against the wall. Two chairs were next to it. On the table was a single tapered candle in a crystal holder.
Singleton handed gloves to both detectives.
“Where is the paper he was writing on?” Gilbert asked.
Egan hadn’t brought anything with him to the police station when he turned himself in. Neither did the technicians find it in his apartment upstairs, Singleton told them. “It must be here somewhere.”
It took Gilbert a few seconds to find the hidden drawer under the table.
“The kid is good,” Singleton said to Parme, who only grunted. “Don’t take it personally,” Singleton said, giving Gilbert a pat on the shoulder. “He’s this way with all of his new partners.”
Gilbert pulled open the drawer and pulled out a single book and laid it carefully on the table. Three flashlights bounced off the black leather cover and the weird symbol engraved there. The technician’s was still being used to explore the pile of furniture.
“What the hell is that?” Gilbert asked, leaning closer. An ornate symbol had been carved into the cover of the leather binder. It contained a central circle with smaller symbols around the outside, both inside and outside of the circle. It wasn’t a hastily performed mutilation, but rather bore the marks of a leather craftsman who took pride in his work.
Singleton shook his head, but Parme just turned back to the other furniture. “Who knows. Get pictures. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
Gilbert opened the book. Singleton held the cover down so Gilbert could turn the pages. They were a brown parchment, some sewn into the book, others just placed in between those pages. The pages were covered with scrawl that seemed to move as the flashlights played over the pages. Indecipherable. Finally, Gilbert came to a loose leaf he could read.
Parme watched the technician picking through the pile for a moment and then yawned. Without turning to the others, he headed back to the concrete walkway. “Photoraph everything. Bag the book and anything else that looks interesting. Leave the furniture. I’m going home. Call me when you find a real crime scene, Wayne.”
“Wait a second,” Gilbert said softly as he read the page. Parme ignored him. Gilbert flipped over the page and froze. “Detective!”
Parme had just reached the concrete walkway. He paused without looking back. “Yes… detective?”
“I found our victim’s name,” Gilbert said. Parme started to reply but Gilbert continued. “There are 20, maybe 25, other names on this page.”
Parme stood still for a moment. He replied without looking back. “Photograph everything, especially the cover of the book. Meet me in the morning.” Then he left.
Gilbert continued to flip pages in the book, the remainder of which were covered with the unreadable script. Finally, he stepped away from the table, leaving Singleton holding the book open with his pen. He stared at the table.
“You think these are also victims,” Singleton asked. Gilbert just stared at the table. Finally Singleton nudged him.
“What?” Gilbert replied, snapping out of his reverie.
“Do you think these are also victims?”
“I don’t know about that yet,” Gilbert replied, looking over at him. “I was just wondering. Who is the second chair for?”
Read Part 3
Saturday, January 18, 2014
1. A Demon Sleeping
Rob Gilbert stood on the front steps of the red brick apartment building that took up most of the 1600 block of North Willis street and took a deep breath of the cold night air. He wrapped his long coat more tightly around him as the wind blew some of that day’s snowfall off the roof, four stories above.
One of the uniformed officers stepped out onto the stoop. “You ready to come inside, detective?”
“I’ll wait for my partner.” His reply, nearly blown away by a hard gust of wind, was met with a shrug and a slam of the building’s mostly glass front door. Alone on the dark street, Gilbert settled into his routine.
Emptying his mind, he took another deep breath of cold air and imagined it washing out his preconceptions, his prejudice, any residual opinions that might stand in the way of his seeing through to the truth that lie behind this building’s front door. He closed his eyes and became one with the cold night, a mind floating above the crime, an unstoppable force for good that would…
“What the hell are you doing?”
Gilbert opened one eye to see his partner standing on the sidewalk below him. Walter Parmes was a real city detective. His clothes looked like they had just been pulled out of a Goodwill donation box and were seconds away from blowing away down the street on their own; the rest of him, old, worn and angry as it was, never would have made it into the box in the first place. Everything about the man said that he was one step away from fading into an alley and making a home in a garbage bin. Everything except his eyes.
Gilbert opened his other eye and cleared his throat gently. “I was just waiting for you and doing my thing.”
Parmes trudged up the front steps. “You’re too new to have a thing.”
Gilbert had to admit to himself that the older man had a point. He had only been in the division for a couple of months. This was just his third case. The first one ended in a shootout that he and Parmes were too far away from to be involved in and the second one was still open.
Parmes’ big right hand reached out for the front door. “Come on, Rookie. Let’s go to work.”
Like most of the buildings in this part of town, it was steel and brick from the mid 70s boom, when developers made millions on the promise of a city-wide revitalization that never happened. Two- and three-bedroom apartments on both sides of a narrow hallway that ran the length of the building, stairwells to the upper floors on each end. The uniform met them inside the front door and took them up.
They exited the stairwell on the fourth floor and entered an active crime scene. The detectives were passed up the ranks as they got closer to the apartment and were finally met by Wayne Singleton, one of the department’s best investigators. He pulled off a latex glove and shook hands with the two detectives, while his team continued to snap pictures.
“What have you got, Wayne?” Parmes asked.
“This is a weird one, no doubt about it.” Singleton led them into the apartment. The place looked like Gilbert imagined part of an IKEA showroom might look if it appeared on the History Channel’s “After Man” series. Everything looked unused and a fine layer of dust covered every horizontal surface. A love seat, easy chair and coffee table made up one half of the main room. A small flat screen television occupied a table on the other side. On the wall opposite the apartment’s entrance, a very small hallway split three ways. A tiny kitchen was off to one side and then the single bedroom with its own bathroom was off to the other, a small visitor’s lavatory nestled between them.
“This is the domicile of one Arlington C. Eagen. C for Conrad. A sleepwalker.”
Gilbert stopped. “That’s illegal?” The other two just looked at him as they continued to walk toward the bedroom.
“Who reported him and for what?” Parmes asked.
“He did, sort of,” Singleton replied. “He’s in police custody now. For what, we’re not sure yet.”
Parmes shot Singleton a hard look and then looked down at his watch. Gilbert glanced at his own. 11:45 P.M.
“Take a look at this,” Singleton replied as he approached a computer sitting on a corner desk that had been built and situated in the far corner of the small bedroom. A single bed and a chest of drawers were the only other furniture. A small shelf on the wall above the bed was home to a collection of books. A closet and a door to the bathroom took up the other wall.
On the computer’s screen was a graph that seemed to be a bar graph on a timeline. Singleton pulled another latex glove out of his pocket and slipped it on. He sat down at the desk. Parmes and Gilbert leaned over his shoulder. On the desk beside the keyboard were two small electronic devices in plastic bags.
“What you’re looking at, detectives, is a record of Mr. Eagen’s activity over a 24-hour period. Yesterday, to be specific.”
“This is how he knew he was sleepwalking,” Gilbert said.
“Very good, detective,” Singleton said, turning in his chair to smile up at him. Parmes didn’t smile.
“Why does his computer know this?” Parmes asked, in a voice that indicated he couldn’t care less what the answer was.
“Do you know what this is?” Singleton held up one of the plastic bags.
Gilbert leaned in closer to get a better look through the plastic. The bright lights the crime techs had brought in were reflecting off of the bag, making it hard to see.
“I know where it’s going to end up if you don’t cut through some of this crap and tell us why you drug us out of bed,” Parme’s growled.
“You were already in bed?” Gilbert turned to his partner. “How old are you?”
Parmes started to growl a response but Singleton swiveled his chair around. “Take a closer look.” He opened the sealed evidence bag and pulled out a black bracelet that appeared to be made of rubber.
“A fitbit!” Gilbert said.
“Exactly,” Singleton smiled again. “Eagen admits to having a mild heart condition, for which his doctor prescribed a regimen of walking. This device tracks his steps and when close to the computer, syncs its data in order to compile a chart that can be shared with his medical professionals.”
“Did his insurance pay for that?” Gilbert asked.
“Who gives a shit?” Parme growled. “Gay bracelets aren’t illegal. Show me a fucking crime, Wayne.”
Singleton started to protest but then glanced at the old detective’s eyes and swiveled back to the computer. He zoomed in on a section of the graph that showed Eagen’s activity from 1 AM until 3:30 AM on the previous night.
“Sometime between 1 AM and 1:45 AM, about 3 hours after Eagan retired for the night, he got up. He walked 785 steps and then apparently stayed in that location for up to an hour before returning,” Singleton explained. The two lines were clearly visible on the graph.
“He did this two to three nights per week at least since he started using his tracking device,” Singleton said.
Both detectives stared at the screen for a while before speaking.
“And he has no recollection of these events?” Parme asked.
“None,” Singleton replied.
“That’s strange,” Gilbert said softly.
“That’s what Eagan thought,” Singleton said, picking up the other plastic bag on the computer desk. “So he purchased this.”
Both detectives recognized the small digital camera. Technology of this kind had previously been used by crime fighters, but it was so cheap that anyone could buy it today. The cops didn’t have to take their own pictures when, at any given time, 20 innocent bystanders were capturing the world around them on devices like this. Besides, a few more years and citywide surveillance would make it impossible to trip on a sidewalk crack without being caught on digital video.
“You’ve seen the file, I take it,” Parme asked. “And you chose not to start with that?” There was a threat in that.
Singleton held up a hand in self defense. “You needed the background. Here’s what he captured.”
Singleton minimized the fitness dashboard to reveal a video player with a black screen. He hit the play button. “The camera is motion triggered. If it senses a change in what it’s picking up, it records it. This was yesterday’s footage, so he’s getting out of bed at what would have been about 1:14 A.M.”
They watched in silence as they were taken through the apartment and out into the hallway, then down the hall to the stairwell. Five flights down and the camera went black.
“Why did it quit?” Parme asked.
“It didn’t,” Singleton replied. “Eagan is apparently in the basement and there don’t seem to be any lights down there.”
“How is he finding his way?” Gilbert asked. Singleton only shrugged.
Finally, the screen glowed as a match was struck and a tall candle was lit. It appeared to sit on a table up against a concrete wall. Then the video cut to a shot of the candle moving slightly.
“What’s that?” Gilbert asked, leaning closer. “And why the cut? What’s missing?”
“Nothing is missing,” Singleton answered. “Apparently, he quit moving. He slept in that position, probably a chair, for about 40 minutes. Now, he’s writing.”
“Jesus, Wayne!” Parmes exclaimed. “Writing by candle light isn’t illegal either. What the hell is going on.”
Singleton cut him off with a wave of his hand, “Watch this! This is why we called you, Walt.”
The camera quit moving and a piece of parchment was slowly raised up into the camera’s line of sight. The candle’s light shone through the paper, making the name written there unmistakable. The name was Paula Kelly.
Gilbert looked at his partner, who glared back with a look the younger man didn’t have the experience with him to decipher. They both looked at Singleton, who was now deadly serious. He knew as well as they did that Paula Kelly was the name of a girl who was brutally murdered less than a month ago. She was also the victim in their only open case.
Read Part 2
One of the uniformed officers stepped out onto the stoop. “You ready to come inside, detective?”
“I’ll wait for my partner.” His reply, nearly blown away by a hard gust of wind, was met with a shrug and a slam of the building’s mostly glass front door. Alone on the dark street, Gilbert settled into his routine.
Emptying his mind, he took another deep breath of cold air and imagined it washing out his preconceptions, his prejudice, any residual opinions that might stand in the way of his seeing through to the truth that lie behind this building’s front door. He closed his eyes and became one with the cold night, a mind floating above the crime, an unstoppable force for good that would…
“What the hell are you doing?”
Gilbert opened one eye to see his partner standing on the sidewalk below him. Walter Parmes was a real city detective. His clothes looked like they had just been pulled out of a Goodwill donation box and were seconds away from blowing away down the street on their own; the rest of him, old, worn and angry as it was, never would have made it into the box in the first place. Everything about the man said that he was one step away from fading into an alley and making a home in a garbage bin. Everything except his eyes.
Gilbert opened his other eye and cleared his throat gently. “I was just waiting for you and doing my thing.”
Parmes trudged up the front steps. “You’re too new to have a thing.”
Gilbert had to admit to himself that the older man had a point. He had only been in the division for a couple of months. This was just his third case. The first one ended in a shootout that he and Parmes were too far away from to be involved in and the second one was still open.
Parmes’ big right hand reached out for the front door. “Come on, Rookie. Let’s go to work.”
Like most of the buildings in this part of town, it was steel and brick from the mid 70s boom, when developers made millions on the promise of a city-wide revitalization that never happened. Two- and three-bedroom apartments on both sides of a narrow hallway that ran the length of the building, stairwells to the upper floors on each end. The uniform met them inside the front door and took them up.
They exited the stairwell on the fourth floor and entered an active crime scene. The detectives were passed up the ranks as they got closer to the apartment and were finally met by Wayne Singleton, one of the department’s best investigators. He pulled off a latex glove and shook hands with the two detectives, while his team continued to snap pictures.
“What have you got, Wayne?” Parmes asked.
“This is a weird one, no doubt about it.” Singleton led them into the apartment. The place looked like Gilbert imagined part of an IKEA showroom might look if it appeared on the History Channel’s “After Man” series. Everything looked unused and a fine layer of dust covered every horizontal surface. A love seat, easy chair and coffee table made up one half of the main room. A small flat screen television occupied a table on the other side. On the wall opposite the apartment’s entrance, a very small hallway split three ways. A tiny kitchen was off to one side and then the single bedroom with its own bathroom was off to the other, a small visitor’s lavatory nestled between them.
“This is the domicile of one Arlington C. Eagen. C for Conrad. A sleepwalker.”
Gilbert stopped. “That’s illegal?” The other two just looked at him as they continued to walk toward the bedroom.
“Who reported him and for what?” Parmes asked.
“He did, sort of,” Singleton replied. “He’s in police custody now. For what, we’re not sure yet.”
Parmes shot Singleton a hard look and then looked down at his watch. Gilbert glanced at his own. 11:45 P.M.
“Take a look at this,” Singleton replied as he approached a computer sitting on a corner desk that had been built and situated in the far corner of the small bedroom. A single bed and a chest of drawers were the only other furniture. A small shelf on the wall above the bed was home to a collection of books. A closet and a door to the bathroom took up the other wall.
On the computer’s screen was a graph that seemed to be a bar graph on a timeline. Singleton pulled another latex glove out of his pocket and slipped it on. He sat down at the desk. Parmes and Gilbert leaned over his shoulder. On the desk beside the keyboard were two small electronic devices in plastic bags.
“What you’re looking at, detectives, is a record of Mr. Eagen’s activity over a 24-hour period. Yesterday, to be specific.”
“This is how he knew he was sleepwalking,” Gilbert said.
“Very good, detective,” Singleton said, turning in his chair to smile up at him. Parmes didn’t smile.
“Why does his computer know this?” Parmes asked, in a voice that indicated he couldn’t care less what the answer was.
“Do you know what this is?” Singleton held up one of the plastic bags.
Gilbert leaned in closer to get a better look through the plastic. The bright lights the crime techs had brought in were reflecting off of the bag, making it hard to see.
“I know where it’s going to end up if you don’t cut through some of this crap and tell us why you drug us out of bed,” Parme’s growled.
“You were already in bed?” Gilbert turned to his partner. “How old are you?”
Parmes started to growl a response but Singleton swiveled his chair around. “Take a closer look.” He opened the sealed evidence bag and pulled out a black bracelet that appeared to be made of rubber.
“A fitbit!” Gilbert said.
“Exactly,” Singleton smiled again. “Eagen admits to having a mild heart condition, for which his doctor prescribed a regimen of walking. This device tracks his steps and when close to the computer, syncs its data in order to compile a chart that can be shared with his medical professionals.”
“Did his insurance pay for that?” Gilbert asked.
“Who gives a shit?” Parme growled. “Gay bracelets aren’t illegal. Show me a fucking crime, Wayne.”
Singleton started to protest but then glanced at the old detective’s eyes and swiveled back to the computer. He zoomed in on a section of the graph that showed Eagen’s activity from 1 AM until 3:30 AM on the previous night.
“Sometime between 1 AM and 1:45 AM, about 3 hours after Eagan retired for the night, he got up. He walked 785 steps and then apparently stayed in that location for up to an hour before returning,” Singleton explained. The two lines were clearly visible on the graph.
“He did this two to three nights per week at least since he started using his tracking device,” Singleton said.
Both detectives stared at the screen for a while before speaking.
“And he has no recollection of these events?” Parme asked.
“None,” Singleton replied.
“That’s strange,” Gilbert said softly.
“That’s what Eagan thought,” Singleton said, picking up the other plastic bag on the computer desk. “So he purchased this.”
Both detectives recognized the small digital camera. Technology of this kind had previously been used by crime fighters, but it was so cheap that anyone could buy it today. The cops didn’t have to take their own pictures when, at any given time, 20 innocent bystanders were capturing the world around them on devices like this. Besides, a few more years and citywide surveillance would make it impossible to trip on a sidewalk crack without being caught on digital video.
“You’ve seen the file, I take it,” Parme asked. “And you chose not to start with that?” There was a threat in that.
Singleton held up a hand in self defense. “You needed the background. Here’s what he captured.”
Singleton minimized the fitness dashboard to reveal a video player with a black screen. He hit the play button. “The camera is motion triggered. If it senses a change in what it’s picking up, it records it. This was yesterday’s footage, so he’s getting out of bed at what would have been about 1:14 A.M.”
They watched in silence as they were taken through the apartment and out into the hallway, then down the hall to the stairwell. Five flights down and the camera went black.
“Why did it quit?” Parme asked.
“It didn’t,” Singleton replied. “Eagan is apparently in the basement and there don’t seem to be any lights down there.”
“How is he finding his way?” Gilbert asked. Singleton only shrugged.
Finally, the screen glowed as a match was struck and a tall candle was lit. It appeared to sit on a table up against a concrete wall. Then the video cut to a shot of the candle moving slightly.
“What’s that?” Gilbert asked, leaning closer. “And why the cut? What’s missing?”
“Nothing is missing,” Singleton answered. “Apparently, he quit moving. He slept in that position, probably a chair, for about 40 minutes. Now, he’s writing.”
“Jesus, Wayne!” Parmes exclaimed. “Writing by candle light isn’t illegal either. What the hell is going on.”
Singleton cut him off with a wave of his hand, “Watch this! This is why we called you, Walt.”
The camera quit moving and a piece of parchment was slowly raised up into the camera’s line of sight. The candle’s light shone through the paper, making the name written there unmistakable. The name was Paula Kelly.
Gilbert looked at his partner, who glared back with a look the younger man didn’t have the experience with him to decipher. They both looked at Singleton, who was now deadly serious. He knew as well as they did that Paula Kelly was the name of a girl who was brutally murdered less than a month ago. She was also the victim in their only open case.
Read Part 2
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