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
Saturday, February 22, 2014
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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