by Barry Smith
McCormack pauses again, running his left hand over his bald scalp repeatedly, before placing both hands on Ryan’s desk. He then continues:
“He was one of Corbindale’s finest detectives: came from a long bloodline of great detectives. What is even more saddening is the wife and teenage daughter he left behind.”
“Captain!” calls out Ryan, while placing a hand on McCormack’s shoulder, “We’ll catch the killer.”
“I’m counting on you for just that,” replies McCormack, before rising to his full height and exiting the office, shutting the door lightly behind him.
Ryan stares at the closed door for a few seconds, before taking his jacket off, undoing his cufflinks, rolling his sleeves up and saying:
“Gloria!...”
“Yes, boss!” comes the feminine voice with an accent Ryan could not place.
“Let’s get to work.”
***
“What on Earth did I get into?” thought Ryan, as he leans back into his swivel chair exasperated.
Five hours had passed after he delved into the ‘Missing Persons’ cases, yet he had not made any form of headway whatsoever. There didn’t seem to be any pattern to the disappearances, but there was one common and alarming thread amongst the staggering 258 missing: the last known destination of each and every one of them was also ‘A Wicked Haven’, an adult entertainment district secluded on a private harbor island. But the Haven itself, could not be pinned for the disappearances or any other illegalities; at least the Pinkerton-led investigation failed to prove that.
“Gloria, remind me what this ‘Wicked Haven’ is again?” asks Ryan, with his hands behind his head.
The screen pulsated with light, while reeling off the data she possessed on the establishment.
“Apparently, the story of ‘A Wicked Haven’ could not be told without mentioning its predecessor, ‘A Corner Pocket’, an establishment similar in objectives to the former, except with legalized prostitution. It was an infamous red-light district on the North side of Shrimp King’s Wharf, particularly popular among the sailors that ported, plus vagabonds and miscreants. But with the awakening of a hybrid Baptist denomination called the ‘Disciples of Zion’, prostitution and organized crime-ran establishments were no longer given the light of day. Ridding the city of such Corner Pocket landmarks like
‘Penelope’s Cathouse’ brothel and the gay bar/bathhouse “Down Low”. Corner Pocket was eventually transformed into a thriving commercial Boardwalk for families.”
"But shortly after the city had been sanitized, Corbindale Bay was faced with a new menace, Harold Redington, the nation’s top real estate mogul. He allegedly anticipated an influx of financially enthusiastic travelers transiting through, and into, Corbindale Bay. Being a shrewd businessman, he felt a form of entertainment, classier than what the old Corner Pocket had to offer, would be required. This was the birth of ‘A Wicked Haven’. A harbor island, just off the South side of Shrimp King’s Wharf, was purchased and transformed into an adult entertainment island retreat; with hotels, casinos and burlesque nightclubs. A very tall wall was then, built around the island and outfitted with the best security to keep out ‘detractors’ and ‘religious fanatics’. Just like that, residents and passing travelers now had a new island getaway for debauchery and voyeurism; a place that mocked the moral efforts of the Disciples of Zion and ironically, went on to become the biggest tourism draw to Corbindale Bay.”
“You know what? Fuck it!” exclaims Ryan, after being briefed by Gloria.
“Pull the Numerical Slasher case.”
The photos of Harold Redington on Gloria’s monitor, and those of Wicked Haven are then replaced with gory images of before.
“What kind of sick fucker would do this?” thought Ryan to himself, as Gloria scrolled from image to image.
“There are eyewitness accounts if you will like to read them,” informed Gloria.
“I will. Thank you.”
“ It says here…” reads the computer, “…that one witness saw a man running from the scene of the crime wearing a gray jumper, a vintage pilot helmet, and a weird mask soaked in blood. The mask was described as mostly leather, with eyes holes that looked like window blinds and mesh chains that covered the mouth. This description matches those of artifacts stolen from the Museum Of War History, a few months ago.”
“And what were these artifacts?” asks Ryan.
“A splatter mask and a fighter pilot helmet; both are genuine mementos from the Great War,” replies Gloria.
“What’s a ‘splatter mask’?” asks Ryan, with a puzzled look.
“Who would have thought that the great Ryan Swett doesn’t know everything,” teased Gloria, with humanoid laughter.
“Don’t start with me, girl!”
Still reeling from her joke, she explains, “A splatter mask was used by soldiers, during the war, to protect their face from flying shrapnel.”
“I see… Is there any connection between the three victims? Any similarities whatsoever?”
“Well, all three bodies were found at different locations, each murder about a week apart. The only commonality between the victims is: they were all females…”
“Obviously,” interjected Ryan.
“…and high school dropouts in their early 20’s, with no career listed,” continued Gloria, while ignoring Ryan.
The door to the office opened, and in, popped Captain McCormack,
“How are those cases coming along, Swett?”
“Not too good, Cap. I can barely make heads or tails of any of ‘em,” replies Ryan.
“Not to worry, I’ll have someone team up with you on them but before that…” McCormack pushes the door open fully, before striding in with two men following closely behind,
“… Allow me to introduce you to Commissioner Luke Munson and Father Terence Kraven, The First Apostle of the Disciples of Zion.”
Luke Munson is a clean-cut, African American, well-dressed in his expensive suit, and always spoke eloquently as if every word was a polished speech. Munson pioneered the cleansing of the city. He had just been re-elected Commissioner of Police, after his first term, which unfortunately was the replacement of Carl Lightner, the immediate past commissioner who was brutally murdered in his home, along with the entirety of his family, while paying ransom for his kidnapped son, Jason Lightner.
Father Terence Kraven is another African American that was sagacious and down to earth; with his lengthy dreadlocks and goatee, and wearing an Indian-style Bandhgala, he always turns heads. He is often featured in the dailies, and could be rightly called a ‘religious celebrity’.
Ryan rose from his seat to shake hands with both men, after which he asks the men to take a seat, with only McCormack standing.
The Captain goes on to sing the praises of both men, telling Ryan how they had helped transform small pockets of the City, a feat that in his words- “…nobody has been able to accomplish, either through law, or religion.”
After plaudits have been rendered, alongside a few laughs, McCormack continues:
“But we fear prostitution has reared its ugly head, even after being outlawed and now, we may have missing people possibly tied to this Wicked Haven.”
Commissioner Munson clears his throat, sits up, before taking over from McCormack,
“Now detective, we know we haven’t been able to crack this case, or cases rather, wide open; but with you here, we have faith that the end is in sight. That’s why Terence here, and I have come to meet you, welcome you and thank you, in advance, for your work on these cases.”
“Talk about ‘no pressure’,” says Ryan to himself, before speaking openly,
“Please Sirs, there is absolutely no need to thank me; I’m just doing my job. But I am curious; how were you able to initiate change for the better, for a city known for its corruption?”
In response to Ryan’s question, Kraven speaks up,
“Well, we began with our door-to-door outreach, an initiative that accom
plished immense success, even in the most dire of neighborhoods. This was, and is still, owed to the efforts made by the other temple leaders: Fathers Joseph Covay and Patrick Gallegher, and of course the life-blood of our movement, the Brothers of the Missionary, who, unfortunately,..” pauses the religious, with a bowed head and somber look, “…have had two of its members go missing.”
“This is true, Swett,” corroborated McCormack, “We just received reports of two Brothers vanishing into thin air this morning. And guess where they were last seen preaching?”
“A Wicked Haven?”
“A Wicked Haven.”
Silence descended upon all four for a while, each one of them to his own thoughts, before Commissioner Munson breaks the ice;
“Well Detective, we’ll leave you to it. We trust you will have good news for us soon.”
All four had risen, with Ryan’s guests heading for the door, before Father Terence adds,
“Lest I forget, Detective Swett, the Disciples will be commissioning its newest and largest temple; you should come, you can use the opportunity to see the sights of Corbindale Bay.”
“We’ll see if I can, Father Terence,” responds Ryan, with a wry smile, as the three men file out the door, with McCormack at the rear.
“I’ll have another person I want you to meet Swett!” bellows the Captain, as the door clicked shut.
“Had a full house today, didn’t we Gloria?” asks Ryan, as he walks to the window.
“We sure did!” comes the feminine response.
“What a gloomy town this is,” observes Ryan, as he looks out the window, “Everything is dark and colorless.”
“Yes, and there are only three seasons: gloomy, raining, and snowing; but that’s Corbindale Bay for you,” chimes in Gloria, “One look at its citizens, and you would think they had only shades of black in their crayon boxes, growing up.”
“Yes, people love wearing black!” chuckles Ryan, “You are just my kind of girl, Gloria, with the right amount of sass.”
“Well, don’t get too attached. I am just a computer.”
“Sure thing, Gloria. Sure thing,” says Ryan, before steering the conversation back to Corbindale Bay.
“From afar, downtown looks futuristic, with its buildings lit up by blue neon lights, but up close, why are the buildings so old and archaic?” Ryan comments out loud.
“Corbindale’s quite old; 147 years in age. Those pieces of antiquity you see along the streets, attest to that fact. Although, City Hall tried to refurbish a few of them recently.”
“They must have done a shitty job ‘cause I see no hint of renovation,” opines Ryan.
“That was pretty much the case,” responds Gloria, “The old farts only outlined the vertices of buildings with blue neon lights, obviously saving money for other budgetary needs.
“Blue?” asks Ryan.
“Yes, blue. A color influenced by the Disciples of Zion movement; it is the only other color, besides black, you can find here.”
“Why blue?”
“Well, that’s because blue represents eternal life and…”
“Fuck!” exclaims Ryan.
“Is there a problem, Boss?”
“The Temple Opening Ceremony…” explains Ryan, as he hurriedly buttons up his shirt and puts on his jacket before fishing for the keys, McCormack had given him earlier, from his drawer, keys to a car he had been given the liberty to use; “I’ll be late.” And with that, he dashed out.
“He doesn’t even know where the Boardwalk is.” chuckles Gloria.
***
Later that evening, a beautiful couple are walking in mid-town park. The man is pushing their 9-month-old baby in the stroller, with his wife caringly holding onto his arm. That particular night, the park wasn’t crowded, because of the evening religious concert at the Disciples of Zion’s Grand Temple opening. The couple soon turns right, engulfed in laughter about an early situation, as their trail takes them along the lake that’s dimly lit by a scarce amount of lamps.
“Yeah, and before they even had a chance to speak, I told them fuck-off; they got the hint really quick,” explains the husband, as they share in amusement.
The couple’s laughter is then cutoff by the sound of a metal cling and shattering glass. They turn to assess, but couldn’t determine where the sound came from. Then, about five lamps away in the direction they are looking, a lamp shatters and goes out. Then they turn again, to the distant sound of another metal cling and shatter behind them, from the direction they were heading.
“Hey, who’s out there? Stop fucking around,” shouts the man.
Then another lamp goes out, and another one.
The lamps being taken out are closing in on them in both directions, one by one. Now terrified about the approaching dark unknown, they looked left and then right, until there was only one lamp left that they were standing under.
“This is not funny anymore. Please leave us alone,” the woman says frightfully.
The last remaining light soon shatters, and they both scream. If it wasn’t for the lake’s reflection of the moon, they would be in complete darkness from the heavy tree brush that blocks out the light from the Downtown city lights. The night air is soon filled with whispering all around them. It wasn’t clear what was being said, but the couple is at a standstill, holding each other tightly, both shaking in fear.
“I have a fucking gun. If you come any closer, I’ll kill you all,” the man says nervously, with no gun.
The woman turns, briefly letting go of her husband’s arm and grabbing her face, frightened from the metal cling she just heard from across the lake. As she sticks her neck out, to strain her eyes, to see a shadowy figure across the lake, she starts to hear a series of squeaks. As she lowered her eyes from the shadowy figure, she realizes that the squeaking is coming from the wheels of their stroller that is now rolling toward the lake. She turns immediately, to see that her husband is no longer beside her, followed by the sound of metal piercing through flesh, and painful grunts from stabs and slicing in the distant night. Without hesitation, she begins to run after the stroller.
“My baby, my baby!! Somebody help us!” screams the lady, running down the grassy embankment.
The stroller splashes into the water. With its wheels submerged, the carriage of the stroller did manage to float, but not too long after; the carriage begins to sink. The woman arrives, just in time, to save her baby, but just when she was about to grab the handles, she is snatched into the night, as the stroller descends to its end in the faint moonlight.
***
The Boardwalk is a long strip, built along the coast and held aloft by piers. On its landed area, there is a variety of shops, each selling an even broader variety of goods. It was a sea of white lights, especially at night, with the iridescent lit signs and attractions, all trying to lure passers-by to one thing or the other. The friendly atmosphere made the Boardwalk a to-be location for most families of Corbindale Bay.
The lights and activity continue throughout the Boardwalk, even to the very end of the boardwalk where the Disciples of Zion’s Grand Temple stood, which separates the Boardwalk from the industrial Shrimp King’s Wharf; the very place Ryan was headed.
After a frustrating drive around the city, with him trying to find his destination, Ryan finally pulls into the Boardwalk’s parking lot. He disembarks the vehicle and then, begins to jog to the end of the wooded strip.
“They just had to build their temple on the other side, eh?”
He arrives at the temple’s grounds, several minutes slightly out of breath.
“Shit, they have parking right beside the church. How I did I miss that?”
“Wow.” he soliloquizes, while panting and staring skywards, “Place really deserves the title of ‘Grand’ Temple.”
The temple is built in a Gothic fashion, with numerous roseate windows, flying buttresses, and vaulted arcs. It spires with colors of vibrant blue, climbed high into the sky, each tapering to a point. The wall
s are made of a gray stone, which gave the temple a very monumental look. The temple is on an elevated level, and it has steps ascend to it from all four cardinal directions. Ryan has arrived, just in the nick of time, as the concert’s choir had just begun to sing. After catching his breath, Ryan walked to join the rest of the crowd that had gathered to witness the Grand Opening at the edge of the concert stage; temporarily built for this special occasion.
The choir gives euphonious renditions; each song is more blissful to the ears than the last. But of all celestial voices, one catches Ryan’s ears: it was a heavy-set black lady that had stepped forward to take the lead. The power and charisma of her voice draws attention from all and sundry, even uninterested pedestrians, who were just passing by. She ends her part with falsetto notes, Ryan was certain, could shatter glass.
What followed after the lady’s number was drumming, lively drumming done on native African drums to whose beat, the choir begins to sway. They begin, yet another chorus, as the spectating crowd begins to part ways for a man, as he walks through them.
It was Terence Kraven.
He was dressed in a celestial white baptism robe, and walks with a smile on his lips and pride in his eyes as he acknowledges the large turnout of supporters of the movement. He proceeded, a few steps up to a baptismal font that is built into the concrete ground, where a nun stood with a young boy, who was clad in nothing but shorts. His voice is then heard over the stage speakers, from his waterproof lavalier mic.
“My child,” begins Father Terence speaking loudly, “Have you come to accept the Lord Savior into your life?” The boy nods in the affirmative.
Turning to the crowd, Father Terence announces: “He has accepted the Lord Savior, and he will be born again by the New Awakening!”
Turning back to the child, he says: “Now that you have accepted thy Lord and agreed to be reborn; come and be baptized. Wash away your sins and be cleansed from all unrighteousness. Follow the Lord and immerse yourself.”
Father Kraven proceeds to step into waters of the font with the boy. He then takes hold of the boy’s wrist and proceeds to raise his own right hand before saying, “By the mandate entrusted in me, I baptize you in the name of thy Lord Savior. Now, enter into the Kingdom of Zion.”