“On our mortician and our pharmacist.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I was heading home when I heard a coroner call out by Wellspring. I was in the area, so I swung by the funeral home and parked down the block where I still had a view. Bishop himself came for the transport vehicle, headed out, and returned a half hour later. I waited until he left again and followed. He went straight home. So I decided to swing by Munden’s house, and something there struck me as odd.”
“What?”
“I was maybe two blocks away when the house came into view. There was a car in the driveway and two guys at Munden’s door. Munden opened it, and they went in. It was late, about eleven. I didn’t get a good look at either one of the visitors, but I ran the license plate, and the older guy seemed to match the description of the owner. It was Roman Jenkins.”
“The doctor Gregory Trippen talked about.”
“That’s the one. There was something about the other guy that got my attention. He was scruffy looking, long hair, a young hippie. The older guy had his hand on his arm. And when Munden opened the door, he acted like he was expecting them.”
Jeffrey Trippen’s photo flashed through my mind.
“The younger guy could have been Jenkins’ son, I suppose. I waited an hour and nobody left. Since it was after midnight, I headed home. From what I read, midnight is a prime time for satanic rituals. I figured they would have gone to wherever they go before then.”
“That’s kind of late to be stopping by someone’s house. Nichole talked about indoor temples and rituals. Maybe the three of them were having an indoor worship thing.”
“Which is not a crime. Friday night, who knows? They could have been at a party and headed to Munden’s for a little after party. Munden could have gotten there a minute before they did. Could be for any number of reasons. I know I don’t trust Munden as far as I can throw him. He was Sparrow’s fellow shooter. He and Bishop. And Jenkins? I saw him going into Munden’s house, so now we have proof they’re connected.”
“And Gregory Trippen saw them at the rituals. They were all members of the coven—at least they were twenty years ago.”
“Everything seems like it’s out of control. We need to find our dirty cop. We’re not even close to being as effective as we should be with only a handful of people in the department knowing the whole story. If there’s a satanic cult operating in the county, every deputy should be aware of that. And we don’t know if they’re still active or not. Like you just said, Gregory Trippen was speaking about experiences from twenty years ago.”
“What about the threats Armstrong and Edberg continue to get?”
“May have nothing to do with a cult. The three of them committed murder, and they keep a mole in the department to make sure the case is never reopened so they are never tried.”
“You have a point. Neither Armstrong or Edberg thought they were being threatened by Satanists, per se. Gregory knew the men who shot his dad were in the cult, so we all thought the two were connected. Maybe they aren’t after all.”
“It makes my head spin. My gut tells me they are. We just need the evidence to prove it.”
“We’ll keep working. Do you want me to keep an eye on either Bishop or Munden tonight?”
“It’s your day off. You already had to endure hours of hiking over hill and dale with your best friends, then sitting around writing poetry.”
“You have a way of making sitting alone in a vehicle on surveillance sound very appealing.”
“I do, at that. But no, we’ll see what we can do to pull in some more forces. There are only so many hours in the day, and we need to spend some of them sleeping.”
“Very true. After the stressful week, I’m just going to relax tonight. Tomorrow’s the service for Alvie Eisner.”
“I got it on my calendar, to give Rebecca some support.”
“I’m glad. That’s one thing I need to do tonight—talk to Jean Brenner and Rebecca, see how the meeting with her great-grandma yesterday went.”
“I’ve been wondering about that myself.”
“See you tomorrow.” I didn’t get into the discussion I had had with Eric Stueman about Langley Parker. Or the other things he’d said.
“Right.”
Jean handed the phone to Rebecca.
“Sergeant Corky. I have another grandma.”
I could picture the smile on her face. “I heard about that. And you met her?”
“She came over yesterday, and she’s really old and really nice.”
I laughed silently as I sat on my den office couch and pulled my grandma’s afghan over me.
“She’s really sad about my grandma dying, and she cried. So I sat close to her and put my head on her chest and cried with her.”
Rebecca. She took me from laughter to tears with one touching sentence.
“Sergeant Corky, are you still there?”
“Yes I am, dear.” It was my mother’s voice, soft, soothing.
“It made me feel better, and I think it made her feel better, too.”
“I’m sure it did. When I feel bad, it always helps to share what’s bothering me with someone who cares.”
“Not everyone goes to Heaven.”
“That’s true.”
“I prayed that my grandma did.”
“And we know God hears every prayer.”
And answers each one, but not always the way we hope.
“I love you, Sergeant Corky.” Another first.
“I love you too, Rebecca. I always have, and I always will.”
I went to bed with a new resolution to think of at least one thing I liked about everyone I knew, especially those I wasn’t very fond of. I decided to start with the day’s team.
Mandy Zubinski. A very good officer and I trusted her.
Vince Weber. Amazingly strong and I liked his deep, raspy voice.
Donny Nickles. Friendly and dedicated to his family.
Eric Stueman. Eric Stueman. Easy to look at and full of surprises.
The next thing I knew it was Sunday morning.
38: The Coven
As the midnight hour approached, the assembly was ready. The sacrificial offering was lying on the altar, aware, but unable to move. The paralytic-like drugs in his system were powerful, invisible restraints. For the first time in years, his mind had clarity. What drugs did that, he fleetingly wondered. Evil was around him, and it was impossible to use his body for battle. His spirit was all he had left, and all he would be leaving this world with.
What were his bedtime prayers as a kid? “If I should die—”
A gong sounded off to his right. He counted nine strikes. Men in hooded, black robes closed in around him. One held a large knife with jewels that sparkled in the firelight. They looked down at him, and he closed his eyes against the shining malevolence in theirs.
“Are you ready, High Priest?” one said.
“Yes, Deacons, let us begin.” He extended his hands, palms downward, over the offering on the altar.
“O mighty Lord of Darkness, we implore you to accept this sacrifice which we offer on behalf of your assembled coven. You have given us your mark, and we ask you to help us prosper, and give us long lives for your service. Keep us under your protection for the fulfillment of our desires, and the destruction of our enemies.
“In the unity of unholy fellowship we honor thee, Lucifer the Morning Star, and Beelzebub the Lord of Regeneration, and all of your angels, the mighty hosts of hell, and by whose assistance we may be strengthened in mind, body, and will.”
Noris lifted the dagger and drove it into the man’s heart.
The rituals, celebrations, and orgies continued long into night. When the last “Hail Satan” was said, Cyril signaled for two teenage boys to assist with the removal of what was left of the body of the young man they knew only as Blue. They zipped his body into the leak-proof bag and loaded it into Cyril’s van. By the time the sun rose, he would be reduced to dust. Dust to be
mingled with the earth or thrown into the river. There would be no earthly trace of him left.
39
The Brenners had asked their minister, Pastor Boyd, to say a few words over the ashes of Alvie Eisner.
Our small group gathered under a maple tree in the Oak Lea cemetery. Rebecca held her great-grandmother Elaine’s hand on one side and her great-uncle Henry’s on the other. Elaine was only a few inches taller than Rebecca, and Henry towered over everyone present. Jean, Dale, Tina, and Justin Brenner, Smoke, Alvie’s attorney, Gib Conner, and I completed the circle.
Pastor Boyd didn’t address the issue of where Eisner would be spending eternity, but he spoke words of comfort, then asked anyone who wished to say a few words. Elaine talked about Alvie as a small child. How she loved to play with kittens and her brother, Henry.
Henry said, “Alvie.”
Rebecca spoke with love and affection of the woman who had raised her and cared for her. Pastor Boyd closed in prayer.
The attorney, Gib Conner, asked if he could have a short conversation with me. We walked some feet away from the others. “As you know, Alvie Eisner’s estate is very large, but will be fairly easy to settle. She has set up a monthly stipend for you, as Rebecca’s guardian—”
“I can’t take it. Why should I get money for being a guardian? The final adoption is about to go through.”
Conner rested his crossed arms on his ample belly. “It’s the way Eisner set it up. If you don’t want the money, donate it to a charity. The Brenners will also receive a generous amount monthly until Rebecca turns eighteen. Henry, of course, is set for life. And there is a large trust fund for Rebecca. She will receive four large chunks during her college years, then the bulk when she turns thirty-five.”
“That sounds smart. Thank you, Mister Conner.”
We hung around, chatting for a while. When it was time to say goodbye, I hugged Rebecca, Tina, Jean, and Dale. Justin looked worried he was next, so I gave him a high five instead.
Smoke and I walked to our cars together. “Thanks for coming, Smoke.”
“I’m glad they had a service, something positive for Rebecca to remember in the years to come.” Smoke pointed at my car. “You ever going to fix this thing?”
“Maybe—” My cell phone rang. It was an 802 area code. Vermont. But not Gregory Trippen’s number. Smoke lifted his arm to wave goodbye, but I shook my head and held up my hand for him to stay.
“Sergeant Aleckson.”
“It’s me.”
A reason not to identify himself? “Hi.”
“Got a couple of problems. Two guys are watching me, and they tampered with my car.”
My heart picked up its beat. “What do you mean?”
“I went in the bank yesterday morning to do some business. You know. When I left, they came up to me and one of them said, ‘The sparrow can fly anywhere in the world.’ I acted like I didn’t care and pushed past them, walked to the parking lot behind the bank. I was pretty shaken and didn’t notice my oil light came on when I started my car. Bastards drained my oil, and the engine seized up a little ways down the road. Ruined my engine.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I had it towed to a shop, but they can’t get a new engine for a few days. My friend picked me up at the shop. I was watching for those guys, and I don’t think they followed us to his place. Oh, so you know, I’ll be sending a package to you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good. But the main thing is to take care of yourself. And call right away if you see those guys again. All right?”
“I will. Goodbye.”
“Now what?” Smoke asked when I hung up. I filled him in on the latest update from Gregory Trippen.
“The sparrow, huh? I’d like to shoot that nasty bird right out of his tree.”
“Someone must have seen Greg when he was here and recognized who he was. They told Sparrow, who traced him to his home in Vermont. Our not-so-esteemed colleague in the sheriff’s department?”
“Or Sparrow’s known all along where they’ve been and keeps an eye on their activities.”
40
I knew it was important to find a balance between work and play, but the Trippen case was consuming me, and time was running out. I had two more scheduled days off, but I needed to work. I wanted to keep going until we found Jeffrey and learned the identity of the person in the department responsible for all the years of corruption and threats.
Since Gregory Trippen’s initial phone call, the dimensions of the cult activities and their capital crimes had expanded on a daily basis. I was impatient with the time it took to investigate and build solid cases. Conducting interviews, maintaining surveillance, record-searching, and evidence-gathering all involved scores of hours. Limited human and financial resources were legitimate deterrents to streamlined efficiency.
We had only a few days to find Jeffrey Trippen, if April thirtieth was his intended death date. Learning the dirty cop’s identity was a priority, but finding Jeffrey was the top priority. We needed to save his life. Then he could get help from someone like Dr. Fischer, who had had marked success with people who’d suffered similar trauma.
In addition, Jeffrey and Gregory were eyewitnesses to the crimes committed by the cult.
Why hadn’t we thought of it before? I called the sheriff.
“Sheriff, remember when Smoke and I talked to Gregory Trippen last week, and he mentioned that a deputy had been at one of the rituals?”
“Of course.”
“He might be able to help us find him.”
“But he couldn’t see his face.”
“No, but he remembers his voice. I know Trippen was young, but he says he can still hear the voice in his memory. The voice was low and like a smoker’s, and belonged to a man in his late thirties or early forties. We have, what, twelve men in the department who were here twenty years ago?”
“Sounds about right,” he said.
“If you figure out a way to let Trippen listen to their voices, it might narrow the pool of suspects.”
“You may be on to something. I’ll run it by the officers working on it.”
“Good.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Sure. ’Bye for now.”
I picked up my memo pad and paged through notes I’d taken. Dr. Marcella Fischer’s card was taped to a page. I flipped it over and stared at Pastor Daniel Trondholm’s name and number. Dr. Fischer had said he worked with the spiritual aspects of healing and might be another good resource for the Trippen brothers.
A woman answered the phone. “First Congregational Church. May I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Corinne Aleckson, a sergeant with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department, and I’d like to make an appointment with Pastor Trondholm, please.”
“Of course, Sergeant Aleckson. I’ll transfer you to his phone.”
A click and a beep and he was on the line. “Pastor Trondholm.” His voice was gravelly and very deep.
“Pastor, it’s Sergeant Aleckson—”
“Ah, yes, Sergeant, Marcella Fischer said you might call.”
“I’m glad she mentioned it.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“I wondered if we could meet.”
“Of course. When would be good for you?”
“Do you have any openings today?”
“I do this afternoon. Two o’clock?”
“Perfect. At your church?”
“Yes. I’ll be expecting you.”
Pastor Trondholm was standing at a bookshelf in his office, replacing a book.
I paused at the door jamb. “Excuse me, your assistant said to come right in.”
“Yes, yes, please do.” Trondholm closed the space between us, his steps heavy, feet planted firmly like he was carrying a heavy load. He was in his sixties with large features—thick lips, prominent jowls, a bulbous nose, and drooping eyes. His fading brown hair was graying at the temples. Trondholm wasn’t a giant, but he likely bought his clothes a
t a big man’s store.
He took my hand in his and shook it firmly. His brown eyes searched mine, and I felt he was looking into my very soul. He nodded as he stared. I wondered what he saw. Trondholm would be an effective investigator. I was prepared to tell him anything he wanted to know.
“You’ve been brought into the battle.”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
He extended his arm toward a group of chairs arranged next to the bookshelves. “Let’s sit.” And we did. “Doctor Fischer said you were working on a case involving a young man who was in a satanic cult as a child. She didn’t feel it was her place to give any other information, but wanted to give a little background in case you called.”
“Yes. It’s one of the more traumatic cases I’ve worked on, for a lot of different reasons, and we’ve got this guy out there who is nowhere to be found, it seems.”
I told the pastor nearly everything Gregory Trippen had told me. How he suspected his stepfather had killed his father, the rituals at the outdoor temple, Jeffrey’s mental and emotional decline and his plans to kill himself.
“We’re waiting for Gregory to get back with some reports, some evidence we can use in a case we’re building against his stepfather and others. But he was delayed because his car was tampered with. I feel like our efforts are being thwarted every step of the way,” I said.
“Sergeant, you are seeking the truth. Justice. They will do whatever it takes to hide the truth. They are working for the Great Deceiver.” He lowered his chin and looked at me over the top of his glasses.
I nodded. “Doctor Fischer said you also work with people suffering from dissociative identity disorder.”
“Doctor Fischer refers people to me, and I to her. Years ago, as a young minister, when people came to me for help with particular symptoms, I thought they were plagued with demonic possession. As I counseled these people and studied extensively, I discovered their problems were the result of demons, all right, but not in the way I thought.
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