by M J Preston
“Stand fast!” Henderson released his grip, checking the stability and getting ready to make his next move. Satisfied, he climbed out of the grave and adjusted the stretcher just outside the tent. “Okay, now carefully bring the body out of the doorway.”
They moved gracefully, like two soldiers doing a slow march. Mick held his breath almost the entire way, not wanting to falter or stumble. When they reached their destination, he let out of sigh of relief. Simultaneously, Henderson adjusted the body bag intended to cocoon the remains and any potential crime scene evidence.
“Okay, put him down.”
They lowered him onto the gurney and at Henderson’s urging stepped away. As the coroner went about his business, Logan looked around perplexed. Something was different, but it couldn’t put his finger on it.
“The rain stopped,” Mick pointed out like some miracle had suddenly transpired unnoticed.
A nearby sparrow chirped. The world was starting to restore itself. Both Mick and Logan began to to feel a little better – but Henderson was quick to put a damper on that.
“Mick, you knew Tommy Parkins pretty well. Is that correct?” Henderson asked.
“Yes,” Mick replied.
“Could you positively identify him?”
“Shouldn’t that be done by the Parkins family?” Logan interjected.
“Normally yes, but I would like to get him cleaned up before the family has to view him,” Henderson replied. “Those poor folks are going to have enough to deal with.”
“I can identify him, Jeff,” Mick said. “Go ahead.”
Henderson reached in his pocket and pulled out a small jackknife, then sliced through the plastic. As he pulled back the thin membrane a wave of disbelief rippled through all of them.
His skin color was pale, blue. His eyes were still wide open, clouded and grey, holding onto the last moments of his life. His mouth was twisted into a grimace that evoked pain or surprise, and his now visible right hand was hooked into a claw. Even Henderson, who worked extensively with the dead, was taken aback.
“Is it him?”
Is this really him? Little Tommy, Mick wondered as he tried to marry this tortured face with the vibrant, outgoing kid he’d grown to know and like. This didn’t look like a child at all, but a sculpted piece of wood without a soul. Is this really John and Olivia’s Tommy? Tommy, the leading pitcher for the Thomasville Coyotes? My God, his face. Little boys aren’t supposed to look like that. Mick brought his hand up to his mouth, his eyes wide.
“Mick,” Logan said softly.
“It’s him,” he finally mumbled.
“Good enough.” Henderson reached past him and zipped up the body bag.
A moment of silence passed between the three men. Ten seconds of respect to acknowledge the life of a boy who was struck down for some twisted reason. That was how Mick would remember it for the rest of his days.
In the chilly afternoon air, they looked upon one another, each understanding that the vigil must close.
Henderson spoke first. “Let’s get him into the wagon and get out of here.”
Logan placed a hand on Mick’s shoulder and squeezed. “The tent stays in place. Have Westy seal the area off until we can finish a complete sweep tomorrow morning.”
Perched on a branch, the black raven watched in stealth with great interest, while the men loaded into their vehicles and began the trip back to the main road. It had scrutinized them from the very beginning. Anger rippled through it: it had been deceived. When the vehicles rumbled to life, it spread its wings and took to the sky. It flew north, away from the farm to a place it often went.
3
They mounted the steps to John Parkins porch side by side without a single word passing between them. This was, by far, the worst part of a police officer’s job. How many times had Logan come to somebody’s home with bad news?
Too many.
Looming there in the doorway like the grim reaper he would ask if he could come in and the speech would always be the same. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he’d always start. There were usually tears, and they always wanted to know something personal. “Did they suffer? Did they speak to you or say anything?” Or the ultimate question, the one Logan couldn’t answer: “Why did this happen?”
There was no easy way to answer any of these questions, and in most cases, the most definitive reply he would give was, “I don’t know.”
Mick at his side, Logan knocked.
Constable Hardy opened the door, just behind her stood Olivia Parkins. She was a small woman, slightly overweight with a wholesome attractiveness. Yet none of that was apparent now. Her eyes were puffy and blue from the last three sleepless nights, and she had lost weight. When she saw them, her face knotted up. She knew instantly that her baby was never coming home.
She screamed, “No!” They stood there like Death incarnate, and she shrank away in a fit of spastic sobs. “No! No! No!”
John Parkins moved around his wife and into the doorway, looking like a man who had been sucker punched. He already knew the answer to the question he was going to ask, but he asked it anyway. “Please tell me my boy’s alive.”
“I’m so sorry, John,” Mick answered, and there was a hitch in his throat.
Parkins smashed his massive fist against the door jamb, and his wife wailed even harder. A single tear spilled out of his right eye and tracked silently down his cheek.
“Where did you find him?”
“I think you better sit down, John,” Logan said, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.
Parkins walked over to the white wicker deck chair which had sat on his porch for the better part of eight years. Meanwhile, Hardy held Olivia Parkins in her arms and tried to console her.
“Tommy! No! Tommy! My baby! My baby!”
Logan began to explain as John sat there in a malaise of disbelief. Soon Olivia’s cries quieted until they became only an echoing background of weeping. John just sat there nodding over and over, his world unraveling.
***
Chapter 5 - Revelations
1
A headache that started out as a dull throb was now pounding fiercely behind Logan’s eyes. The worst was in the left eye: it felt as if a tiny hand was alternately squeezing and releasing his optic nerve. The day had been long, and the autopsy of Tommy Parkins had been three hours of grueling anguish. He was ready for a stiff rye and coke. Unfortunately, he still had paperwork to deal with and there was Hopper.
At first, he thought of just leaving him in the cell for the night, but he couldn’t do that. Right now Stephen Hopper was in a state of mind where he was ready to confess everything, and Kennedy had informed him that Hopper still didn’t want a lawyer. With time his attitude might change so this would have to be dealt with tonight.
He dropped Mick off at home right after they delivered the bad news to the Parkins family. Poor Mick had had a rough day and looked thankful that he would not have to attend the autopsy. Security of the crime scene had been left to the senior corporal, and the investigation would resume in the morning.
The autopsy quickly determined that Tommy Parkins had died as a result of asphyxiation. Close examination revealed marks on his neck consistent with strangulation. Once the cause of death was determined, Logan called it a day. Henderson would investigate further and have more details, but some of the forensics would take time. In the meantime, he would focus on getting Hopper’s confession.
When he got back to the station, eight of his officers waited patiently in the staff room for further orders. He went to the far side of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. After a sip, he gave out orders and delegated shifts that would be staffed over the next twenty-four hours. For now, everything was off the cuff; there would be time to become more officially organized later.
Kennedy came up to him after the main bustle subsided an
d secretly Logan thought, I wonder what good news Peter Rabbit has got for me now?
Kennedy’s nervousness made him an easy target for scrutiny.
“Chief?”
“What is it, Pete?” Logan rubbed his temples.
“It’s Hopper. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”
“What about?” Already Logan would bet his life that Hopper had done an about face and wanted a lawyer. Fuck him, we did everything by the numbers. He gets a lawyer, I can go home and get rid of this headache.
“He won’t tell me anything. Just says he needs to talk to you.”
“Where have you got him?”
“He’s in a cell right now.”
“Alright, put him in the main interview room.” Logan reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a large bottle of aspirin. Popping four into his mouth he crunched them between his teeth, chased them with coffee, and mumbled over their vile bitterness.
Then I want you to do something for me.”
“What’s that, Chief?”
“Go home and get some rest. I want you back here tomorrow morning at six AM sharp. We’re gonna have a long day ahead of us, and I want you well rested.”
Logan got up and headed for the confection machine in the hall. He wasn’t particularly hungry but wanted to get some food on top of the aspirin. Debating between a bag of corn chips and an apple fritter he considered what it was that Hopper wanted. He swallowed two more aspirin and decided on the fritter. He thumbed the button, slid the machine’s plastic door open, removed his treat, peeled back the cellophane and bit into it, hoping it wouldn’t taste as devoid of flavor as it looked. His hopes were instantly dashed.
He sat down chewing mechanically and considered how he was going to approach Hopper. There was already video equipment set up in the room, so he didn’t have to worry about documenting the interview. Young Kennedy, for all his bumbling, took it upon himself to do that while the main arm of the investigation and body recovery were underway. Logan chastised himself privately for being irritated with the young officer. He was a good cop; just inexperienced and a little fidgety.
He popped the last of the apple fritter into his mouth. There was still a lot of work to be done.
As he walked down the corridor, his mind turned again to Hopper. He punched the combination on the cellblock door, opened it, and then proceeded down to the main interview room. Before opening the door, he peeked through the plate glass and saw the big man sitting there staring down at the table. Kennedy was behind him, standing guard.
He recited tonight’s combination code for the interview room: 46921. When he opened the door, Hopper jumped a little, and then settled back in his chair when he saw it was Logan.
“Okay, Constable, I got this.”
“Alright, Chief.” Kennedy moved toward the exit. Logan caught him by the arm as he passed.
“Good work today, Pete. Thanks for the back-up. Before you leave, send Don Steel down here. Tell him to set up in observation.”
“You got it, Chief.” Kennedy gave him a smile and went on his way.
Logan watched the door close then turned to back toward the prisoner. “What’s on your mind, Hopper?”
2
Perched in a tree, its bulbous eyes glazed over, resembling poached eggs. Often when it meditated, it would climb to a high place and melt in with its surroundings. To a passerby, it looked more like a grey ash statue carved into the tree than a living entity.
Below, a big buck grazed a nearby bush, oblivious to the danger lurking above.
Will he give in, it asked itself. Will the human give in? It was not so much a question as it was an observation. Humans were pitiful creatures that lacked discipline. The answer was obvious.
The man named Hopper would crumble – and then the hunter would come.
These thoughts infuriated it.
For the first time in years, it truly felt free, able to feed unrestrained and run in the night. This feeding ground was one of many, but this was where the food was delivered. Now that foolish human had ruined everything. It understood that this would not last forever, but that did not soothe its rage. When the hunter came, it would be forced to move on again. It did not like being a nomad, did not like running.
The hunter is relentless, his heart filled with revenge. He will not stop until one of us is dead.
It decided to stay, for a while at least, and see what the Hopper man would do. It had grown tired of running, and nothing would give it more satisfaction than tearing the hunter’s beating heart from his chest and eating it before him. As for Hopper; his survival depended on how he conducted himself. If he kept quiet perhaps it would spare him.
The glaze melted from its bulbous eyes as its senses came back to life. The big buck had wandered away sometime in the intermittent period.
The creature blinked. Its deep black eyes reflected the forest landscape lit by a pale moon. It unfurled its talon fingers and pulled in the night air through the nostrils of its sunken nose. Not far away something moved through the underbrush.
Hunger clouded its reasoning, took control as its bones and muscles began to twitch and pulse in metamorphosis. It changed from its pure-form into a hybrid of predator that had never run in these woods. If left unfed the hunger would turn to pain and that would leave it irrational and vulnerable. It would think of the hunter later: it was time to feed.
The black bear was following the scent of the deer and never saw the predator coming from its right flank. It had hunted this area for over three years since leaving its mother’s side and was threatened only by man. It was the master of this territory. It was also under its hunger’s control, focused purely on feeding. So when it turned toward the sound of feet thumping along the forest floor, it was too late.
As it turned to look, a monster not of this place tore through its matted fur and opened its throat with one fell swoop. As the black bear lay on its side, lifeblood running out, the creature changed form and let out a bone-chilling shriek that drove a stake of fear right through the bear’s heart.
Then, with razor precision, it tore open the bear’s belly and began to feed.
3
“I want some things,” Hopper said flatly, not making eye contact.
Logan sat down perplexed. “What?”
“I want them tonight.” He was not asking but telling.
Logan felt his emotions take hold. The thumping behind his eye amplified, causing him to twitch. His initial plan to come off as an understanding figure to ease Hopper into a confession fizzled.
Hopper’s eyes darted back and forth between the table and Logan’s face. He was scared, and he had a right to be. Over the years Logan had developed a scowl meant to strike fear into the heart of anyone who might challenge his authority. To him it was theater, but it was convincing, and he had used it more than once. This was different though because Logan really was restraining himself from beating Hopper to a bloody pulp.
For better than two minutes they sat with their eyes locked until Hopper relented.
Logan continued to stare.
“I’ll be right back.”
He got up from the table and left the room.
Marching through the main staff room, he could feel Nero and Findlay stop abruptly and watch him as he entered his office. There he grabbed a directory and a remote phone. They must have seen it in his face because now everyone stood motionless gawking as he strutted back toward the interview room.
He stopped and wheeled around.
“What the hell is everyone looking at?” he roared. “Get back to work!”
Then there was a flurry of activity. Nero grabbed the phone to make an unintended call, another poked into a stack of files.
Logan punched the combination in for the second time that night and stormed into the interview room. The door hadn’t quite closed behind h
im when he fired the phone book across the table. It thumped Hopper in the chest. Before he had a chance to respond Logan lunged forward and slammed the remote phone down hard enough to break it.
Hopper yelped.
“Call a lawyer,” Logan spat.
“What?”
“I said call yourself a lawyer! If you can’t afford one, I’ll have the public defender here within the hour.” Logan leaned in close now.
“What is this?”
“I’m doing you a favor. Now call,” Logan thundered, bits of spittle and apple fritter dislodged from his teeth, spraying onto Hopper’s face.
“I don’t want to call a lawyer. I want to talk to you about –”
“Demands,” Logan cut off. “Who in the name of sweet fuck are you to make demands? You’ve got some nerve, you. I just spent an afternoon digging up the body of a little boy you murdered!”
Hopper’s voice was mechanical, low. “I don’t want much.”
Logan leaned in even closer, purposely aggressive. “I don’t care what you want! Let me explain something to you. You nailed your ass to the floorboards when you gave up your right to remain silent and showed me where the body was. I have a witness who saw you bury the body. I’ve got another witness who you confessed to. I guess that the DNA evidence alone would be enough to convict you.”
“I’ll sign a confession.” Hopper was shaking.
“I don’t need your confession. You confessed the minute you showed me where the body was.” He picked up the phone and offered it across the table. “Last chance.”
Hopper shook his head.
“Fine, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Back to your cell, Hopper.”
Logan uncuffed him from the table and led him from the interview room. He remained quiet, only staring down at the rubberized floor. When they got to the cell, he went in without a word. Logan began to get a strange vibe off of him. Quietly he sat down on the bunk as the cell door slid shut and locked with an audible shah-clink.