by M J Preston
“Ladies and Gentleman, this is your Captain speaking. We will be making our final approach to Brandon in about ten minutes. I would like to ask that you, please observe the seatbelt signs and shut down any electronic equipment that might interfere with our navigational system.”
Kolchak looked up to see the attendant standing over him.
“I’m just finishing up, Miss.” He smiled.
She nodded, smiled back and moved along.
He shut down the computer, yanked out the memory stick and replaced both in his laptop case. The aisle seat beside him was empty, but that was because he had purchased the second seat so that he would have relative privacy.
Shortly after he began to feel the bump and shake of turbulence as the aircraft started its descent. He glanced out the window, but still could not see land through the cloud cover. As they descended further the port window became moist and outside the atmosphere became white and misty. Kolchak tightened his belt a bit, always nervous of take-off and landings.
2
Pearson was standing beside Kurt Cooper in the Arrival section of the Brandon Airport. The airport was a small one compared to other city airports serving mostly the military and commuter craft.
It was raining. Miserable weather to be walking around in a cornfield, but that was where they would be once Kolchak had landed. He had sent an email to Pearson the day before outlining his plans upon arrival.
According to the Flight Monitor, OA127 was on schedule. Oasis Airlines was the same airline Pearson had booked for their departure to Artisan Institute. Pearson couldn’t wait to get out of here, this place was anything but an oasis.
“I think that’s our guy there.” Cooper pointed to the light coming out of the clouds, and then the Dash 8 was in clear view. “You met him, Ron?”
“He testified at a murder trial I provided security on back in the day. He’s kind of a tightwad, but he’s our tightwad, so be nice.”
Cooper chuckled. “Gotcha, be nice to the tightwad.”
“You’re a funny guy, Coop,” Pearson snickered.
They watched the Dash 8 bump along, rocking back and forth a bit just as it was about to touch down. The small commuter plane set down, and as it rolled down the runway, it lurched a bit when its small jet engines reversed. They could not see Robert Kolchak tighten his grip on the armrest nor could they feel his anxiety. The Dash 8 was taxiing to the arrival gate as a ground crew came out with a self-propelled step to attach.
They waited for the psychiatrist to appear.
3
The seatbelt sign shut off and Kolchak stood up ready. The seats he had purchased were right behind the cabin which meant he would be the first to exit. There weren’t that many people on the flight anyhow ― maybe twenty-five ― he wanted to get out ahead of everyone. He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and stood there awkwardly while they connected the stairwell to the aircraft.
The flight attendant who had given him a nod earlier stood to the front of the walkway, alternately watching the door and Kolchak as they unloaded luggage from the belly of the craft. She had seen his type before: assholes ready to push everyone out of the way just to be first. What made this guy worse was that he looked like a constipated asshole. She smiled as she linked these two words and noticed that he was smiling at her.
Probably thinks I’m hitting on him, she thought. This broadened her smile even more, and consequently his. She almost laughed out loud.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying Oasis Airlines. Enjoy your stay in Brandon, and we hope to see you again,” the pilot said over the intercom, and then the pressurized door clunked and unlocked.
Kolchak stepped out into the aisle, ready to make his exit.
The flight attendant rolled her eyes.
4
“There he is.” Pearson pointed at a slim, clumsy looking man working his way down the stairwell.
Kolchak had thick dark hair and what some called the quintessential seventies porno mustache. He looked a little like a very thin Geraldo Rivera, but unkempt and awkward.
He was picking over the baggage cart now, something that made Pearson happy.
No waiting for the luggage carousel with the rest of the sheep.
Kolchak pulled off a large canvas suitcase that doubled as a suit bag. Pearson hadn’t seen that kind of thing in years. That done, he turned and walked across the tarmac toward the arrival gate.
“He doesn’t look anything like him,” Cooper said.
“Like who?” Pearson asked.
“Darrin McGavin.”
“The Christmas Story guy?”
“Yeah, but the Night Stalker.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Carl Kolchak, the Night Stalker. Don’t tell me you never heard of him.”
“Nope.”
“Did you even watch television as a kid?’ Cooper sighed.
“Sure. I watched television.”
“And yet you never heard of the Night Stalker?”
Pearson smiled and turned to his partner as Kolchak entered the building and began to look about for the two detectives. “I know about the Night Stalker, Coop; I’m just fucking with you. Besides, I never got into it.”
“Well, what did you watch then?” Cooper asked.
“The Six Million Dollar Man.”
“That is so fucking lame.” Cooper laughed. “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him: make him better than he was before. We can make him jump and run in slow motion.”
“Shut up. Here comes our tightwad.”
Pearson stepped forward to meet the man. “Doctor Kolchak, welcome to Brandon. I’m Detective Ron Pearson, and this is my partner, Detective Kurt Cooper.”
Cooper put out his hand. “Hello, Doctor. Can I get your bag for you?”
Kolchak shook his hand gingerly and smiled. “Why thank you.” He handed over the bag and turned to Pearson. “Detective Pearson, I want to thank you for sending the updates. Your name and face is oddly familiar; have we met before?’
Pearson was impressed. “Yes: about fifteen years ago you resided over the Rosedale Murders. I was lead on security. I was also much younger and had a few more hair follicles.”
“Oh yes, I thought I remembered you. Well for what you’ve lost in hair you’ve made up in career advancement, Detective.” Kolchak’s voice was patronizing.
“Would you like to go to your hotel? We’ve booked you at the Holiday Inn. We thought that you might like to clean up before getting started.”
“Actually, no; if you don’t mind I’d like to go directly to the crime scene. Along the way, you can brief me on specifics. I would also like to meet with Chief Logan.”
“Alright,” Pearson said. “We can do that. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive out to Thomasville. There isn’t a lot between here and there other than the odd tumbleweed, so I’d recommend you use the facilities. I’ll buy us all a coffee in the meantime, and Detective Cooper can go grab the car.”
“Sounds splendid,” Kolchak said, then asked, “Where shall we meet?”
Cooper pointed toward the gate. “The car is already out front.
It’s a dark blue Lincoln Navigator.”
Kolchak handed his laptop case over to Cooper as if he were the hired help. “Take care of this, Detective. My whole life is in this thing.” Then he bumbled away toward the washroom.
Once out of earshot, Cooper said, “He’s not my tightwad, he’s yours.”
“Shut up, Coop!” Pearson chuckled and went to get the coffee.
5
“Sgt. Collins is overseeing of the crime scene. All the bodies have been removed, and forensics is at about 70%. The first victim recovered, Thomas Parkins, has been buried. He’s the only native to Thomasville.” Pearson paused and shifted uncomfortably in the front seat as he Cooper drove. “The majority of the vic
tims were teens. Mostly throw-away kids, male prostitutes, homeless-types with a myriad of issues like drug addiction.”
“So, the youngest was this Parkins boy?” Kolchak was taking notes.
“Yeah, him and the last kid we dug up whom we have yet to identify, but forensics has him at about fourteen or fifteen. Neither of them fit the profile of the other victims. According to Hopper, the second unidentified victim is the one connected to the Franklin business.” Pearson sipped his coffee and narrowed his eyes.
“Sound like he’s trying to cop an insanity plea, Doc?” Cooper interjected.
“It is a possibility,” Kolchak replied. “Of course this is all subjective. Sociopaths are prone to blame others for their actions. An example would be someone like Ronald Kessel, who always had an excuse for the heinous acts he inflicted. Kessel had a penchant for killing prostitutes. In almost every recounting of murder, Kessel said that someone had spurred him to react. The prostitute laughed when she shouldn’t have, bit him or tried to rob him. It was always their fault.”
“Were you involved in the Kessel case?” Pearson asked.
“No, I wasn’t, but I have studied the case extensively and wrote about it in my second book. Not straying too far from my train of thought I would say that our Mr. Hopper exhibits similar traits. He does not want to take responsibility. Although I must confess, I find the last interview rather puzzling.”
“How so?” Cooper asked.
“Sociopaths don’t usually show remorse unless it is to manipulate. Perhaps that is what Mr. Hopper is attempting here.” Kolchak rubbed his nose absently.
“Do you think he’s trying for a multiple personality thing?” Pearson asked.
“You are very astute, Detective. I think he is either trying or he is a multiple personality,” Kolchak surmised. Pearson was quiet for a second and looked unhappy with this response, so Kolchak added, “Whether he is or isn’t really is irrelevant to whether he understood that his crimes were wrong. From everything I have read and heard Mr. Hopper knows full well what he did was wrong, which makes him fit to stand trial.”
“Either way, the end game for us is that he poses no further risk to society,” Pearson said. “Whether he spends the rest of his days in a federal penitentiary or a high-security mental institution meets our requirements.”
“Well he is most certainly what would be deemed a dangerous offender,” Kolchak said. “If it makes you feel any better, I am positive it is highly unlikely that Stephen Hopper will ever be a free man again.”
“It does.”
They fell silent for a while as Cooper drove the car north-east toward Thomasville and Kolchak examined the mediocrity of the prairie landscape. There were few trees and little water: just small rolling hills peppered with low unassuming clusters of brush. Below him, the wheels hummed as the rubber met the pavement. Fall was upon them, and the crops were already harvested. Cornstalks, assaulted by thrashers, were now turning brown and rolls of hay that looked like oversized breakfast cereal littered the empty fields.
6
Mick was at the command post waiting for their guest to arrive. Dark clouds had gathered to the south-west and threatened rain, but so far, they had not made good on their threat. Just the same, he had several pairs of rubber galoshes standing by.
“This guy is a VIP, Mick,” Logan had told him. “Make sure our officers are in top form and give him access to whatever he needs.”
With all the bodies out of the ground and the evidence gathering winding down they would eventually be bringing in men and equipment to level the farmland and eventually demolish the house and small barn. Then the land would be sold if anyone would buy it. Mick doubted that, thinking this place would end up sitting a long time before anyone seriously looked at it.
Collins was not a religious man, but this place seethed of evil, and the moisture from the graveyard clay almost smelled like bile. He wondered how Donald Wakeman felt about having such a terrible chunk of real estate next to his home.
Once their field had been harvested, the Wakemans had taken a long overdue vacation. Word left with Logan was that Donald was taking Derek and his wife down to Rapid City for a two-week road trip. It was still undetermined whether his son would have to testify or not because no one knew if Hopper would just plead guilty. At any rate, a trial could be a few years off depending on how this played out.
Mick thought about the circumstances involving the crime and shuddered a little. If Wakeman had shot Hopper, they might never have known the extent of his crimes. Most of the graves were well covered, the vast majority of bodies so decomposed that they might never have been found. And even plowing probably would not have turned up anything: Hopper had buried the dead a minimum of five feet below the surface.
Mick was not the same man he once was. The case had taken a toll on him. He and his wife Nancy usually made love three or four times a week, but now not at all. It was not that he didn’t find her attractive: she was a beautiful woman with natural blond hair, and she took care of herself. It was just this God damned horror show coupled with the prospect that he might get her pregnant and he didn’t know if he could ever have kids after this. He had become very attached to Tommy Parkins through his friendship with John, thought of him as a nephew although they were not related.
“Mick, they’re coming.” Oddball was tapping him on the shoulder. “They just passed the Western checkpoint on VD.”
Mick acknowledged him, overlooking his feeble attempt at humor by calling Van Dyke Road ‘VD’. Hardy had already told him it wasn’t funny, but Oddball sometimes needed to beat something to death before he realized no one was laughing.
Mick got onto the radio. “Attention all units on site, this is the CP. Our visitor has arrived. I will be accompanying him during a general walkthrough. I will alert all involved of our direction. In the meantime, keep all non-essential chatter to a minimum.”
Sometimes when officers got bored unnecessary radio chatter would result. With the bulk of the work now behind them, an occasional nudge of authority was in order. Mick’s style differed from Logan in that Dave would be far less diplomatic.
Mick got a round of responses, “Copy Sentry Echo.” “Copy Sentry William.” “Copy CS 1.” “Copy CS 2.” – before they all fell silent and awaited further orders.
The dark blue navigator rolled up to the police CP, and Mick got out to meet them even before they were out of the vehicle. Pearson gave him a smile, and when Kolchak climbed out of the back, Cooper brought his hand to his face and smiled.
Mick liked Cooper; he wasn’t quite as stiff as Pearson – but he respected both and Pearson was definitely the star by which Coop navigated his career.
“Sgt. Mick Collins,” he said and extended his hand. “I’ll be your guide for this portion of your tour, Doctor Kolchak.”
“You work for the local force? I was expecting Chief Logan,” Kolchak replied.
“The Chief is bogged down with the Mayor at the moment. He’s going to hook up with you later at the station when you interview Stephen Hopper.” Mick smiled thinly as Coop rolled his eyes out of sight of both Kolchak and Pearson.
“Sgt. Collins can tell you anything you need to know about the crime scene,” Pearson said. “His level of expertise here far exceeds anyone else, including myself or Chief Logan.”
Kolchak looked at Mick for a second and smiled. “Please accept my apologies, Sergeant. I certainly was not questioning your credentials or professionalism.”
“No apology necessary, Doctor. Are you ready to start?”
“Lead the way, Sergeant.”
“Okay, probably best if we start with the house. That way we won’t end up tracking anything from the cornfield in there. Just give me a second.” He brought up his handheld. “CS 1, this CP we will commence with a walkthrough of your position in two minutes.”
“Copy that CP,” a static voi
ce replied from Crime Scene 1.
“Alright, Doctor Kolchak, you can follow me. If you’d like to use any listening devices or have any questions, feel free to ask, and don’t hesitate to stop me if you have any observations.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They walked from the CP, which was set up on Van Dyke Road, toward Stephen Hopper’s house. On the porch, Corporal Steel stood waiting for the party of four as they embarked on a one hour tour of the house. Kolchak for all his self-importance was meticulous in detail as they walked the crime scene: he kept stopping to observe and scribble notes. More often than not he would murmur, “Interesting,” and then scribble something down.
He bombarded Mick with questions about the state of the house. Not just the basement, either: he questioned the condition upstairs, too.
The house itself was not the same place Mick and Logan had initially walked through. The walls had been opened up, some floorboards removed in an attempt to find either trophies or possibly, more victims. If not for the clutter, the inside of the old farmhouse might look as though it were being renovated. The torture table had been removed and placed in a warehouse as future evidence.
7
“This was the last grave.” Mick pointed into the hole beside the old maple tree.
“This is where he said the boy crawled out of?” Kolchak asked.
“Yeah.”
Cooper laughed, but Pearson didn’t. Nor did Mick.
“So, this was his first kill, the one he wanted to keep an eye on?”
“That’s correct. It was also the last gravesite Hopper identified. When the Chief brought him out for this, he was pretty wound up.”
“What was his demeanor at the other sites?”
Mick didn’t look up. “Expressionless. No outward emotion at all.”
They carried on from there into the cornfield where crows cawed with glee as the forgotten corn rotted on the stalks. Right now wasn’t too bad, but there were times when the officers could not hear each other talk.
Mick took him to every grave, and at the edge of each hole, Doctor Kolchak asked different questions. When they reached Tommy’s grave, Mick stood silently as Pearson took over answering questions, but that did not prevent the awkwardness.