by M J Preston
Logan laughed. “Holy shit. You’re kidding, right?”
“I shit you not. We got bows and arrows and gunplay, and when our officers hit the scene the perp was gone, Little Big Horn is over – but fear not: this story gets even more bizarre.”
Logan had a pretty good idea he knew what was coming.
“Blackbird tells us he’s been chasing an Indian shape-shifter, and that is what committed the murders. We were ready to lock him up just based on that, but then the black woman backs up his story independently. She didn’t say shape-shifter, but she definitely said fucking monster.”
“So how did you come to the conclusion that they weren’t lying?”
“I didn’t. My partner and I just sat down and added up the evidence then ruled both of them out as potential suspects. Neither of them knew each other. Blackbird was a twenty-something drifter; the woman was in her mid-forties, widowed, and worked as a short order in one of the local dives. Couple that with the timeline, and nothing minus our initial suspicion of Blackbird could keep him as a plausible suspect. The deeper we dug, the more bizarre it got. Our best guess is that Franklin – if that’s his actual name – was taking the internal organs for food.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, well even JC would have raised his eyebrows at this one. In the end, we made a decision. We confiscated Blackbird’s bow and her gun. Then we told them to keep their mouths shut and said if we read or heard anything in that grocery store rag the Weekly World News or on the Art Bell Show that they would find themselves named as prime suspects. After that, the case went cold.”
“Did you buy any of what they were saying?”
“I’m a believe-it-if-I-see-it kind of guy. You tell me there’s a Sasquatch running around in the mountains of Montana I’m skeptical. Show me the big hairy bastard, and that’s a different story.”
“So what did you make of their statements?”
“Me and my partner thought it might be some Whack-Job dressed up in a costume, but I’ll be honest: that seemed highly implausible. I’ve come across some strange shit over the years, but there was something else… Just give me a second, Dave; I’m warming up my computer I’m going to pull the file for you.”
“Alright.”
“As I said, I’ve come across some strange shit over the years, but some of the stuff at the crime scene backed up the woman’s claim. She said the monster was scaling the wall to her apartment and that it was digging its claws right into the bricks. We found holes and fresh tears in the brickwork that was consistent with her claim.” Then, “Alright, here we go. Louise Weatherton, black, forty-five years old, widow. She was pretty fat and sassy as I recall. You got an email? I’ll send over some pictures.”
Logan gave him his email.
“So, what exactly makes you think that there may be a relation to your case?”
“The whole thing reared its head even before Blackbird came into town. Our guy, Hopper: he said he’d been feeding his victims to this Franklin. The MOs are completely different, and our last victim was strangled, but forensics of the other victims is still a work in progress. Most of the bodies were in the latter stages of decay.”
“I’d be interested to know how this turns out, Dave, even if there isn’t a connection. Can you keep in touch via email?”
“Sure, I can do that. Just one last thing, and it makes me think we’re not talking about the same guy.”
“What’s that?”
“You said Blackbird was twenty-something. Can you clarify that? Early twenties or late twenties?”
“He was about twenty-five years old. Here, I’ll send you the file now.”
Computer keys clicked through the earpiece as Woodman set about sending Logan an email. “The one that says DCS589 is the picture of Blackbird. It should be in your inbox anytime now.”
Logan opened his email and watched the send/receive prompt flash until it said completed. He opened the attachment, and there was a picture of a much younger Daniel Blackbird. The photo looked like it had been taken thirty years ago, not eight. The man in the other room could easily be his father, except for one thing: the scar on his right cheek. The guy in the coffee room was this man, Logan was sure of it.
“That’s him. Except he looks thirty years older.”
“Drugs maybe,” Woodman suggested. “I’ve seen twenty-year-old crack heads that look fifty.”
“This guy doesn’t seem the drug using sort.”
“I didn’t think so then, either. Anyway, I could probably chew your ear off on this stuff, but I’m afraid they turned me into a bureaucrat here in the big wind. I got a meeting I’m late for. If you need anything else drop me a line and keep me up to date.”
“Just one last thing before you go, Sean. You don’t think this Blackbird was connected to your murders. I don’t think he’s connected to mine either. So what does that make him? Any ideas?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Serial killer groupie? All kinds of freaks on the net these days you know. Our databases are under attack all the time by hackers. Some might be trying to expunge a speeding ticket, but others are just fishing for information. Maybe Blackbird is one of those freaks who latches on to other freaks?”
“You think that?”
“No… but I’m late for this meeting, and we’re getting into the kind of conversation I’d prefer over a beer. I’m just speculating. Old habits die hard, even when they make you a bureaucrat.”
Logan thanked Woodman for his help and assured him that he would keep him in the loop. He looked at his watch, surprised at how long they had talked and thought guiltily about poor Mick left to attend to Blackbird in the coffee room. And he still had to make one more phone call to Jeff Henderson to ask about the state of Scott Masterson’s body.
“Hi, Dave, what’s up?”
“Jeff, I’m going to get right to the point. The Masterson kid, from the motel, how did he die?” Logan said.
“Blunt trauma to the head. The object of his demise was a guardrail.”
“So he wasn’t eviscerated?”
“Huh? How did you know that?”
“Skip that for now. What eviscerated him?”
“My best guess would be coyotes after he was dead.”
Logan asked a couple more questions about the other victims and if any of them had been eviscerated and Henderson was unable to give him an answer to either. “I can look into it tomorrow.”
“Please do, Jeff, and get back to me as soon as possible. I got a couple of strange loose ends I need to tie up.”
He hung the phone up and stood up. He had a fresh battery of questions for Blackbird, and he strode out of the office, ready to field them.
What he would find out was that they were already gone out of the building.
5
“Thomasville Police Department,” Constable Kennedy answered.
“I need to talk to Mick Collins.” It was a woman, and she was crying frantically.
“Miss, I’m afraid Sgt. Collins is busy at the moment. Is there something I can do for you?” Kennedy already had a steno pad and paper ready to take notes.
“Oh my God,” she screeched. “Tell him it’s Erin, Erin Grant. Oh fuck, Erin Parkins! Tell him it’s an emergency!” She broke into a bout of hiccupping sobs.
“One moment please.” Kennedy put her on hold, set down the phone, got up and walked down the hall to the coffee room and tapped on the door which was closed.
Mick opened it and peered through a small crack. “What’s up, Pete?”
“I’ve got an Erin Parkins on the phone, and she says she needs to talk to you right away, that it’s an emergency. I don’t know if she’s related to John Parkins or not, but –”
“Okay.” Mick stopped him. “I’ll take it at my desk.” Mick turned to Blackbird, who was sipping on a soda, and said, “Come with me,
I gotta take a call.”
Blackbird got up and followed Collins out of the coffee room to his desk. This was situated in a cubicle at the head of the squad room, surrounded by gray dividers – the only kind of ‘office’ the small town budget could afford. They stepped into the cubicle, and there was a seat Mick kept in front of his desk when he wanted to go over a report with one of his subordinates. For more sensitive or personal issues, he used the interview room. Mick waved for Blackbird to sit down as he popped his head above the cubicle.
“Pete! What line is she on?”
“Line two, Sarge.”
Mick sat down at the desk and punched the button on his phone while Blackbird looked about curiously at the cubicle and how Collins had decorated it. There were pictures of a good looking woman and a few Far Side photocopies. Then something caught his eye only a second after he took the phone call.
“Hi, Erin, this is Mick,” he greeted.
“eed delv,” Blackbird said.
“Mick, she’s dead! She took a bunch of pills,” Erin blurted.
It was all coming together now. Blackbird knew what he’d been looking at. “Spoiled meat,” he muttered aloud.
“Who’s dead, Erin?”
It wasn’t “eed delv.” It was this.
Blackbird stared, dumbfounded. He had only seen part of the puzzle. Hanging on Mick’s cubicle was the same thing he had seen while looking through the walker’s eyes. Except now it was much clearer, and he’d missed a letter.
“Olivia! She killed herself while I was taking a bath. Oh my God! It’s all my fault!”
“John’s Olivia?” Mick felt ill, the blood drained out of his face.
“Feed Delivery. Parkins Feed Delivery. I missed the I,” Blackbird mumbled. A smile crossed his features – then vanished as he realized what it meant, and noticed the cop staring queerly at him.
“I can’t get a hold of Johnny. My husband is coming to get me, but oh my God, Mick, what am I going to tell him? This is all my fault! I should have watched her closer! Why is this happening to us? First their little boy, now this!”
That was it. Erin broke down and began to cry.
“Erin, I am going to go see John. I want both you and your husband to sit tight. I will call you later once I’ve talked to John.” Mick tried to keep his voice calm and level, but he was anything but. How was he going to face John a second time with another round of such devastating news?
“I gotta talk to him, Mick. Oh dear Lord,” Erin whimpered.
“Look, I will drive him out there myself tonight, but you are in no shape to be out on that highway. Stay home, and I will get back to you.”
It was a calendar that said PARKINS FEED DELIVERY that was hanging on the wall. The same calendar which hung in this cop’s cubicle. Blackbird felt suddenly ill because he knew the name Parkins, knew that his child had been one of the victims. He was also quite aware that the cop had heard him.
Mick hung up the phone, ignoring Blackbird as he summoned Corporal Steel. “Don, get your gear: we’re going to John Parkins’ house.”
Then Blackbird said something that stopped him cold.
“He’s dead,” Blackbird whispered.
“What?” Mick sat down in his seat and stared across at Blackbird. “What did you say?”
“He’s dead. John Parkins is dead.”
“How do you know this?”
“He’s spoiled meat. Franklin didn’t kill him.” Blackbird stared off into space, his vision replaying in his head. He looked disconnected, almost hypnotized, but his words were clear and concise. “I think he killed himself.”
Mick leaned across the desk and grabbed Blackbird by the shirt and dragged him forward. “I asked you a question! How you would know this?”
Steel walked into the exchange just as he was putting his jacket on.
“I saw it,” Blackbird said. “In a vision.”
“A vision?”
“What’s going on, Sarge?”
Mick peered around the dividers. Logan was still on the phone. He wanted to bust in and interrupt but instead, he told Kennedy to fill him in once he was done.
“You’re coming with us.” Mick snapped a set of cuffs on Blackbird. “Get the God damned car, Don.”
6
3:45 PM
The Dash 8 bumped along at 20,000 feet as the props let out a constant drone giving Pearson a mild headache. Across the aisle, Coop sat with Hopper as Kolchak was milling about at the front of the plane talking to the male flight attendant. Pearson wondered if Kolchak was gay.
Hopper’s hands were shackled to the waistband on his orange jumpsuit. He was quiet, hadn’t said a word to anyone except Pearson and Kolchak since the final interview yesterday. Either he was half-dozing or just pretended to be – whichever way, it suited Pearson just fine.
The flight had been uneventful to this point. The pilot had come on and informed them that they would be traveling along the US Canadian border for about fifteen minutes and then they would be head northward. On the ground, they were passed from one air traffic controller to the next as they changed flight corridors. The ATC that was now keeping them from getting tangled up with other aircraft was a veteran controller named Sidney Mayfield. Above, below and all around them, aircraft ran specific flight patterns and the people on the ground brought order to the chaos.
Pearson only cared about one thing: getting Hopper into a cell at Artisan and then calling an escort service so that he could get some much-needed attention. He had hoped he would get a crack at Hardy, but Cooper told him that she and Steel were carrying on after hours.
Lucky guy, that Steel; she had a great rack.
Pearson was married but spent at least four or five thousand on escorts every year. “The trick is to always carry cash,” he told Coop, who was complicit about the whole thing. “A credit card statement will get you killed every time, Coop!”
Kolchak was embroiled deep in conversation. Pearson studied him. As Kolchak spoke, the attendant nodded. Maybe they were making plans for later as well.
“This is your Captain speaking. We are now moving along United States Airspace. If you look out your window in approximately five minutes, you will see Grand Rapids and the body of water to follow will be Lake Superior.”
The attendant sat down in the seat provided for him behind the cabin as Kolchak began to make his way back to where they were seated. Pearson smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Make a new friend?” Pearson asked.
Then all hell broke loose.
***
Chapter 16 - Kaw seu Igwhot
1
3:47 PM
Sidney Mayfield was sitting at his monitor, tracking the progress of five call signs when he heard the distress call on his headset.
“Mayday! Mayday!” cried the voice, and there was a cracking sound in the background which he was sure was gunfire. “This is Oasis 182! We are under attack!”
Then more gunfire, followed by silence.
Mayfield covered his microphone, and feeling his chest tighten he uttered, “Oh Christ.”
Others in control room suddenly fell silent. Everyone was aware of the possibilities. All transmission were muted, waiting for the desperate call from OA182’s pilot – but none came. Terrorism was the first thing to pop into the minds of the air traffic controllers and pilots monitoring the channel. Mayfield had been in this flight service station for almost a year, and had he not taken particular interest in this plane he would have been of like mind. But he knew who was onboard, and this was no terrorist act. He had been following the investigation in Thomasville over the internet. Researching serial killers was a dark hobby of his, and when the story broke, Stephen Hopper had become his new pet project.
All eyes were upon him, and he snapped to it.
“OA182, this is Alpha Tango 411. State the natur
e of your emergency, over.” No response. He was already sure the man who had issued the distress call was dead, but he repeated nonetheless: “OA182, this is Alpha Tango 411. Radio check, over.” He turned his transmitter switch to mute, looked at the scope. “Fuck, this bird is going down.”
Mayfield’s supervisor, Cameron Howe, came to his side, placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to look at the scope. “What have we got, Sid?”
“OA182 issued a Mayday. Then I heard him say, ‘We are under attack.’ I’m sure I heard gunfire in the background, and now she’s dropping like a stone.”
“What’s the altitude?” Howe’s breath smelled of pepperoni.
“She’s at 19,000 feet, down from 22,000.”
“Alright! Listen up, people!” Howe yelled across the control room. “We have a bird dropping altitude at a significant rate which has drifted into US airspace. Get on your call signs, I want no overlap. Sid, send them the heading of your bird and coordinate keeping those corridors clear top to bottom.” Howe grabbed the phone and contacted the switchboard. “I need a direct line to the command of 127 Wing on Selfridge Air Base!”
“Cam, it’s not terrorism,” Mayfield called from his post.
Howe held the phone against his chest. “How do you know?”
“It’s a prisoner transfer plane, special charter.”
“Who’s onboard?”
“A serial killer named Stephen Hopper.”
“Sid, I’m not even going to ask how you know this. I’m calling the Air Force for a look anyway. If this bird splashes down, we are going to need to coordinated emergency services.” Howe put the phone back up to his ear and waited to be patched through. “Hello, who am I speaking to?”
Orders to scramble two F16s were given as the Dash 8, and its occupants continued to lose altitude at an alarming rate. While the call signs on his screen were being re-routed to other corridors, Mayfield watched with helpless dismay.
2
Minutes Earlier
“Make a new friend?” Pearson asked of Kolchak, and that was the last thing he saw or heard. He was dead the moment the words left his lips. A claw shot out over what seemed an impossible distance of four feet and impaled his eye sockets, popping his eyeballs like egg yolks and driving right through his brain. The third talon caught him under the chin, silencing any possibility of a scream, and before the creature had even taken form it twisted off his head.