From behind him came the pitter-patter of tiny feet. The cat darted by his legs and began racing down the steps ahead of him. “You've got the right idea. Let's get the hell out of here,” he muttered as he let the door slam behind him and took off.
Bounding down the stairs, Ulrich and the cat staggered through the first-floor exit, only to find the exterior of the building engulfed in flame. Windows were being shattered in the floors above as tongues of flame burst through them. Where the fire had come from he couldn't say. Perhaps it was the work of an arsonist, or Callum had left the stove in the bar kitchen on.
No.
As Ulrich watched the historic building burn, he knew the fire had come from elsewhere. It was not the work of a human agency, but rather, an act of retribution from beyond the grave.
What had happened to Callum and Jamieson? Ulrich didn't have much time to wonder. Gathering up the cat in his arms, he ran down the sidewalk and sought out the bookstore he knew to be found nearby. Throwing open the door of Books and More and letting the cat scamper across the floor of the cluttered shop, he ran up to the old woman who'd been nodding off at her stool. “Call 9-1-1! Exeter House is burning!”
Chapter 29
The building burnt a long while. Firefighters spent many hours trying to put out the blaze, and when they were finally successful, smoke still spiraled from the roof and windows for several hours more. A number of police also answered the call, and were busy interviewing passersby about what they'd seen.
Ambling down the street as though the entire thing had been a dream, Ulrich straightened out his tousled hair and approached one of the officers. “I need to speak with one of the detectives on your force, a detective Richardson. I have something incredibly important to share with him about this fire, but I must speak to him personally.”
Detective Richardson was begrudgingly summoned and Ulrich stayed put until he arrived. When Richardson strolled up in a long, black jacket, his badge featuring prominently on the breast, his expression was wrenched into a scowl. “You?” he began, pointing to Ulrich. “You're the one who wanted to see me? This shit had better be good, detective.”
Ulrich approached him, looking to the smoldering shell of the building to their back. “I've solved the case,” he began. “I was right about the gangs-- they were responsible for those murders. They were working on the orders of Jamieson Reed. Old friends of his. There was another guy, a Scotsman named Callum Meikle, who worked for Jamieson. He had a hand in it, too. They were both inside the building with me, attacked me because they didn't want me going to the police with all of this.”
Richardson's face was fixed into a smirk. His eyes widened and a whistle escaped his lips. “That's a whole lotta information to process there, detective. But, uh...” He leaned in, chuckling. “Do you have any proof to back that up?”
Ulrich pointed towards Exeter House. “The two men in question are somewhere in that building. I'm sure some proof must exist. If you round up some of the gang members then I'm sure they'll confess. And--”
Richardson shook his head. “Same old story, huh? I love a good pet theory, but this is getting to be annoying. And you don't want to get on my shit list, understand?” Richardson leaned in, his jaw tensing. “If you insist on wasting my time, I'm going to throw your ass in a cell. I'm a busy guy, and unlike you, I don't have time to go tilting at windmills.” He patted Ulrich's shoulder roughly. “I trust I won't be hearing from you again?” With that, he turned and started back towards his cruiser.
Ulrich was stunned. Watching Richardson drive off, he stood near the smoldering building, watching as the firefighters taped the entrances off and deterred onlookers.
All of his stuff was inside, had probably burned in the raging fire. He had nowhere to go now, and almost nothing to his name. His life would have to start from scratch and his nights would be spent holed up in his cluttered office.
But what bothered him most was that the truth wouldn't come out. Jamieson and Callum were likely in the building, however the firefighters hadn't recovered any victims from within. Either the two men had escaped the horde of apparitions somehow, or their bodies had been spirited away. Even if the ghosts of Exeter House had taken their revenge against the two men, how was Ulrich to bring comfort to the families of the deceased without any proof? How would he ever be able to convince the media about what'd really happened there? The case was at a standstill. The two men had gotten their comeuppance, but the victory was a hollow one.
Just like so many of his belongings, Ulrich's proof had gone up in flames.
***
It was more than a day after the fire that Ulrich was allowed back into Exeter House by the chief of the fire department. He was guided into the building, which had somehow only suffered superficial damages, and took some time in gathering what he could of his belongings. The room he'd been staying in hadn't been too damaged by the fire, and aside from the stench of smoke, his clothing and books were intact. He made a couple of trips, carrying the stuff to his car, and then returned to his office.
He also made sure to take the sack of cat food in the pantry.
Climbing the stairs to his office, he fumbled with his keys and then shoved open the door, where he was greeted by Sparkles. The cat looked up at him and meowed enthusiastically, undoubtedly recognizing the bag of kibble he carried over his shoulder. “Hey,” he warned, “you're not the only one who's hungry.”
Dropping his clothes and other belongings onto his desk, which was already teeming with junk, he locked up and sat down in his chair. The cat ate and drank from clean mugs he kept in his office for coffee, and when he was through, he rubbed up against Ulrich's legs as if in thanks. The cat's company brought him little comfort, however.
Staying in the cramped office was miserable, but beyond that came a feeling that his job was incomplete. Ulrich had never formally signed on to investigate the goings-on at Exeter House, it was true. Veronica Price and Tobias Perez were not exactly his clients. And yet, under the circumstances, they and the other victims had no voice. He'd tried to advocate on their behalf, but Richardson had threatened to toss him in jail. Without tangible proof, there was nothing he could do to further the cause.
Harlan Ulrich hated leaving loose ends.
You're a goddamned awful detective. Richardson was right to mock you. You've got this whole thing figured out, and yet you've got no legal ground to stand on, nothing you can use to prove it. He gazed at the water stain in the corner of the ceiling, tracing the brown ring again and again with his eyes. Veronica and the others got what they wanted, but the case isn't finished yet. You failed to share their story, to let the world know what really happened, you lousy ass.
Sparkles jumped onto the corner of the desk and stared at the investigator, his tail bobbing pensively behind his hind legs.
“Don't look at me like that,” muttered Ulrich, turning around to avoid the cat's searching gaze. “I did all I could. If Richardson doesn't believe me, that's the end of the road.”
Feeling pitiful, Ulrich thought to turn on a little music. He wondered if his Best of Sinatra CD wouldn't lift his spirits, but then recalled that his boombox was one of the only things that hadn't made it out of Exeter House. During his fight with Callum and Jamieson, it'd gotten thrown, knocked to pieces.
He sighed, head in hands, and wondered what to do next. Who's going to hire a terrible, homeless detective?
Just then, his phone began to ring.
Chapter 30
Harrison's offer came out of the blue, but Ulrich was keen to accept, lest his friend's nagging wife rescind it.
“I heard about what happened at Exeter House and wanted to make sure you made it out all right. You weren't answering your cell, so I thought I'd give the old business line a call. You got any place to stay?”
Ulrich chuckled nervously. “I've been crashing in the office since the fire. It isn't the most comfortable, but.. you know, it's a roof over my head. I shouldn't complain.”
&nb
sp; “No, that sounds awful, man. Tell you what-- come by my place. You can crash on my couch as long as you need. Wife's heading out of town with her girlfriends this week and won't be around to complain about you.” He laughed. “It'll beat that tiny office of yours, anyhow.”
Ulrich paused. “Mind if I bring along my cat?”
Harrison scoffed. “What, you an animal lover now, Harlan? I thought you hated cats.”
“It's complicated.”
***
With a bag of clothes and toiletries in hand, Ulrich moved into Harrison's living room. The sofa was a bulky leather thing with just enough space for him to properly stretch out his lanky frame. After fighting to sleep in his rickety office chair the sofa was utter bliss. His first night at Harrison's he slept for almost ten hours, waking only when the cat pounced onto his belly.
During his tenancy Ulrich did his best to pull his weight. Not wanting to be seen as a freeloader, he assisted with household chores while Harrison went to work, filling his days with laundry and dishwashing. The house was a small one, and simple enough to keep clean. Only the cat, who enjoyed kicking litter out of his box, made messes.
One day he'd been a detective looking for jobs, the next he'd become a housekeeper.
Perhaps he'd look into a career in dishwashing.
Once a day he'd make the drive over to his office to check his messages. He lacked the funds to replace his broken cell phone, but hoped that someone interested in hiring him would call his office line and leave a message with an offer.
No such luck.
Every time he walked in and found the answering machine free of messages, his heart sank a little lower, till he felt sure he'd never take on another case again. It was probably for the best anyway; he'd had some good cases in his day, but hadn't really been cut out for detective work in the end.
One evening, nearly a week after the fire, Ulrich was raking the last leaves of autumn into huge piles in Harrison's back yard when Harrison himself walked out, phone in hand. “Hey, Harlan, I've got a call for you.” He pressed the receiver to his shirt. “You know a guy by the name of Richardson? Says he's a cop.” He arched a brow. “I don't know what he wants, but it sounds urgent.”
Dropping the rake, Ulrich wiped the sweat from his brow and warily took the phone. The spit evaporated from his mouth as he went to answer. Whatever it was the police detective wanted, it wasn't going to be good. “H-hello?”
“Harlan Ulrich? The private investigator?” asked Richardson, his gravelly tone coming through the phone forcefully.
“That's right.”
“You're the fellow that kept calling me about that murder case, weren't you? We met about a week ago outside Exeter House after the fire? I tell you, you're a hard man to find. I tried calling the number you'd left with my secretary. Dead end. Your office answering machine gave this phone number as an alternate, so I gave it a try.”
“I see,” replied Ulrich. “So... what is this about?”
“I need to see you in my office, immediately. If you can't get here I'll send a cruiser to pick you up.”
That didn't sound good.
“N-no, that's no problem. I'll be over as soon as I can.”
“Good,” replied Richardson. “I'll be waiting.”
Hanging up the phone, Ulrich handed it back to Harrison, his hand quivering as he started across the lawn.
“What is it?” asked Harrison, following behind him.
Ulrich gulped. “I'll be back.” There was no guarantee of that, though. It was possible, very possible that Richardson was going to make good on his promise to have him locked up for wasting his time. “I hope so, anyway,” he added.
***
Ulrich didn't have to wait long to see Richardson. The station lobby was still packed, this time with different miscreants and citizens filing reports, but the moment he announced himself to the secretary he was led back to the office where Richardson waited in his chair, ankles up on the edge of his desk.
“Ah, there he is.” Richardson reached over and tapped the door shut, motioning to one of the gray chairs. As Ulrich was seated, he began rifling through one of the drawers in his desk, drawing out a newspaper and tossing it into Ulrich's lap. “You seen this?”
Ulrich had to scan the front page for only a few moments to realize what story had caught the detective's eye.
The paper was from that same morning, and the bulk of its front page was concerned with the fact that two new bodies had washed up along the shore of the Maumee River.
One of which was apparently Jamieson Reed.
A photo of Jamieson was featured prominently. Ulrich shuddered as he looked at it, remembering his last, violent interaction with the man, as well as the terrible fate he'd suffered for his sins at the hands of the vengeful dead. That he'd been found in the river, however, was baffling. Though details on the other body were scant, the article only describing it as “thoroughly damaged”, Ulrich would have bet it was Callum's.
Richardson was chewing a piece of gum loudly, watching Ulrich with interest as he read through the article. When Ulrich finished, he gave a little nod. “I take it you haven't been watching the news, have ya?”
Ulrich shook his head. “Not lately, no.”
Taking the paper and glancing it over briefly, Richardson folded it over and returned it to his drawer. “Before I say anything else, I want you to look me in the eye and promise me you didn't have anything to do with that.”
Ulrich's eyes lit up in fear. “Jesus, no...” He sat bolt upright. “I... I would never. I've been staying with my friend Harrison this week. I had nothing to do with that, I swear. I...” Ulrich hesitated. He'd last seem Jamieson getting dragged down the concrete stairs of Exeter House by a horde of moaning apparitions. He couldn't exactly share that detail with the skeptical Richardson, however. “I saw Jamieson and his bartender, Callum, in Exeter House the day of the fire. They attacked me after I... found out about what they'd done. But, no. I haven't seen them since that day. I had no idea they'd turned up in the river...”
Richardson nodded slowly, a smile widening across his lips. “For the record, I believe you.” He flipped through a couple of papers on his desk and put on a pair of reading glasses. “I believe you, because a lot of the other stuff you said earlier happens to check out.”
“W-what do you mean?” asked Ulrich, cocking his head to the side.
“Turns out Mr. Reed and his associate didn't have clean hands after all. Tell me, are you familiar with a woman by the name of Genevieve Dodd? She owns a bookstore near Exeter House.”
Ulrich paused. “Oh, yes. The Books and More store. I know her. Why?”
Richardson perused the paperwork before him. “Well, it's a long story. Exeter House sustained a fair bit of damage in the fire. With his son missing and the building's deed in his name, old Elijah Reed filed an insurance claim. The claims investigator from the insurance company started poking around, thought it might've been a case of arson. With some of our guys on the assist, the claims investigator approached that old woman, Genevieve, and asked if she had any surveillance footage that included the Exeter House in frame. She's got a ton of cameras set up, seems real paranoid, but because she thought she could do some good and clean up the streets a little, she happily handed over some footage from one of her cameras, which featured Exeter House from a certain angle. Didn't find any evidence of arson, though.”
“So, what did you find, then?” asked Ulrich, unsure where Richardson was headed with all of this.
Richardson cracked a grin. “The claims investigator starts reviewing the footage, which went back more than a month. Have to hand it to the old bird, she keeps a great record. Anyhow, while reviewing the tape, he finds something suspicious on it, something that he thinks we need to see. Calls up the station and turns over the tape in question, which features a good deal of footage featuring young men carrying black body bags out of Exeter House in the dead of night. They loaded them into a white van, which was quickly
identified. Turns out it belonged to a known gang associate. Footage was more than a month old, but it was mighty strange, raised a few eyebrows when it was brought to our attention. A few officers passed it onto me, and using the footage as proof, we went and picked up the owner of that van. The vehicle had a few traces of the victims, hair and blood, and he ratted out some of his buddies who'd been in on the deal. We brought them in, too. And they spilled their guts. In exchange for lighter sentences, they told us everything. Jamieson and his Scottish buddy cleared out the building, killed a number of squatters. Some of the gang members helped with that part, too, but apparently most of the kills were this Callum's doing. Anyhow, they stored the bodies in Exeter House, in the bar somewhere, and loaded them into a van one night, making multiple trips to the river, where they dumped 'em. If not for this old woman's video and the confessions we managed to bring in, it's likely this never would have come to light.” He shrugged. “And I guess you had something to do with it, too. You were onto this whole gig before any of us were. I suppose an apology is in order.”
Ulrich was delighted. He'd known he was right the whole time, but to hear Richardson say it made him feel vindicated. “No need for an apology,” replied Ulrich. “I'm just happy that the truth is finally out there.”
“Nonsense!” was Richardson's rejoinder. “How does five-thousand dollars sound as an apology?”
Ulrich laughed aloud. “Oh, sure. That'd be swell, detective.”
Richardson smiled, his gaze narrowing. “No, I'm serious. Weren't you aware of the reward?”
“Reward?”
Richardson slapped at the top of his desk, laughing. “You've got to be kidding me! The police have been offering a reward of five-thousand dollars to anyone who could bring in a credible lead where the murders were concerned. When you got in touch with me before, I thought you were just some schmuck angling for the reward money. You wouldn't believe the kinds of folk we get, making up stories just to claim police rewards. But you were the real deal. I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner. You didn't have enough proof then, but everything you said was spot-on. We'd have solved this one a lot quicker if only we'd moved on your hunch.” Richardson removed his glasses and sat back in his chair. “Now, you've earned that reward for your excellent work. It'll be a couple of weeks before the department can cut the check, of course, but what address do you want it sent to? I'll see that my bosses get working on it as soon as possible.” He extended his hand to shake.
Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Page 15