Hours ago at Paige’s bedtime, he’d called home and asked Mable to put her on the phone. His daughter had said nothing; only her soft breathing came over the phone as he told her how much he loved her and apologized for working late. She stayed on the line until he had wished her a good night’s sleep, and hung up without giving the phone back to the nanny.
He stared down at the manila folder before him, reluctant to open it. Across the cover in bold type print read, ‘Case HOM-09-127.’
The Churchill Murders.
Seven victims in all, each seared repeatedly with a cigar—head, chest, abdomen, legs, even genitalia bore deep, red circular wounds—the zodiac symbol for the Gemini carved into the stomach. Death came by strangulation with a leather belt.
Teddy Brumbeloe.
The psycho managed to stay off the radar. His history remained sketchy, but led Marlowe back to Hilltop Orphanage. The length of his stay there, as well as how he ended up at the orphanage in the first place, went up in smoke, quite literally. The facility burned down in the early eighties. The destruction of the records prior to the age of computer backups made ascertaining details on Brumbeloe’s background difficult. More information later came to light, but by then it was too late.
Teddy encountered his victims, white men in their fifties, in the course of working in a tobacco shop. Not terribly clever given the burns on the bodies and the butts left behind. Still, the tactic proved smart enough to claim multiple victims before the police caught on. The men were apparently stand-ins for his father, whom he’d killed and wanted to keep on killing.
He was not stupid enough to target recent buyers. Teddy knew how to bide his time and wait for the right moment. In some cases, he waited several weeks between spotting his target and acting. He never selected regular customers. Most of the victims placed orders over the phone and had them delivered, so the murders did not remain confined to an area near the shop.
In time, Marlowe connected the dots and the investigation turned in Teddy’s direction. Marlowe sent uniforms out to question every owner and employee of stores selling Churchill brand cigars, the brand used in the murders. There were more such establishments than anyone would have guessed, dragging the investigation out still further.
It turned out all six men bought cigars from one particular store, a discount tobacco shop at the corner of 5th Avenue and 38th Street. Tucked out of the city proper, it took a while to come up on the list of sellers. Once investigators visited the place, Teddy got wind of interest coming his way and disappeared. The owner had no idea where he went, only that he did not show up one day and never came back.
Marlowe tracked Teddy through a score of reluctant informants by bribe and bully to a small, rundown house on a deserted backstreet in one of Birmingham’s worst outlying areas. No judge would grant a warrant. What Marlowe possessed and could describe loosely as evidence remained circumstantial at best.
“No harm in taking a look,” Marlowe had said to the lieutenant. “It’s the best lead we have. Maybe we’ll get lucky.
“Some luck would be nice right about now. Okay, check it out, but nothing else. If you turn up anything concrete, call it in. You got me?”
“Got it.”
“Take Kirkpatrick and Bateman with you. Better safe than sorry.”
A shack more than a house, roughly a hundred yards separated the crumbling structure from the road. With the nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away, Teddy picked a good place to stay out of sight. Thick pine trees made it doubtful anyone would notice activity from a distance, and dense, high shrubs made peeking through the windows risky.
A beat up Olds Cutlass sat parked in the driveway. Little more than a hunk of metal with rust dotting the frame like tender scabs. Inspecting the car’s interior revealed nothing more than empty beer cans and cigarette boxes. One witness had mentioned seeing a similar vehicle shortly after one of the Churchill Murders. Still circumstantial—not enough.
“How do we play this?” asked Spence.
“Direct approach, we don’t want to spook him. Take Kirkpatrick around the back. I’ll take Bateman with me to the front. If you see Brumbeloe, radio.”
“Got it,” said Spence.
“If he’s here, we only want to talk. We don’t have anything to hold him on, so go easy. We’re looking for anything to give us probable cause for a search. Hopefully, we can get inside and have a look around. Maybe he’ll slip and say something we can use.”
Marlowe waited for Spence and Kirkpatrick to disappear behind the house, and motioned Bateman to follow. He did not hear any sounds emanating from inside, or see any motion beyond the curtained windows.
More beer cans littered the yard near the shack. Bateman stepped on one, causing an audible crunch and earning a ‘you dumbass’ glare from Marlowe. When he got within ten yards of the door, edging up on the line of shrubs, a gunshot rang out.
“Get down,” yelled Spence.
Marlowe pointed to the front door, then to his eyes. Bateman understood and aimed his gun at the entrance. Marlowe crept around the corner of the house. If Brumbeloe engaged Spence and Kirkpatrick, Marlowe might take him by surprise. No such luck. As he rounded the wall, Marlowe came face to face with a fleeing Teddy Brumbeloe. A flash of silver announced a gun.
“Drop it, Brumbeloe,” shouted Marlowe.
Teddy seemed less surprised than Marlowe. Obviously, he expected more police in the front of the house and had prepared for it. His gun drawn, no fear in those hateful eyes, Teddy bore down on him like a wounded bear.
“Fuck you, cop,” shouted Teddy at full charge.
There had been no time to think, only react. Teddy’s gun came up; he fired twice. Marlowe dove to the ground, the shots whizzing past overhead. He hit hard on his shoulder, rolled, and returned fire. Teddy stumbled backwards from the force of the blasts and collapsed; blank eyes stared into the sky. One bullet had entered his stomach, the other hit center mass—heart shot. He died before he hit the ground.
Marlowe stood over the body, his breathing ragged, heart racing. Not how he planned it, but Teddy’s fingerprints and DNA should tie him to the murders. Marlowe hoped they would find more evidence inside to make this a slam-dunk.
“Call it in, Bateman,” said Marlowe. “Forensics and a meat wagon.”
With probable cause obtained, the hard way, Marlowe and the team entered the house.
“No neat freak, Teddy, this place smells like piss,” said Spence, riffling through the litter. Dirty dishes sat on the counters and in the sink. Stains on a ratty mattress did not warrant a guess.
“Got something under the mattress,” called out Bateman. “Loose floorboards. And lookie lookie, a cigar box half full…Churchill brand.”
“News clippings over here.” Kirkpatrick retrieved a book from behind a plank inside the closet. “Articles on all the kills. Didn’t figure Teddy for a scrap-booker.”
“And the motherfucking mother lode.” Spence stepped out of the adjacent room holding six leather belts. “I’ve got a Benjamin says I know where these came from.”
Analysis confirmed the belts did indeed belong to the victims. Teddy’s fingerprints matched those found at the crime scenes, and his DNA dusted the cigar butts. It should have ended there, The Churchill Murders solved, Marlowe a city hero…but it didn’t. Marlowe missed the clues. He failed.
Marlowe drifted back to the present. It took a moment to remember the basement. The eerie, green glow added to the disorientation. He stared down on the list of victims:
Herman Brown - age 51
Adam Henry - age 55
Arnold Partridge - age 56
Richard Castings - age 54
Christopher Marlin - age 56
William Farrid - age 52
Katherine Gentry - age 31
That last name branded itself into his mind’s eye. The despair and self-loathing he had felt for so long roiled in his gut. It was changing—a metamorphosis turned relentless depression into something else. Something
hot and raw ignited within him.
Rage.
His fury needed an outlet, somewhere to aim itself before it burned away every remnant of his humanity. Most frightening of all, Marlowe possessed no desire to quell the black hatred growing inside him. The pain seemed diluted, the grief a faint whisper crying from a distance. His humanity could take its leave if it meant a cessation of his suffering. To hate felt…better.
All the love he lost, his stolen future, needed an enemy—a surrogate for his revenge. ‘An act of love,’ he heard Kap say. One word seeped into his mind. One word set the flame of rage ablaze. A seething bonfire.
One word…
Seraphim.
CHAPTER
8
With her last appointment of the day completed, Becca returned to her desk. She needed to dictate the day’s notes, but her thoughts scattered, drifting from one worry to another. Unable to focus, she sat back, sighed, and gazed around her office—a spacious room overlooking the hospital grounds. Framed degrees and licenses hung on the walls, photos with her mother and college friends sat on her desk.
Becca had come so far from nights spent waitressing to pay college tuition. Her mother would happily have paid her way, but Becca wanted to make it on her own. Academic scholarships helped; still, they did not cover everything. Between a job, school, and a hundred other responsibilities, she slogged through twenty-hour days on minimal sleep to avoid student loans and arrive at this position. Now, respected by her peers and appreciated by her patients, she should be enjoying the fruit of all her hard work.
Just the opposite, she felt no sense of accomplishment or satisfaction in her career. For so long, this place had existed as an oasis from her other life—the life she feared and wanted only to escape. Now it encroached here as well. No place seemed removed from the specter of home…and Michael.
Becca lifted the snow globe from her desk—a pretty little thing, a pink castle inside. She turned it over and watched the tiny flakes cascade down onto plastic towers, bright yellow banners flying over miniature battlements. Michael had given it to her long ago, back when something passing for love and passion still existed between them. Before the distance grew, before she became the object at which he aimed all his resentment and frustration, before the screaming and belittling…before the beatings.
She found it impossible now to remember how it started; no one event sparked the cycle of abuse, apology, abuse. Instead, little things had built over time. She let him get away with it, like a child going undisciplined, and the infractions continued and worsened. One memory stuck in her mind that crystalised the disintegration of their relationship.
It was barely into their third year of marriage. Michael knelt outside beside a poor excuse of a motorcycle, turning one bolt and then another. Becca watched him for a time and shouted, “Michael, dinner’s about ready.”
“I think it’s a lost cause.” Michael entered the house, grease and grime covering him from neck to elbows.
“Ah, I hate that for you,” Becca said with a grin.
“I know you do.” His tone carried frustration and anger. She could not be certain precisely how he intended his reply, but prayed the bike received the lion’s share of his displeasure.
Michael’s temper flared more often lately. A minor annoyance could escalate in seconds to a full-blown rage. Now, whenever she sensed his mood turning, she tried to placate him or ease his mind away from the source of his ire.
“I’m sure you’ll fix it. You’re so good with repairing things.” Her smile shifted to an uncomfortable pressing of her lips. “If not, you can sell it and get a new one.”
“A new one? That’s your answer? If something’s not just the way you want, toss it out, right? Maybe I won’t be what you want one of these days.” His voice rose, his stance like a coiled serpent.
“I didn’t mean anything. I only meant you could get a new bike, one you really like. One you wouldn’t need to spend all your time working on, but could actually enjoy.”
Michael huffed. He retrieved a beer from the fridge and stood staring out the window at his motorcycle. He bought it at a garage sale for four hundred bucks. Becca wasn’t sure what he had expected for that price.
“I could place an ad in the trading magazine for you,” Becca said.
Michael spun so fast beer flew from the bottle, splashing across the wall and floor. He glared at her from a mere stride away. She retreated a step, maintaining distance to stay out of striking range.
“You gonna sell my shit? My shit?”
“No…I only offered….”
“You don’t touch my shit. You hear me?” he screamed, his face bright red, and moved toward her, a fist clenched. He froze. His mouth turned downward, and his cheeks drooped. His body seemed to go limp, and his eyes went dull. He set the bottle on the counter and left the room without another word.
Becca felt relief to see him go. She couldn’t remember when his temper had begun to show. Certainly, he never acted this way before they moved in together. Handsome and charming, Michael had treated her like a queen.
No, it started after. At first, simply a raised voice, and then came the verbal abuse. Next, threatening postures—shaking his fist at her or getting in her face. Finally, a shove turned into a slap. The latter had only occurred once, and he swore it would never happen again. He did seem so upset afterwards, and she believed he really regretted his actions.
An hour after Michael left the kitchen, he still had not returned. No sounds came from upstairs.
Did he go to bed? At two o’clock in the afternoon on his off day?
She crept up the stairs and peeked into the bedroom. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands.
Is he crying?
Becca had never seen him cry. Even when his mother died, his brash demeanor remained locked in place. He mumbled.
“I don’t want to be like him.” Racking sobs shook his body.
“Like who, baby? What’s wrong?” Becca sat close and wrapped her arms around him.
“I won’t…I can’t.…” He ran his hands roughly through his hair, plowing at his scalp.
“What is it? Talk to me.” He frightened her more now than in his worst temper tantrums.
“I don’t want to be like him. I can’t be like him….”
How long she sat there holding him, she could not guess. She held him until he fell asleep. Michael slept the night through, tossing and turning, muttering and fighting at the air. Becca did not sleep a wink; his outbursts chased her from the bed. She sat in the rocking chair next to the window and watched over him.
The next morning, he acted as if nothing had happened. He avoided her questions and refused to discuss the matter. It was the last time such an occurrence took place. Becca never learned the identity of the him Michael had referred to or the person’s role in his depression. His father, she assumed. Michael never spoke about his father.
Perhaps the episode explained why she stayed for so long. The psychologist in her saw Michael’s pain, one brief glimpse of a frightened boy cowering in the dark. She knew something terrible ate at him deep inside. Maybe she believed she could save him and help him deal with the demons he battled. Becca felt sorry for him.
She did not want to recognize when the demon within him seized full control. Trained to help the helpless and offer hope to the hopeless, she couldn’t accept he had fallen beyond saving. An unrealistic faith in her own abilities, her ego as much as his brutality, kept her caged.
Becca flung the snow globe across the office. It struck the wall, dead center of her framed Doctorate of Philosophy in Clinical Psychology degree. The glass exploded outward, sending shards raining into the air.
Damn it. What’s happening to me?
“You okay, Becca?” asked Rachel, rushing through the door. “It sounded like a gunshot went off in here.”
Becca leaned over the shattered frame, picking the glass off the floor. “The frame fell off the wall. I’m fine.”
&n
bsp; Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, the snow globe fell off the wall too?”
Becca reddened with embarrassment. Rachel did not miss much. She possessed a keen eye when it came to looking out for Becca, watching over her like a lioness protecting her cub. In regard to Michael, Rachel’s claws were always sharpened and ready.
“Michael again?” asked Rachel.
“What else? But you know, I’ve had it this time. Speaking with Mr. Bannon, it hit me: Everything I say to my patients is advice I should be heeding myself. In many ways, I’m as terminal as he is. I’ve got to get control of my life. Right now…it’s not a life at all.”
Rachel set her hands on her hips. “Do you know how many times you’ve said the exact same thing?”
“I mean it this time. I’ve taken all I can stand. I’m done.”
“Do you know how many times you’ve said that?” asked Rachel, her lips pursed in that pedantic manner Becca loathed so much.
“I’m already down, no need to keep kicking.” Becca tossed the globe, along with the glass shards, into the wastebasket.
“I’m not, Honey. I’m on your side, you know that, but talking isn’t going to get you out of the situation.” Rachel spoke while pouring a cup of coffee and offering it to Becca. She seemed to have a sixth sense for what Becca needed.
“I know, but it’s harder than you think. So many what ifs. I’m scared, Rach.” Becca sipped the hot coffee and stared at her distorted reflection in its inky, black surface.
Rachel nodded and placed a hand on Becca’s shoulder. “I know, Sweetie, I really do. And I know how hard it is, but is it harder than staying with him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything except I’m at the end of my rope.” Becca twirled her hair over one finger, a habit she exercised when frustrated or upset. “How can I be so strong and self-assured here and so fearful around him?”
“I bet it didn’t happen overnight. Assholes like him have a way of creeping into your head. I doubt you even realized the level of control he had over you until it was too late.”
“True. I wish I could go back to the moment I first started giving in and change it somehow.”
A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1) Page 9