In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

by M. R. Sellars

  “Hey, Ben,” Constance half-cooed. “How is your day going?”

  “Pretty damn quiet at the moment,” he replied. “But that’ll change. It always does.”

  “Unfortunately,” she agreed. “I’m sorry we couldn’t connect before I had to leave town.”

  “Yeah, got your message. Shit happens.”

  She could hear the shrug in his voice, but underneath it she could detect a clear note of disappointment as well. They’d both been busy with their respective jobs, and getting together just hadn’t been in the cards as of late.

  “So, how ‘bout your day? Where’d they send ya’ off to this time?”

  “Hulis, Missouri.”

  “Hulis... Where the hell’s that?”

  “About four hours north of Saint Louis. Almost right on the Iowa border.”

  “Ahhh... North Podunk Cornfield, eh?”

  “Sort of. I hate to sound cliché, but quaint definitely fits...in a weird fashion.”

  “Whadda they have ya’ workin’?” he asked, then added with a chuckle, “Grand theft scarecrow?”

  “I wish. It’s a seriously screwed up case, actually...” She left her words dangling on the chilled air.

  “That bad, eh?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Okay...” he said. “You’re soundin’ all depressed. Spill it. What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated to answer. After all, why ruin his mood too? But it took only a few seconds for her reluctance to wane, and in the end she just couldn’t keep herself from sharing. “Unfortunately, I just finished listening to a detailed account of a child abduction, abuse, and sexual assault from thirty-five years ago. A ten-year-old girl named Merrie Callahan. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Jeezus...” Ben muttered. “Yeah... I can see where that’d royally fuck up your mood. Did they at least catch the sick bastard who did it, or is that why you’re there?”

  “They didn’t have to, actually,” she told him. “The little girl he took escaped after he got drunk and passed out. But rather than take any chances, she hacked him to death with an axe first. On Christmas morning, no less.”

  “Jeez... Awww... Just... Jeezus...” he moaned. After a brief pause, in a somber tone he added, “That’s one tough little kid. Well at least she got away.”

  “But not before he’d tortured and raped her over a period of three days.”

  “Yeah… Well, if you ask me, the sick fuck got what he deserved.”

  “At the cost of the girl’s sanity, apparently. She never recovered, mentally.”

  “That’s fucked up...” he muttered, then fell silent.

  She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. As jaded as he could sometimes be about homicides, no matter how gruesome they were, if a crime involved a kid, he melted. Any act of violence against children pierced his armor instantly and without fail. Part of what made it hit closer to home for him was that he was a father himself.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I really didn’t mean to call and depress you too,” Constance offered.

  “S’okay,” he replied. “I’m the one that asked. B’sides, can’t be easy for you ta’ deal with either.”

  “No, it isn’t...” she agreed.

  “Gotta have someone you can talk to or it’ll make ya’ nuts.”

  “Uh-huh. Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it.”

  “Any time, hon. So... Stupid question. Why’re you in North Podunk lookin’ at a thirty-five-year-old closed case?”

  “Because seven years ago, a man’s body turned up here on Christmas Day, also hacked apart with an axe. Since then, same thing every Christmas morning. Man’s body, hacked up with an axe, and the external genitalia missing. Just like the incident in nineteen-seventy-five.”

  “Damn...” he muttered. “That’s some twisted shit. Somebody out there’s a certified wingnut.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “One body a year, eh? That’s some serious downtime for a serial.”

  “True, but an annual cycle isn’t unheard of. Also, the murder is always preceded by a Christmas card delivered to the sheriff’s office on December twenty-second, which is the anniversary of the day the little girl was abducted.”

  “Well, not that ya’ needed any more proof, but that pretty much clinches your triggering stressor, right there, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “And it’s been goin’ on for seven years now?” There was a hint of incredulity in his voice.

  She responded in kind. “I know... Tell me about it.”

  “Who the hell’s workin’ lead on this?”

  “That’s just it. Nobody. Or maybe me, I guess. I’m actually the fifth agent that’s been assigned over the course of the case thus far. And it’s never a team. Just a single agent.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  “I wish I were. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No it doesn’t... Well... Lucky you, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh, lucky me,” she spat.

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t need ta’ even say this, but you’ve looked at family, right?” he suggested.

  “Mother and father both dead. There’s a younger sister, but it looks like she voluntarily disappeared into the woodwork about ten years back and nobody has been able to locate her, so she’s a possibility. Finding her is the issue.”

  “I’d look hard at that one,” he grunted.

  “I plan to. But like I said, finding her…”

  “Yeah, I hear ya’… So what about the girl herself?” he asked. “You said she was ten when it happened, so she’d be what, about forty-five now? And if she never really recovered…”

  “Not likely. When I said she never recovered, I mean as in she’s institutionalized,” Constance replied. “Her body aged, but her mind threw in the towel. I’ve been told she still has the mental capacity of a ten-year-old child at best.”

  “Not good.”

  “Other than that, no real extended family other than the people here in town. Apparently they’ve all chipped in to help take care of her since the parents are deceased.”

  “Yeah, that’s definitely a small town thing... Think it could be one of them? The townfolk?”

  “It’s an angle I’m working, but the sheriff thinks I’m way off base.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about what a small-town sheriff thinks.”

  “I don’t know,” she told him. “He’s pretty sharp. Actually, he reminds me a lot of an older version of you.”

  “Yeah, I am pretty damn sharp, ain’t I?”

  “Yes, but I’m fairly certain he’s sharper.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Seriously. He’s Sherlock Holmes kind of sharp.”

  “He smoke a pipe and play the violin?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So was I. Sorta,” he replied. “So listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but if he’s Sherlock smart, why’s he need the Feebs?”

  “Good question. But given the lack of evidence left behind, maybe the killer is Mycroft smart.”

  “Yeah, but Sherlock’s older brother was a fat, lazy bastard. I doubt he’d be motivated enough ta’ kill anyone.”

  Constance allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible chuckle. “Bravo.”

  “Yeah, kinda figured ya’ didn’t think I knew who Mycroft was.”

  “Always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I keep tellin’ ya’.”

  “Well, in any case I’m still planning to talk to Merrie. In fact, the sheriff will be taking me over to see her in just a few minutes. I’m not sure what she’ll be able to tell me given her mental state, but you know the drill as well as I do.”

  “Gotta verify the case notes,” he said with a knowing tenor in his voice. “Good’a place ta’ start as any.”

  “That’s another strange thing,” she explained. “I read through the file and thought I was up to speed when I arrived here. B
ut it turns out our documentation on this case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is missing.”

  “Lost?”

  “That or worse. Maybe pure negligence. Or even incompetence. I don’t know just yet.”

  “Think someone coulda screwed with it on purpose?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t know why anyone would. It’s not like this is a RICO case where there could be payoffs or something. It’s a serial killer.”

  “True,” Ben grunted.

  “Except...”

  “‘Cept what?”

  “Something that was in the file is that the victim is always dumped in the same location.”

  “And so this is still an open case why?”

  “Apparently the body just shows up. Whoever is doing it makes it past the surveillance without detection.”

  “Bullshit. That’s why your file is screwed right there. You’ve got a dirty cop on your hands. Maybe Sheriff Sherlock is your guy.”

  “I would think that too, except all four agents prior to me have been on the stake outs as well. I can’t see all of them being complicit in this, and why cover up for a small town sheriff if they were?”

  “Yeah, I see your point. But then you’ve got that effed up case file...” he offered.

  “I know...” her voice trailed off.

  “You talk ta’ any of the other investigators?”

  “Not yet. I left a message for one of the previous agents,” she told him. “Hopefully I can find out more when he calls me back.”

  “That’d be good,” Ben agreed. “Just be careful. You never know, and if you uncover somethin’ somebody doesn’t want found out…”

  “I’ll be on my guard.”

  “I’m not kiddin’ here. Especially since you don’t have any backup.”

  “I’m a better shot than you are, remember?” she chided.

  “I’m serious, Constance.”

  “I know you are… Believe me. I’ll be careful.”

  She heard him breathing on the other end of the line as a heavy silence fell between them.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, “So...I assume you’ll be in Podunkville for Christmas then?”

  Constance sighed and watched as her breath condensed in a thick cloud then instantly disappeared. “Unless there’s a miracle, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. I know we had plans.”

  “S’okay...” he told her. “It’s the job.”

  The whoosh of weather-stripping against a metal threshold sounded in Constance’s free ear, and she looked up to see Sheriff Carmichael trundling through the opening and then down the short flight of stairs. He glanced at her and pointed toward the diagonally-parked police cruiser that was nosed in at the curb several feet away from her own vehicle.

  “The sheriff just came out; I need to go,” she told Ben.

  “Okay. Don’t worry about Christmas. We’ll celebrate when ya’ get home.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she replied.

  “Won’t be too hard,” he countered. “Remember... Be careful.”

  “I will. I’ll try to call later. Bye.”

  “Sounds good. Bye.”

  She slipped the cell phone into her pocket then pulled her glove back onto her bare hand. As she walked over to the passenger side of the sheriff’s department cruiser, she thought about her relationship with Ben. It had been a tumultuous on-again, off-again ride that spanned several years now. The length of the breaks varied, but somehow they always came back together, so it was obvious that they cared for one another.

  That much was evident in the words they exchanged.

  And in the time they spent together.

  And the sex… The oh-my-God-sex that was better than she had ever expected it could be, what with him being fifteen years her senior. She’d dated men half his age who couldn’t keep up with him, so there definitely weren’t any complaints there. At least not from her, and he always seemed more than satisfied.

  Then she wondered silently why even with all that, neither of them ever seemed to be able to bring themselves to say to the other, “I love you.”

  Under the circumstances, who knew? But maybe that was a good thing.

  CHAPTER 11

  “AFTERNOON, Martha,” Sheriff Carmichael greeted the woman as she drew herself up from her chair and made her way over to the front desk. Then he asked, “How is she today?”

  Constance glanced around the clean but small lobby area. The squat, somewhat new sign at the entrance to the semicircular drive read Holly-Oak Assisted Living Facility. Inside, the building itself looked more like what her grandparents use to call a “rest home.”

  Holly-Oak was obviously well maintained, but from an architectural standpoint it had definitely been around a while. Of course, that seemed to be an ongoing theme in Hulis, as with many other small towns where time itself seemed to be on an extended holiday. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that a funeral home was located directly across the street, well within view from any of the facility’s front windows; in her way of thinking, not exactly the most comforting vista for the residents. In fact, it brought the old adage, “location, location, location,” right to the forefront of her thoughts.

  “Afternoon, Skip.” The woman returned the sheriff’s greeting, then answered, “She’s Merrie,” punctuating the words with a shrug, as if that simple statement and gesture said it all.

  Given the knowing nod the sheriff offered in response, for the two of them, apparently it did.

  “So, how’s Kathy?” Martha asked as Sheriff Carmichael signed the visitor’s register. From her posture it was readily apparent that she was ignoring the fact that Constance was even present. There was also an audible tension in her voice that more than indicated the pleasantries, while sincere, were for some unknown reason forced.

  “Feisty as ever,” he replied. “I stopped tryin’ to keep up with her a long time ago.”

  She nodded. “Smart man. And the girls?”

  “Fine, fine. Doing fine,” he replied. “Cyn came home on break Friday.”

  “This is her last year at Mizzou, isn’t it?”

  “Supposed to be,” he grunted. “But she takes after her mother, so she’s making noise about going after her Masters.”

  “Good for her.”

  “So, Martha,” Carmichael said, shifting the subject toward the inevitable as he wagged a thumb at Constance. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. This is Special Agent Mandalay from...”

  “I know, I know,” she replied before he could finish. “I’ve been expecting you all morning. Then I got the call from Stella not fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, not surprised. She’s got a big mouth, just like her mother.”

  Constance reached in to her jacket to extract her credentials, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t bother. You’re with Skip, that’s all I need to know…or want to know, for that matter.” Her voice held more than a hint of disgust as she almost spat the comment.

  “I’d like to speak with Merrie, if that’s possible,” Constance said, leaving her badge case stowed in its pocket and slowly pulling back her hand.

  “When are you people going to leave that poor girl alone?” the woman demanded. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”

  “Calm down, Martha,” the sheriff said. “She’s just doin’ her job. You know that.”

  “I thought her job was to find whoever is doing this killing,” she replied, directing herself solely at him. “I don’t know how dredging up the past for that poor girl every year is going to do that.”

  “I know, Martha, I know...” he soothed.

  She scowled at Constance for a moment, then snorted in disgust as she turned away from the counter and headed back toward her desk. “She’s in her room, Skip,” she called over her shoulder. “Just keep an eye on the time. You know as well as anyone what day it is.”

  “What does she mean by that?” Constance asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” She
riff Carmichael said as he stepped back and pointed toward a door off the side of the lobby, indicating that she should go first. “It’s this way.”

  Mandalay gave him a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t we wait? You did contact her state-appointed advocate, correct? I assumed that was the call you were making earlier.”

  “Nope. She doesn’t have one.”

  “If she has diminished faculties as you’ve said, then she definitely should.”

  “Special Agent Mandalay,” he replied, a mix of bemusement and disingenuous formality in his words. “In case it has escaped your attention, this whole damn town is Merrie Callahan’s advocate. We’d all pretty much adopted her even before her parents were killed in that accident. Believe me, if you get your toes anywhere near the line, they’re gonna get broken, I don’t give a damn who you work for.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our little girl...so will anyone else here in Hulis. And just so you know, that’s not a threat, sugar; it’s a promise.”

  THE carved, wooden sign on the door looked like one you would pick out from the pages of a personalized gifts catalog—the kind that had overpriced trinkets made to appear worth the cost because of the custom engraving. It was definitely too perfect to have been handmade. The router work had almost certainly been done by a programmed machine in a factory where they churned out fancy name plaques by the hundreds each hour. In a deeply recessed outline font it read simply, MERRIE’S ROOM.

  The door itself was only partially closed, with a gap of just a few inches left between it and the jamb. Through the sliver of an opening, the keyboard-heavy, pop music beat of a song floated on the air, although it was barely recognizable through the scratchy hiss of static that overlaid the notes.

  Sheriff Carmichael tilted his head and listened closely for several seconds, then turned to Constance and said, “Love Will Keep Us Together.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The song,” he said, gesturing at the door. “Love Will Keep Us Together. The Captain and Tennille.”

  “Oh...” Constance replied, nodding. “I thought I’d heard it before.”

  He shot her a half grin. “I guess you probably aren’t quite old enough to remember it, but they were on the Top Forty that year.”