October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  Uncle Joe tousled her hair. “Tell you what, I’ve got some stuff to do today, but why don’t I come by tomorrow and take you out to that lake?”

  “You will? You promise?” She gazed up at him with puppy dog eyes.

  “Would I kid a kid?” Uncle Joe grinned. “But first, I have something for you.”

  “A present? What is it?”

  He reached into his jacket, pulled out a paperback book, and proudly displayed the cover. Pet Sematary by Stephen King.

  “Oh thank you, thank you!” Lori jumped up and down clapping. She loved horror movies and books, and read several of Stephen King’s works before her parents forbade them and all things horror due to a propensity for nightmares. Uncle Joe knew she had yet to read this one and had been pining for the book, her many less than subtle hints helping matters considerably.

  “Don’t get caught with it. Your folks will take it away from you and skin me alive.”

  “I won’t,” said Lori, clutching the book to her chest.

  “Okay, Kiddo, I gotta run. See ya tomorrow.”

  Uncle Joe hugged her goodbye and left the room, though his departure barely registered as Lori leapt onto the bed, pushed the coloring book to the side, and flipped open the novel. She read until bedtime, and then managed to sneak in the remainder with a flashlight beneath the covers. Around 3:00 a.m. she woke the house screaming in terror.

  * * *

  “Hey, partner, you in there?” Spence rapped his knuckles on the dashboard.

  Lori barely remembered returning to the vehicle, so lost in her memories. She nodded. “Sorry. Zoned out for a sec.”

  Spence seemed to have forgotten his question. He clicked on the heat in the SVU and shivered. “Damn this fucking weather. I wish it would make up its mind.”

  The temperatures had fallen in typical Alabama fashion from the mid-sixties yesterday to the low-forties today, proving the popular Southern adage ‘if you don’t like the weather, wait a day, it’ll change’. An overcast sky made it feel even cooler. Spence held no love for the cold, and Lori grew tired of his constant complaints. They made her own attempts to ignore the chill seeping into her bones more difficult. He turned the heat on high and in minutes sweat beaded on her forehead.

  “Anyway, you think this is a dead end?” He asked.

  “Yeah, seems clear cut. Buddy struck me as a smarmy fellow. Typical salesman I guess, but he gave me the willies. Still, I didn’t hear anything conflicting with what the sheriff told us. Maybe we should call it and join back up with Marlowe. I’m sure he could use the help,” said Lori.

  “Sounds good to me. The Harmon girl split the coop just like everyone thought. Doubt she made it to New York. She’s probably holed up with some dude somewhere.” Spence seemed to entertain a less pleasant outcome, his face darkening. “Hopefully.”

  A sly grin slid onto Lori’s face. “Of course, if we close this lead and work the other case with Marlowe, he’ll put you behind a computer staring at missing persons reports and old arrest records all day.”

  Spence’s eyes widened. He scratched behind his ear, considering the possibilities. “You know, questioning Sarah’s friends couldn’t hurt.

  Lori grinned and then realized she had swayed him, meaning another day or two of his constant bitching and fluctuating the thermostat, and damned her big mouth.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Marlowe stood behind a one-way mirror, trying to read the figure seated on the other side. Long matted hair stuck to the man’s forehead above smudges of dirt blotching his face, an old scar running from above his right ear to the back of his head. He constantly tugged at the collar of a dark green Army jacket, which lacked any insignia or adornments, as though it choked him. Faded areas in the shapes of chevrons and rectangles showed on the sleeves and chest, rank and name erased, an unknown soldier, or a soldier no more. Marlowe assumed the jacket, and man’s clothes in general, had not undergone and good washing in years.

  Sam Ewell—outcast, bum, human refuse…and prime suspect. No stranger to the discarded masses of society, Marlowe encountered them every day while walking Birmingham’s streets. Without exception, they possessed the same hollow eyes, the same air of being lost amidst the crowds. This man, however, surpassed them all. His hands fidgeted, legs working up and down as if running in place. Dark eyes darted about the interrogation room, his head bobbing in a sporadic weave as if dodging an assault of unseen apparitions flying past. Thin lips quivered in barely audible prayers or nonsensical mumbling, difficult to tell.

  This guy’s about to shit his pants.

  DNA confirmed Ewell’s blood matched that on the rock and stuffed animal found at the clearing, and Ms. Headly identified him in the vicinity. Still, an absence of his fingerprints anywhere in the Baldwin house, not even on the front door, left a plethora of questions. And worse, the murder weapon was not found among his things. Without bodies or the gun, Marlowe worried a good defense attorney could play on the jury’s sympathies for Ewell. Just his appearance and manner made for an ideal sad story, laden with pity. Even so, the county wanted someone to blame. No one would miss Sam Ewell, and the chances of him getting a ‘good’ defense attorney were next to nil. Any public defender handed the job would start behind the eight ball with little incentive and no money to mount a defense.

  A county judge granted warrants before the request could leave Marlowe’s mouth. No one wanted to come out on the wrong side of this one, standing ceremoniously on civil liberties when the bodies of three dead children turned up…career suicide. They scoured Ewell’s home. A shack barely erect, a noticeable tilt on the foundation suggesting it would not remain so for much longer. Not a flake of paint remained—the exterior no more than rotten planks of deep, rusted brown. Inside, a single chair sat lonely in the center of the room. Neat piles of junk—nuts and bolts, bottles, playing cards, and a myriad of other trinkets—laid out like dunes on a desert across the floor. No photos or keepsakes gave any indication as to the man’s past. He existed as a ghost haunting the woods and alleys of the little town, noticed only for a moment and forgotten.

  Amanda entered the interrogation room carrying a small box. She sat it down hard on one side of the table, the metal on metal causing a disconcerting echo and making the man jump in his chair. She removed the rock and stuffed monkey, both enclosed in plastic bags, and placed them in front of Ewell. From the bottom of the box, she retrieved a folder and flipped it open.

  “Mr. Ewell. Can I call you Sam?” Amanda paced back and forth between Ewell and the mirror, casting frequent glances at the glass.

  Sam nodded almost imperceptibly, keeping his head down, his eyes veiled by locks of brown, greasy hair.

  “You may have heard, three little girls are missing from the Mountain Oaks Estates area. We understand you were around there about the same time.” Amanda paused and glared at Sam over the ridge of her nose.

  Marlowe watched the man’s reactions. Sam cowered under Amanda’s scrutiny, visibly shrinking into himself. He tilted his head up at her, a confused expression on his face as if trying to understand an unfamiliar language.

  “Anything you can tell us might help save those children, Sam.” Amanda, obviously attempted to keep her voice cordial and play the good cop, but a current of anger ran underneath, and she could not mask the disdain in her eyes. Marlowe hoped she could maintain a rein on her emotions.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Sam said in a whisper.

  “Of course not. We just think you might know something that can help us find them.”

  “Didn’t do anything,” he repeated.

  Amanda glanced at the mirror with a look saying ‘I’m gonna strangle this guy’. “We know you followed the girls to the clearing, down by the creek. Your blood is on this rock and stuffed animal. How did that happen?”

  Sam shook his head, waving his hands in front of him.

  “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll assume you did something to those girls, and this conversation will beco
me a lot less pleasant.” Amanda leaned over the table, inches from Sam’s face, her voice low and menacing. “Why were you there? Where were you going?”

  Sam stared at the table, his feet padding against the floor. The sound issuing through the intercom reminded Marlowe of double-bass drums in a heavy metal song. “To Harper’s Bend.”

  “The swimming hole? On the river?”

  He dipped his head. “Sometimes folks leave stuff.”

  “Okay, good.” Amanda seemed to calm, her pace around the room less austere. “But you saw the girls and followed them into the woods, right?”

  “Storm was coming,” said Sam.

  “So, you followed them to tell them about the storm?”

  “Storm was coming. They needed to go home.” He kept his eyes lowered, and his lips continued to move in silence between words.

  “Once in the clearing, what happened then?” Amanda’s posture relaxed slightly, and she eased into a chair adjacent to Sam’s.

  “I told them they needed to go home ‘cause…”

  “The storm. Yeah, I got that. What happened next?”

  “The small one, not the ones that looked alike, she comes up to me. I didn’t mean to scare her.” Sam appeared on the verge of tears.

  “How did you scare her? What did you do, Sam?” Amanda’s voice rose in pitch, her pose tense and coiled.

  “I leaned down…” Sam stared at his palms as they trembled before his eyes.

  “And?”

  “She hits me with the rock there. I guess it’s that one.” He pointed to the stone enclosed in plastic, lying on the table.

  “That’s how your face got cut?” Amanda placed a finger on her cheek.

  Sam touched the wound, now scabbed over, and nodded. “I didn’t mean to scare them. They ran off. Up the hill.”

  “You followed them.” She tried to capitalize on the momentum and lead him to a confession.

  “No. I left. The way I came.” He unconsciously thumbed over his shoulder.

  Amanda sighed and shook her head. “You were doing so well Sam. Don’t start lying to me now. We know you went to the girl’s house, the one who hit you.”

  “No. No, I didn’t go.” Shaking his head, Sam made as if to stand, but settled back, mumbling.

  Amanda pushed out of her chair and marched around the table. She placed one hand flat on the surface in front of Sam, the other on the back of his seat. “You went into the house, didn’t you?”

  “N-no. No.” He rotated his face away from her.

  Amanda slammed photos from the folder onto the table. Grey skin marred in blood, the side of Dana Baldwin’s head gone, Jeff Baldwin’s entire face…gone. “You killed that little girl’s parents, and you took those children somewhere. Didn’t you?” She screamed into his ear.

  “No. No. No!” Sam shoved up from the table, his hands slapping at the air. His right arm caught Amanda across the chest, sending her stumbling backward. He huddled in the corner murmuring ‘no’ over and over. She threw her chair to the side. It bounced off the table and onto the floor, a clatter resounding throughout the room. Amanda stormed toward the man, her fists clenched.

  “Amanda,” snapped Marlowe from the doorway. “Can I see you for a moment.” It was not a question.

  Once in the hall, Amanda stalked the corridor, livid. “The son of a bitch did it. I know he did.”

  “Calm down.” Marlowe knew his error the moment the words left his mouth.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, goddammit. He did it. He knows where those kids are.” Amanda braced against the wall, rocking back and forth.

  “This guy couldn’t tie his shoes by himself.”

  Amanda refused to look at him, her eyes focused on the floor. She pounded her palms against her thighs and seemed to be holding her breath. Her outburst reminded Marlowe of one of Paige’s tantrums, but best not to mention that to Amanda.

  “Plus, we don’t have anything yet,” said Marlowe.

  Her head shot up. “What? We have his blood on the rock and doll. We have a witness.”

  “The witness and the blood only put him at the clearing. We can’t place him in the house. We don’t have a motive. And no murder weapon.”

  “Come on, Marlowe. We’ve gone ahead with less. I know you have, haven’t you?” She shoved off the wall and threw her hands up in exasperation.

  “Let’s see what Koop finds. Tell your people to search the Baldwins’ house again. Find anything showing Ewell was inside.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “We need more to push this guy. If he doesn’t talk, tell us where the girls are, we’re stuck at square one.”

  Amanda did not appear pleased, but nodded and stomped off down the hall. Marlowe watched her go, understanding her frustration. He could not stand around and do nothing, so he left the station and walked the short distance up the hill to Calvary Methodist Hospital. Koop sat at a desk in the morgue eating a stale pimento sandwich from the vending machine.

  “Can we not find something resembling a city and buy a few groceries? They do not have bagels in this county. No bagels means no cream cheese and bagels. Do you comprehend the magnitude of this travesty?” He shook the sandwich at Marlowe.

  “Suck it up, Buttercup,” said Marlowe with a smirk. “Find anything new?”

  “You are referring to the victims?” He thumbed to the bundles lying prone on tables in the center of the room. “Both are still quite dead I’m afraid. However, one interesting tidbit.”

  Koop stood, rubbed his lower back, and ambled across the floor. He drew a hand from beneath a sheet covering one of the victims. “See here. There is noticeable indention and wear around the third phalange of the left hand.”

  “In English—a missing wedding ring,” said Marlowe.

  “Precisely. You recall the Baldwins’ home? Barren of ostentatious décor. By all appearances, these were not wealthy people. If an element of the killer’s intent included robbery, the selection was minimal.”

  “So he took the ring, maybe to hock it?”

  Koop shook his head. “If that were the case, you would expect him to take Mrs. Baldwin’s ring as well.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t?”

  “He did not.” Koop stepped around the second table and uncovered a female left hand complimented with a gold wedding band.

  “Strange. Any theories as to why?” Marlowe furled his brows.

  “None. Not my department.” He chomped down on his sandwich and snarled in disgust before discarding the remainder into a wastebasket.

  Marlowe loved Koop, but sometimes he wanted to grab the old man around the neck and give him a noogie. A straight answer, without the sarcasm, just once in a while would be nice. Then again, if either Koop or Spence were denied sarcasm, likely they would be unable to speak at all.

  Outside the hospital, Marlowe sat down on a bench beneath one of a half dozen oak trees shading the lawn. He craned his head back and stared at the twisted branches. Another chilly day, the breeze cut through his overcoat. He shivered and pulled the collar up around his neck. Something did not add up with this case. Unless Sam Ewell put on one hell of an act, Marlowe doubted the man cable of abducting the children or murdering the parents. Still, he’d seen junkies blasted out of their minds do as bad. Time, or the lack thereof, pushed them to make any suspect…the one. He needed to guard against that compulsion. Wrong place, wrong time got more than one person sent away. Most times unintentionally, but cops were no different than anyone else—shortest distance equaled a straight-line, easiest to convict equaled the right perp.

  His greatest fear at present, the person responsible skipped town and was long gone with the kids, and they chased their tails with this search and investigation. Photos of the children were delivered to the media and checkpoints set up across the state. Marlowe instructed Rosser County deputies to send out Ewell’s photo to law enforcement, but to withhold it from the media. No sense in ruining the guy’s life until they had more evidence, it seemed well in ruins already
. Sam Ewell’s haunted eyes and scars sadly complimented the tattered Army jacket he wore. By the looks of him, he was still fighting his war. The absence of medals, stripes, or even a name, spoke volumes of how well he fared in his battles, the rural backwoods of Alabama no kinder to him than the deserts of the Middle East.

  For now, Marlowe could only wait and see what Sam did and hope against hope the search parties found the girls. Find the children, find the killer. Best case scenario. Marlowe tried to remember a time when the best-case scenario panned out. He couldn’t.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Afghanistan 2010

  Grandpa fought in World War II, part of the first wave to hit the beaches at Normandy. As a kid, I could sit and listen to his war stories for hours, and he had hours of stories to tell. I idolized the man, wanted to be just like him. In my dreams, I wore the green and stormed the front, Old Glory flying in the sky amidst anti-aircraft flak lighting up the night like the Fourth of July.

  From that point on, everything I did aimed at becoming a soldier. I made my folks buy every old war movie, I read books by the ton, and even wrangled a trip to see the USS Alabama in Mobile one summer. When those goddamn towelheads hit us on 9/11, people didn’t understand why it affected me so deeply. My family was as patriotic as the next I suppose, but nothing overboard. We honored Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, flew the flag outside, went to the parades, but though the attacks pissed everyone off, we didn’t know anyone who died, so my obsession with it struck some as strange. When we invaded Iraq in ’03, I read every article I could find and watched every documentary. I lived on the cable news channels waiting for reports from the battlefields and learned everything I could about the terrorists, the war, and the Middle East.