by D P Lyle
Maybe a new “Charlie” was responsible. A mad man with no relationship with Garrett. Unknown to Garrett. Possible, but like the Manson Family, too coincidental.
She knew most homicides occurred for a reason, a payoff. Even Manson’s rationale for the Tate-LaBianca murders made sense on some screwball level. The killings of white people in white neighborhoods, which he assumed would be blamed on blacks, was supposed to trigger a black-white war--”Helter Skelter”--and result in him ending the war and becoming a world leader. Crazy, but rational to a paranoid schizophrenic.
What would be the payoff for a new “Charlie”? Maybe something as bizarre as “Helter Skelter.”
What the hell are you thinking, Samantha?
This case was making her delusional. The Manson Family for Christ sakes.
The only perp that made any sense was an accomplice. But who? A relative? A friend? A fellow Satanist? Someone who would realize some benefit from clouding the Garrett case. But what? Money? Power? Revenge for Garrett?
Sam returned to her office to find that Lanny Mills had called twice to see if anything new had turned up. Thelma gave her the messages complete with Lanny’s phone number and his requests that she call immediately.
Sam sat behind her desk, tossed the messages in the trash, and gathered her notes on this morning’s crime scene. She scratched out a somewhat coherent report, including her visit to the groupies, and gave it to Thelma for typing.
Ralph Klingler called.
Ten minutes later, Sam tapped lightly on Klingler’s office door. It stood slightly ajar, so she pushed it open. Ralph sat hunched over a microscope, dictating monotonaly into a hand held recorder. He looked up as the door swung open.
“Sam, come on in. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair that faced his desk. A two-foot tower of medical journals occupied the seat. “Sorry. Let me get those.” He stood.
Sam waved him away and lifted the stack. “Where do you want them?”
“Over there. On the shelves.”
Sam placed them on the only vacant shelf in the bookcase that covered the wall to her right. The remainder of the shelves held thick textbooks, bound journals, and several photos of Klingler’s family. She returned to the chair and sat, nudging it forward, close to his desk.
“What’d you find for us?” she asked.
“I finished the autopsy gross exam on Miriam and Roger. Haven’t completed the microscopics yet, but I don’t think they’ll add anything.”
“I take it from your call that something important turned up.”
“The wounds. Both of them were stabbed several times...in addition to having their throats cut and their hearts removed. It’s the stab wounds that are bothersome.”
“In what way?”
“They were made by the same knife Garrett used on the kids. Or an identical one.”
“What?” Sam lurched forward in the chair, her hands grasping the edge of the desk. “Are you sure?”
“The knife Garrett used is very distinctive...curved, eight-inch blade with serrations along the top. The wounds on the Hargroves’ match in every dimension. I’m no forensics expert, but I’ve seen quite a few homicides in my day and these wounds are so distinctive...well...yeah, I’m sure. It would help if I could have Garrett’s knife again. For a better comparison. All I have on file are photographs and my descriptions.”
“Sure. It’s in the evidence lock-up. I’ll zip over, get it, and bring it back.”
During the mile drive to the Sheriff’s Department, Sam attempted to make some sense of what Ralph Klingler had said. An identical weapon used in an identical murder when the killer and the weapon were both locked away. How could that be? There must be an accomplice. What else could explain this? Did Garrett and his partner plan such an elaborate scheme? Down to buying two identical knives? If so, why wait for Garrett to be convicted? Wouldn’t it make more sense to do the other murders before the trial? It didn’t fit. Unless, the entire plan was designed to embarrass the legal system. But, why?
“Hello, Thelma,” Sam said as she entered the office. “I need the evidence room keys.”
“Here you go.” Thelma retrieved the keys from her desk drawer and tossed them to Sam.
“Is Charlie around?”
“In his office.”
“Don’t let him walk out of here while I’m digging around. I’ve got to talk to him.”
She unlocked the door to the evidence room and flipped on the overhead light. She located the box that held the evidence in the Garrett case, pulled it off the shelf, and dumped its contents on the table, which sat along the wall. She shuffled through the sealed evidence bags, but didn’t find the knife. She spread the items out, examining each one in turn. No knife. A third inspection, same result.
“Thelma,” she said, peering out the door, “has anyone signed out any evidence from the Garrett case.”
“No, I’m sure they haven’t, but I’ll double check.” She removed the evidence log from her desk drawer and opened it. Her finger traced down the page. “No.”
“And everything was returned from the court? Right?”
“It’s all listed here. Hector Romero signed everything in after court the other day.”
“The knife, too?”
“Yep.”
“Get Hector on the phone.”
Thelma reached Hector at the court. After Sam spoke with him and Hector assured her he had indeed retuned everything, including the knife, she marched into Charlie Walker’s office.
“You are not going to believe this.” She flopped down in the chair next to his desk.
“Believe what?”
Sam explained everything to him.
“So, what you’re telling me is that we have a copy cat or an accomplice who stole the knife from the lock-up and used it on the Hargroves?”
“Exactly.”
Charlie exhaled loudly. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” He leaned back in his chair and slung one leg up on the corner of his desk. “Why? Who?”
“The who is the million dollar question. The why? Maybe Garrett and his buddy are thumbing their noses at us.”
“Seems to me, if that was the case, they’d have done it before the conviction. Even before the trial.”
“I know.” Sam agreed.
“I could understand it if there’d been a reward for Garrett. Take the money after his arrest and conviction, disappear, and then throw the curve ball. But, that’s not the case.” Charlie tilted his hat back by pushing up the brim with one finger.
“None of this makes a whole hell of a lot of sense,” Sam said. “How did someone break into the lock-up and steal the knife in the first place?”
“Our security isn’t the best. Never had to be before. That room only has a simple dead bolt. Wouldn’t take Houdini to get by that.”
“I suppose.”
“Thelma,” Charlie hollered.
Thelma appeared at the door, squinting, brow furrowed. She appeared pale and unsteady and grasped the doorjamb as if she might fall without its support.
“You OK?” Charlie asked.
“Damn migraine again. I’ll be all right after I take my medicine. Did you change the light bulbs in here or something? Seems awfully bright.”
“You’re the only one around here that changes bulbs. Or even knows where they are. Why don’t you go lie down for a while.”
“I’ll be OK. What’d you need?”
“The evidence room keys. You keep them locked in your desk, don’t you?”
“Always.”
“No one could have gotten to them?”
“I don’t see how without my knowing it. Of course, someone could’ve broken in at night, but they’d have had to pry one of the doors and my desk drawer and I’d know if they did.”
“Thanks. Now, go lay down for a while and if you don’t feel better shortly I’m going to call Doc Roberts.”
“I’ll be fine.” Thelma turned and headed back to her desk.
“
What do we do now?” Sam asked.
“Find the Goddamn knife. And hope it’s not sticking out of somebody when we do.”
Sam massaged her temples. “Are migraines contagious?”
“No,” Charlie laughed.
“Tell my brain that. Jesus, will this madness ever end?”
Sam walked to the window, leaning her palms on the sill. She peered through the half open curtains and the dirty panes at the slice of downtown Mercer’s Corner visible from where she stood. Cars moved by slowly, people, in no hurry to be anywhere, greeted one another as they passed on the street, and two children swung around parking meters, while their mothers chatted nearby. To the casual observer, everything appeared normal, dull, ordinary, without a hint of the insanity that had descended on the town.
She pushed herself upright and turned from the window. “Anything on the prints?”
“They’re not Garrett’s. We’ll have to wait and see if Sacramento can make a computer match.”
Sam walked to the door, turned around, and leaned against the frame. She hooked one thumb in her belt. “Any thoughts on who might be Garrett’s side-kick?”
“None,” Charlie said. “No relatives or friends or anybody showed up at the trial. Except those kids that hang out on the corner every day. Could they be involved?”
“They can barely organize a trip to the 7-11. Too stoned. Not that I don’t think they would help Garrett if they could, I just don’t think they’re capable of murder.”
“Looks can be deceiving. To me, they look like the Manson Family.”
*
Fatigue slowed Walter Limpke. It slumped his shoulders and dulled his senses, causing him to move heavily. The muscles and joints of his arms and legs ached as he emptied boxes, lugged trash barrels, and climbed up and down the ladder at his hardware store.
He had awakened exhausted and even the four cups of coffee and two donuts he had consumed did not restore his energy. He had spent the morning doing inventory, stocking shelves, and tending customers, trying to ignore the flashes of last night’s dream that occasionally assaulted him. He was moderately successful, until he saw news of the murders on the TV he kept behind the counter. Then, distorted apparitions from last night invaded his thoughts with increasing rapidity.
At first, the images came at him with great effort, like a distant TV signal that flickered and faded and reappeared. Nothing coherent, but rather vague visions and sounds and smells. Soon, they became clearer, stronger. He saw a golden lake, an orange sky, a luminous red house, and Miriam Hargrove. He could see her face. Not her usual smiling, welcoming face, but a face twisted by fear and pain. A face surrounded by swirling colors and flashes of black lightning. A pale, bloodless face.
He felt empty, as if someone had ripped everything from him and left behind a hollow shell. Cold sweat leaked from his pores. He retreated to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face and examined himself in the mirror. He appeared old, gray, defeated.
He told his wife that he felt ill and was going home to rest. She insisted he go see Dr. Roberts, but he refused, saying he didn’t sleep well and was tired and after a couple of hours of sleep he would be fine.
As he entered his street, his unease grew.
Last night’s nightmare continued its assault: screams and moans and flashes of ruby light intermingled with Miriam’s distorted face; rows of pastel houses oozed down a hill side as if melting; silvery streaks of lightning, which produced no thunder, swirled within his head; a curved knife blade flashed before him, its polished surface reflecting the colors of the dream world, its finely honed edge slicing them into millions of bright shards; and blood, thick and pungently scented, seeped from the edges of each vision.
He was going crazy. There was no other explanation. This must be what people go through on their way to crazy from whatever sanity they possessed before.
He told himself that he would get home and find that there were no drying clothes hanging in the garage, no soiled towel from his clean-up efforts. It was all a mad nightmare. It must be, for he could not fathom what the alternative would mean. He did not kill Roger and Miriam. He was sure of that.
He turned into his drive and reached up to press the garage door opener, which hung from the sun visor. He hesitated. Moment of truth.
Fear shoved his heart into overdrive. He touched the opener, his finger resting lightly on the button. For a brief moment, he considered backing from the drive and fleeing. Where? For how long? He couldn’t. He had to know.
He depressed the button and the garage door sprang to life. He closed his eyes as the door ascended, hoping it would hurry, hoping it would take forever.
He pulled into the garage. Before him sat the washer and dryer and above them, on the line he had stretched years ago, hung pants, a shirt, and a towel.
He began to shake. His blood became an icy river; nausea and faintness swept through him. The skeletal fingers of fear clutched his throat and a cold sweat slicked his skin. He oozed from his car and somehow staggered into the sanctuary of his home.
Chapter 11
The Sheriff’s Department buzzed with activity. Penelope and her followers had arrived an hour earlier. Sam ushered them into one of the interrogation rooms where she had set up the fingerprinting equipment on a table along one wall. One by one, she inked their fingers and rolled them onto print cards. They cooperated, quietly, passively, and said little, which contrasted greatly with their demeanor once they returned to the front office and saw what Thelma had prepared for them.
Thelma, notorious for taking in strays of all kinds, had a menagerie of dogs, cats, and assorted other critters at her home. She took immediate pity on the ragamuffin group and ordered in pizza, cookies, and large bottles of Coke and 7 UP. The hungry kids devoured the treats with relish and laughed and joked as any group of teenagers would.
The sounds of the impromptu party filtered into the room where Sam finished printing Penelope. She handed the girl a moist paper towel so she could clean her ink stained fingers.
“Sounds like a party out there,” Sam said. She eyed the slim girl who made no response. Penelope was tall with stringy dark hair in dire need of washing. Her brown eyes held a sadness that was palpable. The pentagram on her forehead was painted, not tattooed as with some of the others.
“I spoke with Ed Campbell,” Sam said. “He corroborated your story. Said you guys were there around midnight.”
“That’s what we told you.”
“We cops are suspicious by nature. We check everything.”
“That’s why we have to go through this?”
“Exactly.”
Penelope shrugged.
“How did you get mixed up in all this?” Sam asked.
“All this what?” Penelope finished cleaning the black ink from her fingers and tossed the stained paper towel into the trashcan next to the table.
“This Satan thing. Garrett.”
“An old boyfriend introduced me to the religion.”
“Penelope, this is not a religion. It’s a cult. A dangerous cult.”
“Outsiders always say that. Satanism is no different from any other religion. Catholics, Baptists, Jews. Are they all cultists?”
“Any religion can become a cult if its followers take their beliefs to the extreme. If their ideas are out on the fringe. You must admit Satanism isn’t exactly mainstream.”
Penelope shrugged. “We’re bigger than you think. And growing.”
"What do you expect to get out of this?" Sam asked.
"Enlightenment. Contentment."
"It seems to me that there are better ways to get there."
"We will win, you know."
"Win?"
"The war. The apocalypse of Revelation."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Of course. Read Revelation and you'll understand."
Sam began packing the fingerprinting materials back in the metal tackle box they were stored in. "What about your pare
nts? Don’t they worry about you?”
“Not likely. They’re too stoned most of the time to care.”
“Where do they live?”
“Beverly Hills.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nice digs.”
“My dad is a hot-shot Hollywood producer, my mother an actress. James Cochran and Jillian Bowers. You’ve probably heard of them.”
“Hasn’t everyone?” Both were A list players in the movie business. Golden Globes, Emmys, Academy Awards, you name it.
“Between my dad humping the honey of the week and my mom running off with whoever her current leading man happened to be, and the cocaine and booze, they occasionally had time for us to have dinner together. Usually at the latest Beverly Hills hot spot, where they could see and be seen.”
“And in protest, you found Satan?”
“He found me. I was already into drugs. A little. Four years ago, when I was fourteen, I met a man at a party. He was thirty-five, introduced me to harder drugs and sex. He also introduced me to Satan and other Satanists. They cared about me and listened to what I had to say. Became my family, my friends.”
The girl’s obvious intelligence unnerved Sam. How could someone so well spoken be dressed like a street tramp and be devoted to a psychopath like Richard Earl Garrett? “Why Garrett? You don’t even know him.”
“He has seen Satan, has talked with him, and has been selected by him to be his personification here on Earth. He has Satan’s power within him.”
If that didn’t sound rehearsed, scripted, Sam didn’t know what did. “Actually, he’s a pathetic child killer. Is that what Satanists aspire to? Killing children?”
“Sometimes war has casualties.” Penelope looked at the floor and shuffled her feet.