A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  * * *

  “Ah, detectives,” said Koop as they entered the morgue’s examination room.

  Marlowe always found the chill and sterility of the morgue relaxing. Most likely, the least dangerous location on earth. The dead rarely presented a threat to anyone. They knew their place and kept their opinions to themselves. The dead never bothered Marlowe. The living, on the other hand, always made him wary.

  “Find anything interesting?” asked Spence.

  “Much and more, step over here,” said the doctor, waving a hand toward the center of the room.

  They followed to where the victim’s body lay. The armless corpse resting on the cold, steel table made Marlowe’s head swim again. So much for the dead not unnerving him. He managed to mask his unease and nodded to Koop. The doctor positioned the overhead light and pulled back the sheet, revealing the body.

  “As you can see, the killer separated the sternum using bolt cutters, or something similar. Though I can think of nothing similar to bolt cutters that are not bolt cutters.” Koop smirked. His humor went unappreciated, so he continued with his findings. “The jagged edges indicate a breaking of the bone rather than sawing through. A bone saw leaves smoother edges and a more even separation.”

  Koop removed the ribcage, placed the sections onto an adjacent table, and pointed to the interior cavity. “It appears I guessed correctly. A hunting style knife sliced the organs free.”

  “Our killer has medical expertise?” asked Marlowe.

  “Doubtful. A knife rather than a scalpel suggests not, and the cuts themselves confirm it. The killer sliced and cut whatever held the organ in place, like someone working on a Thanksgiving turkey. I do not detect any surgical precision in the method. Also, and more telling, look here.…” He indicated a round contusion high on the victim’s forehead. “My assistant pursued a degree in veterinary medicine before switching to forensics, fortunately for us. He recognized the mark. Jonas, care to enlighten our guests?”

  A freckle-faced kid of about nineteen approached and stood to one side of Koop. A college kid interning with the department, he could not seem to make eye contact with the older men, addressing his comments to his shoes.

  “Well…I-I…” Jonas stammered.

  “Speak up lad, they won’t bite you,” said the doctor.

  “A captive bolt gun, uh…made the mark.”

  “A what?” asked Spence.

  “It’s a device used to subdue livestock before bleeding them out. It knocks the animal unconscious, so they don’t feel anything. On large animal rotation, I saw the procedure performed several times. It’s considered the most humane way.”

  “Humane slaughter. Now there’s an oxymoron for you,” said Spence.

  “Like our vic, though.” Marlowe glanced at Koop. “So, you’re thinking the killer works or worked in a slaughterhouse?”

  “Or on a farm processing their own meat.” Jonas returned his stare to the floor.

  “Great, only a few gazillion farms and slaughterhouses in Alabama.” Spence tossed his hands into the air.

  “It’s a start,” said Marlowe. “What about the flowers in the body cavity, any luck there?”

  “Yes, Google. Wonderful invention,” said Koop. “The flowers are species found in abundance across the southeast—wildflowers blooming almost year round. The yellow are a type of daisy, the purple are known by the common name Carolina Wild Petunias.”

  “Short answer…no help. Anyone can get them from virtually anywhere,” said Spence.

  “Also, the coins placed on the eyes are British half pennies. Britannia embossed on the back holding a trident, George V on the front. This version was the most abundantly minted, running from 1911 to 1936.” Koop repositioned his glasses with an index finger.

  “Those must be rare,” A glimmer of hope sparked Marlowe’s eyes.

  “Ah, but there’s the catch. These are replicas. Cheap brass and aluminum,” said Koop.

  “Meaning we can’t trace them?” Spence huffed a disgusted breath and rubbed tension from his neck.

  Koop shook his head. “You can try, but I’m guessing you won’t get anywhere. Cheap coins like these are used as children’s toys and fake currency in theater plays, among others. A slew of uses in England for costume antiques.”

  “Maybe he’s from England.” Marlowe paced about, tapping his index finger to his thumb. “We can try checking immigration and passenger manifests for incoming flights and see how many Brits have recently arrived in the city. Though even if that’s the case, he could have landed in Atlanta and driven over, or simply have been here for years. Another needle in a haystack.”

  “There’s one other thing,” said the doctor. “We found adhesive residue, most likely from duct tape, on the victim’s skin inside each breast. The same residue was found on the lapel area of her top, along the buttons and button-eye holes.”

  “Why?” asked Spence.

  “Modesty? He kept the victim’s breasts covered during his operation. No blood on any of the clothing suggests the body was wrapped before exsanguination.”

  “Ok, that’s weird. Not like this whole thing isn’t weird as hell, but why would someone who planned to hack her up worry about seeing her saucy bits?” asked Spence.

  Koop shrugged. Finished with his examination, he pulled the cover over the victim’s head and cut off the overhead light before snapping off his latex gloves. “Toxicology results will take a week. We know she took several prescriptions, and with the use of the bolt gun, I doubt the killer used additional drugs.”

  “Good to know about the tape residue, but not much help at the moment. We’ll mark it for a profile workup,” said Marlowe. “Spence, let’s get some people looking into slaughterhouse workers going back ten years. Farms with livestock processing, current and former hands, owners, the works.”

  “What are we looking for? Have to narrow it down a little more than that.” Spence jotted the instructions into his notepad to pass along to the staff.

  “Anyone who might have walked off with one of those captive bolt gun things—anyone with access to one. Run every name through the databases. Anyone with priors, tag them for an interview. Plus, put in a call to every county sheriff’s department in the state. Have them send people to question farmers and slaughterhouse supervisors about anything odd or suspicious, like stolen or missing bolt guns. Interview everyone with access to the guns. Also, check manufacturers for sales. I doubt this guy bought the gun on the up and up, but maybe if he stole it, we’ll find an order for a replacement.”

  “That’s a lot of work. They ain’t going to like it,” said Spence, his eyes wide, head tilted to one side.”

  “I don’t care what they like. Ask nice, but if they offer you lip, tell them the governor will be giving them a call. Next, run this killer’s MO through VICAP, NCIC, and the rest.”

  Spence closed his notebook. “You’d think this fucked up totem would have made it onto our radar.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. You saw those Greek symbols. Did you notice how they looked like a child writing their name for the first time—thick and rigid, concentrated? This wasn’t a practiced hand. The sutures are haphazard and cautious as well. This looks like a first run through with the complete ritual.” Marlowe paced the floor, his thinking cap pulled down tight. “I think he’s killed before. However, it would be less refined, perhaps only a few signatures similar to this one. He’s evolving, finding a ritual that best expresses his message.”

  “Message?” asked Spence.

  “No one goes to this much effort and detail without having something they wish to convey.”

  “So what’s he telling us?”

  Marlowe stared at the door. “I have no idea, but I know someone who might.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Gabriel positioned the rake against a pile of leaves, hefted the heap waist-high, and deposited it into the wheelbarrow. Almost done with this section of the hospital grounds, he took a deep breath and gazed o
ver the yellowed area. Beneath layers of dried, brown leaves lay a dead earth. Dead but for a time; soon it would live again, green and vibrant.

  He knew his purpose now. More than a purpose…a calling. The cool air felt invigorating. The sun on his face seemed the kiss of divinity. And why not? Chosen to be a mortal instrument in the hands of the gods, he stood above the triviality of menial tasks.

  Gabriel leaned against the rake, his dark green jumpsuit over-warm in the sunlight, but chilly on his back. He watched the doctors, nurses, and patients scurry from across the hospital complex. All of them appeared so busy, lost in the need to be somewhere. None of them could appreciate the quiet moment and revel in the simple value of living.

  A sharp whistle brought his head around. Paul waved Gabriel over to where he leaned against the riding lawnmower, inspecting its engine.

  Paul stood back and kicked the tire. “Goddamned piece of junk. I’ve told them a hundred times we need a new one. Can’t see why the hell we cut the grass in winter anyway. Ain’t no fucking grass to cut. I’m moving leaves around the lot is all. Hand me those pliers, will ya?”

  Gabriel reached into the toolbox. As soon as his fingertips touched the cold steel, his mind leapt to a different time and place.

  * * *

  He followed his father out into the field. At ten years old, he had taken on more responsibility around the farm. His father owned a small spread, but it contained everything the family needed. In a garden, they grew tomatoes, okra, several kinds of beans, lettuce, cabbage, and corn. An orchard sprouted apple and peach trees, and wild grapes and blackberries grew near the wood line.

  They passed a pen full of pigs, chickens in their coop, and a half-dozen milk cows milling about the grounds and pasture. Athena, a recent addition courtesy of a large cantankerous sow, seemed to think she was a puppy. Each time Gabriel entered the pigpen, she ignored the slop in favor of rutting at his feet and following him around the enclosure. He developed an attachment to the little pink nuisance. She soon became a pet and then his best friend. If he ventured outdoors, Athena shadowed him.

  Mason, Gabriel’s father, propped himself against the tractor’s front tire. A long white scar, where hair would not grow, ran from his temple to well behind his right ear. He did not know how his father received the scar, but assumed one of the horses kicked him, back when they owned horses, before Gabriel’s birth. Mason could not hear or speak, presumably due to the injury.

  His father motioned with one hand, twisting it left then right. Gabriel understood and reached into the toolbox for a pair of pliers In addition to being unable to hear or speak, Mason was illiterate, which caused communication between them to develop slowly over time. They had evolved their own language of gestures and expressions.

  Gabriel handed the pliers to Mason, who took them with a smile. His father had trouble with most things and became confused easily; yet, when it came to the farm, he had mastered repairing the equipment, tending the fields, and caring for the animals. Gabriel followed at Mason’s heels as Athena did at his own, absorbing everything his father did.

  Mason nodded toward the tractor’s seat. Gabriel bounded onto the footstep and up behind the steering wheel. Mason gave the bolt one last turn and shook the pliers at Gabriel, who hit the starter. The old John Deere fired right up. Mason smiled his lopsided grin and Gabriel clapped with delight.

  He let Gabriel drive the tractor into the barn. Once the rumble of the engine stilled, the sound of Mother’s voice called out.

  “Time for nourishment, my angels.”

  Gabriel dashed for the back door with Mason limping along in his wake. Elisabeth smiled at their approach.

  “Did you slay the dragon, my prince?” she asked.

  He bounded up to her. “Yes milady, all is quiet in the realm.”

  “How marvelous. Following our meal, I thought we might continue our reading from King Lear,” said Elisabeth.

  Gabriel shifted a stone near the step with a toe before offering a slight nod.

  “You have your heart set on Henry V again I take it?” said Elisabeth.

  Gabriel looked up with a smile. “I love that one best.”

  “I know you do. All boys love stories of battles and heroes.” She tousled his hair. “Very well, Henry V it shall be.”

  The family did not own a TV or a radio. An old record player sat in the den, where many nights they listened to Mozart, Beethoven, Aaron Copeland, and Glen Miller. Other than tromping through the woods, Gabriel’s primary entertainment came from playing with his coins and reading.

  His mother had given him a large vase filled with coins. Each depicted a woman with a sort of pitchfork on one side and a man’s head on the opposite. He liked to arrange them into shapes and designs and watch the sun shine down on them, bursting into stars of light.

  He possessed five books—Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey in one volume, John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Virgil’s Aeneid, Edith Hamilton’s Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes, and a Bible. He read each more than a dozen times through, and knew all of his books cover to cover. Gabriel could recite long passages from all of Shakespeare’s plays, having heard his mother on a thousand readings.

  Following their meal, the three sat around the den as Elisabeth recited Henry V’s Saint Crispin’s Day soliloquy.

  “…From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be remember'd;

  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

  For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

  Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

  This day shall gentle his condition:

  And gentlemen in England now a-bed

  Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

  And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

  That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.”

  Elisabeth lacked the male tone for Henry V, but Gabriel could still hear the king rallying his men for battle. The passage always sent chills up his spine. He pictured the rows of mail-clad knights, their steel swords glinting in the sunlight. Such bravery they displayed, facing death without fear. Gabriel felt certain he would become a knight someday. He envisioned himself in steel armor, seated upon a rearing stallion, a brightly colored banner waving in one hand, a sharpened sword in the other.

  Mason slept in his recliner, chin firmly fixed to his chest, a thin line of drool tracing down his jaw. Occasionally, his legs might kick out, or a hand slapped at something unseen floating in the air.

  “I believe our king is ready for bed.” Elisabeth gently nudged her husband and nodded to Gabriel.

  Gabriel helped his father to the bedroom and assisted him in removing his boots. Once in the bed, he fell asleep in seconds, snoring loudly. A child in his mind, Mason feared the darkness, so Gabriel clicked on the nightlight plugged into the wall by the door in case his father woke.

  As Gabriel reentered the den, his mother spun about the room, dancing to some inaudible music. Her elegant lines showed practice and experience. Dress streaming about her, she twirled on a toe like a ballerina.

  “Isn’t this concerto simply divine? I recall this dance from the first time I performed Miranda in The Tempest. The Globe was spectacular then, filled with adoring fans.” She whirled across the floor, eyes on distant sights only she could see. “There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: if the ill spirit have so fair a house, good things will strive to dwell with’t.”

  Gabriel did not reply. He realized long ago many of the people his mother spoke of no longer lived, and those she spoke to were not present. She existed in times and places far removed, decades or centuries long past.

  Some days, she was an actress performing Shakespeare at the Globe Theater, other days, a poet in Victorian England trading verses with Alfred Lord Tennyson, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Matthew Arnold. Every so often, she claimed to be an Oxford professor at the turn of the 20th century.

  On her more co
gent days, she taught him to read and write. She instilled in him an understanding of the Bible and Greek mythology, and instructed him on the nuances of all his beloved books. Everything he read and learned merged into a worldview teeming with gods and heroes, strife and triumph. As a child, Gabriel looked out beyond the boundaries of his little farm at a land ripe for conquest and adventure.

  By the time he turned fourteen, however, Gabriel’s childish dreams had receded behind the demands of his days. Constantly in his father’s shadow, he now knew every facet of the farm. He could repair any tool or piece of equipment, knew how to manage the garden, and how to tend to the animals. A simple smile from Mason after he mastered some new task always made him swell with pride.

  He loved his mother, but worshiped his father. Their silent communication spoke deeper than Elisabeth’s highbrow words—her stanzas and verses. He understood his father’s every gesture. The childish dreams of Odysseus and Hercules, Samson and David, faded. Now, to be like his father seemed enough. He yearned to see things grow from the earth, and to become a man of the land—an inheritance bequeathed from one who loved it and had shown him how to love it as well.

  Mason limped down a row of beans, a pouch filled with insecticide in one hand. Each time he shook the batch over a stalk, his face tightened in a grimace. Gabriel touched his father’s arm, studying him with concern. Mason waved it away and continued his chore.

  Later that afternoon, his father tried to move a piglet from one pen to another. As he lifted, he made a pained sound and dropped the animal. Gabriel rushed to his side. His father smiled weakly and indicated for Gabriel to complete the task for him, stumbled to a nearby bucket, and sat, discomfort evident in his posture.

  Over the next few weeks, his father’s condition worsened. He appeared pale, a yellow tint to his eyes and gums, his skin, paper-thin. Mason’s every movement seemed strained with effort, distress pinching his face. Although mentally slow, his father had always been a strong man. Gabriel knew something was very wrong.