A Coin for Charon

by Dallas Mullican

  The hand-sized bolt cutters were not optimal, requiring a great deal of pressure to break the sternum. Fragments of bone shot outward with each snip. Gabriel would gather them once done, and cleanse the tub of any remaining blood.

  He moved into the bedroom and opened the window wide. A beautiful night, the stars bright, a quarter moon hung in the sky. Beneath the window, Gabriel laid out the white sheet. He returned to the tub and cut free the organs he would use for the totem. The other unclean materials, bowels and lesser organs, he would discard.

  The lungs, he carefully arranged furthest from the window. Beneath them—the liver, kidneys, and stomach. Last, he cut the heart in two, allowing a thin strand to remain, holding the halves together, and set it onto the sheet. He dipped a small brush in the moist muscle, and painted the words:

  ζωή

  σκοπός

  θάνατος

  Gabriel admired the symbols. Well-practiced now, their crimson shapes stood out like fine calligraphy. Severing the arms took some patience and effort, yet once done, flaying the skin and drawing it downward proved simple. Magnificent wings to give the chosen the power of flight.

  He envied the man’s freedom to separate from the calamity of life and fly on the folds of the gods’ love and favor into a wondrous new world. Gabriel gazed down on his totem. His monument of worship. Beautiful. Perfect.

  The flowers, his mother’s favorites, grew wild in the woods near the farm. He remembered picking them for her, how she always laughed and called him her little angel. Gabriel smiled at the memory.

  He placed the flowers inside the body cavity and stitched it closed. The coins he laid on the eyes, the small cross on the neck. It was finished. The chosen, sanctified, could now soar for the heavens into the loving bosom of the gods.

  Elation filled him as he cleaned his tools and replaced them in his bag. With each chosen he ushered toward the heavens, he felt his own closeness to the gods’ presence increase. He was becoming one with them.

  Might he transform into a god himself? Might the great ones of Olympus and the heavens grant him a place among them? Forever faithful to their will, what wonders were possible.

  Gabriel pressed his finger into the heart. Upon the wall, he wrote a name.

  CHAPTER

  20

  “Judas? Didn’t he betray Jesus?” Spence learned forward, his face inches from the wall. He scratched his neck and eyed the name scrawled in blood.

  Marlowe stooped to examine the organs on the floor. “Yes…I think the killer’s more interested in the reason Judas hanged himself.”

  Spence pulled away from the wall and gave him an expectant look.

  “Guilt,” said Marlowe. “The victim is Terrence Cooley. A few weeks ago, he hit a kid with his car. They declared it an accident; the boy ran right out in front of him. Several witnesses confirmed there was no time to stop or swerve. Mr. Cooley couldn’t live with it. According to neighbors, he went to the spot where it happened every day. Withdrew, closed himself up in the house, never left but for that daily trip.”

  “Sad,” said Spence.

  “Very.” Marlowe stood and moved to the window, glancing up at the clouds. Another show for God. “Have the team do the usual. I’m not holding my breath for anything new, but you never know. Koop, let me know if you find anything.”

  Dr. Koopman moved around the bed, surveying the team checking the scene for prints and bagging items deemed as evidence. He seemed preoccupied.

  “Koop, you need anything?” asked Marlowe.

  “A new assistant if you have one on you. I’m too old for this heavy lifting.” Koop made a show of rubbing his lower back.

  “What happened to the vet kid?” asked Spence.

  “My question precisely. He said something came up out of town demanding his immediate attention and could not be certain when he might return. Peculiar.” Koop wiped a handkerchief across his forehead and let out a sigh.

  “Yeah, that is strange,” said Marlowe with a sly expression that went unnoticed.

  “So, where are we?” asked Spence.

  “Same river, one less paddle. We know what the killer’s doing and why. We know how he chooses his victims. Still, we’re no closer to finding him.” Marlowe paced the floor, hands clasped behind him.

  “If you’re right, and our dude’s got some keen sense of empathy allowing him to recognize these people, and no connection between victims, our only hope is he gives us some help.” Spence grumbled. “Bastard’s clean as a whistle. We couldn’t get a hit on his prints anywhere. It’s like he doesn’t exist. A fucking ghost.”

  Marlowe pointed to the corpse on the bed. “This poor guy suggests he’s real enough. I need to get some distance, clear my head.”

  Spence edged away from the body to give the forensics team room. “Yeah, you do that. S’pose I’ll head back downtown and comb through traffic surveillance tapes, see if anything stands out. I know we haven’t had any reports of a common vehicle at the scenes yet, but I can’t come up with anything else to do. Even a hook without a worm gets a bite once in a while.”

  “Yeah…” Marlowe stuffed his notebook in his pocket and trudged outside to his car.

  Ten minutes he sat there, not bothering to start the engine, unsure of where to go or what to do. This case was consuming him. He never slept and rarely ate. I could go spend time with Paige. He sighed. What good would that do? She’d still refuse to acknowledge him, her glassy-eyed stare again casting a silent reminder of how he’d failed.

  Day and night, his mind turned to the gruesome sights and facts associated with this madman’s work. The only other thing that gained any purchase in his thoughts, a woman. He spent a moment thinking of Becca, but wound up gazing into space, vaguely aware of the blurry shapes of the crime scene team milling around the door of the house.

  His phone went off, startling him.

  “Gentry,” said Marlowe, answering his cell.

  “Marlowe? Hi, it’s Becca. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “No, not at all. I’m taking a break. Actually, I could use a distraction.”

  She drew a breath, remaining silent for ten seconds. “C-could you come by my office? I, uh…need to talk to someone.”

  Her exhale told him it hadn’t been an easy question to ask. “Sure. Be there in thirty.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marlowe placed his phone on the dashboard. His heart sped up a few dozen beats per minute. A bad idea most likely, but she probably wanted to discuss something about the case. No use reading too much into it, even though part of him wanted to.

  Keep it professional. She’s a witness, idiot. Don’t do anything stupid.

  Becca stood by her office window with her back to the door as he entered. When she turned toward him, dark circles beneath her eyes gave away the fact that she had not slept much more than he had. Attacks by both a serial killer and her husband in the course of a couple of days seemed not to encourage sound sleeping habits. Marlowe admired her strength. How many people would still be standing, much less working, after going through that?

  “Thank you for coming.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment “It’s Michael. I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know what to do.”

  He rushed over to her. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She paced in circles, shaking her hands in the air as if drying them. “I told you how bad things are, but recently they’ve gotten worse. He’s like a caged animal with the reporters always outside the house. He was furious when he showed up that day. All the media and the cops. He said something about he couldn’t have them in his business. I thought he was going to explode, but I guess…all the cameras scared him off.”

  “His business?”

  “Yesterday, he got a call. I heard him yelling about someone getting arrested. I’ve been able to stay out of his way, but I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time until…”

  “He’s a cop, why would someone’s arrest matter so much? A fr
iend? Relative?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty certain he is up to something. Drugs, maybe. He gets these calls, always secretive, at all hours. I don’t recognize the voices, and they won’t talk to me if I answer.”

  “Hmm, does sound strange. I’ll do some checking. In the meantime, I can call over to county. I know some people there, lodge a domestic abuse complaint.”

  “No, please don’t.” Her eyes grew wide. “They won’t do anything, and even if they do…he’ll blame me and I’ll just get it worse.”

  “Okay, let me see what I can dig up. In the meantime, stay away from him. Is there somewhere you can go that’s safe?”

  She shook her head. “I have to stay at home. I’ve tried leaving, not a good idea.”

  Marlowe moved close and grasped her shoulders, “Listen, I’m going to take care of this, okay?”

  “I believe you.” Her smile made his knees weak. He stepped back before surrendering to his desire to pull her close and hold on tight.

  * * *

  Becca placed her hands on her shoulders where Marlowe had touched her, his eyes gazing into hers. She could still feel the warmth and strength of those hands. A bad idea on every level, she knew. Anything that might develop between them was bound to end badly. The things they possessed in common did not constitute the best foundation for building a relationship. Chief among them…need. They both struggled with a deep longing she doubted companionship, or even love, could satisfy.

  “Tall, dark, and dreamy back again?” asked Rachel with a sly grin. “Three visits here, a couple more to your house. Must have a lot of questions. I think you’re becoming a person of interest.”

  “Just questions about the case.” Becca attempted to hide her reddening cheeks.

  “Yeah, okay. He is handsome though. But another cop? Maybe not. I’m sure Michael seemed the same at first. Not saying he’d be as bad as Michael, but being a cop takes a certain mindset. Hard to turn it on and off.”

  Dammit, how does she do that? Always say what I’m thinking?

  Even so, right now, any port in a storm. She needed something to hope for, some light in the proverbial darkness. Anything seemed better than the dead end her life had become. Becca needed something pleasant to think about. A fantasy, even if it never became more than a fantasy. A place of sanctuary, a place to hide. A safe place.

  “You need a vacation. Get out of town for a while. We can stop scheduling appointments for a week. Clear this week and maybe the next, and then find a sunny beach somewhere.”

  “Sounds nice, but Michael can’t take any leave right now with a promotion pending, not that I would go anywhere with him. No way in hell would he allow me to go alone. Plus, I need to work, keep my mind focused. Too much time sitting around thinking…not a good idea.”

  “I guess I understand. Figuring out how to get rid of that lowlife husband of yours—that’s goal number one.”

  “Miracles happen,” Becca said with a forced smile.

  “Honey,” Rachel raised her eyebrows, “if anyone is due one, it’s you.”

  * * *

  Marlowe loathed the courthouse. Too many voices, too many complaints. Disgruntled people jostled in long lines for one license or another. Reporters shoved microphones into faces, some smiling, eager for the acclaim, while others pushed through the press of bodies, hands covering their faces to block the camera’s eye.

  He made his way to a fourth-floor office labeled District Attorney Horace Bennett. Marlowe marched past the clerk and knocked on the door belonging to Assistant DA Avery Humphries.

  “Yeah, come in.” A heavyset man with a bad comb-over popped up and rushed forward when he saw Marlowe enter the office. “Marlowe, you old son of a bitch. Here to pay up on that dinner you owe me for the last Auburn-Alabama game? Been avoiding me, haven’t you?”

  Avery and Marlowe went back several years. Avery had started as a prosecutor in the DA’s office about the same time Marlowe made detective. They had worked many cases together, and became good friends in the process.

  “I figured if I avoided you until this season Bama would win and square us even.”

  “Doesn’t work that way. And the Tigers will make it two in a row anyway. Have a seat.” Avery plopped down in his chair behind a desk layered in files and papers.

  Marlowe surveyed the desk as he sat. “Looks like you’re staying busy.”

  “No rest for the wicked. I haven’t seen the wood on this desktop since they rang the Liberty Bell. What brings you to my little corner of hell?”

  “Need a favor. You have anything on a Michael Drenning? Patrolman with County.”

  “Hmm, sounds familiar, actually.” Avery went to his file cabinet and rifled through dozens of manila folders. He plucked one out and flipped it open. “Ah, here we go. IA forwarded a few complaints for excessive force.”

  “Yeah, I found those. Anything else?”

  “Appears we’re looking at him for drug trafficking. We just nabbed one of his suspected accomplices. Seems Drenning’s more of a lookout and drop guy—transports the stash for sale. A lot of cops take on that role. They keep things running smoothly, without interference or surprises. Nothing hard on him. Sorry. Why do you ask?”

  Marlowe rubbed a finger over his lips. “Came across him while investigating another case. Something seemed off.”

  “Drenning…ah. The doctor attacked by Seraphim, right? Her husband?”

  “Yeah, abusive prick. Hoped I might find something on him, get him out of circulation.”

  “That’s tough. Why hasn’t the doctor lodged a domestic abuse complaint? We take those very seriously now days.”

  “It’s complicated,” said Marlowe with a don’t ask expression.

  “Always is,” said Avery. “Listen, if you want to bait this guy, see what you catch, we have a man in deep undercover with one of the main suppliers. He can’t help directly, you’ll need to find your own seller. Still, if Drenning is in the business at all, he should recognize the name and take it as legit. Name he’s under with is Carlos Montego.”

  “Sounds good.” Marlowe stood and shook Avery’s hand. “Thanks for everything. I promise you’ll get that dinner. And Avery, keep this between us, okay?”

  “Keep what between who?” Avery smiled mischievously.

  Now, with something to work with, Marlowe knew just who to recruit. He drove to Westside and parked in the alley behind Brightbrook Apartments. With any luck, Raze would be holed up in his underwear eating potato chips.

  Marlowe pounded on the door. If the asshole was sleeping that should wake him and let him know someone at the door meant business. He waited a few seconds. Not hearing movement from within, he prepared to give the door another thumping.

  “Wait a fuckin’ second. I’m coming. Jesus Christ.”

  Raze didn’t sound in good spirits, but Marlowe couldn’t care less. The little weasel’s mood was about to change for the worse, regardless.

  “Open up, Raze,” Marlowe said as the rat-faced man peeked through four inches of open door.

  “Aww shit. Listen, I told you everything. I swear. Your people ripped my place apart. Can’t you leave a dude alone?” Raze backpedaled, wide-eyed, into the apartment.

  “Time to pay back that favor, Raze.” Marlowe strolled into the dank room like he owned the place.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why the hell would I help you? You almost tossed my ass four stories.”

  “That’s one reason,” Marlowe said, smiling and nodding to the window.

  “Man, why are you fucking with my life?”

  “If I wanted to ‘fuck with your life,’ you’d be looking at charges for tampering with a corpse, disturbing a crime scene—”

  “All right, all right.” Raze pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “What the hell do you want?”

  Marlowe smiled. “That’s more like it. I need you to do something for me, and you’re going to do it.”

  “What is it?” Raze lowered
his arm, staring at Marlowe with a pained expression, his left eye half closed.

  “Arrange a drop. I need some cheese on a mousetrap.”

  “Oh, fuck man. You have any idea what’ll happen to me if word gets out about somethin’ like that? You can’t. Shit…shit.…” Raze collapsed into a rickety chair. He looked up at Marlowe like a beaten puppy.

  Marlowe wandered closer, appraising the junk strewn about. “You’d be perfectly safe in a holding cell.”

  Raze wiped a hand down his face, drooping his eyes. “What do I have to do?”

  “Call this number. Make sure you talk to Michael Drenning…and only Michael Drenning.” Marlowe offered him a Post-It. “Tell him you are the new liaison for Carlos Montego, and you’ve got some product ready for shipment. Say it. Only Michael Drenning.”

  “You ain’t going to get me killed, are you?” asked Raze, almost childlike.

  “Say it.”

  Anger hardened the man’s eyes. “Only Michael fucking Drenning. Now, this little escapade ain’t gonna get my ass killed, is it?”

  “Not if you do what I tell you. All the info for the meet is written here.” Marlowe handed Raze a folded piece of paper. “All you have to do is drive up, get out, and wait for Vice to roll in. Think you can handle that?”

  Raze looked the paper over, smirked, and let it fall in his lap. “Do I have a choice?”

  “We all have choices, Raze. What matters is the effect of those choices.”

  “Yeah, okay Mr. Fortune Cookie. You some Confucius-ass motherfucker all right.”

  Marlowe headed for the door. “Confucius? Raze, maybe you aren’t as dumb as you look after all. Make the call. I’ll check in later.”

  “Gentry…”

  “What?” Marlowe turned, eyeing Raze with a stare that brooked no arguments.

  “After this, we good, right?”

  “We’ll see, Raze,” said Marlowe, with a subtle grin.