by Dave Stanton
“Well,” he said, a touch of pride etched across his features, “I may well be the only one left here who doesn’t hide his beliefs. Others as open as me have departed for larger cities where freedom of religion is upheld by the law.”
“I’m sure you’re not the only Satanist in the area,” I said.
“It’s a lonely endeavor, to be sure.”
“But not one entirely solitary, right, Mr. Conway?”
“I suppose…” he started, then his eyes pinched at the corners. “You know, you’ve not yet introduced yourself.”
“Dan Reno. Private investigations.”
“Ahh.” His eyes receded into his flesh, his thoughts turned inward.
I pulled a picture of Jason Loohan from my back pocket and handed it to Conway.
“Do you know him?”
He studied the sheet of paper for a long moment. “I’ve never seen him,” he said.
“Mr. Conway, this man is a known murderer who jumped bail. I believe he has likely sought out local Satanists. What I’d like to get is the names and contact information for every Satanist you know in Reno, Carson City, or the Lake Tahoe area.”
“And this is the purpose of your visit?”
“That’s right.”
“I highly doubt that would be ethical,” he said, his brow furrowed. “I will not be party to harassment or invasion of privacy.”
“You got any brewskis around this mausoleum?” Cody said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Cause we ain’t leaving until we get the names and numbers. And I’m getting thirsty.” Cody stood and walked to where the Ouija board was displayed. He grabbed it and held it up near a lit candle. “These things are a crock of shit, right?”
Conway shot Cody a withering glare, then turned his eyes back to me.
“Sorry about my partner. He’s not a patient man.”
“I fail to see—”
Conway stopped short as Cody stepped to him and leaned down, pulling up his shirtsleeve to reveal his shoulder.
“You see these stitches, my friend?” Conway stared at the mass of muscle, his lips pursed as if a bad odor had invaded his nostrils. “They were made by a bullet meant to blow my brains out. The man who shot me happens to share your asinine religious beliefs. And being that there ain’t many of you devil-worshipping nutcases out there, we figure you probably know who did it.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Which way’s your fridge?” Cody said, strolling out of the room, his hip grazing a blown glass skull on a thin, almost invisible plastic stand. The skull teetered and would have fallen if not for Cody steadying it with his fingertips.
Conway leapt from his chair. “Do you have any idea how expensive that piece is?”
“I’m sure you have many priceless treasures here,” I said, a smile on my lips.
Conway huffed, his hands on his hips, his pale complexion turning an unnatural pink.
“So this is how you do business? Invade innocent people’s homes and intimidate them into giving you what you want?”
“Sometimes, if that’s what it takes,” I said. “But we haven’t even got out of first gear yet.”
Conway sat back down as Cody reentered the room, a bottle of imported beer in his hand. He guzzled half of it and let out a tremendous belch.
“How utterly charming,” Conway muttered. “Fine. If it’s names you want, it’s names you’ll get.” I handed him my notepad and he began writing.
“Hey, Luther,” I said. “Don’t even think about bullshitting us. I’d hate to have to come back here.”
“And in return, I’d like your promise to not mention I’m your source for these names.”
“All right.”
We left Luther Conway after that. He glowered at us from the doorway as we drove off, his carriage gaunt, his stare rueful and menacing. Probably trying to save face, maybe a pathetic attempt to let us know we were lucky he cooperated. Like maybe we wouldn’t be as fortunate if we returned. I sat in the passenger seat studying the four names he’d written in sharp, precise penmanship, wondering if he’d made them up out of whole cloth, or if one might actually lead to Jason Loohan. One of the names was Greg Ruehr, the convicted vandal. But the name for his partner, Eric Wenhert, was absent. I put the list aside and decided to start with the address I’d found earlier for Wenhert.
“Get on 80 heading east,” I said. Cody hit the gas and soon we were on the freeway circling downtown Reno, the casino hotels jutting from the desert floor on our right, the distant flanks of the Sierras to our left. The mountain pass that doomed the Donner party faded from view as we left downtown behind, heading toward Sparks. Ten minutes later we exited the freeway and within a mile found the street we were looking for.
All the houses in the neighborhood were sprawling single story homes, the lawns green and mowed, the landscaping splendid, each dwelling an example of subtle but expensive suburban taste. A group of grade school kids were playing touch football in the street, and they politely moved to the sidewalk as we drove past. The Wenhert residence occupied at least half an acre on the broad avenue, its expansive yard shaded by giant maple and elm trees.
We parked and followed a curved brick path to the front door. I rang the doorbell on the frame of the stained oak door twice. No one answered. It was noon.
“Maybe out to lunch,” Cody said, but then the doorknob clicked. A blond woman, perhaps forty, peered out from the doorway. She wore no makeup, her face drawn, dark circles under her eyes. Her sweatshirt and baggy pants hid her figure for the most part, except for her breasts, which looked firm and large. Definitely fake, I thought. A small, fluffy white dog at her ankle looked up at us and wagged its tail.
“Mrs. Wenhert?” I ventured.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Dan Reno, and this is Cody Gibbons. We’re private investigators.”
Her eyes brightened a little and a small smile began at the corner of her mouth. “A couple private eyes, huh? Are you the hard-drinking variety?”
I said no and Cody said yes simultaneously.
“Looks like you’re outvoted, cutie-pie,” she said to me. “Y’all come on in.”
The interior of the house was spacious and decorated in earthy tones. A bouquet of purple flowers sat on a glass table in the entry, and watercolors of mountain scenery hung from the walls of the hallway. She led us into a large room where a muted television was tuned to a reality show. A bottle of Absolut vodka was on the coffee table, next to a half-full water glass.
“Please excuse me for a few minutes, you two. I wasn’t expecting company.” With that she walked out of the room and left us sitting on a crème-colored circular couch. I looked at Cody and shrugged. “I guess she’s the trusting type,” he said, then grabbed the remote control and began surfing the channels. I picked up her glass and tasted the clear contents. Straight booze.
“Barely noon, and I’d say she’s half lit. Come here, pooch.” I patted my leg and the little dog jumped up to my lap and rolled onto his back.
“That would make a nice picture,” Cody said, smiling as he watched me scratch the dog’s stomach. “The bounty hunter and his lap dog.”
Ten minutes passed. Then the rattle of ice cubes sounded from the kitchen, and a moment later the woman walked in and set a tray with glasses and a bottle of orange juice on the table. She’d done her face, lips red, eyes highlighted with liner and mascara, her hair combed out and falling around her shoulders. Now wearing tight jeans, high heels, and a clinging T-shirt.
“Help yourself,” she said, motioning at the bottle. She fell into an easy chair, sipped her drink, and batted her eyelashes.
“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Cody said, pouring himself a stout screwdriver.
“Mrs. Wenhert,” I started.
“You can call me Miss. I’m divorced.”
“Right. The reason—”
“You see, my ex-husband, Doctor Wenhert, saw fit to be banging his twenty-two-year-old sec
retary. So now he’s living with her, and I got the house.” She waved her arm and giggled.
“I see. Actually—”
“I mean, I’m not half bad myself, you know? At least the bastard did my boobs before he left me. Want to check these babies out?”
“If we must,” Cody said.
“Mrs. Wenhert,” I said again, but she ignored me and yanked up her shirt to reveal a pair of cantaloupe-sized breasts in a skimpy red bra.
“Not bad, huh? My husband had a thing for Pamela Lee Anderson.”
I tried not to stare too hard, but it was true Doctor Wenhert had done an excellent job.
“I’d say those are even nicer than Anderson’s,” Cody said.
She grinned drunkenly and took a healthy slug from her glass before pulling her shirt down.
“Ma’am, we’re here because we’d like to speak with Eric Wenhert,” I said.
Her smile vanished. “You sure know how to kill a buzz.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Eric was my son.”
“Was?”
“Yes.” She took a breath, then rested her eyes flatly on mine. “Eric hung himself three months ago. He’s dead.”
The words hung in the air like a toxic odor. “I’m sorry,” I said after a moment.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Wenhert,” Cody added. Right out of the police training manual.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile, but I saw her lower lip start to tremble. I waited while she took another long sip from her vodka. She blew out a breath and blinked tears from her eyes.
“I know this must be very difficult, ma’am, but do you mind if we ask a few questions about your son?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
“I’m aware he was arrested a couple years ago for vandalizing churches. Was he involved in any other anti-Christian activities?”
She reached down and brought the dog onto her lap. “He was obsessed with the occult, with devil worship, for a time. But he had got away from that in his last few months. I really thought he might turn his life around.”
“Did he have friends, or associates, that were into Satanism?” Cody said.
“His best friend was Greg Ruehr. He was a real prize. He moved out of town about a year ago.”
“Anyone else?” I asked.
“Associated with Satanism? The only other one would be that sicko, Luther Conway.”
“Why do you call him a ‘sicko’?”
“Besides the fact he claims he’s the son of the devil? He’s also a pedophile.”
“Really? Has he been charged with molesting anyone?”
“I don’t think so, but when Eric was a teenager…”
“Yes?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“I’m sorry, I know this is painful,” I said.
“Painful? You want to know what painful is? Have you ever had children?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so,” she sneered. “You don’t look complex enough to handle it.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Try raising a child, giving him your unconditional love, giving him everything, then watching his life turn into an abomination, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. But you never give up trying, do you hear me, never. Not even when he chooses to have sex with an older man. Not even when he’s so messed up in the mind he embraces the devil as his god. Do you think you could handle that?”
Cody and I sat quietly, listening as her voice rose in intensity.
“Then I come home one day, into this big, silent house, and find him hanging from a rope in his room, his face bloated and white, and I touched him and he was cold, so cold…”
She tried to continue but her voice cracked and she began sobbing into her hands. Cody stood and placed his hand on her shoulder, and we waited for her to cry herself out. But just when her sobs faded to whimpers, she jumped to her feet, her face wild with rage.
“So that’s been my experience with parenthood!” she screamed. “And you know what? It sucks! It fucking sucks! Get it? Do you get it?”
I pulled a picture of Loohan from my pocket.
“Have you ever seen this man?”
She looked at the paper, then guzzled the rest of her drink.
“No, I’ve never seen him.” Her face no longer livid, she dropped back into her chair, her head lolling on her neck.
“I think I’ll pass out now,” she said. “Please show yourselves out.”
We didn’t hesitate.
• • •
As we drove out of the neighborhood, I wondered about the lives behind the facades of those homes, about how the wealthy inhabitants were not immune from the most sordid, desperate circumstances. Knock on the door to the Wenhert house, and welcome to a private hell.
“Money sure doesn’t buy happiness, huh, Dirt?”
“You got that right. Christ, I think she even scared you off.”
“That she did, old buddy. I’m starving. Hysterical women always make me hungry. And thirsty too. Let’s get lunch.”
We drifted back toward downtown Reno and found a hofbrau with chicken and sides of beef roasting on spits in the front window. The chill of the morning hours had succumbed to the afternoon sun, and the promise of cold beer and real food drew us into the place like a magnet.
The dining room was crowded and noisy, but the bar, done in stained and lacquered pine, was mostly empty. Hunched over at the bar, I scribbled in my notebook, while we waited for our lunch order.
“No wonder Luther Conway didn’t give us Eric Wenhert’s name,” I said.
“Obviously he didn’t want us to find out he’d had sex with the kid. Fuckin’ pervert.”
“I bet that’s part of the reason the kid croaked himself. Not only is he gay, but getting it on with an old creep like Conway?”
Cody swigged off his beer. “You told me Loohan is supposedly a poon hound. And now we find out Conway is a sexual degenerate. Think there’s a connection?”
“I don’t know. I think these Satanists are all sexual deviants to some extent.”
“Yeah? Let me tell you something. If none of these names old Luther gave us pan out, I want to go back and nail his nuts to the wall.”
“We already know one is bogus—Greg Ruehr. Wenhert’s mother said he moved away a year ago.”
Before Cody could respond, my cell rang.
“Yeah, Frank Swaney,” the voice said.
“Dan Reno. Thanks for calling, Detective.”
“DeHart called me, said you’re looking for a bail jump named Jason Loohan.”
“That’s right.
“I saw the APB on Loohan. He hasn’t turned up yet, but we’ll keep our eyes open.”
“Right. I wanted to ask you about a case from a couple years ago. Two men arrested for spray painting pentagrams.”
“Sure, I remember it. What’s your interest?”
“Loohan’s into devil worship. I’m trying to locate people into the same.”
“Ah. Sorry this is not gonna help you. One of them moved away months ago. The other committed suicide recently.”
“How about Luther Conway, Detective? What’s your take on him?”
“Conway? He’s a strange one, no doubt, but he’s stayed off the radar since doing a week in the county slam a while back.”
“Anybody else you can think of that’s into Satanism or the occult?”
He paused. “Hmm. Not really, no.”
Cody looked at me after we hung up. “Nothing,” I said.
The bartender brought our lunch orders, and my barbeque beef sandwich was so messy I had to eat it with a knife and fork. Not that I was complaining. I washed it down with a cold brew while I studied the three remaining names Luther Conway had provided. After we finished eating, Cody ambled off to take a leak, and my cell rang again. It was Candi, my sometimes girlfriend from Elko. We hadn’t spoken in a week, and in the back of my mind, I was a bit concern
ed. I should have called her.
“Hello, doll,” I said.
“Hey, you. Staying busy?”
“Yeah, I’m in the middle of a new case. I’m sorry for not calling.”
“It’s okay, Dan. I’ve been up to my eyeballs myself. I can always pick up the phone too, you know.”
“I know,” I said, smiling. Candi always put me at ease when I thought she might be unhappy with me.
“Listen,” she said. “Remember I told you about that job opportunity at the community college out there?”
“Yeah?”
“I have an interview scheduled for next Wednesday.”
“Really? Hey, that’s great.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“Huh? No, of course not.”
“They’re considering me for art director. They were very impressed with my work.”
“They should be. You’re stuff is great, Candi.”
“Thank you, Dan.”
“You’re welcome, doll.”
“Are you still staying in shape, jogging with that fifty-pound pack?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Good,” she said, a sly edge to her voice. “I want to spend the night with you Wednesday and test your stamina.”
“Oh, god.”
“So, I’ll be hitting the road Wednesday morning, probably be in South Lake Tahoe midafternoon. Will you be at home?”
“Yeah, I should be.”
“Oh, well if—”
“No, I’ll make sure I’m home, Candi. It’s just this case I’m working has me on the run.”
“What kind of case?”
“An elusive bail jumper.”
“Well, I won’t be there for three days. Do you think you can find him by then?”
“I’ll be doubly motivated to.”
“Good,” she said, the suggestive tone back. In my mind’s eye, I saw her tongue curl as she spoke, her eyes sparkling beneath the bangs of her brown hair.
We hung up, and Cody, who returned to hear the last half of the conversation, toasted me with his mug.
“Your brunette from Elko?”
“Yeah.”
“Getting serious?”
“You never know.”
“I think I see a second marriage in your future.”