The Dark Man

by Desmond Doane

  “Straight down to business. My kinda guy.” He picks up a file box that’s stuffed to the rim with folders and clasp envelopes. “This is the Craghorn case history. Or, well, I should say that it’s the start of it. There are four more in our file room downstairs. And … now it might be more appropriate to call it the Craghorn-Gardner case.”

  My eyebrows arch at the sheer amount of it all, and my head ricochets backward like I just bumped it on a low doorway. “That much, huh?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You had that much evidence, and the case still went cold?”

  He pulls a shoulder up along with the corner of his mouth. “It happens. Sometimes you just … sometimes the bloodhound loses the trail.”

  I nod and clasp my fingers, then lean in on my elbows. Once in a while, I have to play the role of human investigator to get at the root of what someone is really looking for. It helps when I switch to my normal role of paranormal investigator.

  I ask the detective, “What were you going to say there, just now? You stopped yourself.”

  The telephone on his desk rings loudly. He ignores it in favor of staring at me, waiting as if he’s trying to decide how to answer.

  That is, how to answer me, not the phone.

  Five rings pass before he picks up the receiver and immediately slams it back down, hanging up on his clueless caller. “Sometimes,” he says, “you just give up. I hate to admit it, but after you’ve exhausted every possible option, after you’ve got a few more gray hairs and the bags under your eyes look like they’re carrying bowling balls, you have to admit defeat. Sometimes, the bad guys get away with it, Mr. Ford.”

  “Understandable. Who was the lead on the case back in ’04? Is that detective still around?”

  Detective Thomas raises his hand, almost sheepishly, without saying a word.

  “You? I didn’t think active homicide detectives tackled cold-case investigations. Or is that just an assumption I made up?”

  “Once Elaine Lowe—that’s the surviving husband’s housekeeper—once she came forward with the diary she found, I requested this assignment. Immediately dropped everything I was working on because I wanted another shot, and here I am, six months later, no closer than I was back in 2004. New evidence, a new list of suspects who were cleared, and a whole lot uglier.” He sighs as he flips a folder closed and drops it on his desk.

  “And murder was your original conclusion way back when?”

  He nods, grimaces when he sips his steaming hot coffee.

  “I read the content you sent me, Detective, but from what I gathered, the body had, uh, it had decayed so much that you weren’t quite sure.”

  He grins at me. “Then you didn’t read all of it.”

  He’s got me there. I didn’t, because when he called and asked me to hop on the next flight to Norfolk International, I was bone weary after the third farmhouse investigation. The events of two nights ago had prevented sleep from coming easily, and I’m dying to get back there to follow up, but the karma ain’t going to refill itself.

  Part of the idea is, I feel like if I do enough of these investigations, I could look at pitching a new show idea to some producers who may be willing to overlook the fallout from the demise of Graveyard: Classified, but until I’m ready for that day, I’m not about to step back into prime time until I can find some peace for Chelsea Hopper, and in turn, myself. What I caught the other night could lead to a breakthrough even though I haven’t had time to fully analyze its meaning.

  Ulie hasn’t been the same, either. The only thing I can do from here, three thousand miles away, is hope that my ex-wife, the aforementioned Melanie from wardrobe, is taking good care of him. She reports a tucked tail and whimpering, but he’s finally eating again.

  I say to Detective Thomas, “Guilty as charged. Although that’s probably not the best thing to say to a cop, huh?”

  Thankfully, he snickers. If I can get away with bad jokes, we might have a decent working relationship. Given what I do, it helps if my clients are easygoing and have an open mind. Judging by the fact that I’m here already, he’s either willing to try or has crossed the DMZ into desperation.

  “You’re off the hook, Mr. Ford. I sent a lot, I know. Anyway, so, whenever a naked body pops up in the water, you suspect what?”

  “Homicide. But if she was clothed, then my first thought would be an accident or suicide.”

  “Exactly. Could be the natural wear of the currents pulling her clothes off, but more than likely, she comes out like that, she went in like that. When her husband had reported her missing, the guys looked for her and came up with nothing. Missing Persons monitored her credit cards and bank accounts because sometimes these women—or men—they get into drugs, or they just want to be gone. Maybe they finally leave an abusive relationship behind, or they ran off with the gardener—or in this case, the Gardner. Pardon the pun.”

  His ambivalence doesn’t sit well in my gut, but I suppose after all he’s seen, it’s just another day on the assembly line.

  “And you found something that told you otherwise?” I ask.

  “Upon deeper inspection, once the ME got past all the—you know what? I’m going to spare you the wet details. The contusions around her neck showed signs of strangulation. At first glance, you might have suspected it could have been something underwater. Seaweed. Stray rope from an anchor. Maybe she’s out skinny-dipping, knocks her head against a rock, she sinks, the current drags her into something, and that’s all she wrote.”

  “I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”

  “You’d be guessing correctly. The bruises revealed what we consistently see in these types of murders, and that’s a really strong grip.” Detective Thomas cups his hands around an invisible neck, and I have to say, it freaks me out when he grinds his teeth as if he’s actually performing the act itself. I’ve battled demons with a crucifix, side by side with terrified clergymen, but this gives me serious goosebumps. It’s almost like he’s—never mind. I’m on edge after the other night. It’s nothing.

  “Were you able to tell, say, the size of the hands, or maybe the strength of the squeeze? Meaning, like, male or female?”

  “Trust me, Mr. Ford, we went over all that during the preliminary investigations. That’s the simple stuff. If you catch the deceased at the proper time, you might have a better chance of determining something like that on a good day while pulling a few miracle cards, but not after a body has been in the bay for over a week. We were lucky the ME was able to come up with what he did.”

  I sit back in my chair and put my finger to my lips, thinking. I’m not necessarily or inherently built with the deductive reasoning skills of a seasoned detective, but more than once, I’ve come up with an angle that helped spark their creative thought processes before I ever set foot in an investigation site. Beginner’s luck, I guess. Often a baffled, desperate police department has begrudgingly brought me in at the request of someone at the station who was a fan of the show, and frequently, the spirits of “the deceased,” as Detective Thomas refers to them, are uncooperative. I can’t make them talk any more than I can make a proper omelet on a regular basis. If it ain’t in the cards, it ain’t happening that day.

  I still charge them for my time. The way I see it, detectives go to work every day and don’t solve cases, yet they still get paid. I could easily do this work pro bono, no problem, but I’ve found that if someone is paying me, they’re far more likely to be reasonable and accommodating.

  I stop and start a few sentences. I come up with nothing, not a single approach that I think Detective Thomas can check out. He tried it all. He’s been trying again for the last six months, which means we’re down to my last line of questioning for him.

  “Then that leaves us here,” I say, sitting up straighter. “A lot of times PDs will call me in for the novelty of it. They’re out of options, and they think, ‘Oh, what the hell, this guy works for peanuts. Why don’t we give him a try?’ I don’t like those. I�
��m not saying you are one of those, I’m just saying it’s hard walking onstage where the crowd hasn’t been warmed up first. See what I’m saying?”

  He taps a pencil against his cheek and acknowledges me by dipping his chin.

  “Then, other times, some detective has seen something he can’t explain and wants a second opinion, which I’m happy to help with. Those are great. It means there might be something there, and we might already have a solution to work toward. Even rarer still are guys like you, the ones who call with a little extra edge to their voices, the ones who are hesitant to say exactly why they’re calling. Guys who are nothing but curious? They’ll admit it right away. They’ll say, ‘This weird thing happened; we want you to come check it out.’ But detectives like you, been at this twenty years or more, seen everything there is to see, all the evil in humanity … you don’t need me. You got new evidence, fresh clues. You’re not ready to throw in the towel after six months, Detective. I don’t believe it when you say you’re back to where you started. You called me here for a reason. Something spooked you. So let me ask you this: What was it? What did you see?”

  “I’ll never forget it,” he answers with that somber tone I’ve come to recognize so well.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We’re standing in front of the Craghorn residence. It’s too damn hot in the Hampton Roads area this time of year, and I can feel the sweat beading up in places where I don’t enjoy being swampy. It’s part of the gig, though, and I agreed to let Detective Thomas explain himself here rather than back at the station. He said it would make more sense if Dave Craghorn, husband of the deceased, was there to back him up.

  Detective Thomas tucks his hands into his pockets and looks up at the top floor of the three-story home. We’re over in Portsmouth, a small city adjacent to Virginia Beach, where some of the residences are centuries old, built back when the masons didn’t mind stacking stones thirty or forty feet in the air on all sides. These things were built to last.

  The detective admires it, head tilted, back angled as we look up toward the hand-carved molding along the eaves. He says, “Beautiful place, ain’t it?”

  I lie to him and say yeah, it’s nice, while I try to see it through his eyes. I get what he’s saying; the place has a strong presence. It’s bulky and broad-shouldered, reminds me of a middle linebacker, but I don’t really see the beauty in it, per se. To me, it’s a giant collection of rocks and cement that’s covered in moss with vines climbing up the sides. Maybe it’s because, over the years, too many houses have become enemies to me, burdened with evil, demonic spirits that torture families and drive them from the place where they wanted to live out their dreams. Instead, they suffer through nightmares.

  So, yeah. Houses? I don’t really trust them, not until I’ve had a chance to get to know one. Mine back in Portland, high up on the hill overlooking the Willamette River, has had so many incantations, prayers, and positive vibes bestowed upon it that you might as well say it’s guarded by a soothing, white light that envelops the whole thing. That’s my sanctuary, the place where I retreat after I’ve battled with the darkness.

  Not every house that’s haunted is black on the inside, just like not every spirit is a demonic, evil entity. Sometimes it’s somebody’s sweet old grandma who never got a chance to say goodbye before she left this world, and once I help her with that, the fog lifts.

  Point is, until I know what I’m dealing with, I approach each place—each home, each train station, each barn, whatever—with full shields, and every now and then, if I’ve come out unscathed, I’ll take a moment to appreciate the architecture, but not until I know I’m going home without any unwanted guests tagging along.

  The detective clears his throat, and I can hear a bit of emotion in there, like he’s trying to cough it up and maybe swallow it, down where the rest of his feelings stay buried.

  I ask, “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he croaks, then looks past me down the sidewalk. “There’s Craghorn. I won’t go in there without him, and to be honest, I don’t know how he lives here by himself.”

  Pardon the expression, but I’m dying to know what happened here. After all these years and literally a thousand investigations, I still don’t feel like I’ve seen everything there is to see, at least when it comes to the paranormal world.

  I still get confused, spooked, scared, excited, and thrilled when something—notice I said something—reaches out from the other side. You’d think I’d be desensitized by now, but the truth is, this shit will never get old for me.

  There’s the job, then there’s the wonder.

  Detective Thomas doesn’t smile when he lifts a hand, waves to Dave Craghorn and says, “Good to see you again, Dave. Thanks for doing this.”

  Dave offers a morose smile as fake as the day is long, and we shake hands. He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, a little older than me, with long salt-and-pepper hair and a matching goatee that extends down past his Adam’s apple. His tan jacket hangs loosely on his shoulders, like it might have fit one day, but now it’s nothing more than a piece of clothing draped over shoulders as thin as a wire hanger. Which, of course, adds another layer to his odd vibe. It’s gotta be well over ninety degrees out here and 100 percent humidity. He has to be swimming in that thing.

  He says, “Nice of you to come, Mr. Ford. Big fan of your old show.” It’s a flat, emotionless voice, no heft to it at all, like he’s a prisoner who’s afraid to speak up in front of his captors.

  “Happy to help,” I respond, studying him. Let me just say this: I take my B-list fame with a grain of salt. I’ve been to the big parties and hobnobbed with the elites of entertainment, but I’ve never been one to abuse the privileges of celebrity. I’m lucky and I know it. I don’t throw my soup in waiters’ faces, I don’t whine and complain when I’m not given the best table, nor when I actually have to wait for a table just like everyone else. That said, I can always tell when someone has no idea who I am, or has never seen an episode of Graveyard: Classified, or more than likely, just doesn’t give a shit. In fact, I think I appreciate the latter the most. It allows me to investigate a site on level grounds.

  Dave lifts a shaking finger, pointing up the tall set of stairs as he mumbles, “It’s, um, it’s right up there.”

  “Here we go.” Detective Thomas groans, pauses in midstep, and pushes bravely forth.

  Not really, but I have to give the guy credit. Whatever happened in there spooked him all to hell, and he’s going anyway. I follow him up, taking the steps in twos, with Dave Craghorn following us both. I glance over my shoulder and he’s climbing the steps as if each foot is encased in cement—big, heavy blocks that he struggles with as he pushes himself onward, one after the other. I can almost hear the thick clunk with each step. He’s dreading this just as much as Detective Thomas is, and I feel for him. Poor guy comes home to this every single day.

  The front door is thick wood, painted a shade of cloudy gray that seems to fit perfectly with the gloom and doom motif of this place. Craghorn’s key makes a deep, metallic thunk, reminding me of a jailer in an ancient castle dungeon, and I immediately feel the cold of the interior racing out as the door swings inward.

  Detective Thomas shivers.

  Now I know why Craghorn is wearing the jacket. He says, “It’s always like this now. The cold never leaves my bones. It follows me.”

  I don’t shiver from the temperature. I do it because of the defeat in his voice.

  He adds, “Come on in. Might want to say a little prayer first, if you’re the religious sort.”

  Out of habit, my fingers go up to the crucifix dangling at my chest. It feels warmer than usual against my skin. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign.

  Craghorn stares down the hallway, and Detective Thomas follows with a resigned grunt. “To serve and protect,” he says.

  As soon as I step across the threshold, I feel it. Not just the cold, but what’s buried within it. Remorse. Loss. Regret.

  And so much anger.<
br />
  I pause because it’s been a while since I’ve felt such a … presence right away. Not since the Alexander house six months ago, the one up in Lansing, Michigan, with the pissed-off spirit of an ex-con who was haunting a young single mother and her three children. She’d sent me a pleading e-mail, and once in a while, I’ll take on a special case pro bono, because when it comes to kids, I simply can’t let that go. It’s why I’m still battling with what happened to Chelsea Hopper.

  This, whatever it is, actually feels stronger than the ghost of Delmar Jackson, and that’s saying a lot. It took me, three Catholic priests, and enough holy water to fill a bathtub to get him gone.

  My goosebumps get goosebumps. No matter how many times I’ve done this, the chill of evil prickles my skin. It’s not the fiery, burning, licking flames of hell like the Bible and your Sunday pastor would have you believe.

  Evil is the darkness. It’s the cold.

  It’s the absence of love and light.

  “Ford,” says Detective Thomas, leaning back into the hallway, “you coming?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just getting a feel for the house.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. This place is dark.”

  Craghorn sits on a sofa that looks like it might have been purchased at a yard sale in 1973. In fact, I’m fairly certain that my parents had this exact same couch with the exact same pattern in our living room back when Nixon was in office. Instinctively, I look at the far left cushion to see if the hot chocolate stain is there. My sister, Amy, spooked me with a Halloween mask when I was nine. The contents of the steaming mug went all over me, her, and the couch, and left behind a brown memory that refused to go away no matter how much we scrubbed.

  It’s not there, by the way, but surveying the couch does give me a chance to check out Craghorn some more while we wait on Detective Thomas to emerge from the bathroom. I can’t tell if Craghorn is a small man in general, or if he’s making himself smaller, like he’s trying to hide from something. Or it could be the fact that the springs and cushions are so worn out on his couch that the damn thing is trying to swallow him whole.