In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

“Mother and father both dead. There’s a younger sister, but it looks like she voluntarily disappeared into the woodwork about ten years back and nobody has been able to locate her, so she’s a possibility. Finding her is the issue.”

  “I’d look hard at that one,” he grunted.

  “I plan to. But like I said, finding her…”

  “Yeah, I hear ya’… So what about the girl herself?” he asked. “You said she was ten when it happened, so she’d be what, about forty-five now? And if she never really recovered…”

  “Not likely. When I said she never recovered, I mean as in she’s institutionalized,” Constance replied. “Her body aged, but her mind threw in the towel. I’ve been told she still has the mental capacity of a ten-year-old child at best.”

  “Not good.”

  “Other than that, no real extended family other than the people here in town. Apparently they’ve all chipped in to help take care of her since the parents are deceased.”

  “Yeah, that’s definitely a small town thing… Think it could be one of them? The townfolk?”

  “It’s an angle I’m working, but the sheriff thinks I’m way off base.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about what a small-town sheriff thinks.”

  “I don’t know,” she told him. “He’s pretty sharp. Actually, he reminds me a lot of an older version of you.”

  “Yeah, I am pretty damn sharp, ain’t I?”

  “Yes, but I’m fairly certain he’s sharper.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Seriously. He’s Sherlock Holmes kind of sharp.”

  “He smoke a pipe and play the violin?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So was I. Sorta,” he replied. “So listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but if he’s Sherlock smart, why’s he need the Feebs?”

  “Good question. But given the lack of evidence left behind, maybe the killer is Mycroft smart.”

  “Yeah, but Sherlock’s older brother was a fat, lazy bastard. I doubt he’d be motivated enough ta’ kill anyone.”

  Constance allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible chuckle. “Bravo.”

  “Yeah, kinda figured ya’ didn’t think I knew who Mycroft was.”

  “Always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I keep tellin’ ya’.”

  “Well, in any case I’m still planning to talk to Merrie. In fact, the sheriff will be taking me over to see her in just a few minutes. I’m not sure what she’ll be able to tell me given her mental state, but you know the drill as well as I do.”

  “Gotta verify the case notes,” he said with a knowing tenor in his voice. “Good’a place ta’ start as any.”

  “That’s another strange thing,” she explained. “I read through the file and thought I was up to speed when I arrived here. But it turns out our documentation on this case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is missing.”

  “Lost?”

  “That or worse. Maybe pure negligence. Or even incompetence. I don’t know just yet.”

  “Think someone coulda screwed with it on purpose?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t know why anyone would. It’s not like this is a RICO case where there could be payoffs or something. It’s a serial killer.”

  “True,” Ben grunted.

  “Except…”

  “‘Cept what?”

  “Something that was in the file is that the victim is always dumped in the same location.”

  “And so this is still an open case why?”

  “Apparently the body just shows up. Whoever is doing it makes it past the surveillance without detection.”

  “Bullshit. That’s why your file is screwed right there. You’ve got a dirty cop on your hands. Maybe Sheriff Sherlock is your guy.”

  “I would think that too, except all four agents prior to me have been on the stake outs as well. I can’t see all of them being complicit in this, and why cover up for a small town sheriff if they were?”

  “Yeah, I see your point. But then you’ve got that effed up case file…” he offered.

  “I know…” her voice trailed off.

  “You talk ta’ any of the other investigators?”

  “Not yet. I left a message for one of the previous agents,” she told him. “Hopefully I can find out more when he calls me back.”

  “That’d be good,” Ben agreed. “Just be careful. You never know, and if you uncover somethin’ somebody doesn’t want found out…”

  “I’ll be on my guard.”

  “I’m not kiddin’ here. Especially since you don’t have any backup.”

  “I’m a better shot than you are, remember?” she chided.

  “I’m serious, Constance.”

  “I know you are… Believe me. I’ll be careful.”

  She heard him breathing on the other end of the line as a heavy silence fell between them.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, “So…I assume you’ll be in Podunkville for Christmas then?”

  Constance sighed and watched as her breath condensed in a thick cloud then instantly disappeared. “Unless there’s a miracle, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. I know we had plans.”

  “S’okay…” he told her. “It’s the job.”

  The whoosh of weather-stripping against a metal threshold sounded in Constance’s free ear, and she looked up to see Sheriff Carmichael trundling through the opening and then down the short flight of stairs. He glanced at her and pointed toward the diagonally-parked police cruiser that was nosed in at the curb several feet away from her own vehicle.

  “The sheriff just came out; I need to go,” she told Ben.

  “Okay. Don’t worry about Christmas. We’ll celebrate when ya’ get home.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she replied.

  “Won’t be too hard,” he countered. “Remember… Be careful.”

  “I will. I’ll try to call later. Bye.”

  “Sounds good. Bye.”

  She slipped the cell phone into her pocket then pulled her glove back onto her bare hand. As she walked over to the passenger side of the sheriff’s department cruiser, she thought about her relationship with Ben. It had been a tumultuous on-again, off-again ride that spanned several years now. The length of the breaks varied, but somehow they always came back together, so it was obvious that they cared for one another.

  That much was evident in the words they exchanged.

  And in the time they spent together.

  And the sex… The oh-my-God-sex that was better than she had ever expected it could be, what with him being fifteen years her senior. She’d dated men half his age who couldn’t keep up with him, so there definitely weren’t any complaints there. At least not from her, and he always seemed more than satisfied.

  Then she wondered silently why even with all that, neither of them ever seemed to be able to bring themselves to say to the other, “I love you.”

  Under the circumstances, who knew? But maybe that was a good thing.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Afternoon, Martha,” Sheriff Carmichael greeted the woman as she drew herself up from her chair and made her way over to the front desk. Then he asked, “How is she today?”

  Constance glanced around the clean but small lobby area. The squat, somewhat new sign at the entrance to the semicircular drive read Holly-Oak Assisted Living Facility. Inside, the building itself looked more like what her grandparents use to call a “rest home.”

  Holly-Oak was obviously well maintained, but from an architectural standpoint it had definitely been around a while. Of course, that seemed to be an ongoing theme in Hulis, as with many other small towns where time itself seemed to be on an extended holiday. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that a funeral home was located directly across the street, well within view from any of the facility’s front windows; in her way of thinking, not exactly the most comforting vista for the residents. In fact, it brought the old adage, “location, location, location,” right
to the forefront of her thoughts.

  “Afternoon, Skip.” The woman returned the sheriff’s greeting, then answered, “She’s Merrie,” punctuating the words with a shrug, as if that simple statement and gesture said it all.

  Given the knowing nod the sheriff offered in response, for the two of them, apparently it did.

  “So, how’s Kathy?” Martha asked as Sheriff Carmichael signed the visitor’s register. From her posture it was readily apparent that she was ignoring the fact that Constance was even present. There was also an audible tension in her voice that more than indicated the pleasantries, while sincere, were for some unknown reason forced.

  “Feisty as ever,” he replied. “I stopped tryin’ to keep up with her a long time ago.”

  She nodded. “Smart man. And the girls?”

  “Fine, fine. Doing fine,” he replied. “Cyn came home on break Friday.”

  “This is her last year at Mizzou, isn’t it?”

  “Supposed to be,” he grunted. “But she takes after her mother, so she’s making noise about going after her Masters.”

  “Good for her.”

  “So, Martha,” Carmichael said, shifting the subject toward the inevitable as he wagged a thumb at Constance. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. This is Special Agent Mandalay from…”

  “I know, I know,” she replied before he could finish. “I’ve been expecting you all morning. Then I got the call from Stella not fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, not surprised. She’s got a big mouth, just like her mother.”

  Constance reached in to her jacket to extract her credentials, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t bother. You’re with Skip, that’s all I need to know…or want to know, for that matter.” Her voice held more than a hint of disgust as she almost spat the comment.

  “I’d like to speak with Merrie, if that’s possible,” Constance said, leaving her badge case stowed in its pocket and slowly pulling back her hand.

  “When are you people going to leave that poor girl alone?” the woman demanded. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”

  “Calm down, Martha,” the sheriff said. “She’s just doin’ her job. You know that.”

  “I thought her job was to find whoever is doing this killing,” she replied, directing herself solely at him. “I don’t know how dredging up the past for that poor girl every year is going to do that.”

  “I know, Martha, I know…” he soothed.

  She scowled at Constance for a moment, then snorted in disgust as she turned away from the counter and headed back toward her desk. “She’s in her room, Skip,” she called over her shoulder. “Just keep an eye on the time. You know as well as anyone what day it is.”

  “What does she mean by that?” Constance asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Sheriff Carmichael said as he stepped back and pointed toward a door off the side of the lobby, indicating that she should go first. “It’s this way.”

  Mandalay gave him a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t we wait? You did contact her state-appointed advocate, correct? I assumed that was the call you were making earlier.”

  “Nope. She doesn’t have one.”

  “If she has diminished faculties as you’ve said, then she definitely should.”

  “Special Agent Mandalay,” he replied, a mix of bemusement and disingenuous formality in his words. “In case it has escaped your attention, this whole damn town is Merrie Callahan’s advocate. We’d all pretty much adopted her even before her parents were killed in that accident. Believe me, if you get your toes anywhere near the line, they’re gonna get broken, I don’t give a damn who you work for.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our little girl…so will anyone else here in Hulis. And just so you know, that’s not a threat, sugar; it’s a promise.”

  The carved, wooden sign on the door looked like one you would pick out from the pages of a personalized gifts catalog-the kind that had overpriced trinkets made to appear worth the cost because of the custom engraving. It was definitely too perfect to have been handmade. The router work had almost certainly been done by a programmed machine in a factory where they churned

  out fancy name plaques by the hundreds each hour. In a deeply recessed outline font it read simply, MERRIE’S ROOM.

  The door itself was only partially closed, with a gap of just a few inches left between it and the jamb. Through the sliver of an opening, the keyboard-heavy, pop music beat of a song floated on the air, although it was barely recognizable through the scratchy hiss of static that overlaid the notes.

  Sheriff Carmichael tilted his head and listened closely for several seconds, then turned to Constance and said, “ Love Will Keep Us Together.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The song,” he said, gesturing at the door. “ Love Will Keep Us Together. The Captain and Tennille.”

  “Oh…” Constance replied, nodding. “I thought I’d heard it before.”

  He shot her a half grin. “I guess you probably aren’t quite old enough to remember it, but they were on the Top Forty that year.”

  She nodded but remained silent.

  The sheriff reached out, hesitated, then gave a light, tentative knock on the surface of the door. After several seconds had passed with no answer, he cleared his throat then rapped his knuckles against it a bit harder and called out, “Merrie?”

  A moment later the volume on the music ramped sharply downward, and a slightly frightened sounding woman’s voice answered, “Who is it?”

  “Merrie,” Sheriff Carmichael called out again as he began slowly pushing the door open with his palm. “It’s Deputy Skip, from the sheriff’s department.”

  “Deputy?” Constance asked softly.

  “It’s nineteen seventy-five in here,” he answered.

  “What?”

  He didn’t get the chance to explain further. The sound of frantic footsteps was already coming from the other side of the door, and it was suddenly ripped fully open from within. A woman roughly Constance’s height all but tackled the sheriff in a tight hug, her demeanor having suddenly shifted from fear to excitement.

  Her hair was a shoulder-length shag of chestnut, streaked ever so slightly with a few strands of gray. She was pretty but definitely looked close to her chronological age, even if she wasn’t dressed to reflect it. It was hard to miss that she was clad in a long sleeve, knee-length pleated dress. It was dark blue with a stark white collar, and looked like an adult-sized version of something straight out of a seriously retro clothing catalog for children.

  “Deputy Skip!” she said, joy rampant in her voice as she continued to hug him tightly. “I knew you’d come to see me today. You always do. I told Miss Martha you would, but I don’t think she believed me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she believed you, Merrie,” he replied, giving her a grandfatherly squeeze. “You know how Miss Martha is.”

  “Unpleasant,” she announced as she released her grip on him and stepped back.

  “Listen to you,” he chuckled.

  Just as one would expect of a ten-year-old child, she widened her eyes and rolled them as she cocked her head to the side and muttered a long, drawn out, “It’s true.”

  He winked. “You’re right, it is. Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  She giggled at their shared secret.

  “So, Merrie,” Carmichael continued, gesturing to Special Agent Mandalay. “This is my friend, Miss Constance. I was telling her about some of the people here in town, and she thought that you sounded so interesting that she asked if she could meet you.”

  Merrie glanced at her but held her position close to the sheriff. After a moment she said, “Umm… Hi.”

  “Hi,” Mandalay replied with a smile. “I like your dress.”

  “Thank you. Miss Mavis made it for me. I picked out the pattern and the fabric myself.”

  “It’s very pretty.”

  “Are you a deputy too? You don’t look like one.”

  “
No, Merrie, I’m not,” Constance answered. “But I’m a kind of police officer. I work for the FBI. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes,” she said with a nod. “My daddy used to watch it on TV, but it’s not on anymore.”

  Constance was actually familiar with the old show, even if it was somewhat before her time. “Did you watch it too?”

  “Sometimes. Do you have a badge?”

  Constance nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  “May I?”

  Mandalay withdrew her badge case and opened it with a practiced flip. Merrie inched closer and peered carefully at the credentials. “Cool…” she muttered. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “Do you have a gun too?”

  “Yes, but I can’t really show it to you. It’s only for emergencies.”

  Merrie nodded. “Where are you from, Miss Constance?”

  “Right now, I live in Saint Louis.”

  “Saint Louis! Have you ever been to the Gateway Arch?”

  “Yes, I have. Where I work downtown isn’t very far from it, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did you ever go up inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it cool?”

  “Yes it is. You get to look out the windows and see everybody running around like ants down below.”

  “You’re so lucky. I’ve only seen pictures,” Merrie offered. “Daddy said he would take me to see it for real someday. Maybe even this summer.”

  Constance glanced over at Sheriff Carmichael and shot him a questioning look by way of furrowing her brow. In response he gave her a barely perceptible shake of his head. Focusing back on the childlike woman, she said, “That sounds like it will be fun. They have a theater underneath where they show a movie about how they built it. Make sure you see that, it’s really interesting.”

  “So, Merrie,” the sheriff spoke up. “Would you mind if we came in and visited with you for a little bit?”

  “That would be fun,” she told him, stepping back so they could enter. “Do you like The Captain and Tennille, Miss Constance?”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied as she followed the sheriff into the room. In truth, she wasn’t really sure if she did or not. If the earlier noise was any indication, however, she was probably leaning toward not. But there was really no percentage in saying as much.