Joe seemed startled; “Wow, I hadn’t yet looked at the particular dates involved, except for the years. Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure, I lived it.”
Joe continued with his thought; “Without taking that detail into account, what makes this all so mad, even though the bodies were meticulously arranged, the evidence, or lack thereof, doesn’t seem to me like there were human hands directly involved. I studied these files, hoping that there were similarities that could point to a more traditional murderer, but it seems like an animal was involved.”
Tom jumped in; “Ok, but how in the hell does an animal know when Halloween is?”
Joe halted the conversation as Mary came to the table to take their order; “Ok gentlemen, what will it be?” The three all ordered the same, Martha’s lumberjack special. As soon as Mary left, Jessup continued the conversation;
“Like many small rural towns where things like this occur, wild tales are told, resulting in legends. Brunswick, unfortunately, is no different. I’m quite sure about the timing of these murders, and the fact that they all occurred around Halloween just lays credence to legends.” He took a moment and refilled everyone’s coffee mugs; “Since I was old enough to sit on my daddy’s knee, I can remember the stories of a wolf -like creature…”
Joe interrupted; “that’s exactly the type of animal that could have caused it, but…”
Jessup took back control of the conversation…I didn’t say animal per say, I said a wolf-like creature. The legend as I remember, tells of an Indian goddess that could change into, well, ok, let’s say for this conversation, and I hate using this term…”
“Come man, spit it out.”
“Well, a sort of werewolf, although they never used that lingo.” Jessup stopped again as Mary lugged over the three huge platters that were laden with their flapjacks and sausage. She dropped them down, turned and grabbed butter and a syrup bottle off another table and gave it to them; “Anything else I can get you fellas?”
“No sweetheart, we’re good for now.”
Jessup continued; “Well as I was saying, the legend tells of an Indian goddess, or maybe devil is more like it.”
He took a moment, lathering his lumberjacks with globs of butter and then drowning them in maple syrup;
“As I was saying, legend says that she was a skinwalker.”
“What’s a skinwalker?” Joe asked.
“A skinwalker is a cursed being that has the ability to change into an animal form. The Indians in this area believed that she changed into a wolf.”
At that moment Larry Bumsfeld stopped by the table to say hello to Jessup. Larry also paid his respects to the sheriff, but not knowing Joe, just stood there staring at him, hoping that someone would introduce him, Jessup obliged, “Larry, this is Joe Wouter, he lives and works in Troy.”
“No kidding, what do you do Joe?”
“I’m the county coroner.” That definitely constituted a “whoops” moment. Larry looked in wonderment; this didn’t smell like three friends shooting the shit over breakfast. “Well, a table of the town’s muckety-mucks.” Jessup smiled and cut the conversation short: he patted Larry on the back;
“Well ok Larry ole buddy, see you around.” Larry took the cue, glancing back for a split second with a sinister look upon his face. None of the three took any notice, and as soon as he left Jessup continued, “She is said to be extremely beautiful and vain, and to maintain her age and beauty through all time, she must find and sacrifice a pre-pubescent girl during the three day period called All Hallowtide, devouring her heart.”
Tom grimaced; “I think I’m losing my appetite.” He looked over at Joe who was going at his breakfast as though it was his last meal; “I guess nothing bothers you medical examiners.”
Joe smiled; “Just comes with the territory.”
Tom looked at Jessup; “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“Well as I remember, the legend claims that the goddess was a Mohawk, you see the Mohawks had a reputation of being cannibals. It was said that she fell, or was pushed, more likely, from the sky. That is why they called her the Skywoman. Thinking back, yes, it was her husband who pushed her out of the sky for indiscretions.”
Tom chuckled; “Her husband sounds like my type of guy.”
Jessup ignored the comment and was seemingly searching the surrounding air for more details. “You see, the Mohawks were a warring nation that inhabited this area. They took many hostages, and it is said that often they would offer them to the Skywoman.”
“And these legends continued till when?” Tom asked.
“Continued? The Mohawks as we know them are long gone in this area. I would be surprised if a single one still existed. But the legends still live on. They were prevalent even when I was in college. You see, I studied these types of subjects at Syracuse.” He thought again for a second; “And then, for no particular reason that I know of, the talk of the Skywoman suddenly stopped, but behind closed doors, the legend continued. You see, here in Brunswick, everyone knows of it, but no one will dare speak of it…”
Tom thought for a second; “You know two kids were brought into my office last night, they were trespassing at the Pinewoods cemetery.”
Joe snickered; “Nothing new, from time to time out-of-town kids have been wandering the old cemetery in search of ghosts.”
Tom grimaced; “Well that’s exactly what these two morons were doing. But what Jessup has been saying makes me wonder about something they said.”
Jessup sat up; “What did they say?”
“Well, they said that they saw, or didn’t see, a woman walking around with a child. They also said that an animal, possibly a dog, was chasing them.”
The blood from Jessup’s’ face seemed to drain; “By God man, that’s it. That must be the Skywoman; she must have changed into a wolf.”
Tom gave him a blank stare; “You don’t really believe in these legends, do you?”
Jessup seemed to catch himself, his manner changed back, “You know, come to think of it, I bet it’s the same two who came into my shop yesterday. I have told tourists who come by my bookstore for years that ghosts didn’t exist. Truth is that kind of reputation is not good for the town.”
“After listening to you for the past hour, I find it hard to believe that you don’t believe in the legend.”
“Legends are just that. Come to think of it, I have copies of a book that I just ordered for a local kid that tells all about the legend. Let’s stop by my shop, and I’ll give you copies to read.”
At that point, with Joe seemingly mum on the Indian matter, Tom didn’t want to insult Jessup. The whole point of this breakfast was to get a local feel for what had been occurring. They all agreed to read the book and meet again in a week to go over the cases further. As they walked to their respective cars Tom turned to Joe, “What’s up with you, you got very quiet when Jessup went on about a werewolf?”
“Tom, I’ve lived in these parts all my life. There has always been something about Brunswick, something strange. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m a scientist, but there is something chilling about the whole matter.”
With that, the two drove away, agreeing to see each other the next week.
. . .
A werewolf? Tom had been taught that such things could not be; that things like Hesse’s Steppenwolf or Charles Perrault’s devilish fairy tale, Little Red Riding Hood, were only the warp and woof of make-believe. Of course, monsters existed; they were the world leaders with their fingers on the button, the suicide bombers, the mass murderers and the child molesters. But not like this, it couldn’t be. One knows better.
(Truth be told, I’m
frightened)
But it was much worse than that, he was scared to death. His mind ran over the old protection for an unspeakable disease (am I kidding myself?); wolf’s bane, rye or was he to have his deputy’s guns fitted with silver bullets. He can schedule them in shifts, melting and pouring the bullets in the same room they organize the cake sales.
(by God man, think straight)
He had none of these things. Ah…there has to be a rational explanation for the things Jessup described. Surely there were humans crazed enough to commit such heinous crimes. But then he pondered, not even in Philadelphia. Then again how could it be, Jessup read about these things in a book, they must be only fairytales.
. . .
As soon as Tom entered the office Bessy came from the restroom and stopped him in his tracks; “Sheriff, a woman is waiting in your office. It’s Debra Hibler.”
“Gerald Hibler’s wife?”
“Yes, she is beside herself. Her daughter has gone missing from their backyard.”
I took a deep breath, he knew that in the country it wasn’t unusual for children to wander off into the woods and their bodies wouldn’t be found for days, if not weeks. The child’s father; Gerald Hibler, was the local Episcopal minister. He was well-known around the area; his congregation was large and diverse.
“Well good afternoon Mrs. Hibler, I understand your daughter has wandered off.”
Debra’s left hand was full of tissues and was completely covering her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably: “Sheriff, you have to find my little girl. It’s just not like her to wander off. I just know something has happened to her.”
“Mrs. Hibler, please don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll get my deputies together and be by your house in half an hour.” He searched her face for some type of relief from his comforting words. They did little. “Can I call you Debra?” She nodded in approval; “She must have gotten turned around in the woods, go home, and I will meet you there. We will begin the search you’re your house.” Debra left the office, Bessy having her elbow and helping to her car. As she drove off dread consumed her…
CHAPTER 14
JOHNNY B
But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.
Timothy 5:8
Benjamin Selder grew up in the Marine Park section of Brooklyn. It was a middle-class neighborhood that was predominantly Italian and boasted such proud sons as Vince Lombardi and Joe Paterno. You see, the focal point of Marine Park was the park itself, children from eight to eighteen learned and played football there. Young Benjamin, whose mother hailed from Naples, flourished in his neighborhood. As he approached puberty, he and his friends would hang out at the nearby Kings Plaza, looking to score on girls. One evening after having their fill of vodka and cranberry juice at Night Gallery, the local disco, they went to the diner and tried to sober-up with the aid of burgers and fires. By two-thirty it was time to head home; Ben jumped behind the wheel and decided that before going back, he was going to drag race down Flatbush Avenue. As he passed Avenue T, he never saw the woman stepping off the curb to see if the bus was coming. He struck her with such force that she landed nearly a half a block away. In the end, Benjamin pleaded guilty to vehicular manslaughter and did eight years in the infamous Sing Sing Correctional Facility. While in prison, it didn’t take more than a week for the first assault to take place. Ben was always big for his age and felt that he could take care of his problems with his hands. In Sing Sing, things were different. While in the shower, a fellow inmate attacked him, breaking an eye socket and rupturing his spleen. He spent a month in the infirmary, and when he got back into the general population, the abuse began again. He was repeatedly raped, till he consented to be the “wife” of an older, much-respected inmate. It was a living nightmare for him; he had contemplated suicide on numerous occasions, but didn’t have the nerve to do it. When he was finally released, he swore he would never do as much as steal a piece of bubble gum, he was scared as straight as an arrow.
When he got out, his neighborhood had changed. He no longer recognized it; and the few locals that were left did not accept him. His crime had greatly affected the community, and without anyone telling him directly, he knew it was time to leave.
Benjamin bounced around for a few months, finding only a kitchen job at a Hardee’s in Middletown, a small Upstate New York town. He had just been upstate as a boy scout, spending a week at Camp Ma-Ho-Ge, earning two merit badges. Upstate had a very different feel than the city; it felt a thousand miles away. At Hardee’s, the job included scraping the grill daily and scrubbing the toilets. After a long and busy day, the toilets would be inhumanly dirty. He took it all in stride; it was surely a hell of a lot better than prison.
Larry Brooks was a forty-four-year-old ex-con who took over the over-night cleaning shift and allowed Ben to move to the grill. They would see each other daily when Larry was coming, and Ben was leaving, they’d spend ten minutes or so, sharing a smoke and shooting the shit about their experiences in prison. Larry one day convinced Ben that it would be in his best interest to change his name;
“Hell Ben, you have no friends or family here, change your name and start anew.”
Ben couldn’t sleep that night as he pondered the possibilities. The next day he called the local lawyer who had advertised in the back of the Pennysaver, a free paper that was always outside of the 7-Eleven. The lawyer charged him $275, and it would end up being some of the wisest money he ever spent. He always admired Anthony Balistreri, a kid back home who was three years older than Ben and had been the star of every football team he ever played for in Marine Park. So, with no more thought necessary, Johnny Balistreri he would be.
As time went on, the newly minted Johnny knew he could do better for himself; he was only making $7.20 an hour. He scoured the Pennysaver, one day he noticed an ad for a production assistant at a radio station in Brunswick, NY. When he called, he was startled to find Red Boyar answering the phone, a friend back in Brooklyn, who was now a manager at the WRVW. Red immediately recognized the voice; “Is that you Ben?” Ben explained the name change and why he did it. Ben had gone out with Red’s sister when they were sixteen, Boyar felt bad for Ben and immediately offered him a job. It only paid him $22 more a week, but it provided him with a world of opportunities. Red told him about a boarding house in town. The owner, Phyllis Cromwell, took an immediate liking to Johnny. He would never utter his old name again. Working as a production assistant at a tiny radio station meant that you had to do everything: from getting coffee and cigarettes to picking guests up at the Greyhound Bus station. One afternoon the DJ was too hung over to go on air, so the production assistant made an executive decision and took the mike for the next four hours. The letters and calls for the station’s new disc jockey made the station managers decision easy. Instead of firing Johnny for going on air without permission, he was given the dreaded overnight slot, and Johnny B was born. His voice was distinctive and the characters that he created on-air eventually forced the station to move him to the prime time of 2 to 7pm. The rest was history. He loved living and working in Brunswick. It was worlds apart from Brooklyn, here. No one cared about his past.
. . .
Bessy immediately got on the phone to Howie Cripps, his girlfriend answered; “Howie? He’s still sleeping, don’t you people know he worked all night.”’
Cripps was a local boy who had never stood out. After graduating high school, he enlisted and spent two years in the army; stationed at Camp Shelby in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He came back a redneck to the core, southern drawl and all; it amused his friends to no end.
This transplanted good-ole-boy loved his drink and enjoyed it as often as was possible. The fact of the matter was that he h
ad gotten off at midnight. Then he and his girlfriend Lucy, spent the next four hours at Johnny Jones’s Wild West Beer Bar pounding away one beer after another. They complicated the situation when they began to follow the beers with shots of Jägermeister. By four in the morning; Howie was so drunk that he passed out next to the urinal in the men’s room. Big Joe, one of the bouncers and a close friend of Howie’s, took mercy on him. He patiently waited for Joel Littleton, the local carpenter, who had decided to piss in that exact urinal only inches from Howie’s face, to finish. Joe gingerly lifted him, Howie was in a drunken stupor, he squinted his eyes;
“Is that you Big Joe? Goddamn, I’m drunker than Cooter Brown!”
With that bit of unwanted barroom insight, Big Joe drove both Howie and Lucy home.
Bessy could care less; “Lucy Evers, I ain’t your mama, don’t give me no lip. The sheriff wants Howie in ASAP. So, I suggest that you drag his drunken behind out of bed, put him in a cold shower and send him over right now!”
Bessy had heard it all over the decades; she didn’t wait for a response. She abruptly hung the phone and called Elias Folker, the other deputy. Elias was just putting his pants on when the phone rang;
“Yes, Ms. Bessy, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” The fact was that Elias was scheduled to work that morning anyway. He was a local, born and bred in Brunswick; he had dropped out of high school but earned his diploma as he worked on a road repair crew for the county. It was hard work, freezing in the winter and sweating his behind off in the brutal Brunswick summers. He was happier than a clam when he received the call to become a deputy. He had now been on the force for nearly a year and a half. He didn’t much care for his counterpart. Howie often dogged it, leaving Elias to bring up the rear. Now that Sheriff Landtmann had arrived, he knew things would begin to change for the better.
A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters Page 14