Darker Than Noir

by Riley, R. Thomas; Zoot, Campbell; Chandler, Randy; Kauwe, Faith

  Harold laughed. Of all the awkward questions the man could have asked, that was the easiest to explain. “I didn’t want to make myself liable for copyright infringement,” he said, much relieved.

  Detective Masters’ eyebrows rose again, briefly, but without the fleeting smirk.

  “Copyright infringement?” the detective broke the next silence, clearly puzzled.

  “Nothing draws a male audience like woman’s screams, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Go on.”

  “It was a marketing tool, meant to draw a target audience—men. Would-be heroes, predators, voyeurs—whatever—men in general; the recording drew them, and once they saw what we were offering, they were happy to pay the small remuneration to defray our expenses. So you see, we couldn’t rightly use copyrighted material.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Charlie Tuttle and I.”

  “What became of Charlie?”

  “I wouldn’t care to speculate.”

  Once again Detective Masters’ short lived momentum disintegrated back into entropy. “The voice on your recording sounds rather like Jennifer Lewis, our new head librarian,” he tried a new tact.

  Harold blushed. He had hoped no one would recognize her, given the circumstances of the recording. She had, after all, confided to him he was the first man in Myburgh she found both suitable and attractive. And she had been so demure, at first.

  “Well?” the detective demanded, an ire heretofore absent coloring his voice “Actually, it is her voice,” Harold admitted, doing his best to sound impressed. “How on earth did you recognize her?”

  The policeman scowled. Harold was certain he had just been profiled as a half-wit. Better than a murderer, he thought, although the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. And he was so disappointed with Jennifer; he had expected better.

  “Was she aware you recorded her?”

  “Ah, no—I didn’t actually plan that. The recording was something of a happy accident. I was recording something altogether different when she dropped by, quite unexpectedly. I neglected to shut the machine off. It was in plain sight, however, the light blinking, and she initiated the action which led to her screaming, so there was clearly no intent to deceive or defraud on my account—wouldn’t you agree?”

  “That’s the very least of your problems, Harold. But let’s move on. Between the time you arrived in Myburgh, almost penniless and the time you became a promoter, how did you earn your living?”

  “Oh, various ways—you know, all legal. I did anything to keep a respectable roof overhead and food on the table.”

  “Please be more specific.”

  “I washed dishes at the diner for a month or two; cleaned the library, where I met Jennifer, who introduced me to Mr. Morton, who hired me as a handyman at his estate.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like what?”

  “Mr. Morton hired you on Jennifer Lewis’ recommendation?”

  “Yes.”

  “A pity neither of them are available to confirm that.”

  “Well, where do you think I got the money to rent the loft?”

  “I was rather hoping you’d tell me.”

  Harold was taken aback. Why hadn’t the man simply asked the innocuous question in the first place instead of beating around the bush? “Mr. Morton gave it to us—you know, as an arts grant.”

  “By us, you mean you and Charlie Tuttle, his chauffeur.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, you both have a connection to Mr. Tuttle, albeit a tenuous one, under the circumstances—assuming, of course, you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “I wouldn’t know—funny how everyone who can corroborate your story has gone missing.”

  “No—not so funny; really.”

  “I was being facetious.”

  “Of course.”

  “So what was it exactly you were promoting? You’ve been a bit vague on that point.”

  Harold laughed nervously, squirmed again on the hard chair, groping within his mind for the words to describe his cutting edge artistic endeavor to this Philistine. “An experience,” he said after much consideration. “A deep, lasting, exquisite experience.”

  Detective Masters rose quickly, marched about in a circle as if he was at a loss for words. Harold clasped his hands on the old tabletop that separated them during the interview until the policeman calmed himself, sat back down, his face visibly flushed.

  “What sort of experience?” he fairly whispered.

  “A completely unique one—different for each individual.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like recreational drugs to me…”

  “Oh, no; it was nothing of the sort.”

  “Well, what sort was it then?

  “That’s rather hard to explain.”

  “I rather imagined it would be,” Detective Masters’ said. “But, go on—give it your best shot. I really want to understand.”

  “How well do you know Mr. Morton?” Harold asked.

  “He’s a pillar of the community. His family has been in Myburgh for generations. I’ve never had an occasion to speak with him personally, however. Why did you ask me that?”

  “It would have been helpful if you had actually known him a bit. He’s a collector, you know.”

  “So I’d heard. Statues, sculpture—artifacts, mostly—right?”

  “Exactly,” Harold said, feeling a modicum of relief, “artifacts.”

  “And what do Mr. Morton’s artifacts have to do with what happened last night?” the detective fairly screamed when Harold paused again.

  “We were promoting them, or more specifically, we were promoting making them available to the general public for viewing.”

  “And you needed Jennifer Lewis’ screams to draw a crowd as you felt no one was likely to want to view these artifacts in a more traditional setting, like the library, or a museum, or even on Mr. Morton’s estate?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Please elucidate.”

  “We wanted to gage the common man’s reaction, and we didn’t expect them to attend a showing in any of the locations you mentioned. On the other hand, knowing something of great value was displayed in a loft over a hardware store or in a private residence might attract thieves.”

  “So you lured them to your exhibition under false pretences?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Exactly what am I missing?”

  “Our audience arrived in a heightened emotional state; a state of mind required for the particular viewing—part of the entire experience I mentioned earlier. So you see, it was something of a loss leader.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s a marketing term. It means something small is given away without cost in order to interest the target audience in spending money for either more of it or for the rest of it.”

  “And whose idea was that?”

  “Mine.”

  “And the notion of displaying the artifacts—was that yours as well?”

  “No, Charlie thought of that.”

  “So Charlie had the idea, and you figured out how to make it work?”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “Why didn’t it work?”

  “It did, actually, just not the way we planned, apparently.”

  “Apparently. And Mr. Morton, what was his part in this?”

  “I had very little contact with him personally. But Charlie said he was happy to share his finds—you know—give back something to the community. But he didn’t want people trampling though his house.”

  “And Jennifer?”

  “I think she encouraged him to see it that way.”

  “Right. So let’s move on to your exhibition, shall we? Describe, in detail, the artifacts you used and the events from the moment you opened your exhibition to the public, so to speak.”

  “Actually, we started small. There was only one
artifact for our opening. It was a life sized gilded statue of a woman—a goddess, Mr. Morton claimed. She was naked, wore a large mask that covered her entire face. She had eight arms and held an assortment of objects in her hands—knives, a mirror, a drum, a skull. You might say it was an idol.”

  “And the experience you mentioned. What exactly was that?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Do your best.”

  “When I stared at her eyes, they seemed to be alive.”

  “What happened—did they blink?”

  “No, they never blinked. They just looked into your soul, releasing something—something different for everybody.”

  “I see. What did they release in you?”

  “I saw the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She danced for me. It was incredible. I was so moved, I actually cried while I watched her.”

  “And Charlie?”

  “She danced for him too—but a very different kind of dance. Racy, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. And Mr. Morton?”

  “Jennifer told me he saw the heavens open, the universe unfolding within her gaze.”

  “And Jennifer, what did she see?”

  “She said she heard the goddess whispering across the length and breadth of the cosmos.”

  “Whispering what exactly?”

  “The secrets of life and death, she said.”

  “Did Jennifer share any of these secrets with you?”

  “She said the goddess would tell me herself—when I was ready to hear them.”

  “Right. So what happened opening night?”

  “Ah, that’s going to take a leap of faith on your part.”

  “Most of what you’ve told me so far has taken quite a few leaps of faith, Harold. What’s one more under the circumstances?”

  “I see your point, Detective.”

  “Good. Now go on, take your time. Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “No. I’ve kind of lost my appetite, after…well, you know.”

  “I understand. Start from the beginning. Who transported Mr. Morton’s gilded goddess to the loft?”

  “We did, Charlie and me. It was the strangest thing. The statue actually changed density. I touched it when I first saw it. It was completely immovable, cold, as if it were made of granite, or solid gold. But when we carried it, it felt hollow, like it was made of a thin reinforced terra cotta, and warm, as if it were alive.”

  The detective nodded, as if what Harold was saying was completely reasonable.

  “Once we set it back on its pedestal in the loft,” he continued, “it got heavy again. The floor joists actually groaned. Scared the hell out of me. For a moment, I thought the floor was going to give way.” He looked into the placid face across the table, read nothing save that the policeman was all attention.

  “And then?” Detective Masters prodded him.

  “Charlie sort of patted her behind, said it was for good luck. We were going to keep the admission fee. Mr. Morton said he didn’t need the money, and we could both use it. Jennifer painted the panels surrounding the goddess, the ones showing her in all her aspects—child, virgin, lover, mother, huntress, avenging angle, and the rest. Some of Jennifer’s artwork, greatly reduced, was on display downstairs. We left the street door open, and I hid the recording of Jennifer screaming upstairs.”

  Here the policeman stopped him. “Were either Jennifer or Mr. Morton present for your grand opening?”

  “No. Jennifer had to work late and Mr. Morton told Charlie he wanted to remain anonymous.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “I put Jennifer’s screams on a loop, set to play at random intervals, from three to five minutes apart, so each thirty second sequence would draw another small audience.”

  “Where were you and where was Charlie while this was going on?”

  “I was downstairs promoting the event; collecting the five dollar fee while Charlie was upstairs, to make sure nothing got damaged or stolen.”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s pretty much it, until your men arrived, investigating the screaming, they said. I took them upstairs to show them everything was alright. The loft was empty, except for Jennifer’s panels, and that…stain…on the floor where the idol had been.”

  “You think Charlie took the idol down the back way?”

  “It wouldn’t fit. We tried loading it from the back. Didn’t want anybody from the pubs down the street to get a look at her before the opening, but the stairs were too narrow and it wouldn’t make the turn on the winders.”

  “So the plan was to draw them in with the screams, get them aroused looking at Jennifer’s artwork, then have them gaze into the eyes of the stature, before sending them packing down the back stairs—was that it?”

  “Well, I guess so, although I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “I have no idea. I was downstairs, on the sidewalk, where your men found me.”

  “You didn’t hear anybody else screaming in the loft?”

  “No.”

  “That stain, Harold, is blood, as if you didn’t know. And it was all over the floor, the walls, Jennifer’s panels, and even the ceiling—not just where you claim you left the idol.”

  Harold nodded, at another loss for words.

  “Jennifer didn’t come to work on Friday,” the detective continued. “She’s not at home, either. In fact, nobody’s seen her since Wednesday. And nobody except you claims to have seen Charlie Tuttle or Mr. Morton for over a week.”

  “I never said I saw Mr. Morton last week.”

  “Really? Is that unusual?”

  “Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a few days. He was, you know, eccentric, like that, keeping to himself for days at a time, taking his meals alone. I heard they’d leave a tray on a cart outside his suite come mealtimes and find it empty a few hours later.”

  “But never for a week or more?”

  “Not since I was hired.”

  “You weren’t concerned?”

  “Nobody else was.”

  “Nobody else is around to verify that.”

  Harold shrugged.

  “At last count forty-eight other people are missing, too. Care to comment on that?”

  “Well, I took in two hundred and forty dollars, so that makes forty-eight patrons.”

  “Forty-eight patrons or victims? There’s a lot of fresh blood all over your loft.”

  Harold swallowed, the full gravity of his position finally weighing upon him. “Well, there isn’t any blood on me, and I don’t have a history of violence, or even a police record, for that matter,” he offered, his voice starting to fail him.

  “Those are just about the only things you have in your favor at the moment, son.”

  Harold nodded.

  Someone rapped on the door. The policeman rose to answer it, stepped into the squad room beyond, closing the door behind him. When he returned twenty minutes later, he had a slight smile upon his face.

  “Good news, for you, anyway. We’ve located Mr. Morton. He’s out of the country with the rest of his staff, except for Charlie Tuttle, who was supposed to have joined him a few days ago. Mr. Morton verified that you worked for him over the summer, that you left his employ recently to pursue another endeavor. But he claims he knows nothing about your recent so-called artifacts promotion. Says he’s got nothing remotely like a life-sized eight armed goddess in his collection, has no idea where you might have seen something like that.”

  “Oh,” was all Harold could think to say.

  “That’s it—oh?”

  “What about Jennifer?” Harold asked, expectantly.

  The detective shook his head.

  Harold swallowed again. It suddenly occurred to him that naked, Jennifer bore an uncanny resemblance to the masked goddess, save that she had two arms. He said nothing, wondering how he could possibly have missed that connection before.


  “It’s a real mess, Harold, but, personally, I don’t think you’re mean enough or bright enough to mastermind something as messy as this. It’s Charlie Tuttle we want. He’s got, as you put it, a history of violence. Do you have any idea where we can find him?”

  Harold shook his head—he had no idea.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Harold moved back to his old rooming house, washing dishes and floors again until the police cleared him to leave town. Back on the 6:42, heading deeper into the hinterlands with five hundred dollars in his pocket, he watched the shadows creep over Myburgh shrinking in the distance as the train climbed the foothills. He shut his eyes. The darkness soon gave way to twin golden eyes peering ever deeper into his. In another moment he watched her dancing until the tears streamed down his face.

  Jennifer, he whispered, hoping against every indication to the contrary that he was ready; hoping this time she would whisper back, finally sharing with him those promised secrets of life and death from across the length and breadth of the cosmos.

  SHARDS OF THE BROKEN

  By R. Thomas Riley and Roy C. Booth

  Once upon a time…

  “What we got?” the man asked as he ducked under the yellow tape.

  “Who are you?” asked Detective Nikki Jensen, rushing towards the new arrival.

  “Gibson Blount,” he answered, flashing a badge.

  Jensen leaned in close to study the badge but it was gone as quickly as it was produced. What she'd seen of it made her brain feel funny, a black rock encircled in red.

  “You’re in my crime scene,” Jensen said, leaning in close to emphasize her point.

  Blount didn’t flinch. He set his jaw and stared back. “I’m here to help, Detective. You have no idea what's going on here.”

  “I know exactly what I have on my hands, damn it!”

  “You do? I hardly think so. Your phone is going to ring in a few minutes and your Captain is going to tell you I’m to have full access.” Blount held up his hand as Jensen began to protest. “I’m not here to take over. I’m here to help. We’re both detectives. Trust me, you’re going to need it.”