The Tear Collector

by Shawn Burgess

  The words pop into her head. There’s no doubt. She said them. She said them to Brady. And with purpose. They strike a haunting chord as they chime in her mind, if they burn, they won’t return. But why did I say that? That’s not something I’d say. Why did I give Brady the idea to burn the caterpillars? Jesus! I’m a murderer. I killed Misty, not Brady. Distressed tears begin spilling from Angela’s eyes. She staggers a step, a dizzying spell enveloping her mind.

  “Ang…Ang…are you okay?” Brady moves in closer.

  Angela quakes, the ground beneath her set to a rickety sway. Her legs become flimsy, her upper body wobbling on failing struts. Terror pulses into her high-beam eyes like an amnesia patient roused from a Pollyanna existence to discover a dark criminal past. The self-realization cripples her, suggesting she’s not a good person. Not the person she thought herself.

  “I…I…remember.” Angela’s voice trembles.

  Angela grabs Brady’s scarred arms with both hands. She examines them, her eyes raining tears.

  “I did this to you. Oh fuck! I did this to you.”

  “Angela, listen to me. You didn’t do anything to me. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t really your idea. It was this Thing’s idea. It put it into your head. That’s what it does.”

  “But I did. I remember telling you. I remember now. Brady, why didn’t you tell? Anyone? Someone? Why didn’t you tell someone?” Angela breaks off into loud sobs, tears streaming her cheeks.

  Brady clasps tender hands on the silky flesh below her shoulders, anchoring her. His soft eyes swaddle hers. “I made a promise to you. After the other boys ran off. You tried to help me. It was my idea for you to leave. I made a promise. There was no reason to ruin your life too.”

  “And you kept that promise.” Angela’s rickety voice fractures. He gave up everything for me. She flings her arms around Brady’s neck and hugs him tight before succumbing to hysteria.

  “Of course, I did.” Brady presses his body snug to hers, patting her back with gentle affection as her salty tears roll down his neck.

  Chapter 44

  Incongruities

  DETECTIVE HOLT EYES the paperwork on his desk, twiddling with the end of his mustache. He asked Marcy to print it for him, but now he’s wavering. He hates these decisions. On those rare Friday afternoons when Chief Barton gets nostalgic, aided by nips from the stash of whiskey in his bottom desk drawer, he bends Holt’s ear for a bit about his rise from officer to detective to chief. He arcs his eyebrows at Holt when the phrase you know I’m gonna retire one day passes his lips. The most logical successor, Holt holds his tongue during the pregnant pauses when the Chief’s eyes search him for a sign of interest, and the inevitable deep sigh that follows when Holt ignores the cue. An extended silence delivers Holt’s answer.

  If the devil designed a perfect Hell for Holt, getting saddled with the Chief’s job climbs to the top of the list. He dreads the Chief’s annual tropical pilgrimage. A week of getting thrust into the leadership role in the department tests the fiber of his being. Detective Holt lacks the stomach for it, the politics and daily bullshit that come along with the role. No, he’s a worker, not a leader. He likes to dig into things, unravel the puzzles that confront him in his daily job, not manage a department.

  His instinct tells him to sign it, but the thought of making the pen stroke cripples him. He already told Officer Clancy to take the day off, but this carries official weight, a significant blemish on the young officer’s record, assuming the Chief doesn’t decide to fire him upon his return. These types of documents grow legs and follow, finding a way to limit future opportunities. The paperwork might hibernate for a season, lying dormant in a filing cabinet, but in time, and given the opportunity, it’s sure to raise its ugly head and crush the young officer’s aspirations.

  Holt runs his fingers through his mustache. What would the Chief want me to do? Does it even matter? I’m in so much shit already. This should be the least of my worries. Sleepy jurisdictions like Harper Pass don’t experience these types of violent crime waves. Chief Barton didn’t even bother to leave the information on his whereabouts in Hawaii. He always made a point, more so at the urging of his wife, to leave his cell phone behind. His pale gut’s probably hanging out on a beach somewhere right now, kicked back, carefree and having a Mai Tai. Blissfully unaware of the shit sandwich that’s engulfed Harper Pass. Detective Holt remembers him mentioning Oahu, maybe even Maui. Hundreds of hotels must dot those two islands and with no itinerary, no possible way to narrow it down. The task of finding him borders on impossible and requires far too many man-hours to devote to making all those fruitless calls. But it’s more of an excuse. Because even if he could, Holt would have strong reservations about making that phone call and interrupting the Chief’s vacation. Bad career move.

  Nope. Chief entrusted me to make department decisions. Damn well better do that if I want to keep my own job. He takes a deep breath and lets out a heavy sigh. Detective Holt makes a few quick pen sweeps across the paperwork, placing Officer Clancy on paid administrative leave. One thing left to do, file it with Marcy.

  Officer Morrow and Officer Ivansek stroll into the station. Holt flings out his top desk drawer, shuffles the signed paperwork inside, and slams it shut. The final decision can wait. May need Clancy’s help in all this, anyway.

  Morrow approaches Holt’s desk. “Holt, just got word from the hospital. The boy didn’t make it.” He dresses his words down with somber inflection.

  “Truck creamed him pretty good,” Ivansek remarks in his normal, tone-deaf fashion.

  Detective Holt shakes his head, a deep-set frown emerging. Tragedy of this scale and magnitude in such a short duration has never happened in Harper Pass. And all of it on my watch… He sent Officers Morrow and Ivansek to respond to the 911 call of a traffic accident, not anticipating another fatality.

  “How’d you write it up?”

  Officer Morrow shakes his head. “It was an accident. Plain and simple. Just a freak accident.”

  “So, no charges then?”

  “Witness saw it. There was a car backing out of a driveway. The boy swerved into the street to miss it. And—”

  “Cablammo!” Ivansek interjects as he smacks his palms together, making a loud clap.

  “We don’t need sound effects, Ivansek,” Holt scolds.

  “Yeah. Sorry, cap’.”

  “I’m not your captain. Dammit! What’s wrong with you, Ivansek?”

  “Where do we start?” Morrow barbs sarcastically.

  “Holt, nothing’s wrong with—”

  “It was a rhetorical fucking question!” Holt glares at Ivansek.

  Detective Holt examines Ivansek’s slovenly appearance. Jesus! A serious fucking brain drain happened in this department. Replacing my friends, seasoned veterans, with this moron. Fucking politics! To think I might be stuck with this train wreck. Clancy had promise. Damn. Kid was pretty sharp. Not like this ogre.

  As if reading the disgust in Detective Holt’s thoughts, Ivansek says on cue, “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry, Holt.”

  “Interesting thing though, Holt. Witness said they saw Sammy Needles a few minutes before the accident. Just before the crash, she comes back to her window, and Sammy’s gone, but she sees four boys there at the scene. Said she thought one of them was Sandra Mitchell’s boy, Tee.”

  “And they weren’t there when you got to the scene?”

  “No. The man driving the truck said they ran off,” replies Morrow.

  “Probably just a bunch of scared kids,” Ivansek dismisses.

  “Yeah. Probably right.” Detective Holt hesitates. “But maybe they saw Sammy, too. Seems to be an awful lot of people dying when Sammy Needles is around.”

  Morrow lifts his brows at Holt. “Yeah…but it was an accident, Holt. Don’t see no way to look at it otherwise.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But Sammy doesn’t know we think that. Might help to put his ass on the hot seat about Cam Givers and the Rogers twins. Get something out
of him at least.”

  “You gonna make that ole boy squirm, ain’t ya?” Officer Ivansek’s eyes delight like a child at an ice cream parlor window.

  Ivansek’s commentary tends to annoy Holt, but the comment doesn’t even register. Holt’s mind tumbles forward. He never misses an opportunity to gain some leverage on a suspect or person of interest before an interrogation. Might just have what I need to make Sammy sing. Looking forward to breaking that piece of shit. Watching that hard façade crumble. Unmasking that coward underneath. Finally find out what the little shit’s got to do with all of this. Holt breaks from his thoughts and lands his eyes on Morrow.

  “I had Clancy order me a chemical analysis. Can you get me an update on that?”

  “You got it, Holt. Oh…and the Rogers family…they keep calling. They want answers. What should we tell ‘em?”

  The mention of the Rogers family sledgehammers Detective Holt in the gut. A wave of nausea accompanies his strong suspicions of how it will end.

  “Tell them we filed the missing persons paperwork last night, we’re looking for their sons, that I personally notified the neighboring jurisdictions that they’re missing and that we’ve added them to the NCIC.”

  “Holt,” Marcy bellows out from the lobby, “Nancy Rogers on line one again for you.”

  “Tell her to hold on for just a minute.”

  “Guess you drew the short straw,” quips Morrow.

  “All right. Give me a little space. Ivansek, I want you out patrolling. I want you to call me with anything unusual, anything at all. If so much as a frog farts, you give me a call. We’ve got to get this shit storm under control.”

  “You got it, Holt.” Ivansek waddles out of the station.

  As Holt turns to Morrow, Officer Morrow pulls out a small notepad and pen in anticipation. He’s a fastidious note taker, a habit he adopted early in his career, but that’s become even more pronounced with his advancing age.

  “Morrow, get me an update on that chemical analysis. Finish processing that blood from the woods last night and send it out. Call Judge Scobie. Tell him we need a subpoena for Shane and Seth Roger’s medical records. I want to know what blood type they are. After that, I need you on patrol too.”

  “I’m on it, Holt.” Morrow finishes writing on his small notepad, turns and walks away.

  Detective Holt takes a deep breath and gathers his thoughts. The excruciating conversation with Cam Givers’ parents the night before leaks into his mind. Upon delivering the news, Cam’s mom, Karen, devolved into a puddle of pitiful jelly. Tommy, Cam’s father, tried his best to keep it together, but even he succumbed to the weight of his grief. He kept repeating, “Why? Why would someone do this to our Cam?” It wasn’t the indignant reaction of outrage that Holt expected, which caught him off guard and made it so much worse.

  A malignant vine-like growth flourishes inside him, its tentacles spreading, strangling his hollow stomach and pushing bile into his throat. Jesus. What the hell can I even tell her? Her boys, Seth and Shane, they’re dead. I know it. Too much blood. And Cam’s story… Bodies are probably somewhere in Shiners’ Gorge. But how do you tell a parent that, shatter their hope and rip the spines from their still breathing bodies? Something horrific swallows a person delivering that type of news. It’s as if God peels away the imperceptible layers, allowing a clear glimpse into the ethereal gears. Holt bore witness to it before, the soul-sucking moment their eyes glaze, the life abandoning their bodies, leaving behind an empty shell. And the empty carcasses that remain all too often crumble themselves soon after.

  Got a really bad feeling. Only a matter of time before next of kin notifications on this one. Holt gulps. He bites his top lip hard with his bottom teeth in a deliberate attempt to deliver himself a healthy dose of pain, almost as a reminder to stay in the moment with these desperate people. The tang of salt and heavy metal fills his mouth. He’s broken the skin. He dabs at his bloodied lip with a tissue before answering the phone.

  “Detective Holt h—”

  “Where are they, Detective? My boys. Where are my boys?” Nancy Rogers words come in rapid-fire.

  “Mrs. Rogers…I know this is a really hard time. I know—”

  “You know? What do you know? Why haven’t you found them, Tripp?” Nancy’s voice trails off into tears.

  The mention of his first name melts away the formality of the moment in an instant. Having grown up in this small town, it’s a common occurrence, but also a glaring reminder that these people aren’t faceless, nameless victims. They’re his neighbors, people he goes to church with, people he went to high school with, played on sports teams together, and sometimes, girls he swapped a little spit with in his youth.

  “Nancy, I’m sorry. I really am. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. We’re going to do our best to find Seth and Shane.”

  “But they’re okay…I mean, you think they’re okay, right?”

  “Nancy, I can’t answer that. We just don’t know enough yet.”

  “Oh Tripp. Pleeease.” Nancy’s voice devolves into a pitiful whimper.

  “We filed a missing person’s report for your boys. I have our people out looking for them now.”

  “Maybe they just got lost in the woods. You know how boys are. That’s probably it, don’t you think? We can just go find them in those woods.”

  “Nancy, don’t go in the woods. I have my men working on this.”

  “But they’re probably scared and—”

  “I mean it! Don’t go in those woods.”

  “Okay, but I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. You need to do something, Tripp. Pleeease. Just find my boys, Tripp.”

  “Nancy, you have my word. I’m going to do everything possible to find Seth and Shane. But I’m going to need a little more time. Can you give me a little time?” Holt drums the ground beneath his desk with his foot. Time is precisely what he doesn’t have in these investigations, and he knows it.

  “Okay…but…”

  “I’ll call you this evening. Promise. If not sooner. Try to get some sleep in the meantime.”

  “Sleep? I can’t sleep. How could I sleep?”

  “I know, but at least try to get some rest.”

  “Okay. I’ll try,” Nancy replies, her words disingenuous. “And you’ll call me?”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’ll call you.”

  “Please find them.” Nancy’s voice trails off into a whimper.

  “I will,” Detective Holt replies, the words an impulse that no sooner leave his lips than Nancy hangs up the phone. Damn. Why’d I say that? Love to walk that back a bit. Qualify it at least. Better to tamp down her expectations. Too late now. And we’ll find ‘em. Probably not in the condition she’s hoping for though.

  Detective Holt takes a deep breath and clamps his eyelids shut. Dammit! Too many investigations. And like two-and-a-half cops. Not enough. This masquerading as chief chewing up all my time. Feels like I’m just playin’ detective at this point. Need more time. More men. Shit. And Kirsten’s deteriorating. Verge of coming unhinged. Detective Holt’s pulse quickens.

  “Holt.” Morrow announces himself as he approaches holding a piece of paper. “Think someone may’ve screwed up. This is really strange. We may want to get this run again.”

  “What is it?”

  Officer Morrow lays the paper on Detective Holt’s desk and points to a specific paragraph in the middle of the page.

  “Chem’ analysis. Says here that black substance that we sent in for analysis is organic. No chemicals at all.”

  “Really?” Detective Holt’s wide eyes meet Morrow’s.

  “Yeah. But that’s not the most interesting thing. What really doesn’t make no sense is what they say they found. Says here they likely identified at least five different instances of unique animal cells, although they couldn’t conclusively identify the different species. Like some kind of Franken-goo or something.”

  Detective Holt’s eyes flash a glimmer. Professor Wadl
ow. Right academic background. Mysterious organic substance. Gotta be involved. Same substance. Multiple crime scenes. Links him to them. At the very least someone working in concert with him. Brady Palmer even.

  “Think I need to have another discussion with Latravious Wadlow.”

  Officer Morrow nods. “Sounds to be right up his alley.”

  “And what about Judge Scobie? Did he give you any guff?”

  “No. He’s issuing the subpoenas now.”

  “Good. Why don’t you make a run to get those, and then take ‘em to the kids’ doctor’s office? I want to know their blood type, ASAP.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask Nancy?”

  “’Cause I don’t want to alarm her any more than she already is. She might do something stupid.” Jesus, Morrow! Have some common sense. And stop with the questions.

  “Oh. Right. That makes sense. The lab should have the blood sample we collected from the tree processed by tomorrow.”

  “I need to know today. Take the sample to the hospital and have them type it for you. Tell ‘em to call me if they push back. And call me as soon as you have both results.”

  “You got it, Holt.”

  Detective Holt waits until Officer Morrow exits the police station.

  “Fuck!” Holt’s voice explodes into every corner of the station. Marcy winces from the lobby desk.

  Goddamn serial killer! Here. In Harper Pass. These murders, disappearances. Feels linked. I need more help. Could use an army.

  “Marcy!”

  “Hey, Holt, what you need, hon’?”

  “Call Lance. Tell him we need him to report in immediately.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I changed my mind. We need his help.” Detective Holt takes a deep breath before continuing. “Also, I want you to call Kasey Norton.”

  “The news reporter?”

  “Yes. Have her meet me at 3 p.m. at the Cracked Egg. Tell her I’m ready to give her the interview.”

  Worth the gamble. What’s reactionary mode gotten us so far? More missing persons, more bodies. Whoever’s behind this isn’t stupid. Ex-military? Ex-law-enforcement? Know enough to stay off the radar, that’s for sure. Gives ‘em an advantage. Time to go on the offensive. If it is a serial killer, maybe a little heat from the local media will help to flush ‘em out.