Succubus (Chapter Two)

A man in a dark suit sits alone drinking tonic water. The Northridge Club is buzzing tonight. Amber dances and Tori, his regular waitress, flirts with a retiree. Tori listens and, with a soft touch to the knee, comforts the old man. For a moment, he forgets his loneliness. That’s how she makes her money. Henry’s no fool, but his loneliness isn’t so easily charmed. Tori may be only a waitress at this gentleman’s club, but her experience is more intimate than Amber’s, he decides. Amber dances on a stage, separated from her customers. Even with a tableside dance, she keeps her distance. This isn’t one of those clubs with a fancy VIP section or a champagne room where the girls trade in tricks. This is just a local haunt, a run-of-the-mill strip joint. There isn’t another for two hours south toward Burlington. But this is where he gets his fix. Tori heads back his way.
“Hey, Henry. Another tonic and lime?” She asks while holding her tray. Henry starts in on her.
“Now, explain this to me, again, Tori. What’s with the tray? How can you fit any drinks on there?” He already knows the answer, but he never tires of the conversation.
“This, again, Henry? It’s simple, really. I have a shot glass filled with napkins, a pen and a lighter. I carry an ashtray, so I can empty out the ones in front of customers. It really doesn’t take up that much room on the tray.” She puts a knee up on the long, red booth that runs the length of the wall and leans toward him. He wants a demonstration.
“But how do you get the napkins to fan out like that?”
“Really? Here. Let me show you.” Tori sets down her tray in front of Henry. Tori sweeps the napkins out of her shot glass and aligns them like she’s about to shuffle a deck of cards. “Here, do you see how they’re all together in a stack now?” Henry smiles.
“I do.”
“All I do is press them against my forearm and twirl them around. Like this.” The napkins go around her forearm while Tori pinches them at the ends. They fan out like peacock feathers.
“Beautiful.” Henry’s eyes shine.
“Beautiful? What’s beautiful about it? They’re just napkins, Henry. Besides, I think it’s kind of gross. I wouldn’t tell anyone else this but think about it. All of these napkins have been wiped all over my arm.” Tori’s face contorts.
“Then there’s a little piece of you on each napkin.” Henry tries not to come off creepy. Tori doesn’t give it a second thought.
“I know. It’s gross, right?” She’s searching for some sense in the man.
“No, Tori. That’s what’s so beautiful.” He must get in the cheesy line.
“Henry, you stop it. I hear it from every other Joe in here. Don’t make me listen to it from you, too.” Tori jests with a friendly push of Henry’s shoulder. “I’ll be back. I have to make my rounds.” With that, Tori is off to flirt with her less seasoned patrons. Henry knows she’s got him figured out, too. She makes him her confidant, a special friend in here, where the rules of engagement don’t apply. Maybe she means it. Maybe she’s just working him, too. He’s never quite sure, but that’s what differentiates him from the rest of these bums. At least he doesn’t have to roll up his tongue every time she walks away, even though he watches just as keenly. Maybe he doesn’t want to be different. Maybe he wishes he got just a little more fairytale out of the time he spends here. Amber gives him that.
Amber’s off stage and goes into the back for a dress change. She comes out in a little red number and heads straight to Henry. He scoots across the booth, away from his table, and she dances. She doesn’t ask. They don’t speak. He hands her a hundred-dollar bill when it’s all over. She gives him a ten-dollar bill back in change. Only they, Henry, Amber, and Tori, know what’s wrapped inside a little plastic baggie rolled inside the bill. This is the place where he gets his fix. Happy hour is ending at Northridge. Henry always goes in early, right after he gets out of the office, so he has time to himself for the rest of his night.
He walks into his Spartan loft, over the town bakery shop. He loves the smell of bread baking in the wee hours of the morning. The aroma wakes him softly. But the night is still young, so he takes out the plastic baggy for the first time tonight and inspects its contents. Perfect, as always. The girls treat him well. They better. It’s his product. He likes to think of himself as Quality Control.
Before he gets started, Henry pulls out his cell. He makes obligatory remarks on Facebook and fake likes crap from his childhood friends. He checks Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and Pinterest with the same robotic resonance. He must look active in a world outside of real life, lest someone starts to question his real life. These small maneuvers keep the wolves at bay. He already has a voicemail message. He debates whether to listen.
Criminal research takes up a substantial part his day in the office, but aside from a clear-cut murder case every few years, the workload is manageable. He doesn’t often take his work home with him. That’s one of the benefits of a small-town practice — one of the benefits. What the hell; he checks it.
Henry’s pupils adjust to shock. Tyler. He found that body. This is not good. He knows Tyler and Maple can’t pay him his usual fee. That’s the downside of a small-town practice, especially in his hometown. That’s beside the point. Henry watched the news come in all day about this new case. Never did he think it would fall into his lap this way. But it couldn’t have anything to do with Tyler, just like he said in his message. All he did was find the body. Someone had to. That’s how it works. Henry returns the call and Maple answers on the first ring.
“Hiya, Maple. I received Tyler’s message,” Henry starts. Maple immediately starts rambling.
“Henry, thank you so much for calling us right back. The detectives want to meet with him tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. What are we going to do?” There goes Henry’s night.
“Take it easy, Maple. I’ve got this. Of course, I’ll go to the station with Tyler. Can you put him on the phone for me, please?” Maple turns around and gives the phone to Tyler, who has been towering over her ever since she answered.
“He wants to talk to you. Here.” Tyler is just as flabbergasted as Maple.
“Henry,” is all Tyler can manage to get out of his mouth before Henry cuts him off.
“Hey, Ty. Look, man, I don’t want to worry you, but I need to know everything that happened the day before yesterday. I mean everything.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I can remember every question they asked. I was at the station almost all day,” Tyler replies. That’s the worst possible answer Henry could hear.
“You’re kidding me? Okay. You cooperated voluntarily. That’s a good thing. I’ll get on the horn and request all of the interrogation footage,” Henry says more to himself than Tyler. Tyler sounds dumbfounded.
“What do you mean interrogation?” Tyler asks. Henry can’t believe he talked to the police without him.
“Well, Buddy, if they asked for more than a written statement then they aren’t ruling you out, yet.” Henry tells it to him straight. It’s the first time the possibility dawns on Tyler.
“What? I didn’t know what else to do.” Tyler tries to keep his panic under wraps.
“It’s okay like I said. Meet me at my office at 8 a.m. I’ll need you to fill in any blanks for me. Rest up, Tyler. We’ll talk, again, tomorrow.” Henry needs to get on top of this and he doesn’t want to get into the details of it with Tyler just yet.
“Henry, how much is this going to cost? I hate to ask, but,” Henry cuts Tyler off, again.
“Consider it pro bono, man. I can’t leave my quarterback unprotected,” Henry reassures him. The press around the case will pay for itself in publicity for Henry’s law practice. Tyler lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks, Henry. I’ll find some way to make us even one day. I promise.” The two men say their see ya laters and Henry hangs up the phone, only to start dialing, again.
“Jay Sheriff’s Department,” comes from an unenthused, over-tired voice. Henry wastes no time.
“Hello. This is Henry Jacobs. I’m the attorney now representing Tyler Kingsman. I need to speak with the Officer-in-Charge.” Henry wonders who caught the case.
“That would be…” Henry can hear papers flipping on the other end of the line. “Detective Gates. He’s out of the station for the night. I can transfer you to the Officer-in-Charge of the night-shift if you like?” The idiot asks. Henry rolls his eyes into the back of his head and wipes his hand across his forehead. The worst part of his job is dealing with the cops. He likes the criminals more. At least they’re interesting. Most cops aren’t all bad, but some just went to the academy for eight months, instead of working a steady job at the local burger drive-thru window that was meant for them.
“Yes. The Officer-in-Charge, please,” Henry manages to calmly repeat through grinding teeth. The rookie ignores Henry’s frustration.
“Hold, please,” the should-have-been-burger-boy states. A raspy voice comes over the line after too long a wait.
“Officer McGraw.” The man has no greeting other than his name. Henry knows this guy. He’s going to have to twist his arm.
“Sergeant McGraw. Henry Jacobs, here. I’m going to need the interrogation footage from discovery interviews with Tyler Kingsman. I’m representing him.” And so, the game begins.
“Do you have an affidavit stating so?” Sgt. McGraw is known for being a prick. Henry expected it.
“Fine. Then you can explain to Gates why you canceled his follow-up with Kingsman at the end of your shift. I’m not bringing my client in unprepared for more questioning. I’m sure Gates will understand.” Only Detective Everest Gates is known for being a bigger prick. McGraw thinks it over.
“I see,” says Sgt. McGraw. He pauses. “I’ll see what I can do. When do you want them?” Why would he be calling this late if he didn’t want them now. Henry huffs, annoyed.
“As soon as you collect them, edit free. It’s gonna be an all-nighter for me, too, Sergeant.” He tries to smooth out McGraw’s feathers.
“I’ll have the Desk Clerk call you when they’re ready.” Henry knows his shit.
“Thanks, Tony.” Henry hangs up the phone. He falls back into an over-sized leather armchair. His eyes fixate on the plastic baggy sitting on his marble counter-top. The night is no longer his. He considers doing a blast, anyway, but knows better. That’s his distraction and right now, he needs to stay focused.
The recordings are finally ready. Henry goes down to the station to download the footage. As he watches on his laptop from the comfort of his bed, he can see why the police are so interested in Tyler. He’s sweaty. He’s jittery. He’s nervous. He’s unsure of himself. Also, all the reasons why he had nothing to do with it. Fucking cops.
A murderer of this magnitude would not be any of those things. He’d walk around like it is a perfect, sunny day in his perfect world. He’d feel satisfied, at least for now. Next, the real killer will decide what he wants next — to do it again, to taunt the police, to revisit the site, or something entirely unique — a signature. At least Henry can rest assured that he’s on the right side of the law here with Tyler. Henry drifts off to sleep just long enough for his alarm to wake him up.
Tyler walks into Henry’s office at 8 a.m. sharp. They exchange pleasantries, and, again, Tyler sweats from his nervous jitters about today.
“Look, Tyler. I’ve gone over all the footage from the other day and we need to shore up your resolve. I have a couple of questions myself.” Henry grabs one of his legal pads.
“Shoot,” Tyler replies.
“You said you caught a glimpse of the body out of the side of your eye, which is how it got your attention. But, then, in a separate statement, you said the sight of it practically hypnotized you, making you slam on your brakes at the last second before hitting the tree head-on. How can you see something out of the corner of your eye and, then, almost hit it head on?” Tyler stammers a bit.
“Well, first I noticed it. Then, I couldn’t stop staring,” Tyler states. That’s the simple answer Henry wasn’t expecting.
“Good answer,” Henry reassures. “Expect these kinds of questions. The detectives have gone over the footage, like me, trying to find inconsistencies. But don’t worry. I’m going to make them sweat it out awhile themselves to see if any new developments come up in the next few days.” Luckily for Tyler, Henry has a lot of tricks in his bag.
“What do you mean?” Tyler questions. Henry can’t be bothered to explain. Tyler won’t get it anyway.
“You’ll see. Let’s get going. We can grab some breakfast and, then, get a move on. I want to show up early, so I can get pissed off about waiting.” Both chuckle.
Everest Gates sits quiet at his desk holding a half-full mug of coffee with one hand. He stares out the window of the station at a young, skinny birch tree. It’s the color of her skin — white bark, after her blood was drained, with dark patches below its surface, hers akin to a shade of bruising, the tree by the natural order of things.
He sits mesmerized by the look of that tree as the station activity speeds up around him until nothing but shadowy streaks whizz by. How long has he been here like this? A kink in his elbow releases as Gates takes a sip of his coffee. The lukewarm creamer ruins the taste. He can feel the need for answers gnawing through his knuckles, gripping the mug. He feels it settling in, the dissociative detachment required to look over the medical examiner’s report and crime scene photos. But today is different.
He doesn’t get to digest these gruesome horrors in his own mind, twirling them around suspicions, hunches, or leads. Not for this case. The entire station is working this case, his case. The Medical Examiner, Dr. Goudreau already sent him her preliminary report from the crime scene with her initial findings. He memorized them and, as he sits staring, he rereads the reports over in his head — every word, every page; each photo has its turn. He has an uncanny memory. He keeps that to himself. Gates pops out of his trance to snarl at his partner.
“Rogers, it’s time. The doc’s presentation is about to start. We have reserved seats.” Gates hates his partner. Rogers engulfs an epic display of all bumbling cop clichés: he’s divorced with a chip on his shoulder about it; he possesses a gut large enough to be mistaken for a pregnancy belly in its last term; he’s a drunk on the brink of ruining his career; he still smokes; he does the minimum to get by on an entitled ego; he takes the Black Lives Matter campaign as a fleeting annoyance, caught grumbling to the huddled few disenfranchised, backwoods racists saying that if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then shoot it; he wears the stench of body odor first thing in the morning; he throws jaywalkers in jail to meet his quotas, which by all accounts of this station, don’t exist; he wears a long tan overcoat, for Christ’s sake; and he has a hard-nosed, no-nonsense partner that hopes to God he’ll take an early retirement when they offer it to him this month. If Gates could have it his way, Rogers would only have one bullet and a revolver.
“It’s 07:30, already? Eh, I saw enough at the scene to last a lifetime,” Rogers replies, as he searches for something gone missing from his desk. Gates takes his shot.
“So, you’re retiring, then?” Gates asks without a hint of sarcasm. Rogers stands, indignant, and grabs his frumpy, dark green suit jacket from the back of his chair, shakes it out a bit, and throws it on. Gates, with his crisp, blue, button-down shirt, starched and pressed, leaves his coat behind. He doesn’t get the chills from these briefings, anymore.
“Guess I’m canceling lunch,” Rogers remarks. Gates stares at him silent and lock-jawed. He doesn’t know how much more of this guy he can take.
“We have the Kingsman interview before lunch. Maybe you’ll work up an appetite by then,” Gates replies with disregard.
The two men work their way around the walls of the crowded room to take their seats in the first row next to Dr. Goudreau. She waits only for the station Captain to make her introduction before beginning her morning report. Already seated, she greets Gates with a smile. She is a heavy-set woman with straight, though frizzy hair, wearing it past her shoulders. In her early fifties, Dr. Goudreau is an expert in her field. Often, cases from other states are sent to her for review or she is called away to visit other stations on peculiar homicides. She’s a true Vermonter and won’t leave the station or the state permanently, passing up repeated offers over the years, always revitalized by returning home. Gates is glad to have her on deck. If anyone can make heads or tails of this body, it’s Dr. Goudreau.
The Captain takes the podium. “All right, everyone. Let’s get seated and begin. We all have our suspicions regarding what we found, but we deal in facts. So, before we set out a profile for what we are looking for, every one of you needs to prepare yourself for what we are dealing with. I don’t have to remind you that Dr. Goudreau is world-renown, so she has compiled her findings independently. The forensic team from Burlington is here, as well. We are working fast here, but we must work smart and work together. Dr. Goudreau, the podium is yours.” A bead of sweat runs down the Captain’s chubby, black cheek as he gladly takes a seat. Dr. Goudreau wastes no words and no time.
“Lights, please.” A white screen fills with her first photo. It’s of the young girl as she was found, pale as the bark on that birch tree. Her hair was long and black, and she had blue eyes. Gates imagines her like a Russian supermodel when she was living, even through the bruising and slashing and swelling of her skin. He must see through all that to get to the person, to the humanity.
Dr. Goudreau starts with the end. “The victim presented with a cause of death of exsanguination.” Gates finds the term just as repulsive as the act. “The victim did not lose a majority of her blood, rather it was all evacuated. She was then washed. The only blood evidence found at the scene,” she switches photos, “is here at the base of the feet.” Next Photo. “Notice how the Achilles’ tendons have been slashed. However, these cuts are not the source of this pool of blood. Rather, the perpetrator or perpetrators brought this blood with them from the primary location for display.” She switches photos for a close-up. “It’s unknown whether these cuts were made as a means of entrapment, torture, or a yet undiscovered motive.” Next Photo. “The body has two holes drilled into major arteries: each femoral in the mid-thigh area of each leg. These holes were most likely made by any heavy-duty drill with a large drill bit.” Rogers raises his hand. Dr. Goudreau nods in his direction.
“So, this is an amateur in medical training or someone with none at all?” Rogers asks. She is ready for that question.
“It’s likely that this was the method used, in addition to the vertical slicing of the wrists, to drain the blood from the victim. The perpetrator most likely possesses medical knowledge due to the accuracy of these wounds but may be trying to keep hidden purposefully.” Dr. Goudreau says as Rogers interrupts, again.
“Are you sure she didn’t just commit suicide when given an opportunity?” Rogers asks, embarrassing Gates. Next Photo. Dr. Goudreau continues.
“I’m quite certain. The cuts up the arms are too deep to have been self-inflicted. Both forearms are nearly fileted.” Dr. Goudreau turns toward the displayed photo. Detective Rogers nods, too eager. She continues. “The killer then suspended her, which is consistent with the ligature marks on her wrists. She was bound multiple times, probably from repositioning. But these aren’t really bruises, per se. They appear in this fashion post-mortem. Stagnation of the blood in the blood vessels produce a blueish purple color to the adjacent skin. It was the damage caused to the body before the drainage that actually trapped some blood in the cells, so this blackening effect remains even though the rest of the body was drained causing her overall paleness.” Dr. Goudreau stops to make sure the detectives are following along. Next Photo.
Gates hates this one. It’s a close-up of the girl’s face: after they removed the mesh scarf and took the wire out of her gums. Her teeth were yanked out leaving only empty sockets. The doc says it was most likely done with any household tool, such as a wrench or needle nose pliers. The victim also has slashes to her forehead and cheeks. There is a workshop of terror somewhere in this community and he must find it. Next Photo. Her fingertips removed at the first joint is the next forensic countermeasure the killer took. First, the teeth extraction, and now this. The killer is familiar with police protocol or he just watches a lot of crime series on television. Next Photo. Dr. Goudreau takes a sip of water from her bottle on the podium.
“The scalp remained intact. However, patches of bald spots and hair breakage do indicate ripping at the hair in uneven patterns. These may have occurred during a struggle or as a method of torture.” The Captain raises a hand.
“I’d like you to clear one thing up for the crowd, Dr. Goudreau, if you don’t mind?” He doesn’t wait for her response. “Aside from the obvious horrors on the screen, can you tell us why, medically, you are using the word torture?” Dr. Goudreau knew this would come up, too.
“I use the word because the victim has no signs of blunt force trauma to the head, which may have incapacitated her, and her tissue toxicology report shows no signs of immobilizing or incapacitating drugs in her system. However, a stimulant was found in high doses. I have reason to believe that these actions took course over a period closer to a week in captivity, rather than in rapid succession within a few hours or a day. What I am saying, is that the victim was kept awake. That, coupled with the wounds sustained, evolve into torture, Captain.” That’s good enough for the him.
“Thank you.” The Captain rises halfway out of his chair toward the back of the room. “I hope everyone is crystal clear on the kind of mind or people we are dealing with here.” He returns to his seated position.
“However,” the medical examiner continues. “There isn’t anything usual about torture. This may be a sociopath experimenting in which tactics he or she prefers, or it could be a psychopath who thinks each part of this has a specific and significant meaning to an overall ritual. There is no medical evidence from my standpoint to draw a conclusion. A profiling team may be more suited as to why the perpetrator tortures. I can simply assure you that it is torture.” Next Photo. “The only post-mortem injury is the dislocation of the arms from the shoulder sockets in order to position the body against the tree. Her hands were rebound behind it. Aside from these obvious wounds, I have counted fifteen punctures or slicing events of a smaller capacity. I will release these photos to Detective Gates, as lead investigator on this case, but I want you all to be aware of them.” Dr. Goudreau takes a deep breath.
“Finally, there is no evidence of recent sexual activity and no disfigurement or directed focus on the genital areas. There was simply no genital assault. There is no indication of a physical sexual assault, although, again, I step lightly here because I cannot presume that there was no physical contact of a sexual nature. This question is particularly due to the removal of the teeth. If this is a male perpetrator, it cannot be ruled out that the tooth removals were for pleasure or protection.” Everyone squirms. The doctor continues. “However, there was no semen in the victim’s stomach. In fact, the victim was malnourished fitting within the timeframe of more or less a week. Thank you.”
The crowd disperses after the forensic team finishes with a rundown of fiber, hair, and DNA evidence. All the DNA belonged to the victim. Dr. Goudreau disappears back down into the depths of her office. She’s not one for small talk or repeating herself. Rogers is sick to his stomach. Others get up as if slightly incapacitated from the same nauseous feeling. The briefing felt like a barrage of merciless cruelty. Gates bosses his partner around.
“Let’s take a trip downstairs, Rogers. I want to shore up a few details with Dr. Goudreau while everything is still fresh in your memory,” Gates demands. Rogers stares at Gates as Gates walks ahead of him.
“My memory?” Rogers replies.
The Medical Examiner’s Office is in the basement. It’s a small town, and the station is a one-stop shop. The fluorescent light bounces around the clean gleam of the station and into the wide stairway leading down into its depths. Jane Doe won’t be shipped out to a funeral home unless somebody claims her, or the medical examiner releases her for cremation, having extracted all her bodily secrets. The further down into the bowels of the station one goes, the more an unclean scent lingers, regardless of all best efforts. Most notice, or, at the least, have an unconscious reaction to it. Some let out an uneasy cough or take in a breath like they’re ready to submerge their head under water. A body must ready itself for the room — nostrils flare and contract, eyes begin to water, a walk becomes more rigid.
Push through the wide, silver, swinging doors to the room with matching shiny, metal slabs. The floors are tiled in a slight whirlpool fashion so any thorough hosing down of the place directs remnants toward the drain in the center. The tile is a burnt orange color from the remodel in the mid-seventies. It’s due for an upgrade, but no one holds their breath for that, only the burning smell of chemicals and rotting flesh. Everyone, except for Dr. Goudreau.
When she’s not at the autopsy table, she works in a medium-sized office in the back corner of the large open space. Files fill her desktop around her extra-large day calendar, which lays flush against the top of her desk. Her keyboard sits on top of it. Two computer screens and mobile pad charging stations fill up space around her worn, tan office chair, which has long needed replacing, though only Dr. Goudreau’s back knows that. She just hasn’t the time to put in the order. Dr. Goudreau is in a peppy mood.
“Hey, boys. Do you have questions regarding my initial findings on Jane Doe?” Goudreau asks as they enter the room. Of the eight autopsy slabs, only three are occupied, all in body bags. Most often, these are standard autopsies for heart attacks or car accidents. One small bag unsettles Gates, as he knows it belongs to a young girl found in a ditch. It isn’t his case, but the lead detectives are leaning towards a runaway, overdose scenario. She was only thirteen.
“No,” Gates begins. “I was hoping we could have a look at the body ourselves.” Dr. Goudreau is happy enough to accommodate him. She’s always liked Gates professionalism.
“Sure, let me bring her out,” Dr. Goudreau says as she opens a large, square, individual holding tank for the deceased. “Take a look,” she says. Gates and Rogers circle the table like wolves.
“Thank you, Doctor. Is there anything here that you weren’t sure enough to add to your briefing?” Gates asks, trying not to offend Dr. Goudreau’s academic senses.
“The mesh scarf,” she says bluntly. “It was discussed as part of the fiber evidence, but from my years of working on homicide cases, something like that is more symbolic than utilitarian. It’s my guess that it provides separation between the murderer and the victim. He, and forgive me for using the pronoun, but we all know crimes like this most often have male perpetrators, he doesn’t see her as she truly is. I think the scarf may symbolize a vail between this world and another — either the physical and the mystical or the world the killer lives inside, most likely from his own making, and our world, which he would feel is a false reality. But, since these are just my opinions, I had to keep them out of the report.” Gates appreciates the doctor’s candor.
“Thank you, Doctor.” The partners say in tandem, like children. Rogers steps in.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“Not specifically with this display signature, but I’m told there was a similar case in Granby and that an envoy is coming down. I’ve already been in contact with the Medical Examiner’s Office there and they’ll be sending me the files anytime now. I’ll be better able to assist you with your assessment once those arrive.” Dr. Goudreau begins to push the slab back into the refrigerated drawer. “I’m only going to hold onto this body for another twenty-four hours, so if you have any burning questions, now is the time to ask them.” She takes off her latex gloves with a snap. Gates jumps in.
“No, thank you.” Gates replies for both himself and Rogers, even as Rogers’ mouth begins to open. “We’ll just be on our way. We have to prep for an interview.” Dr. Goudreau is aware.
“Oh, yes. The man that found the body, Tyler Kingsman. He’s such a nice, quiet man. It’s a shame he had to be the one to make the discovery,” Dr. Goudreau adds. Rogers asks a question that doesn’t mortify Gates.
“Is there anything significant, in your eyes, about the timing of this discovery?” The doctor entertains Rogers’ question.
“Well, the killers had at least a good four hours of privacy to arrange the crime scene before Mr. Kingsman made the discovery. There was dew accumulation on the body, or it could have still been wet from the washing. Which one is hard to say. In a larger light, the seasons or moon cycles may be of importance to the killer. It was a new moon on the day the body was found.” Goudreau stands facing the men like a batter up to hit. Gates asks his final question.
“Was there any physical evidence that could tie Mr. Kingsman to the scene?” There. Gates finally gets it out. Dr. Goudreau offers a frank reply.
“Aside from the tracks left by his truck and his footprints, no. On the other hand, there were no tire tracks or footprints left by anyone else. That’s all I can say, except this display was methodical. I doubt a killer of this precision for display would leave any reliable tracks, anyway. Besides, someone had to find the body. It’s just the natural order of things,” Goudreau surmises. Gates gives her a smile.
“Thank you, Doctor,” the partners say in unison, again, giving each other an awkward glance as they leave the coroner’s office behind.
As far as Gates is concerned, natural order doesn’t explain this away.
Henry and I walk up to the station at 9:30 a.m. He’s grown up a lot since our football days. He traded in his varsity jacket for a suit and his wavy, black hair and beard have been trimmed recently. He still has piercing, fearless green eyes. I try my best to remain stoic. Finally, it’s time. Once Henry and I are in the interview room there are few pleasantries passed between him and the detective.
“You know your questioning proves nothing, but that my client did the responsible thing and called 9–1–1,” Henry starts in on the lead detective. Gates looks at me. His nameplate reads E. Gates. Gates tries to sound reasonable.
“All we want to know is if any details came to mind last night that you might have forgotten to mention at first. Shock can be a debilitating thing,” Gates says, trying to put us at ease. It doesn’t work. Henry attacks.
“I’m going to have to see your questions in advance and we will schedule another appointment. In the meantime, I’ve already requested a preliminary gag order from the county court to keep the police from identifying my client as anything other than a concerned citizen, not a witness. So, are we clear here?” Henry wants complete control over this situation and he’s fighting hard. Gates sits on the interview table.
“May I ask you one question, Mr. Kingsman?” The detective asks me in a disarming manner. Henry doesn’t let me answer.
“Add it to the list.” Henry butts in before I can say anything and then continues. “Thank you for your time Detective. My office will be in touch within three days to schedule our meeting after you send over your questions.” Gates stands and tucks his shirt in, bucking up his chest.
“All right. But there’s one thing you both should know before you leave.” I can tell Henry is impatient with the carrot on a string routine.
“And what’s that?” Henry picks up his briefcase and I stand from my chair. Gates takes us both by surprise.
“This has happened before. Last year in Granby. We’re bringing in a Canadian envoy to work the case with us. You need to be prepared to justify your whereabouts.” Henry doesn’t even blink.
“His whereabouts? You better have something more specific than that if you want him to answer that question. And just be sure the Mounties’ questions are already on the list. We aren’t doing round after round of this. You’ve got nothing, but a cooperative first responder on your hands. Thanks, again, Detective Gates. It’s time to go, Tyler. Let’s get you back to that spitfire, Maple, who’s probably paced a track into your living room floor.” With that, Henry and I make our exit. We leave the station and go back to Henry’s office.
Henry turns around after closing his office door. “Did you ever have any knowledge of what happened in Granby, if in fact the two cases are related?” Not really, I think.
“Not until yesterday when Frank brought it up at the job site.” Henry looks surprised.
“Yesterday? Frank? Frank Roy? What did he say?” Henry looks at me, impatient, but then settles down in his chair. I explained yesterday to Henry, even my lie, and my trouble focusing since then. He sits with his fingers interlocked on the top of his desk, like in a fisted prayer, in a moment of silence, and I can feel my nuts jump into my gut.
“Don’t worry about not bringing up the fact that you found the body. It’s good that you didn’t. If the boys ask you about it, just tell them your lawyer said not to talk about the investigation. And then don’t. None of this. But I want to talk to Frank before the cops do. We need to know how he knew that. I’ve never heard of a case like this and Granby might as well be our next-door neighbor.”
“You don’t think Frank had something to do with this, do you?” Henry waves the question off.
“No, no. Not now. But who knows what the cops will think, especially the Mounties? Do you think you could get him to come in within the next two days?” I think it’s a strange request if Henry doesn’t think Frank had anything to do with it.
“Sure, but I’m not going to finger my pal.” I don’t know what I’ll say to Frank, but he’ll probably be biting at the bit for some up-close action. Henry moves on.
“Once I get the police questions, I want to schedule our appointment as soon as possible to clear you of all this mess. It will be then that Frank’s name will have to come out. Now, tell Maple I said hello. I’ll be in touch.” Henry’s next client is waiting in the lobby as I exit.
As I leave his office, I feel a soft, cool wind blowing upon my face. I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for hours. This is going to be all right. And god damn it; Frank wasn’t all wrong. Now, he’ll never stop digging. Hell, he’ll probably do a better job than the police when I tell him he’s onto something.
Maple had almost worn the carpet bare by the time I walk through the door into a barrage of questioning. I worry less about the police after Maple’s questions. They’ve got nothing on her. I tell her everything to the last detail that I can remember. She doesn’t balk until I get to the part where I’ve been distracted. She takes a step back away from me.
“What do you mean she flashes through your mind?” Maple asks. How can I possibly explain this to her? I don’t even understand it myself.
“I don’t know. Detective Gates thinks I could be in shock.” Maple paces.
“Fuck Gates. We knew him in high school. He was an asshole then. He’s an asshole now. To think that you could have anything to do with what happened to that woman…” Maple gags, turns her head away and waves her hand. She wanted to know everything. Now, she does and neither one of us have any appetite.
The rest of the night there is an uneasy silence between us. I told her she couldn’t gab on to her girlfriends about this one. We’re too close to it. It could make things worse. But at least we have each other to confide in.
We make it to bed, but neither one of us is feeling very affectionate. There is a canyon between us on the king-sized bed. I finally drift off into the frosty light that lulled me to sleep last night. Later, I feel Maple’s soft, tender hands start to caress me. Her breath is hot, but her hands are cold. She warms them up, rubbing them through my chest hair as I fall from my side to rest on my back. She goes lower until she has me full in her throat. As I cum into her mouth, I open my eyes and let out a hot groan that floats away into snowflakes. It feels like there’s a weight on my chest and I can’t catch my breath. Snowflakes rain down back onto my face and melt away. They mix with the warm tears now streaming down the sides of my cheeks into my ears. Finally, the weight lifts and I cum, again. I pant. I sit up. Maple is fast asleep.
