6:38 P.M. – December 24, 2010
Sheriff’s Department
Hulis Township – Northern Missouri
“Was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Sheriff Carmichael said as Constance dragged in through the door of his office and then without a single word parked herself in the straight-backed chair across from him.
He waited while she settled herself, absently inspecting the worn point on the number two pencil he held threaded through his fingers. After a quick frown he tossed it atop the folded newspaper on the desk in front of him, abandoning the crossword puzzle he had been half-heartedly working, and focused his attention on the petite federal agent.
“I left a message for you with Clovis this morning,” she eventually replied, her voice hoarse and emotionless.
“Yeah, she told me.”
“Sorry. I was following up some leads. She said you’d be here anyway.”
He nodded. “Well, that’s true enough… So…leads, huh? I could go for some good news. Find anything you wanna share?”
Constance didn’t answer immediately. The information in the recently cracked electronic document had only served to add a whole new layer of complexity to this case, raising more questions instead of giving answers to those that had already plagued the investigation for years. Since she didn’t know exactly what Carmichael was keeping from her, it seemed prudent to play some things close to the vest for the moment, and the contents of that document were chief among them. However, there definitely was one thing she wanted to discuss with him.
She shook her head. “Nothing solid. Although, I’m a bit curious about Edgar Reese.”
He simply nodded and sighed. “Yeah, I sort of figured you might be. Clovis said you had the annual run in with him this morning.”
“You could say that,” she replied. “He claimed to have information about the murders.”
“Yep,” he nodded, snorting out a chuckle. “I’m sure he did. He’s used that line on every Fed so far. No reason you should be any different.”
“That’s what Clovis was saying. What she didn’t tell me though, was that he was a deputy sheriff here back in seventy-five.”
“I doubt she thought it was important. Truth is, in the grand scheme it really isn’t.”
Her retort was matter-of-fact. “Well, truth is, I’m not sure I agree with that assessment.”
Skip gave her a nod, then adopted his formal tone. “Okay, Special Agent Mandalay, I can see we need to clear this up. So, here you go… Edgar Reese was a deputy sheriff here in nineteen seventy-five. He came on a little more than a year before I did. Now, what else would you like to know?”
“How involved was he in the Colson investigation? For instance, was he ever at the original crime scene?”
“This is a small department, Constance. Wasn’t really all that much bigger then, so to answer your question, yes, he was. We all were. Problem is, Edgar didn’t deal with it so good, and he hasn’t been right in the head since. I’m sure you had to notice that.”
“Of course, but if he-”
“Look,” he interrupted. “Let’s just cut to the chase. I’ve had this conversation more than a few times before, so I’m pretty sure I know where you’re heading with it. Why don’t you let me save us both some trouble… Yes, we’ve looked at him for the murders, and he alibis out.”
“Okay, so what’s his alibi, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Don’t mind at all,” Skip replied. “For the past thirty years, every Christmas Eve, Edgar has driven himself over to Mais and checked himself into the hospital psych ward. That’s where he is now. Matter of fact, I got the call from them about two hours ago.”
“So they call you?”
“Yeah, I asked ‘em to. Just to be sure every year, not that it matters. It’s really more of a peace of mind thing. Anyway, he’ll be there for seventy-two hours, and then he’ll come home, medicated and a little less flaky for a while. Point is, every year he’s pretty much under lock and key until well after the annual murder…”
She shook her head and chewed at her lip for a moment. “Mind if I ask why this wasn’t in any of your reports?”
“Honestly, I figure Edgar’s had it pretty rough what with his breakdown and his marriage falling apart like it did. Not to mention losing his job and becoming the town fool… He makes enough trouble for himself without my help, trust me. I believe you had first hand experience with that this morning.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t want to add to it. Besides, he always comes to you Feds with his claim, not me. I’d say a better question would be, why isn’t it in any of your reports?”
She let out a soft harrumph. “You’re right, Skip. That’s an excellent question. I wish I had an answer for both of us.”
“I hear you,” he replied, then gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry I torpedoed your theory.”
“That’s okay. I guess I really expected you to.” She pursed her lips and stared blankly into space. “He’s a bit too obvious as a suspect for you to have missed him.”
“True,” Skip agreed. He watched her quietly for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “So…speaking of reports, let me ask you a question: What did Edgar tell you?”
Constance shook her head. “Nothing, really. He insisted on going to my motel room, but when I suggested we come here instead, he became agitated. Then he just rattled off some Bible verses about the devil being among us.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s different…” he mumbled, not answering.
“What is?” Constance pressed.
“Well, the scripture quoting is normal for him, but in the past he’s always explained it to you Feds. You see, he believes Merrie is the embodiment of Satan and that everyone in town is possessed by her.”
“Which explains why he always goes to an outsider.”
“Pretty much.”
Constance curled her fingers in and looked down at her hand. “I wonder if that might also explain why he seemed to really lose it when he saw my manicure.”
“Yeah,” he grunted thoughtfully. “None of your colleagues had that, but just about every woman in town has had a Merrie manicure at one time or another, so it’s a connection he’d definitely make. I expect after seeing one on you, he probably believes that you’re possessed just like the rest of us. Probably also why he didn’t bother to tell you anything more.”
“Do you have any idea where he came up with this notion about her?”
“You mean besides him being crazier than a shithouse rat?” he replied. “It was what she did to Colson with that axe. He came from a pretty strict religious family, so I guess when he snapped, his brain just rationalized things the only way it knew how. Like I said, he didn’t handle what he saw that morning so good. Fact is Sheriff Morton had to send him home before we ever finished processing the scene. After that he was on administrative leave for a while, but he never came back to the job.”
“And he never recovered…” Constance added.
“Not really,” Skip agreed. “From what I hear, he wasn’t so bad for a good while there. When these new murders started though… Well…he kind of went off the deep end all over again.”
“Triggering stressor.”
“Yep. So…got anything else?”
“Like I said, nothing solid.” She gave her head a small shake to punctuate the answer.
“Anything you wanna talk out? I’m happy to be a sounding board if you want.”
“Not just yet.”
“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind hearing a fresh theory or two, believe me.”
Constance sighed, but didn’t say anything in return. Carmichael didn’t seem to have a problem with parceling out information if the right question was asked-or button pushed. Unfortunately, they both knew the information on Edgar was something he should have volunteered at the outset, even if he was trying to protect the reputation of an innocent man with mental problems. The background check Ben had run may have painted him as an exemplary cop and upstanding citizen, but there was definitely something else going on behind that facade. She just hoped her instinct about him was correct and whatever he was hiding had a benign intent and reasonable explanation.
Skip rocked back in his old, wheeled desk chair and brushed his fingers through his mustache as he looked her over. After a thoughtful pause, he rubbed his chin then nodded in her direction. “Since we’re on the subject of Beelzebub, you look like you drove through hell and stopped too long to admire the view, young lady…” Raising an eyebrow he added, “No offense meant, of course.”
“None taken,” she replied. “Honestly, that pretty much sums up exactly how I feel at the moment.”
He tilted forward in the seat and rested his arms on the desk. Peering at her with an expression of fatherly concern, he asked, “You get any sleep at all last night, Constance?”
“Actually, Skip,” she said, pausing for a second before saying, “Not much. I took a nap this afternoon, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d call restful, either.”
“Let me guess: about three?”
“No, let me guess, Sherlock,” she returned, sarcasm thick in her gravelly voice. “The bags under my eyes are just the perfect shade and the creases still in my face from the pillow add up to three or something like that…”
He shook his head, the concern still in his face. “No, sugar, that one was just a guess. Three in the afternoon was right about the time I took my nap thirty-five years ago. Wasn’t a very restful one for me either, as I recall. Bad nightmares. Just looking at you tells me you’re on the same wavelength I was back then… And still am, I guess.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m just…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “It’s Christmas Eve, you’re away from your loved ones, and you’re stuck in the middle of an investigation I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s bound to get to you.”
“It’s my job.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Not to mention that I’m supposed to remain objective.”
He shook his head and snorted. “You and I both know that doesn’t always happen. Especially with something like this. When a child is involved it changes everything.”
“Except the problem is, this is supposed to be about seven brutal homicides over as many years. Not about Merrie and what happened to her in nineteen seventy-five.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Well… You might want to tell that to the killer when you catch up to him because I don’t think he got the memo.”
She sighed. “Yeah… I know.”
Sheriff Carmichael silently regarded the sullen FBI agent for a moment then asked, “You eat yet?”
“This morning.”
“I meant dinner.”
She shook her head. “No. My stomach really isn’t up to it.”
“Yeah, I get that too,” he replied. “But since you’re dead set on sitting in that house all night waiting for this sonofabitch, you’re probably gonna need something to keep you going.”
“I’ll eat tomorrow.”
“Tonight, tomorrow, I don’t care,” he replied. “Either way, my wife fixed you up a care package just in case. It’s not a lot. Just a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, but I have to say, Kathy does make a mean egg salad sandwich.”
“I appreciate it,” Constance told him. “Please thank her for me.”
“I’ll do that,” he agreed. “So…you want to just sit for a while, or are you ready to head on over?”
“Let’s just go. I’d like to have another look at the basement, and the sooner I’m in place the less chance there is to spook our subject.”
“Your call,” he said with a nod. “Been down this road before. I really doubt it’s going to matter one way or the other. Let me go ahead and put some fresh batteries in a flashlight for you.”
“I’ve got mine, thanks,” she told him.
“Okay, good. Then I’ll just grab you a radio that’s got a full charge on it, then I’ll run you on over there.”
“Oh, just one other thing,” Constance said as he was pushing back from the desk.
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to borrow a hammer if you have one handy.”