In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (13 page)

“At any rate, he was dead, of course. He’d
been hacked up good with an axe. It was layin’ right there next to
him, along with an empty bourbon bottle. Axe handle had small,
bloody handprints all over it, and the fingerprints we pulled
matched Merrie. Then, like I said, we found out that a good bit of
the blood on her was his. She never told us what happened... I
don’t honestly believe she even remembers. But the coroner’s report
showed his blood alcohol was through the roof, so with the evidence
at hand, the assumption was that he got liquored up, passed out,
then Merrie found the axe and did what she thought she needed to do
in order to escape.”

“Quite the feat for a ten-year-old girl,”
Constance mused aloud.

“You know what they say about fear,” he
replied. “It’s the great motivator.”

“True. And it does sound like a logical
conclusion under the circumstances,” she offered. “So, what
happened after that? The file had notes to the effect that Merrie
is currently institutionalized?”

The sheriff shook his head and answered. “She
never really recovered. For the longest time she was almost
catatonic. She was well into her teens before she showed any
improvement at all, but even then it was like she was mentally
frozen in time. Stuck at ten years old forever. A little girl in a
grown up body. Tom and Elizabeth took care of her even as they got
older, but about ten years ago they were both killed in a head on
collision out on the two lane. Merrie couldn’t take care of
herself, so she pretty much lives at the retirement home. Between
her inheritance and the good hearts of folks here in town, it’s
covered.”

Constance cocked an eyebrow. “What about her
sister?”

“Nobody’s seen or heard from Rebecca for a
long time. Coming up on a decade I guess.” He gave his head a shake
that exuded sadness in the very motion. “Merrie had become Tom and
Elizabeth’s world, and I think Rebecca ended up resenting her for
that. She’d been off to college and was living her life in Omaha
before the accident anyway. She visited quite a bit. She came back
for the funeral and then hung around long enough to dissolve the
estate.” He shrugged. “Then she set up a trust fund for Merrie,
took her half of the inheritance and left. She was back a few times
after that, but each time it was shorter and farther between.
Eventually, she just stopped showing up. Shoulda been something in
your file about it. All of ‘em that came before ya’ tried to track
her down but never had any luck.”

“Unfortunately for us, if someone really
wants to disappear and they stay out of trouble, it’s easier than
most people think,” Constance said.

“That’s a fact,” Sheriff Carmichael
agreed.

He looked down at the plate of food in front
of him. A visible, dull skin had formed on the surface of the
rapidly cooling gravy, and the inviting gloss the butter had given
the bright green peas was all but melted into oblivion. It didn’t
matter. His appetite had disappeared thirty seconds into the story
anyway.

He pushed the plate aside, then reached for
the napkin dispenser only to discover that he’d been clenching one
of the folded paper rectangles in his fist the whole time he’d been
recounting the thirty-five-year-old horror. He carefully wiped his
mouth, then brushed out his mustache with his fingertips as he
tossed the crumpled napkin aside.

“So, tell me,” he began, turning his
emotionally spent gaze toward Constance. “Now that you’ve heard all
that, do you still feel it’s absolutely necessary to talk to
Merrie?”

Constance nodded shallowly and returned a
grim expression. “I’m afraid so. I realize it must be hard, so I
can just go myself, if you’d prefer.”

“No, no... I’ll be going out to visit her
anyway. I always do. Besides, she’s probably expecting us. Bringing
her a new visitor on the twenty-second seems to have become a
twisted little tradition where you Feds are concerned.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugged off the apology. “She’s not big
on strangers either, but she’ll be okay with you if she sees us
together and I introduce ya’.” He reached up and massaged a spot
above his eyebrow with the side of a crooked index finger. “All
right then. Let me go ahead and collect that piece of pie and run
it back to Clovis, and make a couple of calls, then I’ll take you
over there.”

C
HAPTER
10

CONSTANCE
stood on the sidewalk in
front of the sheriff’s office while he went inside, the collar of
her long coat turned up against the breeze. The temperature was
hovering in the upper 20’s, but the occasional gusts that surged
along the street made it feel much colder. If the sun was out it
might not be so bad, but a heavy blanket of gray clouds formed a
low ceiling overhead, casting the small town of Hulis in a visible
dullness that served to enhance the dark funk that already
permeated it to the core.

Her cell phone speaker trilled as she held it
pressed against her ear with a leather gloved hand. After the fifth
ring a recorded male voice announced without identification or
ceremony, “Leave a message.”

Constance rolled her eyes as a sharp tone
followed, then began speaking. “Drew, this is Mandalay. Hey, I know
it’s the holidays and all, but I got handed the ‘Christmas Butcher’
case and I’m up here in northern Missouri. I just finished a really
interesting conversation with Sheriff Carmichael. Apparently our
file on this whole situation is incomplete... Actually, that’s an
understatement...but...anyway, since you were the last agent
assigned, I wanted to run a couple of things past you. Do me a
favor and give me a call back on my cell when you get this. Okay?
Thanks.”

She stabbed off the device, then punched in a
speed dial code using her ungloved hand, which she then promptly
shoved back into her pocket once the requisite task was complete
and nimbleness of digits was no longer required. Tilting her head
to the side, she tucked the cell beneath a cascade of brown hair
and pressed it to her ear once again. On the second ring a gruff
but far more familiar voice issued from the speaker.

“Homicide. Detective Storm...” the voice
said.

“Hey, Ben,” Constance half-cooed. “How is
your day going?”

“Pretty damn quiet at the moment,” he
replied. “But that’ll change. It always does.”

“Unfortunately,” she agreed. “I’m sorry we
couldn’t connect before I had to leave town.”

“Yeah, got your message. Shit happens.”

She could hear the shrug in his voice, but
underneath it she could detect a clear note of disappointment as
well. They’d both been busy with their respective jobs, and getting
together just hadn’t been in the cards as of late.

“So, how ‘bout
your
day? Where’d they
send ya’ off to this time?”

“Hulis, Missouri.”

“Hulis... Where the hell’s that?”

“About four hours north of Saint Louis.
Almost right on the Iowa border.”

“Ahhh... North Podunk Cornfield, eh?”

“Sort of. I hate to sound cliché, but quaint
definitely fits...in a weird fashion.”

“Whadda they have ya’ workin’?” he asked,
then added with a chuckle, “Grand theft scarecrow?”

“I wish. It’s a seriously screwed up case,
actually...” She left her words dangling on the chilled air.

“That bad, eh?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Okay...” he said. “You’re soundin’ all
depressed. Spill it. What’s wrong?”

She hesitated to answer. After all, why ruin
his mood too? But it took only a few seconds for her reluctance to
wane, and in the end she just couldn’t keep herself from sharing.
“Unfortunately, I just finished listening to a detailed account of
a child abduction, abuse, and sexual assault from thirty-five years
ago. A ten-year-old girl named Merrie Callahan. It was
heartbreaking.”

“Jeezus...” Ben muttered. “Yeah... I can see
where that’d royally fuck up your mood. Did they at least catch the
sick bastard who did it, or is that why you’re there?”

“They didn’t have to, actually,” she told
him. “The little girl he took escaped after he got drunk and passed
out. But rather than take any chances, she hacked him to death with
an axe first. On Christmas morning, no less.”

“Jeez... Awww... Just... Jeezus...” he
moaned. After a brief pause, in a somber tone he added, “That’s one
tough little kid. Well at least she got away.”

“But not before he’d tortured and raped her
over a period of three days.”

“Yeah… Well, if you ask me, the sick fuck got
what he deserved.”

“At the cost of the girl’s sanity,
apparently. She never recovered, mentally.”

“That’s fucked up...” he muttered, then fell
silent.

She could hear him breathing on the other end
of the line. As jaded as he could sometimes be about homicides, no
matter how gruesome they were, if a crime involved a kid, he
melted. Any act of violence against children pierced his armor
instantly and without fail. Part of what made it hit closer to home
for him was that he was a father himself.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I
really didn’t mean to call and depress you too,” Constance
offered.

“S’okay,” he replied. “I’m the one that
asked. B’sides, can’t be easy for you ta’ deal with either.”

“No, it isn’t...” she agreed.

“Gotta have someone you can talk to or it’ll
make ya’ nuts.”

“Uh-huh. Thanks for listening. I really
appreciate it.”

“Any time, hon. So... Stupid question. Why’re
you in North Podunk lookin’ at a thirty-five-year-old
closed
case?”

“Because seven years ago, a man’s body turned
up here on Christmas Day, also hacked apart with an axe. Since
then, same thing every Christmas morning. Man’s body, hacked up
with an axe, and the external genitalia missing. Just like the
incident in nineteen-seventy-five.”

“Damn...” he muttered. “That’s some twisted
shit. Somebody out there’s a certified wingnut.”

“Seems like it.”

“One body a year, eh? That’s some serious
downtime for a serial.”

“True, but an annual cycle isn’t unheard of.
Also, the murder is always preceded by a Christmas card delivered
to the sheriff’s office on December twenty-second, which is the
anniversary of the day the little girl was abducted.”

“Well, not that ya’ needed any more proof,
but that pretty much clinches your triggering stressor, right
there, doesn’t it?”

“I’d say so.”

“And it’s been goin’ on for seven years now?”
There was a hint of incredulity in his voice.

She responded in kind. “I know... Tell me
about it.”

“Who the hell’s workin’ lead on this?”

“That’s just it. Nobody. Or maybe me, I
guess. I’m actually the fifth agent that’s been assigned over the
course of the case thus far. And it’s never a team. Just a single
agent.”

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I wish I were. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No it doesn’t... Well... Lucky you, I
guess.”

“Uh-huh, lucky me,” she spat.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t need ta’ even say
this, but you’ve looked at family, right?” he suggested.

“Mother and father both dead. There’s a
younger sister, but it looks like she voluntarily disappeared into
the woodwork about ten years back and nobody has been able to
locate her, so she’s a possibility. Finding her is the issue.”

“I’d look hard at that one,” he grunted.

“I plan to. But like I said, finding
her…”

“Yeah, I hear ya’… So what about the girl
herself?” he asked. “You said she was ten when it happened, so
she’d be what, about forty-five now? And if she never really
recovered…”

“Not likely. When I said she never recovered,
I mean as in she’s institutionalized,” Constance replied. “Her body
aged, but her mind threw in the towel. I’ve been told she still has
the mental capacity of a ten-year-old child at best.”

“Not good.”

“Other than that, no real extended family
other than the people here in town. Apparently they’ve all chipped
in to help take care of her since the parents are deceased.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely a small town
thing... Think it could be one of them? The townfolk?”

“It’s an angle I’m working, but the sheriff
thinks I’m way off base.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about what a
small-town sheriff thinks.”

“I don’t know,” she told him. “He’s pretty
sharp. Actually, he reminds me a lot of an older version of
you.”

“Yeah, I am pretty damn sharp, ain’t I?”

“Yes, but I’m fairly certain he’s
sharper.”

“Ouch.”

“Seriously. He’s Sherlock Holmes kind of
sharp.”

“He smoke a pipe and play the violin?”

“I’m serious.”

“So was I. Sorta,” he replied. “So listen,
don’t take this the wrong way, but if he’s Sherlock smart, why’s he
need the Feebs?”

“Good question. But given the lack of
evidence left behind, maybe the killer is Mycroft smart.”

“Yeah, but Sherlock’s older brother was a
fat, lazy bastard. I doubt he’d be motivated enough ta’ kill
anyone.”

Constance allowed herself a brief, almost
imperceptible chuckle. “Bravo.”

“Yeah, kinda figured ya’ didn’t think I knew
who Mycroft was.”

“Always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“That’s what I keep tellin’ ya’.”

“Well, in any case I’m still planning to talk
to Merrie. In fact, the sheriff will be taking me over to see her
in just a few minutes. I’m not sure what she’ll be able to tell me
given her mental state, but you know the drill as well as I
do.”

“Gotta verify the case notes,” he said with a
knowing tenor in his voice. “Good’a place ta’ start as any.”

“That’s another strange thing,” she
explained. “I read through the file and thought I was up to speed
when I arrived here. But it turns out our documentation on this
case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is
missing.”