M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

Out of reflex he nodded assent while he spoke. “Yeah. Always missing.”

“Just like John Horace Colson,” she breathed.

“Except Colson happened thirty-five years ago, and there’s no question who killed him…and why.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. You read the file,” he replied. “Then you also know we find the victim in the exact same spot Colson was found.”

“I do.”

“After number two, we started watchin’ the place. Full on, around the clock, starting the week before Christmas every damn year. This year’ll be the fourth where I’ve sat out there myself. Nobody in, nobody out, but on Christmas morning, the body is always there.”

“That was in the file too.”

“Good. Then maybe you can explain that one, because I sure as hell can’t.” He paused, then brought the present thread of the conversation back full circle. “You know, right around Thanksgiving every year I start wondering if the sonofabitch has finally run out of cards so that maybe this nightmare can stop. Then one shows up. Maybe this will be the last one…but I really doubt it.”

“Do you just wonder, or is that one of your uncanny observations?” she asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head. “More like a Christmas wish. It’s the same one everybody in Hulis makes. Been a lot of wishbones snapped on it, believe me.”

Looking back to the card in her hands, she dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “Everybody in Hulis except for one, apparently.”

“No,” he told her. “This isn’t someone from around here. This is an outsider.”

“That’s just one theory.”

“Yeah, but it’s the theory I’m sticking with.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me too damn sick to think otherwise.”

Constance slid the card back into the evidence envelope and secured the flap shut with the closure string.

As she peeled off the surgical gloves, in a matter-of-fact tone she remarked, “You know I have to talk to her.”

“I assume you mean…” he allowed the name to go unspoken.

“Merrie Callahan, yes.”

The sheriff sighed heavily, then reached up beneath the rim of his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung his head and shook it slightly. “Do you really think that’s necessary? You said you read the file.”

“Yes, it is, and yes, I did.”

“Well? There should have been interviews in there from the other four Feds.”

“There were, but they didn’t…”

“…say anything of any consequence.” He finished the sentence for her. “My point exactly. Believe me, this ain’t my first rodeo with you folks. What makes you think you’ll get anything different this time?”

“I won’t know unless I try.”

“Well,” Sheriff Carmichael sighed again. “I think you’re just wasting your time and mine too. I’ll take you to see her if you insist, but let’s go across the street and have lunch first.”

“Honestly, I’m not really all that hungry,” she objected.

“Maybe you aren’t, but I am,” he explained. “Besides, we need to talk about this first.”

Constance shook her head to punctuate her hard response. “You aren’t going to change my mind about this, Sheriff.”

“Not gonna try,” he replied. “I’m just gonna give you the facts so you don’t go in unarmed. Decision’s still yours. And I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Skip.”

“Thanks, Stella,” Sheriff Carmichael said, looking up with a slight grin at the young woman who was refilling his coffee.

She smiled back. The expression was strained and thin, but still noticeable. “Your meatloaf should be up in just a minute or two, Skip.” She leaned a bit closer and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I told Max to put a couple of double thick slices on there for you.”

“You’re too good to me, Stella.”

That Place was more of a U-shaped lunch counter than anything else. It was crammed tightly into a narrow storefront across from the sheriff’s department and kitty corner from the town hall. The decor was typical small-town diner of the late 50’s or early 60’s-chrome and Formica counters with vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor at evenly spaced intervals. Just as the sheriff’s office looked like a throwback to the 40’s, so did the small diner look as if it had been frozen in its own particular era for the rest of time.

The establishment was surprisingly slow for lunchtime, especially during the week. Besides the sheriff and Constance, there was only one other patron, and he was at the far end of the U. She took passing notice that he appeared lost in his own little world, his hands folded in front of him on the counter as he quietly contemplated his coffee cup.

However, there was something else about the diner that struck Constance as even odder still. It was December 22 ^nd, and with the exception of a poinsettia on the counter, the restaurant was devoid of holiday decorations, Christmas or otherwise. Just like the sheriff’s office had been.

The waitress glanced over at Constance and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replied with a shallow nod.

“Suit yourself. I’ll be back out in just a minute or two.”

As she started away toward the kitchen at the back, Sheriff Carmichael called after her, “Oh, hey, Stella, I almost forgot. Clovis wants a piece of your mom’s coconut cream pie. Think you could box up a slice for me to take over to her? Just put it on my tab.”

“No problem,” she answered. “I’ll have it ready to go when you are.”

Once Stella disappeared through the swinging doors at the back, Constance twisted a quarter turn on her stool and focused on Sheriff Carmichael. “She seems a little tense.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s ‘cause she knows who you are and why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help.”

“Like I told you, we’ve heard that before. Folks don’t get their hopes up anymore.”

She glanced around again at the lack of visible cheer. “So… People don’t decorate for the holidays in Hulis?”

“Not many,” he grunted. “Not for a few years now. Nobody wants to think about what Christmas brings to this town. Hell, my wife and I don’t even put up a tree anymore. Don’t know many folks around here that do.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“It’s reality,” he countered.

“That doesn’t make it any less sad. It’s as if the town itself is a victim too.”

“It is,” he agreed. “That’s the difference between a small town like Hulis and a big city like Saint Louis. We’ve got a population of less than a thousand folks. What happens here is personal.”

“As I understand it, so far none of the victims have been from Hulis though.” Constance gestured with her index finger to indicate the surrounding area. “In fact, they’ve all been unidentified according to the reports.”

“True,” he replied. “But this is where they’re found, so that makes it personal, no matter who they are. You have to understand, Constance, people here aren’t afraid of being a victim of this killer. But they’re damned well on edge about this. Doesn’t exactly help our reputation, and the population is dwindling. This keeps up, Hulis could cease to exist.”

A quiet interlude fell between them as she weighed the gravity of what he’d just said. On the surface it was merely a statement of fact, but beneath the words, stark emotion was grappling with the logic, and it was winning.

The cafe doors leading to and from the kitchen swung open and Stella reappeared, plate in hand. A moment later she slid it in front of the sheriff, a waft of aromatic steam still rising from the pool of gravy welled in the center of the mashed potatoes that flanked an easily five-inch thick slab of glazed meatloaf.