M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

Deputy Broderick was facing away from the spotlighted carnage, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His face was harshly shadowed due to the angle at which he was standing. The reflected wash of brilliance from the nearest lamp fell in an oblique swath across him, and what little of his face it revealed was sickeningly pale.

He looked up at Constance and nodded. After a moment he said, “Sorry about…you know…earlier.”

She returned the nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats until the awkward silence became too deafening to endure.

Broderick gave in first. Lolling his head to the side and angling it toward the dismembered victim, he offered in a quiet voice, “Fourth Christmas for me. Wish it would get easier… You know… Seeing it and all…”

“No,” Constance replied without hesitation. “Trust me, Deputy; you really don’t.”

He appeared to frown then gave a shallow nod in response to her statement. A second later a fresh pair of footsteps began to echo from the stairs, and the sullen officer cast his flat expression upward toward the source.

“Martin called,” Broderick announced as Sheriff Carmichael came into view and continued down the staircase. “He’s having trouble getting the hearse to turn over this morning, so he’s running behind.”

“Yeah,” Skip replied, stepping off the bottom precipice with a grunt. “I just got off the radio with Johnson. He told me.” Hitching up his belt, he picked his way through the tangle of electrical wires and drew himself up next to Mandalay.

“Is Martin your County Coroner?” Constance asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Martin Hornbeak. He owns the funeral home here in town too.”

She acknowledged with a nod.

The sheriff sucked in a deep breath then blew it out in a loud huff, as if to state unequivocally for the record just exactly how they all were feeling. After a long measure with nothing more than the muffled drone of the generator outside to fill the space, he grumbled, “Deja goddamn vu… Every year… Every goddamn year…”

“Do you have a Crime Scene Unit on the way?” Constance asked.

“You’re looking at it,” he snorted. “We could process this scene in our sleep.”

“I’m not doubting you, Skip,” she replied. “But have you considered calling in outside investigators? Maybe from the MHP Crime Lab?”

“Sure,” he told her. “But not for a few years now.”

“Why not?”

“They’ve made it clear that they prefer to leave this one alone,” he explained.

“Why?

“Hold that thought,” Carmichael said, then turned his gaze toward the deputy. “You take the pictures yet?”

“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as last year.”

“And the year before; yeah, I know,” Skip grunted. “Bag the axe?”

The deputy nodded. “Yeah. Bagged and tagged. Whiskey bottle too. Just waiting on Martin to show up for the remains. I’ll take prints and do a DNA swab over there. Called Doc Harper too. She said to let her know if Special Agent Mandalay wants an official autopsy, otherwise just have Martin sign off on the death certificate as usual.”

After a pause the sheriff asked, “Did you check…?”

He purposely left the half-asked question dangling in the air. While not fully spoken, it seemed that between the two of them it was implicitly understood.

“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as always.”

“Good,” the sheriff replied with an approving nod. “Give Constance a glove.”

Broderick dug around in his coat pocket, then produced a latex glove and handed it over to Mandalay.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Skip…” she said.

“I know, but I’m about to,” Skip told her and indicated for her to follow as he started across the basement. “Go ahead and put the glove on. I need to show you something.”

She followed along behind him, stretching the sheath over her hand and working it onto her fingers as they stepped out in front of the arc of halogen work lights. Their shadows fell against the far wall in harsh, misshapen silhouettes. After skirting around the congealed pools of rusting blood, which were already showing the first-stage signs of freezing to the floor, they stopped amid the scattered remains of the butchered victim.

“Have a look,” Skip said, pointing at the severed head a few feet away.

Constance furrowed her brow at the sheriff. She had worked far too many cases involving violent death to be squeamish as a rule, so she wasn’t exactly a lightweight when it came to crime scenes. However, the egg salad sandwich was still lodged sideways in her gut, and her headache wasn’t helping either. Getting up close and personal with a dismembered corpse wasn’t exactly high on her priority list.

Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward, then gathered her coat and squatted down in front of the disembodied head. She tilted her gaze, inspecting the grotesque tableau.

“What am I looking for?” she finally asked.

“You can move it,” the sheriff answered. “Get yourself a better look.”

Somewhat reluctantly but with great care, Constance reached out with her gloved hand and carefully rolled the head up to fully reveal the face. The victim’s expression was flaccid, mouth open, eyes half-lidded and staring lifelessly back into hers. Blood bathed the chin and most of the face, as well as the ragged portion of the neck that was still attached. A deep gash ran from the cheekbone just below his left eye, down across the jaw, revealing raw muscle and crushed bone. It had apparently been a wild strike from the blade of the axe-not unexpected given the circumstances.

However, even with the severe marring and excessive blood, the features were intact and distinct. The image of a mug shot filled Constance’s already overtaxed brain.

After a prolonged hush, with the petite federal agent motionless and staring at the severed head, Skip cleared his throat.

“Recognize him at all?” he finally asked.

A heartbeat later Constance replied, her voice flat and soft but clearly audible in the still basement. “It’s John Horace Colson…”

“Yeah,” Skip grunted. “The sonofabitch hasn’t changed a bit. Not bad for a guy that’s been dead for thirty-five years.”

7:53 P.M. – December 25, 2010

Highland County Regional Hospital

Psychiatric Wing

Mais – Northern Missouri

Twinkling lights chased each other in a tightening upward spiral with ever-increasing speed, dancing briefly on the tips of lightly flocked green plastic branches. The miniature glimmers of color reflected wildly from glass ornaments that dangled as shiny obstacles in their paths. Finally, the racing points of brilliance reached an ornate silver-trimmed starburst at the top, and its own hidden cluster of tiny bulbs sprang to life in a radiating display of commercialized holiday cheer.

Constance quietly watched the flickering decorations on the Christmas tree as the strands of lights rolled through a half-dozen differing patterns before going dark for a moment and then starting the sequence from the beginning once again. As the chase began anew, she turned her face away from the animated distraction, lazily uncrossed her legs, and then leaned forward in the molded plastic waiting room chair. She pursed her lips then arched them into a hard frown as she hunched over and rested her forearms atop her knees. Staring downward, she thumbed a button to illuminate the screen of the cell phone she held cradled in her hands. She’d been sitting here waiting for almost twenty-five minutes now. Any other time she would already be well on her way to annoyed, but not this evening. She was willing to wait as long as necessary.