M Sellars: Perfect Trust

His hand went up to smooth back a shock of his coal black hair and lingered once again at his neck, a mannerism that told anyone who knew him that he had something on his mind.

“You worry too much,” I said as I dropped my eyes back to the photo.

“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that, but I know how ya’ are,” he returned.

He was correct. He did know how I was. Until recently, he knew most of the details-though certainly not all-of the nightmares I had experienced, both during and after the investigations surrounding two separate serial killers. Both of which had terrorized Saint Louis in the span of less than one year. He had personally witnessed me involuntarily channeling the victims-and their horrific ends. He had even saved my life in both instances when I had recklessly taken on the killers myself.

He was fully aware of the emotional toll the investigations, and especially the supernatural elements of them, had taken on me. I had been affected on many levels. Because of this and his deep loyalty as a friend, he worried more about my mental health than I did. The fact that I had only become involved in the cases at his request played more than a small part in it as well.

“I’m not going to wig out on you, Ben,” I returned in a fully serious tone. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, but all that Twilight Zone shit you go through…” he let his voice trail off.

“Really, Ben. I’m fine,” I offered and then changed back to the subject at hand. “How did you find out who he is? I thought the evidence was inconclusive, and there were no identifiable fingerprints in his van. Besides, it’s been almost a year now.”

“Dumb fucking luck,” he answered. “A coupl’a weeks ago, County got a call from a distraught woman babblin’ about somethin’ she found in her basement. Turns out she was the owner of the house where this wingnut was doin’ his thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, no shit. Right outta the blue. The house was a piece of rental property she’d inherited. She lives outta state, and it was hung up in probate for a while, so she didn’t even know he was livin’ there. She thought it was vacant. Anyhow, the legal BS finally got cleared up, and then she got around ta’ comin’ inta town ta’ get it fixed up for sale. Well, when she starts cleanin’ up, guess what she finds in the basement? The fuckin’ holy torture chamber. The shrine, the candles, all of it. Everything just like you described from that vision thing ya’ had. Even found a copy of that book ya’ kept talkin’ about.”

“The Malleus Maleficarum?” I offered, referencing the fifteenth century Witch hunting manual the killer had adopted as his manifesto.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” He nodded. “So anyway, the copper that took the call gets a hinky feelin’ and calls Deckert over at County Homicide. He goes and has a look, then calls me before he even leaves the place.”

Carl Deckert was a mutual friend who had also been assigned to the Major Case Squad during the investigation. He was intimately familiar with the case, and I’m sure that when he’d seen the basement of that house it had set off more than one alarm.

“So, why didn’t you call me?”

“For the same goddamn reason I’ve been packin’ that friggin’ mug shot around for a week,” he explained. “I wasn’t so sure it was somethin’ you needed ta’ see.”

“You’re being overprotective, Ben.”

“So sue me. Hell, I’m still not so sure I should be showin’ it to ya’ now.” He sighed and then added, “Why do ya’ think I’m doin’ it here instead of droppin’ by your place?”

“Because you don’t want Felicity to know about it,” I returned, knowing for certain that he was alluding to my wife.

“‘Zactly.” He nodded. “After everything that happened, I promised ‘er I’d keep some distance between you and the cop shit. She finds out and she’ll pull ‘er damn face off.”

“She’s being overprotective too.”

“He looks real pleasant,” a feminine voice came from behind me, interrupting us before Ben could object further. I looked up to see that the waitress had reappeared at our table and was looking at the mug shot over my shoulder. “Number three, scrambled with cheddar,” she continued un-fazed and slid a plate in front of me. “…And a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“Thanks.” I smiled at her while laying the card to the side, face down and out of sight. I suspect it was just a reflex on my part, as she didn’t seem bothered by the photo at all. With the diner being a cop hangout, she’d probably seen and heard more than her share of things like this-probably even worse.

“Kitchen sink omelet with chili and extra onions.” She stressed the word extra as she planted a steaming plate before Ben with a wide grin. “Anything else I can get you two? More coffee?”

“We’re good. Thanks, Wendy,” Ben answered.

As was my habit, I took a moment to twist the cap off of the pepper shaker and liberally blacken my scrambled eggs while Ben watched, and then I returned the condiment to its original state before offering it to him.

“Jeezus, Row. That stuff’ll kill ya’,” he told me as he accepted the glass shaker but set it aside without using it.

“And what’s on your plate won’t?” I countered. “So anyway,” I continued, pointing toward the card with my fork. “That’s him all right. It’s an old picture, but it’s him.”

“Yeah, when we compared it to the sketch that was made from your description, there was pretty much no doubt. We found enough good prints in the house ta’ get a match through AFIS, and in no time we had ‘is file from the TDC. Seems ‘e was a guest of the Lone Star state for a few years. Once we had the file, everything fell inta place. Blood type, all that jazz.”

“What was he in prison for?”

“Aggravated assault and manslaughter,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“So have you notified NCIC or put out an APB or whatever acronym it is that you law enforcement types like to do?”

“A BOLO? What for?” He shrugged.

“So you can be on the look out for the guy, maybe?” I stated incredulously. “I’m assuming that’s what BOLO means?”

“Yeah, that’s what it means…But Jeez, Row, you ain’t gonna start that again, are ya’? The asshole is dead.”

“Did you ever find a body?” I demanded.

“No. So what?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s suckin’ mud on the bottom of the river.”

“The body would have surfaced by now, Ben.”

“Not necessarily, Row.” He shook his head. “What goes down don’t always come up. Trust me. Plus, the river flooded pretty good this spring. Maybe I am wrong and ‘e ain’t suckin’ mud at all. Maybe ‘e ended up bein’ fish food in the gulf or somethin’. At any rate, he’s gone. Dead. Eighty-sixed.”

“I’m telling you he isn’t, Ben.”

“All right, tell me. How do ya know?”

“It’s just a feeling, but I know I’m right.”

“Like I’ve told ya’ before, white man, this is just one feelin’ I can’t get with you on. I think you’ve just got some left over heebee jeebees or somethin’.”

“No, Ben,” I spat back tersely. “It’s more than that.”

“Okay,” he took on his own hard edge, “then where is he? Why hasn’t he killed again? Hell, why hasn’t he come after you again?”

I had to admit that I didn’t have the answers to these questions. It was somewhat of an ongoing theme between Ben and me. Something would tickle the back of my brain, and I would have some manner of instinctual feeling or precognitive episode. I would tell my friend, stressing the urgency of the vision, and he would start asking questions. Then like an idiot, I would sit there and say, “I don’t know.”