Chapter 3: Detective Stiles

Detective Stiles

        Tiyopah Detective Henry Stiles cracked open another can of Budweiser and shuffled back over to his desk chair. He eased himself into it, grimacing as his lower back cried out in protest. He swiveled slowly to his right. Gilly, his eight year old golden retriever, looked up at him from her place on the large Persian rug surrounding the desk, her eyes brimming with boredom and indifference.

        "You could show a little bit of sympathy, you know. It's not like I meant to fall down those stairs. Crystal's coming over to walk you. I can't do it today, girl."

        Gilly shifted her head in a huff, and watched an invisible something float across the ceiling. Stiles smirked. When she did that, he almost always got the impression that she was rolling her eyes at him.

        He tenderly swiveled the chair back to face the desk. His computer had completed its startup cycle, and now waited apathetically for him to enter his log in password. He set the can of beer carefully on a nearby empty manila folder, then reached out and moved it onto a ceramic coaster instead, pausing afterward to wipe the small drop of condensation that had fallen onto the desk's dark mahogany surface.

        Gretchen trained me well. Even now that she's gone, I still follow the program.

        He looked up at the pictures that had been carefully arranged on the shelf above the desk. The desklamp's light barely reached up there, but Henry could still make out his deceased wife's glowing smile, and that awful blue-flowered dress she had insisted on wearing to their 10th anniversary photo session. He had fought with her that day over his own apparel for the picture day, choosing to wear his gray suit over the navy one that she was insistent would compliment her dress better.         

        She was right, of course, he thought, I was just being obstinate. I'd give anything to see her in that dress again, and I wouldn't care if she wore it forever now.

        Henry often found himself having such thoughts, that he would cherish every little nuance of her soul, if only he could have one more day with her. She had chosen to leave, though, which made his wishes all that much more futile. If he had only one wish to be granted, it would've been to change her mind that terrible day two years ago, even if she would hate him for the rest of his life.

        Gilly jumped up and headed for the door. Henry heard the outer screen door open with a screech, and a quick light knock followed immediately after. Gilly positioned herself just outside of the door's path.

        "Come on in, she's waiting for you!" he called out.

        He swiveled around to face the doorway; his back muscles cursed his legs for being too eager. The door swooshed over the front hallway rug, and Gilly jumped up, beginning her welcome dance. His daughter, Crystal, came in, stooping low with her hands out for Gilly to accept her scent. Her small frame seemed even tinier in that posture, and Gilly took advantage of it by pouncing upwards at her, causing Crystal to backtrack into the screen door, her laughter a deep guffaw that clashed with her petiteness.

        "Gilly!" Henry started to get up, but his back latched onto the back of the chair, like a child being torn away from his mother.

        "It's alright, Daddy. I got this! Down, Gilly! Down , girl! Let me get the leash."

        Gilly backed off and pointed her snout to the inner door knob, where her well-worn leash dangled in anticipation. Crystal, one hand down to ward off any further mugging attempts from Gilly, reached around the door like a viper striking. She grabbed the chromed latch hook of the leash, and, with one smooth practiced motion, snapped it to Gilly's collar. With that secured, she slid her hand along the smooth plastic-coated metal until the handle slipped over her hand.

        "Gotcha!" She paused to peek around the corner into the study, grinning.

        Henry eased back into his chair, a grimace accompanying the gesture. "Are you sure you don't mind, honey? I haven't been able to take her out yet, so she's going to be pretty wound up."

        Crystal looked her father up and down, noticing the stiff posture that was becoming more and more frequent. At 48, Henry wasn't old, but the years were starting to take their toll. She could remember the way he had used to chase her around the yard, playing a giant trying to capture the young princess. He'd slowed down a lot after the car accident, even though he'd brushed off any suggestion that he'd hurt his back more than a simple strain. Today's incident couldn't have helped that much at all.

        "Take it easy, Dad. I'll be back in a bit."

        "You're not even going to wear a coat? It's getting pretty cold out there, not to mention the snow's coming down pretty hard now."

        Crystal turned toward the door, and Gilly rushed forward, stabbing her snout forward, pawing at the screen door. "I'm not going to be out long, and I'm going to keep her moving. I'll jog!"

        "Be careful in that slush! That's all we need is both of us laid up!"

        Crystal banged the door open and Gilly rushed out. Crystal was yanked out by her arm. She let out one of her patented grunt-laughs as she grabbed the door knob and pulled it along with her. The door closed with a reverberating thud. Henry craned his neck to see out the front window, but it was too dark, all he could see were a few snowflakes rushing through the glare of the front porch light, like commuters late for work.

        Henry slowly swiveled back to face his computer, typed in his password, and waited for the usual startup programs to load. He took a quick sip of beer, and reached for the file folder that had dodged serving as a coaster. He flipped it open, revealing the crime scene report from the suicide over on Whitman Lane two months ago. Normally, he didn't review cases that had seemed to be so open and shut as a suicide normally was. This one had been so brutal and bloody though that it had piqued his interest, especially given the apparent occult connection. How somebody could've had the willpower to cut themselves so viciously and still followed through by slashing her own throat, he couldn't guess. The mind of a true believer could be enigmatic. There was so much more to it than that, though.

        He began flipping past the pages of the dry, emotionless scene report, and reached the printouts of the crime scene photos. The gruesomeness of the scene was partially offset by the black and white reproduction, but there could be no mistaking the violence of the incident. The first picture was of her corpse, naked, covered in dark fluid, blood. She had apparently collapsed to her knees shortly after performing the fatal cut to her neck, and fallen backwards into the center of the pentagram which she had carved into the carpet earlier that evening. She hadn't gone down immediately though. The blood spatter expert that had examined the scene, a young technician who clearly had not dealt with such a gory location before, had noted that the victim must have turned in a circle, spraying arterial blood from her slashed carotid around the room. Ms. Morris couldn't have lasted more than ten seconds, but it had been enough to reach most of the surfaces of the room, the bed, the dresser, the walls, the door. There had been a curious gap in the splatter over by the door, almost as if someone had been standing in the open doorway when the event occurred, but the technician had put that down to the possibility that one of her arms had blocked the flow briefly enough to create a gap. Blood coming out of a gaping carotid didn't spray out evenly anyway, it normally came out in pulses as the heart spasmodically struggled to provide blood to the brain.

        Henry hadn't been satisfied with that supposition, that she had somehow inadvertently blocked the flow with her arm. Although there was no sign of blood being tracked through the rest of the apartment, nor the rest of the building, he still could imagine someone standing there, in that gap the pattern had indicated. Someone who would probably have left in quite a hurry. Someone who might've even coaxed the lady into doing that ghastly deed. Henry knew he'd never be able to prove that in court, but he still wanted to know. Wanting to know things was what made him good at being a detective. There were a lot of unanswered questions still burning in Henry's mind over this incident. Most of those questions centered on her relationship with that tall, morose, dark-haired man that was noted as being her significant other at the time, Jason Foster.

        Henry had not done the interview of Foster himself, but he had watched. The man's alibi had checked out, having been backed up by that older woman with the season, or month for a name. April, Summer, Autumn. He couldn't recall that, but she had verified that Jason had not been at the premises at the time of Ms. Morris's death. Not that the interviewer had spent much time trying to dig any untruths in Mr. Foster's story. The crime scene investigators had determined rather quickly that all of Ms. Morris's wounds were self-inflicted. The large ceremonial-style dagger that she had performed the cuts with showed no sign of any other person's usage, especially given how easily that would have been to verify with all the blood that had covered it. She had definitely done the cutting herself. It still shocked Henry to think what state of mind she must've been in to have slashed herself so many times, in so many places. He'd known of people that had used small razors to cut their wrists, Ms. Morris's wounds had made those look like minor scrapes. And she had been no surgeon about it either. The cuts were large, and gaping, almost as if she had tried to twist the blade while drawing it across her flesh. The worst thing about the whole thing, in the end, Henry thought, was that grin of maniacal ecstasy that she had died with on her face, her eyes bulging out, lips pulled back in a rictus of what almost seemed like pleasure.

        Henry had interviewed the family and some of her few friends. None of them had indicated to him any prior interest on her part in sadomasochism. There had been no apparent interest in her personal effects in any sort of habits with the usual s&m fare, whips, chains, leather or latex. Many people hid their interest in such things from close friends and family, but that didn't seem to be an issue that Miranda had had to deal with. She'd been described as a loving, cheerful person by most, although given to periods of sadness. Her family had noticed a steady decrease in the amount of contact with her, but they'd put that down to the influence of her boyfriend. She did have a tendency to become wrapped up in her relationships with males and had not infrequently been less and less available as such relationships continued. They found it normal, Henry had deducted, but at the same time there seemed to be a general unease when talking about Mr. Jason Foster. None of them had had much contact with him, and while none of them had come out and said that they didn't like him, Henry could read between the lines. They had all felt that Ms. Morris's relationship with him had not been healthy for her. As to why, Henry could only suppose it had something to do with the interest in the occult that she had taken up shortly after moving into the apartment where she had died.

        Mr. Foster had confirmed for them that they had both been part of a book club that met at the local library. He had also confirmed that, on occasion, stories of ghosts, vampires, werewolves and witches were discussed. It hadn't been the focus of the group, but it hadn't been avoided either. He had stated that at no time were there ever any discussions about occult rituals or the practice of said rituals at the book club meetings. Henry hadn't thought about it at the time of the interview, but it later occurred to him that Mr. Foster may have been telling the absolute truth in that regard, but that he was leaving out some otherwise important information.

        The other loose end had been that woman that had provided Mr. Foster his alibi. She was known to be a new-ager, a practitioner of a wide variety of non-traditional belief systems such as wicca, witchcraft, and other pagan religions. She had been interviewed also, but much more informally than Mr. Foster had been. She had confirmed that Ms. Morris had shown an interest in her beliefs, and that the two of them had had a few conversations about such things. She denied providing any of the materials that Ms. Morris had used the night of her suicide, and she also denied providing any sort of guidance on the matter of such rituals as the one Miranda had apparently been performing before her death. Financial statements backed up the claim of material assistance, as there were records of where Ms Morris had purchased the items, other than the dagger. It was still unknown where she had obtained that. The older lady had stated that she had warned Miranda early on that she avoided anything that had the taint of darkness about it, and that included rituals to cast spells or summon demons, not that she believed such things were possible anyway. She had seemed like a kindly woman overall, with no hint of malice or interest in the darker aspects of occult practices. She was grieving just like the rest of them.

        Stiles closed the folder and laid it back on the desktop. He couldn't put a mental finger on it yet, but he still felt as if there was something more going on that night. Some small itch in the back of his mind urged him to look deeper into it, but unfortunately, the case had been closed rather quickly, and his boss had made subtle remarks about there being other important work to do whenever Henry had brought up Ms. Morris's suicide. He couldn't continue the investigation any further, officially. That wasn't going to stop him from investigating it in his off-duty hours.

        He took another sip from the condensation-coated can, savored the bitterness of it for a moment, and took hold of the mouse passively waiting on his Vikings mouse-pad. He clicked on the link to his personal email folder, and waited for the new mail to load. An assortment of offers for various police-related services came up, as well as a couple of notices from the dating site that his daughter had covertly signed him up for. He didn't want to upset her, so he had kept the account open, without ever reading any of the messages that showed up promising perfect dates and everlasting romance. He was done with such things. His eyes caught on a particular message, and he quickly clicked on it to open it.

        It was from Trevor Wells, that reporter/writer that worked for the nearby city's version of The National Enquirer. Mr. Wells had shown an interest in Tiyopah whenever some star player from the Vikings was in town, which wasn't much while the season was being played. Tiyopah was used for spring training by the team, on account of it being a college town with a large and modern football stadium. Mr. Wells liked to lurk in the shadows of the many bars that targeted college-age people, always hoping to catch one of the pros in a compromising position with some young co-ed. Occasionally he had provided useful information for the police whenever one of the players would get out of hand, due to alcohol-induced aggression, so Stiles had kept in sporadic touch with him, just to keep Mr. Wells feeling important. Henry had no idea what Wells could possibly have this time of year, he wasn't even in town at the moment.

        Henry read the subject line: Occult researchers note increase in frequency of occult ritual usage. His eyes focused more sharply on the body of the email.

        Thought I would pass this onto you, considering your interest in the involvement of the occult in that recent suicide down there. It's no highly regarded scientific journal, but they aren't a bunch of quacks there either. According to their investigation, there's been a rise in the use of occult symbology in violent crimes over the past year. That's not really my area of expertise, as you know. To be honest, that whole occult thing gives me the creeps, but the report seemed to contain a few, shall we say, odd details that I think you'll find enlightening, especially that bit about the suicides. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you again for what you did for me on that Hillman incident, I got a lot of extra attention from my editor for my piece on that, and a lot of that information is thanks to you. So, I hope this helps you out in some way, let me know if there's anything else I can dig up for you.

    Henry opened the attachment link listed at the bottom of the email. The document was titled "Occult symobology usage 2011". Henry waited for it to open, taking the time to take a long drink of beer. The document popped up on his screen, and Henry quickly read over the title and author of the report, the Occult Research Group of Illinois. The address and contact information indicated that they were based out of Chicago. Henry doubted that they had any formal standing with either an academic institution nor any scientific or technology based corporation. While the report looked professionally presented, the occult was rarely a topic of serious scientific research, although the group might have some usage to an organization like the FBI that was investigating such activity for signs of a connection between the two. The real wackos out there often felt their crimes had some supernatural importance than your average violent activity.

    He clicked a link in the table of contents: Ritual Suicides and Their Occult Components. Henry read the introductory chapter, and began scrolling through the pages. The report included a list, with hypertext links to other parts of the report, of suicides that had happened within the last year, apparently only those that had definite occult connection. The list was surprisingly long, and curious, Henry clicked a link in the middle of the list. The report went into detail about the manner of death, in this case, sleeping pills. It indicated that among the occult paraphernalia were candles, an assortment of reading material, including many anthologies of ghost stories, and an odd inscription that had been carved into the surface of a Ouija board. The phrase had apparently turned out to be Latin, meaning "I am yours forever."

    Henry glanced up again at the anniversary picture that his wife had been so proud of (except for the color of Henry's suit). Gretchen had used sleeping pills as well. She hadn't had anything around her other than a hand written note. While that note had contained a cryptic reference to someone coming for her, Henry had always assumed that she meant angels. The thought that she may have been referring to someone, or something else, had never crossed his mind. Henry quickly steered his train of thought back on track, reaffirming to himself that Gretchen was in heaven, with God, and his angels, and that she would be waiting for him there when it finally came his time, suicide or not.

    He scrolled to the next report, and what he saw there made his blood freeze.