TROOPER BRODERICK WAS KIND ENOUGH TO LEAD THEM BACK TO THE CRIME scene; Damien didn't want to see it at all, but knew he had to if he was ever to have any idea about what was going on. It turned out to be along the highway out in the country; as he, his uncle, and the police with them tromped down the hillside he pulled his jacket, which he'd picked up on the way past his house, around him tighter. Maybe it was just him, but he didn't like the fall very much. The air got a cold, clammy chill all to [sic] soon, and it rained almost constantly; at least, this fall it did. Trooper Broderick (Damien had since learned that the others called him by many different names, among them B and BB, neither of which the trooper seemed to like very much) led the way down the hill, and stopped at the bottom of the ravine where the girl's body had been previously. Yellow police tape was up around a circle of trees surrounding the area; the body itself had been removed. Damien found himself sighing with relief; for a while he'd been thinking the body would be there too. He saw Trooper Broderick give him a look, and wondered if his sigh had been that loud, or if the cop had been reading his thoughts. Maybe it had been a bit of both...He shuddered again and turned away.
"She was lying prone in this area," Trooper Broderick said, going around to the other side of the enclosure and pointing downwards, at a messy patch of leaves. "Her arms were thrown out to the sides as if she'd fallen. Her top was missing and there was a pentagram carved into her chest."
"Any signs of assault?" Mulroy asked, as Damien turned away, covering his face.
Broderick shook his head. "No. She was clean. Except that she'd apparently been strangled first. But I believe strangulation wasn't the cause of death."
Even Officer Jones looked surprised now. "Then what was?"
"Loss of blood." Broderick made a motion with his hand, of carving into his chest with a knife. "The pentagram was inscribed rather deeply; in my opinion she was first strangled unconscious, then carved. She was brought out here and dumped in the woods, and covered up with leaves. The cold and rain reduced her body temperature. She never regained consciousness and died out here from the chest wounds."
Officer Jones shrugged. "Doesn't matter much anyway. She's dead."
Broderick just shrugged back; Jones looked annoyed, as if he were being insulted. "I'd say it does matter. To tell us just who did this."
"But you said it was Scorpio," Father Damien ventured, daring to cast a look down at the upturned leaves.
A third shrug, this one sincere. "That's what I thought at first. But I'm not so sure now. This just doesn't fit all of the descriptions."
"Descriptions?" Damien asked, lifting his head and turning to look at him.
Mulroy smiled. "Like I said, B wrote the book on Scorpio. If anyone can identify their M. O., it's him."
Broderick only sighed. "There's no M on the trees," he continued, gesturing with his hand, encompassing the enclosure. [Note--I believe I meant that his gesture included all of the enclosure.] The others glanced around, and saw he was right. "As I'm sure you all know the spiked M is Scorpio's signature. Of all the Scorpio-related crimes I've investigated, and even on some that weren't related to Scorpio, all of them showed the M, either on the surrounding property or on the body itself." He waved to the ground. "The girl didn't have one on her either."
"Did she have the sign for the Satanic traitor?" Damien asked, remembering something.
Evidently Broderick knew enough to know what that meant. "No."
"Just a pentagram?"
"Yes. Inscribed on her chest." Again the carving motion.
"And--and no signs of assault."
"No."
Damien bit his lip and sighed, looking at his uncle and shrugging. "It just doesn't sound like Luther," he murmured.
"Which is what I was thinking," Trooper Broderick agreed. "This killing appears too random--too unritualistic for Scorpio."
"So what do you think it is, then?" Mulroy asked.
Broderick gave him a look. "I'd say it's a warning of some kind."
"But you just said it doesn't look very ritualistic," Jones insisted, confused, "and that it didn't have the Satanic traitor sign on it...whatever that is."
"I know. But it's the only explanation I can think of. The pentagram may be the only clue we need. Number one, it's Satanic. Number two, it seems to be a random killing--both of those point to a warning left for someone else."
"But who?" Damien asked. "And why go to all the trouble of trying to bury it? Way out here?"
"I don't know," Trooper Broderick replied.
Well, at least he doesn't hedge, Damien thought, though Broderick's ignorance he found just as exasperating as his own.
"Maybe it's just some pervert who wanted it to look Satanic," Mulroy suggested lamely.
No one bothered to answer. No one had been expected to.
"In any case, there's bound to be another one," Trooper Broderick said after a slight pause, startling them all. He ignored their gapes, and all of them were gaping, except Damien, who'd been thinking the same thing. "Satanic warnings usually entail either another murder or an attempt. The thing is, it could be either a cultist or another passerby--to serve as a sort of 'second chance' threat."
"He's right," Damien sighed, drawing their stares. "I know this sort of thing."
Officer Jones just shrugged and sighed himself. "Well, in any case, what do we do?"
"Right," Brown agreed. "We can't just go out and arrest everybody and then check 'em out to see if they've got any evidence."
"But we can't stand around and wait for this to happen again," Damien argued.
"The way I see it, we're going to have to create a task force," Broderick mused. Now everybody looked back at him. "Cheboygan doesn't have a special unit for ritual crimes. It looks like we're going to have to just make one."
"But we don't have that kind of manpower," Jones said. "Nor do we have enough people with the right experience."
"You've got B," Damien said. "And me. And my uncle."
"Heck, I'm game," Mulroy said.
Jones snorted. "You four? Oh, wow. Those Satanists'll be running for their lives now."
Damien opened his mouth to say something, then paused; then he spoke up again. "Well," he said, tentatively, "I do know a couple of other people who might be able to help...but I'd have to call them in. They're from out of state."
Father Damien gave him a look. Whatever could his nephew be up to?
Mulroy shrugged. "Sure. You can put it on the State Police tab." [Note--I kept capitalizing "State" and "City" and such throughout this story in an annoying manner.]
"Hey!" Jones retorted.
"Thanks," Damien said, with a crooked smile. "But I think I can handle it. Are you good with plane reservations." [Note--I think there's supposed to be a question mark, rather than a period, there.]
"Sure," Mulroy said.
"Good. You can help me with that. I'm going to need two two-way tickets for North Dakota."
"Oh," Father Damien said, and sighed.
They gathered at the Pellston Airport; it was a tiny airport, good only for small passenger planes. But it didn't really matter much as they were only waiting for two people.
Mulroy chewed on a mint toothpick and craned his neck every once in a while, looking for planes. Damien and Officer Brown played cards. Father Damien was reading over the profile Trooper Broderick had written up. Officer Slatinsky, another of the Michigan State Police, was reading a newspaper, the headline screaming PLANE CRASHES IN NICARAGUA. And Officer Jones was glancing both at the headline and out the window, looking apprehensive.
"Hey! I think I see a plane!" Mulroy said; when no one said anything, he pointed wildly and said, louder, "Look! The plane! The plane!"
"De plane, boss, de plane!" Damien mocked him; Mulroy gave him a dirty look as the singer stood up, stretched, and glanced out the window. "Yeah, I think you're right." He spread his arms to include the rest of the otherwise empty terminal. "It's not like there's any other planes coming in right now."
They just sat and stared out at it until it finally came in for a landing; then they got their things back together and went to the doors to wait.
After a short while the plane stopped taxiing; after another few minutes the hatch opened and steps were put out. They could barely see from where they were who was getting off; first came a couple passengers, then two people came out last, the first one limping slightly.
Damien lit up. "There they are." He pushed open the door and stepped outside, the others following.
By the time they got outside the two passengers were coming forward; Father Damien recognized the two policemen from Minot, North Dakota, Chief Bowen and Lieutenant Kincaid. Not too long ago Damien had helped them crack a case of animal mutilations outside of their drinking establishments; it turned out it hadn't been only animals that had been mutilated. Damien held out his hand, and Kincaid stepped forward to shake it. He was surprised when Kincaid actually smiled at him.
"Hi," he said, trying to hide his astonishment. "I didn't like to call you both here on such short notice."
"That's okay," Bowen said, also coming forward and shaking Damien's hand. "Things've been kind of quiet in Minot. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you."
Trooper Broderick stepped forward now; he and Kincaid shook hands, then Bowen. "We haven't met yet."
"Oh. Chief Bowen. Minot City Police. This is my lieutenant, Alan Kincaid."
"Pleased to meet you," Kincaid said, and Damien was further surprised that it sounded like he meant it.
"Trooper Broderick Broderick. I'm assuming Damien's already told you about Scorpio."
Bowen nodded. "Yeah, he has. That Luther Broderick guy--" he didn't bother asking if there was any relation "--has he been causing problems lately?"
"We're not sure," Damien admitted. "But there was a murder not too long ago."
Both Kincaid and Bowen looked at him. "Murder?" Bowen echoed.
Damien nodded; Mulroy stepped forward and handed him a folio. Bowen opened it and looked at the pictures inside, Kincaid coming up and looking over his shoulder. Damien noticed that Bowen peered at Kincaid, as if waiting for something to happen; however, evidently nothing did, for he shut the folder and handed it back.
"How long ago was this?" he asked, sounding subdued.
"A couple days. Some joggers found her," Mulroy said. "So far this's been the only one. But she had a pentagram on her chest. No traitor sign."
"Thank God for that," Bowen sighed, but he scratched his head. "So, do you have any suspects or anything?"
Damien shook his head. "No. We really don't know who could've done it. It doesn't fit the M. O. of anybody we know." He shrugged. "That's why we called you two in. You've had your share of this in Minot; we were wondering if you could help us try to solve this one."
"Sure," Bowen replied. "You helped us. But boy, this looks like it's gonna be a tough one."
Kincaid cocked his head at the chief and smiled slightly; Damien had to force his jaw not to drop. "Seems tough ones are attracted to us, Chief."
"Yeah, they sure are. Well, you guys just show us the way. I haven't had my dinner yet." He yawned. "All they serve you on those stupid flights are those damn salted peanuts. And they're sweet, too." He made a face.
"If you'll follow us," Broderick said, turning and going back inside. The rest of them followed, the doors shutting behind them.
As soon as they got their luggage and headed out the front doors to the waiting vehicles, Damien fell behind to join Bowen--Kincaid had gone on ahead--and cocked his head at him. "Hi," he said. "Have things really been going okay?"
"Sure," Bowen said. "Kind of boring now. But don't worry, we can handle that!"
A nod. "I know. Listen, I don't mean to sound snide or anything, but Kincaid actually smiled at me!"
[Note--mild spoilers in the next part regarding the ending of Minot.] Bowen smiled back this time. "Yeah, great, isn't it? You remember the docs said he had 'undifferentiated schizophrenia'--whatever the hell that is." [Note--as I've said elsewhere, this detail will be changed to post-traumatic stress disorder in a future rewrite/revision. Yes, even back then I knew the difference between the two--I just wanted him to be schizophrenic. Nowadays I realize how stupid a plot detail this is (you can't be a cop if you're schizophrenic!), plus a psychologist who read the story even said he should have PTSD, so nyeh. Just gotta explain the voices he hears, now...]
"Yeah, I do. But that's not the whole of it. I mean, being in a cult for so long."
"I know what you mean. After they got his shoulder all healed up they transferred him to this private clinic. The shrinks there did a good job. I guess they talked a lot. They've got him on some kind of medication--Clozaril, I think. Of course," he said, nodding at his lieutenant, who walked ahead of them, and looking a little bit tired, "they can't cure it. They told me all about it and there's no cure for schizophrenia. Especially his kind. Uh--what did they call it?--process or something. You know. The kind that takes a while to show up. They say recovery's a lot better when it comes on sudden-like, you know. Also the kind where you see things and freeze up and stuff like that. Kinnie, he saw things, that's for sure--" Damien tilted his head, remembering how his friend Psyche Cooper had told him about Kincaid's hallucinations "--but he had these emotion problems too. 'Flattened affect,' they called it." He shrugged and chuckled. "Listen to me, I'm sounding like a damn doctor."
"No, go on. I don't get it either."
"Well, they say prognosis is good when you just get it all of a sudden, and all you do is see things and go catatonic. But Kinnie's been going in and out of it for months and he's also got those blank looks of his--you know what I mean."
Damien nodded.
"Well, that's called flattening. Blunted emotion. And that's not a good sign." He sighed. "But he's only been in therapy a few months so far. He's got a long way to go. But he's sure as hell doing a lot better now!" [Note--I've since finally decided that the ending of Minot, which is referred to here, will be made a lot more believable and Kincaid will NOT be diagnosed as schizophrenic, like I made him out to be--primarily because, you can't have schizophrenia and still be a cop! And even while I like artistic license, I don't want to be SILLY. In a potential future rewrite of that novel, Kincaid will instead be diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Why am I saying this again when I just said it like two minutes ago? Because while modifying this story for online posting a second time, I typed up the earlier note, and then came across this one only after I did that. And the two notes are mildly different so I don't wish to have wasted my time. So I'm leaving both. Aren't I anal?]
The singer nodded again, peering ahead at Kincaid. "Just for the heck of it," he prodded, "does he still--well, you know--do that weird thing with the letter opener?"
"Oh, you mean stab things? Well, sometimes. But it's just a stress thing now. You know, how some people hit punching bags and some others squeeze rubber balls."
Another nod. "Well. I hope he can keep it up."
What had remained of Bowen's smile disappeared now. "So do I," he murmured. "I just hope this case doesn't get to him. Last time it did. It was those animal killings that made him break down again."
"Well, you can rest easy about the dead animals," Damien said, with all seriousness, "because it doesn't quite appear to involve animals this time."
Officer Jones had been in a much better mood since the police station connected its new computer system. He'd been complaining for years that the State Police hadn't had one, even when the County Police did; Cheboygan just didn't have that good of an economy. However, Damien had decided it might be a good idea to equip them the best he could, and so had "donated" some money for the system. It was rather advanced, even compared to the one at the County Police station. When they arrived, one of the younger officers--Damien knew his name was Haley--was typing something. He looked up at them as they crowded inside, and stood up at the counter.
"Hi, Officer Jones," he said amiably.
"Hey, Haley. Any news since we've been gone?"
"Not really. Just a minor fenderbender, but it's been taken care of."
Damien peered over at the computer. "Hey, Jonesy, mind if I make a call?"
"To who?"
"A friend of mine. I think he might be able to help us out a little bit, too."
"Okay," Jones said, looking a little suspicious. He went to the phone, but Damien looked at Haley and, when the officer moved, took his seat at the terminal.
"Hey, what're you doing?" Jones asked. "I thought you had to make a call."
"That's right," Damien replied, as he logged out of Haley's program and onto the local Internet access. [Note--at the time that this was written, I don't think our area had local Internet access. Jeez, it's only been recently that DSL and cable have started moving in, and neither is available where I am yet!] He'd learned to type recently, but he still wasn't very good at it; he didn't trust computers that much. However, if he knew Puck, a computer was exactly where he'd be right now.
He typed in the e-mail address CAPRICE@SUNNY.EDU. [Note--I did not understand the Internet very well back then either. I can now positively date the writing of this story as at least being slightly AFTER 1996-97, because this was when I took an Internet course at the community college in Petoskey. E-mail addresses at the college ended with "sunny.edu." I liked using the word "sunny," because that's the name Puck has given his computer (see the True Believers stories for that)--BUT, I was apparently unaware that "sunny.edu" refers to the SCHOOL itself. I should have more correctly given him an address referring to the fictional college in this story, LRU--something like, "caprice@lru.edu." Oops.]
"Caprice?" Jones murmured over his shoulder. "Funny address."
Damien typed, CAPRICE? ANSWER AT THIS ADDRESS ASAP, and sat back and waited for a reply. [Note--yet ANOTHER computer thing I didn't properly comprehend back then. Damien and Puck here appear to be engaging in some sort of instant messenger communication, but I wrote them as exchanging e-mails. E-mail is not quite as fast as this! And it usually doesn't pop up in messages, that I'm aware of. Especially not back in the late Nineties. I didn't know the difference back then though. I believe I committed the same error in what little I wrote of an earlier story, Deprogrammer (which dates from BEFORE I ever took an Internet course!).]
There was a pause of about two minutes. Jones and the others were just starting to fidget when a message appeared.
CAPRICE HERE.
"Ha! Finally caught him at home," Damien muttered, and reached down to type, when another message showed up.
WHO THE F--K IS THIS? [Note--knowing Puck, he would type the whole word. This was before I liked typing out such things though, and I still don't like doing it in the D4D writing.]
The cops raised their eyebrows; Damien reddened and grinned at them, looking a little miffed. "That's Puck for you," he said, then typed again.
CAPRICE, IT'S DAMIEN, FROM THE CHEBOYGAN MI STATE POLICE STATION.
A brief pause. Then, I AIN'T SETTING YOUR BAIL.
A snicker from Brown. Damien growled to himself; leave it to Puck to be cheeky at the worst possible time.
PUCK, THIS IS IMPORTANT. ARE YOU AT SUNNY RIGHT NOW?
"Sunny's his computer," Damien explained.
WHAT DO YOU THINK? MAYBE I CHANGED MY WHOLE ADDRESS AND MOVED MY FILES ELSEWHERE? : P
"What the heck's the funny sign there?" Jones asked, confused.
"A face with the tongue sticking out," Haley replied, smiling.
"Great! I've caught him in a good mood," Damien said, and continued.
HA HA, PUCK. KINCAID AND BOWEN ARE HERE AND WE'RE GOING TO BE WORKING ON A NEW CASE.
LET ME GUESS--AM I RIGHT?
Damien frowned at the weird reply, but went on. YEAH, I SUPPOSE SO.
WHAT'S GOING ON? HOLD IT A MINUTE--
They stopped and waited for several minutes. Then the reply came.
NEVER MIND, I GOT IT HERE. 'WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN WOODS.' THIS IS IT?
YEAH, PUCK. HOW'D YOU GET THAT?
I'VE GOT CONNECTIONS. IF YOU'RE COMING DOWN TO LRU, SEE ME AT THE HUB AND I'LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO YA FOR. SAY HI TO KINNIE FOR ME. CAPRICE LOGGING OUT.
The connection was broken before Damien could even give him any details. He sighed and logged out himself, turning the computer back over to Haley.
"What the hell as that all about?" Jones wanted to know.
"That was just Matthew Benteen. His 'friends'--" he made the "quote-unquote" sign with his fingers "--call him Puck, but his e-mail name is Caprice. Go figure." [Note--"Caprice" is not in reference to the car. It's a punning reference to Capricorn (Puck's sign), as well as to the word meaning "changeable." I once read somewhere that the two words were related, though according to my dictionary they're not; must've been an astrology text rather than a dictionary!] He shrugged, obviously as puzzled as they were. "He's what you'd call a hacker. That's all he does is sit at Sunny and break into other people's files. Oh, and deliver the campus newspaper. He's pretty good at hitting people in the head." Jones and Brown looked at each other. Nice sort, the look said. "He's also what you might call antisocial. But he's had some experience with this sort of thing. Ask Kinnie and Bowen. They know."
"What kind of experience?" Jones asked suspiciously.
"Too much," Damien replied. "He was involved in Satanism for a while when he was a teenager. Not a cult, though. More like a clique. Three or four people, I think. But he's told me he's gotten all the experience he needs. He's really up on this stuff. He helped us in Minot. I believe he can help us here." He shrugged again. "Even if he couldn't, he's still pretty good at getting inside information. After all, he's the one at the keyboard."
"Okay, okay," Jones sighed. "We'll call your wacky Caprice friend or whatever. But let's just try to keep this to a minimum, okay? We don't want every coed south of Mackinaw involved." [Note--yet again, see how I was unaware that "coed" does NOT mean both male and female college students.]
"Sure thing." Damien turned back to the others gathered around him. "Well?" he announced, spreading his arms and smiling. "To LRU we go!"
It was afternoon by the time they got there, Charlevoix County being about an hour and a half from Cheboygan. It was a very strange cavalcade of automobiles that pulled in the drive at Little Rock University--Damien's Countach, followed by Father Damien's station wagon, Kincaid's Buick, and two police cruisers, one Jones's and the other one Trooper Broderick's Highway Patrol Blazer. [Note--no...I never explain how Kincaid got his car there from North Dakota!] More than a few students stopped to stare at the cars as they passed by. Damien had to honk more than once to get them to move out of the way before he turned in the library parking lot, letting the engine idle a moment before turning it off.
"We've got a little walk ahead of us," he apologized as everyone got out. "The Hub's that little building over there. The reason we couldn't park there is because the college officials frown on 'undesignated' parking. Follow me."
There was quite a group with him: his uncle, Kincaid and Bowen, Mulroy, Jones, Brown, and Slatinsky. Broderick brought up the back, slamming the door of his Blazer and following.
"Before we go in, I'd like to warn you about Matthew--Puck--Caprice--whatever you want to call him," Damien said, sounding slightly confused. "Me, I just call him Matthew, but he likes Puck, so I suggest you all call him that. He's a little testy at times."
A murmur and several nods from the cops. Kincaid was examining the cracks in the sidewalk minutely.
"He also doesn't like authority figures very much, so I also suggest none of you try to throw your weight around. He wouldn't take too well to that, and I'm sure he wouldn't think twice about decking anybody who crosses him."
"Sounds charming," Jones muttered. He obviously hadn't wanted to come along.
"Also, if he says anything that kind of startles you, don't even think about it. That's the way he is; he likes trying to psych people out that way. He usually doesn't mean it. Usually."
"Uh-huh," Brown said.
They reached the Hub, which was a round stone building on the other side of the main path. The leaves hadn't been raked yet, and they crunched under their feet. Damien was ready to knock on the door, when he remembered that Puck usually didn't occupy the top level; he worked in the basement. So he entered, and the others followed him.
Inside, it looked much bigger than it had outside. The room was rounded with padded benches surrounding the sides; a huge iron ring held up a display of the solar system, 3-D planets of blown glass hovering out into space above them. Astrological signs, also in iron, lined the walls. The floor was made up of some kind of colored, cut stones, forming a huge zodiac circle. [Note--this description, minus the floor design, is in reference to an actual room--the Hub, or Zodiac Room, at the UAW Family Education Center where my dad works. I've enjoyed seeing that room since I was a kid. It's not a separate building but is connected to the rest of the center via hallways. The planets light up and radio music plays when a switch is hit, but they do not move. And there's no basement or PA system. Please see also the True Believers novels.]
"Quite a coincidence," Damien said, with a faint smile. "But the building was here way before Puck was."
"Hello there," a voice said from above, startling them all. It blared out of a loudspeaker positioned above Aquarius. "If any of your friends want to come down, I suggest you all throw lots and choose the likeliest three, 'cause there's not that much damn room down here."
"Okay," Damien yelled at the speaker, uncomfortably. He didn't really consider Puck his "friend"; "acquaintance" would be more like it, and not even that was exactly true. Frankly, the man scared him a little. He turned to the gathered cops and spread his hands. "Anybody?"
"Why don't you go," Jones said to Broderick, stepping back. It was obvious he didn't want to.
Broderick only shrugged, and nodded.
Kincaid stepped forward also, then Mulroy, chewing idly on a toothpick. Damien didn't like it when people chewed on toothpicks; they reminded him too much of another cop he'd known once who did the same thing, a cop he hadn't exactly been on the best of terms with.
"Follow me," he said again, motioning to the door in the far side of the wall. The three followed him while the others stayed above. Brown, Jones, Slatinsky, and Bowen all knew they could get any information relayed to them by their own men; Father Damien already knew much of what was going on. Damien and the other three went downstairs to Puck's room under the Hub.
Going down the cramped stairway, they could feel the coolness of being underground. Obviously whoever had first built the Hub hadn't cared much for insulation. Damien found himself wondering how cold it got in the winter, which would be coming soon. Then again, he figured Puck must have come up with some weird way to keep it warm for Sunny.
He knocked on the door when he reached the bottom--there was a sign posted reading, in large jagged letters, IS THERE LIFE AFTER DEATH? DON'T KNOCK AND FIND OUT--and a voice answered, "Come in."
He opened the door. The room under the Hub really wasn't as small as it looked; it was just because of all the junk the college administrators kept stored down there. There were boxes and boxes of stuff nobody could name; several stuffed animals, period costumes, and pieces of furniture that had probably once been used as stage props. A bellowing elk head adorned the far side of the wall; Puck had graciously adorned its antlers with multicolored streamers. Damien and the three cops crowded in behind Puck's "terminal"--more like converted desk with Sunny, a modem, and a printer, and several books and boxes of computer paper off to the side. The person at the desk turned to look at them, and for a split second the light from the computer glinted off the wire frame glasses he was wearing, making him look like he had glowing eyes. He grinned at them. He was about Damien's age, maybe a little younger, with curly dishwater blond hair in a ponytail; when he took off the glasses it looked like his eyes were gray, but they were actually gray-green. His smile was, to say the very least, unnerving.
"Hiya," he greeted.
"Matthew, Broderick, Kincaid, Mulroy," Damien said simply.
"Puck," Puck corrected him, shaking their hands. Damien noticed he glanced--very briefly--at Broderick's nametag, as if affirming what Damien had said. Obviously word gets around.
"Matthew, Puck, whatever," he found himself saying. "So you know already what we're here for?"
In response Puck handed Damien a printout from his computer. It was a copy of the Cheboygan Tribune's lead story from the time of the killing. WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN WOODS, it read. Then, in smaller letters, "Murder Suspected In Death Of Unidentified Female."
"I assume this is it?" he inquired.
Damien nodded and glanced over the article. Near the bottom he spotted Trooper Broderick's name, but then Mulroy took the paper to look at it. Damien turned back to Puck.
"I saw what Trooper Broderick had to say," Puck said. "You believe it's a cult killing."
From behind Damien, Mulroy snorted. "They always give you short shrift, B." [Note--I do not know if I misused the word "shrift" there or not. Judging by the dictionary it looks like I did, but who can tell me the slang meaning of it?? These dictionaries are outdated...]
He was still reading the paper. Damien took it back and saw what it had to say.
Special to THE CHEBOYGAN TRIBUNE:
Late last week State Police discovered the body of a young woman in the woods just inside Cheboygan County. Early reports say the woman was in her mid-twenties, with reddish-blond hair and blue eyes. There was no identification on the body, and police say they are still searching for fingerprints or identity of the killer. The woman was found half-naked with bruises around her neck and a symbol carved into her chest. Trooper Broderick Broderick of the State Police says the symbol is satanic, and may signify some kind of cult hit. However, Cheboygan City Police Chief Jones believes any theories of occult significance are premature pending identification. No further details are available. [Note--if this were the real Tribune, half the words would be misspelled or grammatically incorrect, and they'd probably have gotten BB's name wrong, too. I'm just sayin'.]
"'Premature'?" Damien exclaimed, dumbfounded. "Any claims of occult relations are premature? Who is this guy?"
"He's the City Police chief," Broderick replied, "and what he says goes."
"I don't believe this!" He tossed the paper down; Puck retrieved it and tucked it into a portfolio. "How much has to happen before he can finally believe it's got some kind of 'significance'?"
"Like the man said, what he says goes," Puck replied, obviously wishing to know what they were doing there. "So what d'you want of me?"
"I was hoping it would be obvious," Damien said.
Puck shrugged. "Obvious enough. Well, what d'you want me to do--stay here or go with?"
"I think you'd be more useful with us."
"Okay. But whenever you need some information, there's gotta be a place for me to jack off."
Everyone gaped at him. Even Kincaid and Broderick.
Puck only smiled disarmingly. "Did I say jack off? I meant jack in. I hope your Internet access isn't too expensive, 'cause I'm gonna be using it a lot."
As they climbed the steps upstairs Damien found his head was aching. Ahead of him, Puck as [sic] already getting himself acquainted with the others.
"So, see any good corpses lately?" he asked Kincaid, as if not expecting an answer.
Kincaid gave him one: "Not too recently, unless you count that photograph."
Damien sighed and rubbed the space between his eyes.
Mulroy insisted that they call it a night and meet tomorrow at the Family House Restaurant, the former B&C, as it was a spot they all knew. [Note--a real location. It plays a part in the beginning of D Is For Damien. Nowadays, however, it is a Chinese buffet called the China One. UPDATE TO NOTE--now, unfortunately, it's not even China One anymore but Sears! And I bet that'll go out of business soon too. *sigh*] Everyone agreed--aloud, at least, as both Damien and Trooper Broderick seemed to be thinking that every minute counted, no matter how trivial.
That night Damien talked with his uncle and made a list of people he wanted to contact, whoever they thought might be helpful. Father Damien frowned with thought.
"Your friend Psyche, maybe," he said. "She seemed useful last time. Even if she's psychic or not."
"Yeah, I guess so. Is there any way you can get in touch with Miss Clare?"
He named one of Scorpio's former members, who had escaped the cult several years ago and had since been in hiding. Father Damien looked at him closely, then sighed and shrugged.
"I don't know. Of course I can get in touch with her, but I really don't know if getting her involved would be such a good idea..."
"C'mon, Uncle. She's shown us what she can do. If anybody knows anything about Scorpio it's her."
"Well, I'll try, but don't expect a miracle. I haven't been canonized yet."
He picked up his phone and dialed her number while Damien smiled to himself. The fact that his uncle was still joking meant the situation hadn't deteriorated as much as it could. Though that also meant they had a long way to go.
He went over in his head the other possibilities; there were a few people he knew in positions of authority who could be of use. His lawyer, Temple, for one. The cult exit-counselor, or "deprogrammer," Lynn Leja, for another. He hadn't talked with her in years but he thought it might be a good idea to do so now. He suddenly didn't understand why he was blowing this up to such huge proportions--the same thing had happened before, hadn't it? But he had a bad feeling about this time--it was always best to be prepared...
"You would? Would you mind me sending out someone to pick you up?--His name's Trooper Broderick." A very long pause; Damien didn't like the sound of that. "Yes, he's related." Another pause. "His uncle. But no, they haven't had any contact with each other. You can trust him. I do." Pause. A chuckle. "Yes, don't worry, he took care of that himself. A whole glass over his hand. All over the table. The others weren't too pleased." Another chuckle. "All right then, tomorrow? How about around ten? I'll let him know where to pick you up. Believe me, he's a good man. I'll see you then, too. Goodbye." A click as Father Damien hung up the phone and turned to face his nephew. "Well, there you go. When I die you're going to contact the Church and let them know just how good I've been lately."
Damien laughed and threw a fake punch at him; the priest ducked. "Thanks, Unc." Father Damien grimaced at the nickname. "I'll be sure to do so. But why wait till then? Why not right--"
The phone rang. The two of them whirled to face it, startled. Father Damien picked it up. "Hello?"
Damien sat silently as his uncle listened to whoever was on the other end. The expression he got on his face was a strange one. "Uh-huh," Father Damien murmured. "Yes, I'll be sure to let him know. Thanks. See you tomorrow." He hung up and then sat staring at the phone.
"Who was that?"
"Mulroy. He wanted me to let you know he plans on going on a little trip."
"To where?"
"Northampton."
Damien's smile disappeared. Northampton? That was the name of the mental institution in the U. P. [Note--a fictional place. Also referenced in Lucifer, True Believers, and my play The Pro, yet The Pro and this story are the only instances I know of where the location is actually featured in the writing.] Why on Earth would Mulroy want to go there?
"What's this about?"
"Well, evidently he's taken Broderick's advice on setting up a task force to heart. Do you remember Danser and Felman?"
[Note--spoilers for the ending of Lucifer.] A light dawned in the back of Damien's head. Sergeant Danser and Officer Felman were the two police who, besides Jones, had tried to help him out when he'd first learned about Scorpio. That had been way back in 1989. Their investigation had not ended up well. Danser had ended up dead, and Felman had had a nervous breakdown. The last he knew of the officer he'd been taken away to Northampton.
"Yeah," he whispered. "He's going to go get Felman?"
A shrug. "I assume so. There's nothing else I can think of."
Damien blinked. "But Felman? God! Isn't that crazy? You saw what happened to him! He's in no shape to help us here!"
Father Damien looked at him meaningfully. "Is he? Take a look at a friend you've just called up and tell me that with all certainty."
Damien was about to ask him what he meant when it struck him--his uncle was talking about Kincaid. Indeed, the last he'd seen of Kincaid he'd been wounded and raving deliriously of goat-monsters trying to attack him. But he was doing so much better now...
So who was to say Felman wasn't?
"I guess we could use the help," he finally said, though he was still uneasy about it. "Anybody who's worked on the case could do..." His eyes lit up. "Hey. What about Derrick? Do you think he could help us out?"
Father Damien looked dubious. "Do you think he would?"
"He testified against Luther, didn't he? [Note--hm. In a rewrite of this, I would say perhaps he didn't. Despite his allegiance shifting, I don't picture Derrick as a rat--Luther treated him well, so Derrick would return the favor. His switch to the good guys' side was to unofficially take place after the ending of Sidekicks, when Scorpio abandoned him following a near-fatal accident that supposedly (but didn't really) claimed Luther's life.] And Luther just about adopted him when he was in the cult. If he hasn't changed, then I don't know what to say."
"It's up to you. If you feel like dragging it out of him."
Damien nodded. "When was Mulroy going to go to Northampton?"
"Whenever we've got the time. Probably after we've gotten everybody else together."
"Okay." Damien sighed and stretched. "Look, I'm going back to the college to talk with Psyche and Derrick. I just hope they're still awake."
"Right now? Are they vampires?"
"They may as well be," his nephew joked. "But really, if we're gonna be meeting tomorrow, I'm going to have to let them all know. I'll see you then, Uncle. Around one or two?"
"I'll let the others know you're on your way if you're late."
"Thanks. See you then."
"Bye."
Father Damien stayed sitting by the phone as he watched his nephew get up and leave.
He had no trouble with Psyche. None at all. She stayed in Room 298 on the second floor of the college dorm, along with her roommate Giselle Cramer. Damien could see a faint light coming from underneath the door even though it was past midnight; he knocked softly and heard someone moving within. The door opened and Psyche peered out, her long blond hair falling around her face. She was a pretty woman, not that he was interested, but there was something prettier about her when she had her hair down.
"Dami?" she said, puzzled. "Weird. I just had a thought that you were coming."
"Hi. I wanted to talk to you about something. Is there anywhere we..."
"Come in. Giselle's out." She saw Damien's look--Giselle wasn't a very social person--and smiled. "Not 'out'--literally out. She's been having trouble sleeping so she took a sedative. I don't expect her to be waking up till the next earthquake hits."
Damien allowed Psyche to usher him in; she shut the door behind him. He could see where the light was coming from: There was a lava lamp in the corner, spreading its bluish coruscations all over the walls. He wondered if she always slept with it on.
"I only use it when I'm stressed," Psyche said, as if reading his thoughts.
"You're stressed? Maybe this isn't the best time then--"
"No, really. What is it? I'm dying of boredom is what I am. I don't even have midterms to keep me occupied. It must be something important to bring you here now."
"Well, since you're interested." He sat down on the edge of her bed and was glad that she sat down several feet away from him. He didn't want it to seem like he was hitting on her. "Have you seen the local Cheboygan newspaper?"
"No. I don't get it. What's it about?"
"There's been a murder."
Her blue eyes widened. "Really?"
He nodded. "This woman in the woods. She had a pentagram carved into her chest."
"God. Do they know who did it?"
"No. Not really. That's why I'm asking you if you'd like to help us out, like you did in Minot."
"Hold it. Us? Are you getting some kind of group together?"
"As a matter of fact, yeah. Some of the police. And some others. Do you know Derrick Grant?"
"Yeah, I do. He's just upstairs. No roomies. I know, he was with Scorpio." She gave him a look. "You're going to ask him, too?"
He shrugged. "I was thinking about it."
She was staring at him now; he didn't like that and turned away to look instead at Giselle's sleeping form. Her back was to them, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her arrow-straight brown hair spilling over her shoulder. "This must be serious for all of this," Psyche offered.
"Yeah, you could say so." He stood up, indicating he was ready to leave. "We were going to meet tomorrow at the Family House Restaurant in Cheboygan--you know where that is? Right next to Glen's?"
"I'm sure I could find it. What time?"
"Maybe around one or two."
"I'll be there. Good luck with Derrick."
"Yeah. Good luck." He said good night and headed for the door. She was there first and opened it for him. Finding it a little odd that a woman should open the door for a man, he nodded nonetheless and left. [Note--Damien's not sexist--just a little old fashioned.]
He was glad he'd taken the files Puck had offered him, listing the rooms occupied by each student; otherwise he'd never have found out where Psyche or Derrick roomed. As Psyche had pointed out, Derrick was on the third floor, Room 371; as Psyche and Puck's accounts agreed, he had no roommates. [Note--in a rewrite, I doubt Derrick would be attending the college at all. He's pretty messed up. Should be in a halfway house or something.] Damien knocked, hoping to find him in a good mood--in any mood.
It was several moments before the door opened; a shadowed face looked out. Derrick seemed a little surprised that Damien would show up at his door, but he opened it wider and nodded him in.
"Sorry to wake you," Damien said as soon as Derrick had shut the door.
Derrick only nodded and stared off into space; they stood there in silence. There was an awkward feeling between them; six years ago the two of them wouldn't even have been talking together, much less standing in the same room without being at each other's throats. [Note--spoilers here for the unwritten ending of Sidekicks, though I guess I already gave it away earlier. *blush*] Derrick had been the second-in-command in Scorpio under Luther, and as such had enjoyed an honored position. That was before a car had struck him and Scorpio had abandoned him in the middle of the road, near death. It had taken him months of denial to finally believe that they'd really betrayed him. Father Damien had introduced him to Lynn Leja, a cult deprogrammer with an impeccable record who had once belonged to a cult herself. Derrick seemed to have broken his ties with Scorpio, yet he still wouldn't talk of it with anyone else. Indeed he'd barely talk of anything; Damien had never once had a coherent conversation with him. He took a deep breath; now was the time to end that dubious record.
"Mind if I talk with you for a minute?" he asked.
Derrick's head stayed drooped, but his eyes met Damien's, indicating he could do whatever the hell he wanted.
Well, at least it was a start. He went over and leaned against the wall, as he felt sitting on Derrick's bed would have been tantamount to trespassing. Derrick kept watching him. Damien felt the best approach would be an open one, with no hedging.
"There was this article in the Cheboygan Tribune," he started. [Note--I notice, I italicized both words in the title before, and now only one.] "A woman was found murdered not too long ago. Out in the woods. The cops still don't know who she is or who did it. She had a pentagram carved into her chest."
He barely saw something flicker across Derrick's face. It could have been a flinch, but he wasn't sure. He didn't know him well enough to say. Derrick nodded, and at that encouragement he continued.
"There's this state trooper named Broderick. Yes, he's relation," he said, on seeing the barely-concealed look in Derrick's eyes. The look was a strange mixture of sorrow, hatred, and suspicion. Evidently he was still experiencing mixed feelings about his exit from the cult. "He's the one in charge of the investigation. We were going to put together a task force to find out what's going on. We're still not sure what exactly to do."
"Why not what you did before?" Derrick offered. Damien was surprised more by the fact that he'd spoken than by what he'd actually said.
"What who did before?"
"Trooper Broderick. I'm assuming you know him well now."
"Not well, no. We just met."
"Well, I know him. I know him well." Damien just gaped at him. "He was in charge of the other investigation," Derrick explained. There was a note to his voice that Damien didn't like. It sounded like disgust. "The original Scorpio investigation. The one they told him to shut down."
Something clicked. Shut down? When Damien, Danser, and the others had first been checking out the cult, seven years ago, Jones had mentioned something about a "Scorpio file" being shut down and locked up, and everyone involved being told to keep quiet. Now here was Derrick, who'd been in the cult at that time, telling him the exact same thing. But why would anyone want to shut down a police investigation into a murder--?
"Who told him to shut down?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Derrick shrugged. "I can't say whether or not we--Scorpio was directly involved. They probably were. But it was the police station. They're the ones who told him to do it."
The police station? "The State Police? They told him to quit?"
"No," Derrick snorted. "The City Police."
Something else clicked; the City Police! Chief Jones? Chief Jones had ordered Broderick to close the investigation? But why?
"Why? Why'd they do something like that?" he asked, his mind in a whirl at the implications.
Another shrug. He sensed Derrick honestly didn't know, or else he'd be telling. He owed no allegiance to either Scorpio or the police now. "You can't ask me. I don't know why the City Police would be interested in telling the State Police how to do their job. But in this case they did."
Any theories of occult significance are premature... Could the city Chief of Police be somehow involved? He found it difficult and unpleasant to believe, yet it seemed everything was pointing just to that--
"We need your help on this, Derrick," he said, trying to keep his voice level. Derrick stared at him. "If there really are any Scorpio files, we're going to have to open them. We have to know just what's going on here. Before the same thing happens all over again. We can't let that happen. Will you help us?"
The two of them looked at each other for a long time. There was no way Damien could tell what was on the ex-cultist's mind; his eyes were shielded, his expression guarded. He didn't know what to think, or expect.
Finally the unexpected happened. "Sure," Derrick said, and the veil over his eyes dropped--a little. "I'll help you. But you can't expect any miracles." Damien shuddered at how close his words were to Father Damien's, earlier that evening. "For Scorpio's still Scorpio. And there's nothing that will change that."
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