Marshall Conrad: A Superhero Tale Read online

  “How long have you known her?” Duncan asked, as he started making notes in a small blue notepad.

  “A few months,” I said. “She had a stalker and I let her hang out in my apartment when she was freaked out. I tried to get her to report it to the police, but she refused. I mean, it would have been easy for her to call the cops, but for some strange reason, I got the feeling that she liked hanging out with me.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  I stared blankly at Duncan for a moment. How was I supposed to explain why I was suddenly concerned about a hot twenty-something neighbor? In the short time I’d known Marnie, she’d been both a source of infuriation and strangely, a confidant. Despite her habit of coming over to my apartment unannounced, a large part of me was grateful for her company. She’d shown a genuine interest in me despite my best efforts to push her away, and she’d pushed right back—right into my life. Sure, she was twenty years my junior, but the sound of her voice gave me something to look forward to, even if she snooped through my personal belongings or fed Walter too many treats.

  And she smelled good. My God, did she smell good.

  I’d never held Marnie’s hand or gently touched her face, but I wanted to. I wanted to do a lot of things to Marnie that I hadn’t done with anyone since Cynthia passed away, and for the first time in more than ten years, I didn’t feel guilty about it. I sipped back the rest of the coffee, awash with the sudden realization that I was very attracted to Marnie Brindle.

  “Conrad,” said Duncan, snapping his fingers. “You still with me? I want to know what you and this Brindle woman talked about.”

  My lips curled into a thin smile and I blinked at the profiler.

  “Everything and nothing at all,” I said, grinning now. “The politics of campus life—she goes to Chesterton here in town. Relationships, and gossip about her girlfriend’s torrid affairs with professors. I tell her that I frown on that kind of thing and she reminds me that I’m an old fart who needs to get an upgrade.”

  “Why did you offer her the use of your apartment?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess it seemed like it was the least I could do since she wasn’t going to the police and of course, there’ve been three unsolved murders.”

  “Sounds like you’re very close. Are you involved?”

  I tried not to laugh. “What do you mean, like involved in a relationship?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m old enough to be her father,” I said, trying to force my feelings for Marnie aside.

  “Gotcha. I have a daughter about the same age.”

  Duncan flipped through his notepad and chewed on his pencil. What would he be asking next? It was obvious he was attempting to build a rapport with me to find out if I had any sociopathic tendencies, and it was becoming clear that my feelings about Marnie Brindle weren’t consistent with the profile he’d developed.

  “You said you took her in because of the unsolved murders in town. Tell me about them,” he asked.

  “As in disclose everything I know about the killings so you can see if they gibe with the investigation, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “All right, then. Three mutilated bodies. The first was Stephen Hodges, age sixteen. Not sure about the identity of the second victim whose body parts they found in that culdesac. The third victim was found in a shallow grave. That’s all I know.”

  Duncan spun the laptop around and pointed to a media player window showing a security video from the news conference after the first murder. Stella Weinberg and I were clearly visible from over the Sheriff’s shoulder, and I instinctively knew the next question would be about why I went to the news conference. There was about one minute of silence as I studied his face.

  “Not gonna budge, huh?” Duncan asked.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, innocently.

  Duncan looked disappointed that I didn’t react to the video.

  “In my line of work it’s common to see a murderer at a crime scene,” he said. “You obviously know that law enforcement generally views this as a behavioral trait among serial killers.”

  “Yep. I suspect you likely have some video that was impounded at the second crime scene showing me yelling at reporters, right?”

  “We do.”

  “So that big brain of yours is looking at this middle-aged man who probably fits your profile and you’re asking yourself why he’d be trying to get his face on the evening news. You’ve interviewed me and found that while I don’t particularly like people, I still possess the ability to care about Marnie Brindle and that flies in the face of the killers you’ve encountered, right?”

  “Something like that.” His eyes narrowed.

  “You’re wondering if I know something about the murders the police aren’t aware of. Is that it?”

  “You tell me.”

  I continued sizing him up and thought briefly about how knowledge that the killer was a supernatural creature from a realm of immortals would register in his analytical mind. There was no escaping the fact that I couldn’t disclose the truth behind the killings, but at least I could try and glean information about what the police knew. It was still possible they were hot on the trail of Grim Geoffrey’s host.

  “Greenfield has always been a safe place to live and when that first murder happened, I was horrified,” I lied. “I went to the news conference primarily to find out what the papers probably wouldn’t print.”

  “Like what?”

  “Both the Sheriff and Coroner were visibly shaken, and that told me this wasn’t just an arbitrary killing,” I said. “I wanted to hear the speculative buzz in the meeting room. Call it morbid curiosity.”

  Duncan flipped open his notepad and started scribbling again. I watched his face closely to see if it would lead me to his next question so I decided to keep my cards close to my chest.

  “Mr. Conrad,” he began slowly, “few people take as active interest in a police investigation as you, and frankly, I’m perplexed.”

  “Why?”

  “For starters, suspects generally—”

  “So I am a suspect then,” I interrupted.

  He flashed an angry look that told me he was frustrated by my responses. I’d gotten to him.

  He shifted in his seat and I could hear his teeth grinding as he reviewed his notes. I was certain that what he’d say next would give me an indication as to whether or not he believed I was the killer.

  “Look asshole, you know something about these murders you haven’t told the police,” he snapped. “You should know that it’s an indictable offense to deliberately impede a murder investigation.”

  Bingo.

  His last sentence was meant as a shot across the bow: Tell me what you’re hiding because if you’re not the killer, someone else is going to become a victim.

  I resolved to throw him a bone.

  “I kind of figured that,” I said, dryly. “In the interests of ensuring a speedy resolution to Greenfield’s unsolved murders, here’s what I know.”

  He rolled his eyes at my sarcasm and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

  “The first body was found outside of town and the violent nature of the murder tells me the killer wants to scare the living shit out of people. I know that you and the Sheriff believe those little spiral engraved rocks you’re finding all over the place might be a trail of breadcrumbs, and the killer is toying with you.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’ve noticed an increase in graffiti in town—all large spirals painted in red. I’m thinking you don’t have any fingerprints, clothing or hair fibers, tire tracks or bloody footprints from any of the crime scenes. In fact, you have less than nothing in the way of physical evidence, and people are under pressure to get an arrest.”

  He glared at me.

  It was obvious that he was frustrated and he’d hoped his interview with me would put this case to bed.

  “Shut the hell up, Conrad!” he growled. “I don’t
believe you’ve been completely honest in disclosing everything you know, but here’s the thing. I might be a harmless looking psychologist who profiles killers for the FBI, but I’m still a federal agent. If I find out you’ve withheld even the tiniest fragment of evidence or information relating to these murders, I will make it my life’s work to ensure that you wind up somebody’s girlfriend in prison. Got that?”

  “I understand,” I said, calmly. “Are we done?”

  “Nope,” he grumbled. “The Sheriff will want to see you.”

  Chapter 26

  Imagine my surprise.

  After following a dumpy looking deputy down a hallway of bulletin boards plastered with wanted posters, I found myself sitting at a table in a sterile room, just like on Law and Order. Duncan was leaning against the two-way glass where a camera was undoubtedly recording my every move. Sheriff Don Neuman sat across from me with a glare that could bend steel bars. He snuffed a cigarette into an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, then reached into his breast pocket for his pack of Winstons.

  “I could have sworn we had a bylaw against smoking in public buildings,” I said, deliberately trying to provoke him. “As a taxpayer—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Conrad,” he bellowed, slamming his fist into the table. “You’re going to tell me what you know about these murders, right here, right bloody now!”

  I glanced at Duncan, who shrugged his shoulders and looked bored to tears. He knew I wasn’t about to be intimidated by a belligerent Sheriff when I’d just survived a grilling by an FBI profiler. I played along, again hoping the Sheriff would disclose something about their search for a suspect.

  “If you’re going to take that tone with me, I’ll have to insist on legal representation before you ask me another question,” I said, oozing with sarcasm.

  Neuman reached across the table and grabbed a handful of my shirt collar. “You son of a bitch,” he snapped, shaking me. “Three innocent people are dead and you’re gonna lawyer up, is that it?”

  I calmly craned my neck over his shoulder and looked straight at the two-way glass.

  “You have this on tape, right?” I shouted. “Just making sure you’ve got a record of the Sheriff when he roughed me up.”

  “Bastard!” Neuman snarled, shoving me and then releasing his grip on my collar.

  “He’s open to rational conversation Sheriff,” Duncan said calmly. “You might want to try that approach.”

  “Thanks for sharing, Duncan,” Neuman snapped back at the profiler. “Conrad, you’d better tell us what you know. Or...”

  “Or what?” I asked. “Sheriff, I’m more than willing to share everything I know about these murders, but it’s going to be the same thing I told your G-Man over there.”

  Neuman got up from his chair and walked over to Duncan. “Gimme your notebook,” he ordered. Duncan took the blue notepad out of his jacket and handed it to the Sheriff.

  It was then that I felt an electric sensation from the shard of Sentient Quartz in my pocket. Immediately, my senses heightened and I could feel the cool damp air circulating from the air-conditioner as goose bumps ran down the center of my back. The rhythmic thumping of Sheriff Neuman’s heart vibrated across the floor and into my body. Then a familiar voice shot straight into my head.

  The Talisman had something to say.

  “Probe his mind, Vanguard,” the disembodied voice of the Grave Demon whispered. “This human is lying to you.”

  “Can you hear my thoughts?” I asked, without speaking.

  “Yes. Probe his mind and you’ll find out what he knows about the host. Concentrate.”

  The Sheriff had his back to me, so I closed my eyes and forced my mind to blot out any sounds that might distract me as I projected every ounce of my five senses onto his mind. Immediately I could hear an inner dialogue.

  “That son of a bitch isn’t the killer, and I haven’t a clue who the hell it is,” the Sheriff’s voice whispered, almost in desperation. “The goddamned Mayor and that asshole prosecutor are going to string me up by the balls if I don’t make an arrest. Frigging politicians and their elections. I hate this shit. I hate this fucking town. Jesus, if the media ever find out about the five other bodies. Fucking homeless people—nobody will miss them.”

  My mind flooded with the mental image of a mass grave filled with the dismembered body parts of five people tangled together like a horrific jigsaw puzzle. Five pairs of hollow eyes stared at a black sky, begging for justice. Their faces were frozen in horror. They’d seen one another killed, one by one. My nostrils filled with the smell of damp soil and rotting flesh. My stomach churned violently as I tried not to wretch.

  Five more bodies. Christ!

  I’d been struggling for days to get a read on the killer, and despite all the powers Ruby and Stella said I possessed, something was working against me—but how? I’d prevented a woman’s kidnapping at the hands of her nut-job co-worker, and saved Marnie from her stalker. My powers worked for them, but why not for these five people?

  Rage flowed through my veins like a bubbling torrent that threatened to flood the entire room if I didn’t keep myself in check. I focused every ounce of anger with me, with Grim Geoffrey, with witches and The Guild and asshole cats that live a secret life, straight into the mind of Sheriff Neuman. What I learned next sent a bitter chill straight into my soul and scared the living shit out of me.

  “We’ll put that head in Conrad’s car,” the Sheriff’s voice echoed, its menace every bit as threatening as any I’d experienced. “We’ll tell the press we received an anonymous tip and I will slap the cuffs on that son of a bitch myself. There’s no frigging way this asshole isn’t the killer. Fuck the lack of evidence.”

  “Conrad, are you fucking listening to me?” Neuman shouted, snapping me out of my trance. He was inches from my face and I glared at him, barely disguising my hatred and disgust.

  “What?” I answered, in a voice filled with venom.

  “I said you’re goddamned lucky I don’t charge you with obstruction of justice,” Neuman snapped.

  “Yeah, I keep hearing that.”

  His eyes narrowed and I knew from the look on his face that he’d love nothing more than to turn off the camera and lay a beating on me.

  “We’re going to watch your every goddamned move. Got that?” he spat. “You won’t be able to take a shit without knowing you’re on Candid fucking Camera.”

  I leaned forward so Neuman’s face was almost touching mine. “Loud and fucking clear.”

  Chapter 27

  Spooks come in many forms.

  I’m not talking about CIA spooks, though I suspect they have a file on me by now. No, what I’m talking about are three mischievous creatures that I caught red-handed rifling through my refrigerator as I walked through the door to my apartment.

  “Freeze!” I shouted.

  Three tiny creatures with semi-translucent skin and faces resembling surprised spider monkeys stood amid a pile of half-eaten leftovers, yogurt containers and an empty jug of milk in my kitchen. The contents of my refrigerator were smeared all over their bony fingers. The one closest to me dropped a Tupperware dish with a hollow thunk, spilling peas in every direction.

  “He’s here! He’s here!” the three shouted in unison, their high-pitched voices sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

  I kept my distance, unsure if they might be a trio of assassins from the unseen world who wanted a snack before killing me. The one closest to the fridge was wearing a burlap loincloth, while the other two wore shirts that hung limply from their emaciated frames. The creature who dropped the Tupperware dish took a tentative step forward.

  “You’re famous,” it said, smiling.

  “Oh yes, he’s famous, everybody is talking about him!” the other two giggled.

  “What the hell are you three...things?” I gasped, still unsure if they meant me any harm.

  “I’m Skilla,” chirped the one wearing the loincloth. “These are my sisters, Skeets and T
reeny. We were hungry.”

  My eyes didn’t flood the kitchen with brilliant white light, a sure sign they couldn’t be evil. I locked my apartment door and surveyed the damage to the kitchen. The cupboard doors were wide open, and the three had emptied the contents onto the countertop. Broken cups and plates littered the floor. My garbage can was overturned. Strangely, my brand-new Bunn-O-Matic slurped loudly as it finished brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Overlooking the melee from the kitchen table was Walter, who sat on his haunches and casually washed his paws. Apparently, he’d been at the butter dish again.

  I kicked through the pile of trash that had once been my kitchen and the three scurried between my legs into the hallway.

  “Son of a... Cripes, you wrecked my apartment!” I snarled. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  “We followed Storch of the Wood Smoke,” the three said in unison. “He’s very fat, you know.”

  “Huh—W-Walter?”

  “He passes through walls, very clever for a fat one,” said the creature in the loincloth. “We can, too.”

  That explained how Walter had been getting out of my apartment to conduct surveillance on behalf of Stella Weinberg. Smart cat. I sat down the kitchen table and pointed at the one wearing a loincloth. “Skilla,” I said.

  It nodded and smiled.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You tell him, Treeny,” whispered the one I assumed was Skeets.

  “A-All right,” she said, hesitantly.

  “Ingrid sent us,” Treeny said. “She said you were handsome.”

  “Oh, he’s very handsome,” chirped Skeets. “For a human.”

  I rested my head on my arms and looked down at the one called Treeny. It had been an emotionally exhausting day after my grilling at the Sheriff’s office and the last thing I needed was another mystery from the unseen world to decode. Still, if Ingrid had sent them, then it meant she’d uncovered something about Grim Geoffrey, so it had to be important.