9

With Andrew gone, Dean was left the task of filing a death report on Donald Francis. Writing up such a report didn’t usually bother him this much, but the circumstances that surrounded the death made him uneasy. What did Andrew go back to that house to find? He thought to himself. After that shit with the knife, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near that place, let alone back inside. Probably gonna find some chicken bones and a pot full of boiling blood in the middle of a pentagram; wouldn’t surprise me. He thought that idea was silly, but the mental image it created caused him to suddenly become much more interested in the white screen in front of him.

“Officer Laherty?”

Dean jumped out of his chair and turned with a startled look to whoever had addressed him. It was Nick Petulo. “Hey Nicky, you scared the piss out of me. What’s going on?”

“Hey stop callin’ me that! Only my mother calls me Nicky. Anyway, have you seen Detective Whitman around? I want to follow up with him on some stuff I found at the Francis residence.”

“What kind of stuff?” Dean asked, putting a hint of curiosity in his voice to mask his apprehension towards the subject.

“Well in the den there was mostly nothing: family photos, a few books on a shelf, sofa facing the TV, y’know, normal shit. I got to their bedroom upstairs and it looked pretty normal. I pulled open their dresser drawers but didn’t find anything but clothes and linens; I didn’t look too deep though because I felt it was a little rude and unnecessary to go rootin’ through their undergarments you know?”

“I’m sure there’s a point here somewhere Nicky, I just want you to get to it.”

“Alright alright. I was just about to leave the room when I thought to myself, “Is there anywhere I haven’t checked?” I looked around and boom! I forgot to look under the bed. I pulled up the bed skirt and saw something under there, looked like a big plate or something. When I touched the rim my finger felt something wet, so I pulled my hand out as fast as I could; for some reason I got really scared at the possibilities of whatever was in there. It only looked like water on my finger, so I reached back in and slowly pulled the thing out.” As he said this, he pulled out a photo from his back pocket and showed it to Dean. “It was a basin full of murky black water. I mixed some with a reacting agent but nothing came up, then I tested a piece of litmus paper and it came up 7.0. Everything says it was just a bit of dirty water, but I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right about it.

“Right about then I got a call on my radio. They told me Don Francis was dead, and there I was standing in his bedroom! The room definitely didn’t feel right then, so I left and found Andrew. He didn’t seem to hear the call in though, maybe his radio was off. It wouldn’t be like him to make a stupid little mistake like that though, that’s usually my department. Anyways, we came back in separate cars so we didn’t have time to debrief. He went right on into the cell block to look at the body, so I took the evidence I gathered down to Jane in the depository. She’s been here about twenty years so I figure she might know something about this wash basin. She told me they found stuff like that a few times in the homes of some crazy religious nuts. Apparently you put a basin of water under your bed at night, and it’s supposed to drain the negative energy out of you and hold it all in. Then in the morning you dump it out, along with all that bad juju. If that’s what they were doing up in that house, they must have had a lot of bad energy in them, because that water was black. Afterwards I went to my desk, filled out my part of the report, and now I’m here. Which brings me back to my initial question: Have you seen Detective Whitman?”

Dean was unsure of how he wanted to reply. He didn’t think he could outright lie to the kid, but he wasn’t sure if he should tell the whole truth either. If the kid’s theory and his own earlier suspicions were right, Andrew could have been walking into something potentially dangerous. On the one hand he might need help, but on the other, Nicky might cause more trouble than if he hadn’t shown up at all. He was inexperienced (not like any of the other officers had prior dealings with voodoo and superstitions) and that inexperience could prove to be fatal to him or Andrew if he were to mess something up.

Dean decided to tell a half truth. “He went out on another investigation. Apparently Donald visited another house on the night of his wife’s suicide before coming home. We think whoever he spoke to might have some information on what went on last night and this morning.”

A look of frustration appeared on Nick’s face. “Can you tell me where he went? I’m his partner, I can help him.”

“He told me not to tell you, didn’t want you to worry about it like you’re doing right now. He said it wouldn’t take long and he’d be back within the hour. Hopefully he’s got something to share with you, this Francis case has been a real pain in my ass. And my head.”

Nick sighed and lowered his head slightly. “Alright. If you see him can you tell him I’m looking for him? Better yet, find me and let me know when he comes in.” The young officer turned away and wandered off back to his desk.

Dean sat back down, propped his elbows on his desk, and dropped his head into his hands. He rubbed his eyes and thought to himself, Is this shit ever going to be over? A beeping noise startled him and he dropped his hands, suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings. The beeping was coming from the alarm on his wristwatch. It was set to go off at 5:05: feeding time for the “guests”.

The food served to the prisoners, if one could even call it that, was more fit for a pig trough than human stomachs, but they had to be fed something. The gruel was basically dog food with a melange of spices, paired with mushy and flavorless rice. Dean placed an apple on the corner of each of the three trays of food. They weren’t Granny Smiths, but hopefully they would help keep the doctor, and the mortician for that matter, away.

The trays were slid into a deposit slot in the middle of the bars and placed on a small shelf just on the other side. In exactly forty-five minutes the trays would be retrieved from those same shelves whether or not they had been touched. Most took a bite, decided it was one of the foulest things they ever had, and pushed it away. They eventually developed a taste for the gruel once they realized it’s the only thing on the menu. At that point, the apple almost seemed like a treat.

Rufus was laying on his cot with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed when he heard his cell’s meal slot scratch open. He raised his head and said to the officer, “Thank you son,” and rested his head back into his hands. Whenever he was brought in, usually too drunk to stand up straight, Rufus could be a funny, crotchety, raunchy, and sometimes even sweet old man. When he would wake up the next morning, however, he would be cool as a cucumber. He didn’t seem to ever be embarrassed or have any regrets about what he had done or said the night before, he was just calm and collected. He didn’t even talk to anybody unless he was spoken to, and even then, it would mostly be simple responses.

Richard was sitting on the edge of his cot looking at nothing in particular when his slot was opened. “Hey there Deputy Dean, what’s on the menu this evening?” He grinned, showing a silver tooth on his lower jaw.

“Oh Rich, you flatter me! I ain’t made deputy yet, but we’ll see what happens.” He pushed the tray through the slot. “Today, we have a seasoned meat puree and a side of wild jasmine rice. And for dessert, une pomme rouge.” He kissed his fingers in a gesture of good taste and chuckled to himself.

Richard spoke up, “Hey, what happened to that old guy you brought in last night? I heard him being carted away earlier. His heart give out or somethin’?”

“That’s none of your concern Richard, best stay out of it.” The officer turned away to the last cell and slid the tray through the slot.

As he did, Terry asked, “Yeah, what did happen to him officer? As denizens of this block, I feel we have the ri-”

“I don’t remember askin’ you a god damn thing Mr. Maldonado. And if you want to keep your furnishings as comfortable as they are now,” Dean said in a raised voice as he dropped the tray onto the shelf and knocked on the cell bars, “you should consider keeping out of things that don’t concern you.”

Terry stared wide-eyed at the officer for a moment before saying, “Y-yeah, sure.” He sheepishly got up to retrieve his meal, some of which had splattered onto the ground and would soon be indistinguishable from the surrounding filth.

Dean turned around and glared at Richard, who only winked and gave an ‘OK’ sign with his thumb and forefinger. As he began walking back down the corridor, Rufus peered out of his cell and said, “Hey, officer, let me talk with you a minute.”

Dean slowed and stared at the man before approaching the cell. Rufus motioned for him to lean closer, which he did hesitantly. “I knew Donald from when he was a young kid. That guy was always just a bit strange. I might have a few things to say about him. Only, I would like to do it away from prying ears.” He shifted his eyes to the other two cells as he said this. “Could you do that?”

The officer thought about this for a moment. If this guy knew something about Donald, he might know something about his wife, Angeline, too. And if he knew about Angeline, maybe he knew about ‘whoever’ she had been talking to the night she died. “I’ll prep an interrogation room, then I’ll be back for you.” He said.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.”

Sitting in the interrogation chair, Rufus Cartwright looked like an old farmhand. He was wearing a pair of blue-jeans, which were white at the knees, and an old flannel shirt that was beginning to fray around the collar. He had a thicker frame, a byproduct of his diet of booze and cheap food, but Dean could tell that underneath that extra layer, this old man had the muscles of someone thirty years younger. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a tattoo on his right forearm; It resembled a tree with long gnarled roots spreading out from beneath it.

Dean was sitting on the opposite side of the table with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He offered one to Rufus, but the old man politely refused. “So, what do you want to tell me about Don?”

“Well, not so much about Donald at the start. See, I knew his father too, fella by the name of Sal. He was another strange one, strange in a different type of way though . We were somethin’ like friends growing up; we went to the same school and played around with the same kids and such, but not as we got older. I went and helped my daddy in his mill when I was about seventeen, and Sal stayed in town, going to school and all that. Eventually, he went off to some college somewhere, and I didn’t see or hear of him for a few years.

“My daddy was a busy man, so sometimes he would send me into town to run errands and do some business. On one of these trips, ‘bout five years after I started workin’, while I’m drivin’ down the street, I see Sal walkin’ along the sidewalk. Now, I couldn’t be totally sure it was him, so I pull up to him and peek a glance out my side window. Sure enough, its him! So I roll down my window and say ‘Hey there friend, it’s been a while.’ He just looks at me kinda strange for a second, which I thought nothing of, considering the time since we last seen each other. But he just keeps on looking that way until I tell him, ‘Sal, it’s me Rufus.’ He tells me, ‘I don’t know you sir, you must have me confused for someone,’ and starts walking away!

“So, I pull over and I get out after him. I catch up and say, ‘Hey, don’t you remember me? We used to be friends.’ I grab on his shoulder and he whips around and throws my arm off like I’m attacking him, pushed so hard I wound up sitting on my ass! Then he gets real serious and says somethin’ like, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what I’m doing. You don’t know me, so just fuck off.’ I was stunned, just lookin’ up at him dumbfounded. His eyes looked real tired, like he was up all night or somethin’. After that he just storms off.”

Dean straightened in his chair, “Mr. Cartwright, I don’t mean to be rude, but what does this childhood spat have to do with Donald?”

“I’d say that for what I have to tell you, you’re going to need some context. At least hearing it from my point of view.”

“Would there be any other point of view to hear it from?”

“Not unless you wanna go diggin’ through old folks homes and graveyards, though you might get somethin’ more usable from the latter.”

Dean let out a heavy sigh, “What are you saying Rufus?”

“I’m saying that what I have to tell you ain’t just some nutjob story about a few crazy folks living in some backwoods town. It’s about us, right now. And the things livin’ with us.”

The two sat in silence for a while, neither breaking eye contact. Dean took a long drag off of his cigarette before leaning forward and saying, “Continue.”