“Thanks, Stella,” Sheriff Carmichael said, looking up with a slight grin at the young woman who was refilling his coffee.
She smiled back. The expression was strained and thin, but still noticeable. “Your meatloaf should be up in just a minute or two, Skip.” She leaned a bit closer and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I told Max to put a couple of double thick slices on there for you.”
“You're too good to me, Stella.”
That Place was more of a U-shaped lunch counter than anything else. It was crammed tightly into a narrow storefront across from the Sheriff's department and kitty corner from the town hall. The décor was typical small-town diner of the late 50's or early 60's – chrome and Formica counters with vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor at evenly spaced intervals. Just as the Sheriff's office looked like a throwback to the 40's, so did the small diner look as if it had been frozen in its own particular era for the rest of time.
The establishment was surprisingly slow for lunchtime, especially during the week. Besides the sheriff and Constance, there was only one other patron, and he was at the far end of the U. However, there was something else about the diner that struck Constance as even odder still. It was December 22nd and with the exception of a poinsettia on the counter, the restaurant was devoid of holiday decorations, Christmas or otherwise. Just like the Sheriff's office had been.
The waitress glanced over at Constance and asked, “Are you sure you don't want anything?”
“I'm fine, thanks,” she replied with a shallow nod.
“Suit yourself. I'll be back out in just a minute or two.”
As she started away toward the kitchen at the back, Sheriff Carmichael called after her, “Oh, hey, Stella, I almost forgot. Clovis wants a piece of your mom's coconut cream pie. Think you could box up a slice for me to take over to her? Just put it on my tab.”
“No problem,” she answered. “I'll have it ready to go when you are.”
Once Stella disappeared through the swinging doors at the back, Constance twisted a quarter turn on her stool and focused on Sheriff Carmichael. “She seems a little tense.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That's 'cause she knows who you are and why you're here.”
“I'm here to help.”
“Like I told you, we've heard that before. Folks don't get their hopes up anymore.”
She glanced around again at the lack of visible cheer. “So... People don't decorate for the holidays in Hulis?”
“Not many,” he grunted. “Not for a few years now. Nobody wants to think about what Christmas brings to this town. Hell, my wife and I don't even put up a tree anymore. Don't know many folks around here that do.”
“That's kind of sad.”
“It's reality,” he countered.
“That doesn't make it any less sad. It's as if the town itself is a victim too.”
“It is,” he agreed. “That's the difference between a small town like Hulis and a big city like Saint Louis. We've got a population of less than a thousand folks. What happens here is personal.”
“As I understand it, so far none of the victims have been from Hulis, though.” Constance gestured with her index finger to indicate the surrounding area. “In fact, they've all been unidentified according to the reports.”
“True,” he replied. “But this is where they're found, so that makes it personal, no matter who they are. You have to understand, Constance, people here aren't afraid of being a victim of this killer. But they're damned well on edge about this. Doesn't exactly help our reputation, and the population is dwindling. This keeps up, Hulis could cease to exist.”
A quiet interlude fell between them as she weighed the gravity of what he'd just said. On the surface it was merely a statement of fact. But beneath the words, stark emotion was grappling with the logic, and it was winning.
The cafe doors leading to and from the kitchen swung open and Stella reappeared, plate in hand. A moment later she slid it in front of the sheriff; a waft of aromatic steam still rising from the pool of gravy welled in the center of the mashed potatoes that flanked an easily five-inch thick slab of glazed meatloaf.
Once the waitress had disappeared again, Constance re-started the conversation. “So, what is it we need to talk about, Skip?”
Sheriff Carmichael used his fork to carve a trench into the side of the mashed potato volcano on his plate then watched in silence as the gravy began to spill out. It flowed down the side and began spreading across the plate toward the meatloaf.
Eventually, the weighty pause ended and he asked, “Exactly what did your file have to say about John Horace Colson?”
She shrugged. “The pertinent details. He had a record ranging from petty larceny to aggravated battery. There was also a conviction for sexual assault on a minor. He did just under a year in the adult correctional institution at Gumbo Flats for the latter. And, of course, there was the abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan, and then his subsequent murder.”
He finished chewing the hunk of the meatloaf he had stuffed into his mouth, then swallowed hard. After taking a sip of his coffee to wash it down, he repeated her words with a razor sharp edge of bitterness. “The abduction and rape of Merrie Callahan... Makes it sound like a made-for-TV movie from one of those damn cable channels.”
“I'm sorry,” she replied. “I'm just answering your question. I didn't mean to sound callous.”
“I know, I know... Truth is, the story might as well be a movie. It sure as hell plays out like one... It just doesn't have a very happy ending.” He nodded as he spoke, waving a hand and sighing in apology himself. After staring wordlessly at his plate, he finally laid the fork aside and combed his fingers through the snowy brush on his upper lip. When he finally started speaking again, there was a fire in his voice that seemed unquenchable.
“Thirty-five years ago Merrie Callahan was ten years old,” he began. “She was a bright, freckle-faced kid, with a mop of chestnut hair and a personality too big to fit her body.
“Late on the afternoon of December twenty-second, Merrie's mother picked her up from school. It was the last day before Christmas break. They were Catholic, so she went to the Immaculate Conception school over in the next town, and there wasn't any bus service, so Elizabeth―that'd be her mother―would shuttle her back and forth. On the way home she stopped over at Norris's Market, just up the street here, to do some last minute grocery shopping for their big Christmas Eve dinner.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the direction.
“As the story goes, Merrie's little sister, Rebecca, was pitching a fit about wanting to see Santa Claus and give him her list,” he continued. “Just so happened, Norris's was right next door to the Five-and-Dime. Back then we had a little more by way of population, including kids, so they always had a part-time Santa Claus for the week before Christmas. Anyway, Merrie, being the sweetheart she was, volunteered to take her sister next door so that her mother could finish the shopping in peace.”
“And Colson was that Santa Claus,” Constance offered, nodding. “That was in the report.”
“Yeah...” Carmichael grunted. “How that sonofabitch got hired I don't know. Of course, back then there wasn't a sex offender registry, so I guess he flew under the radar... Anyhow, about twenty minutes after Merrie took her sister next door, a clerk came rushing over to Norris's looking for Elizabeth. Rebecca was standing in the middle of the dime store in hysterics, and all they could get out of her was that Merrie had taken Santa away. Of course, as we know, it was the other way around, but sometimes five-year-olds see the world differently than the rest of us.
“At any rate, Merrie was nowhere to be found, and no one except Rebecca had seen a thing. Colson had supposedly gone on a break, but he never returned and couldn't be found in the vicinity, so he instantly went to the top of the list of people we wanted to interview.”
“We?” Constance asked.
“Yeah... We. Thirty-five years ago I was a commissioned deputy in this very sheriff's department,
” he explained.
“So, you didn't just retire here,” Constance said. “You're originally from Hulis.”
He nodded.
“That wasn't in our files,” she puzzled aloud.
“I told you we needed to talk.”
“Obviously. Go on.”
“Well, back then I was green. I'd been on the department for less than a year, and we'd never had anything like this happen in Hulis. If you had a kid go missing, you found 'em at a friend's house, or they were skipping school and just forgot to make sure they came home in time to not get caught. But we knew this was different right from the beginning.
“We set up road blocks and organized a search, of course. Just about everyone living here at the time helped look for her. There were even some State Highway Patrol officers sent in. Tom, that was her dad, and Elizabeth were basket cases, understandably, what with their little girl being stolen like that.” He shook his head and stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “I still remember my mom going over and staying at their place to help out with Rebecca, and just make sure they had someone there.
“Anyway, we searched the rest of that night, all day the next, and into that night too. By then we'd pulled a complete background check on Colson and knew about his record, including the sexual assault on a minor charge. I'm here to tell you that information didn't do much for our spirits.”
“I understand.”
Sheriff Carmichael drew in a deep breath and then puffed his cheeks in a drawn out sigh. “There was no such thing as an Amber Alert, but we got the word out to all the agencies, including yours. And then there was the media. Next day was Christmas Eve,” he said. “We figured Colson had probably gone across the state line into Iowa, or maybe even east into Illinois, but we kept lookin' anyway. We weren't about to give up. Of course, we still couldn't find a thing. Not a trace of either of them. So...later that afternoon I went home, caught a nap, and then headed in for my regular duty shift that night. Next mornin' is when I found her.”
“How?”
“Luck, I guess,” he replied. “I'd just been sittin' there in the office and twiddlin' my thumbs the whole damn night. Soon as my shift ended, I figured I'd go out and cruise. I was out for an hour...maybe a bit more...and everything just started to catch up with me. It was pushin' five AM, so I decided to go on home and hit the sack. I was out on the west side of town. Turned a corner to loop around the block and there she was. Standin' in the middle of the road.
He paused and Constance could see the fresh pain of an old memory creasing his face. He started to speak again, but his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee before finishing the story.
“She was covered in blood,” he offered. “Didn't find out till later wasn't all of it hers. She was wearing her school uniform, or what was left of it. It was torn... Just ripped up by that sick bastard. But she'd put it on after...well...you know.
“There was eight inches of snow on the ground and temp was in the twenties... And there she was, torn clothes, one shoe, and just standing there in the middle of the road, starin' off into space.” He hesitated momentarily as the vivid recollection welled inside him, gathering pressure before escaping via his tortured voice. “The ungodly things that bastard had done to that sweet little girl... Cigarette burns... Cuts... Bruises... And... I... I... I just can't even... I...”
“It's okay,” Constance soothed. “I understand.”
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “It's not okay. And unless you've seen it...I mean really seen it...then you don't understand.”
“You're correct,” she replied. “I don't, really.” There was no reason to argue.
“Long as I live... I just...” Sheriff Carmichael stopped and blew out a heavy sigh. “Anyway...I wrapped her up in a blanket and called it in. She never said a word the whole time. Just sat there in my cruiser and stared out the window. They hustled her off to the hospital, and we started searching the neighborhood looking for Colson. About two hours later we found what was left of 'im in the basement of a vacant house a few blocks from where I found Merrie. It had been checked the day before. Or it was supposed to have been... Nobody was sure... But if it was, where they were prior to that is still a mystery.
“At any rate, he was dead, of course. He'd been hacked up good with an axe. It was layin' right there next to him, along with an empty bourbon bottle. Axe handle had small, bloody hand prints all over it, and the fingerprints we pulled matched Merrie. Then, like I said, we found out that a good bit of the blood on her was his. She never told us what happened... I don't honestly believe she even remembers. But the coroner's report showed his blood alcohol was through the roof, so with the evidence at hand, the assumption was that he got liquored up, passed out, then Merrie found the axe and did what she thought she needed to do in order to escape.”
“Quite the feat for a ten-year-old girl,” she mused aloud.
“You know what they say about fear,” he replied. “It's the great motivator.”
“True. And it does sound like a logical conclusion under the circumstances,” Constance offered. “So, what happened after that? The file had notes to the effect that Merrie is currently institutionalized?”
The sheriff shook his head and answered. “She never really recovered. For the longest time she was almost catatonic. She was well into her teens before she showed any improvement at all, but even then it was like she was mentally frozen in time. Stuck at ten years old forever, and that was on a good day. Tom and Elizabeth took care of her even as they got older, but about ten years ago they were both killed in a head on collision out on the two lane. Merrie couldn't take care of herself, so she pretty much lives at the retirement home. Between her inheritance, and the good hearts of folks here in town, it's covered.”
Constance cocked an eyebrow. “What about her sister?”
“Nobody's seen or heard from Rebecca pretty much since shortly after the funeral.” He gave his head a shake that exuded sadness in the very motion. “Merrie had become Tom and Elizabeth's world, and I think Rebecca ended up resenting her for that. She'd been off to college and was living in Omaha before the accident anyway, visiting at holidays and such. She came back for the funeral and then hung around long enough to dissolve the estate.” He shrugged. “Then she left. Shoulda been something in your file about it. All of 'em that came before ya' tried to track her down, but never had any luck.”
“Unfortunately for us, if someone really wants to disappear and they stay out of trouble, it's easier than most people think,” Constance said.
“That's a fact,” Sheriff Carmichael agreed.
He looked down at the plate of food in front of him. A visible, dull skin had formed on the surface of the rapidly cooling gravy, and the inviting gloss the butter had given the bright green peas was all but melted into oblivion. It didn't matter. His appetite had disappeared thirty seconds into the story anyway.
He pushed the plate aside, then reached for the napkin dispenser, only to discover that he'd been clenching one of the folded, paper rectangles in his fist the whole time he'd been recounting the thirty-five-year-old horror. He carefully wiped his mouth, then brushed out his mustache with his fingertips as he tossed the crumpled napkin aside.
“So, tell me,” he began, turning his emotionally spent gaze toward Constance. “Now that you've heard all that, do you still feel it's absolutely necessary to talk to Merrie?”
Constance nodded shallowly and returned a grim expression. “I'm afraid so. I realize it must be hard, so I can just go myself if you'd prefer.”
“No, no... I'll be going out to visit her anyway. I always do. Besides, she's probably expecting us. Bringing her a new visitor on the twenty-second seems to have become a twisted little tradition where you Feds are concerned.”
“Sorry.”
He shrugged off the apology. “She's not big on strangers either, but she'll be okay with you if she sees us together and I introduce ya'.
” He reached up and massaged a spot above his eyebrow with the side of a crooked index finger. “All right then. Let me go ahead and collect that piece of pie and run it back to Clovis, and make a couple of calls, then I'll take you over there.”