Constance stood on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office while he went inside, the collar of her long coat turned up against the breeze. The temperature was hovering in the upper 20's, but the occasional gusts that sluiced along the street made it feel much colder. If the sun was out it might not be so bad, but a heavy blanket of grey clouds formed a low ceiling overhead, casting the small town of Hulis in a visible dullness that served to enhance the dark funk that already permeated it to the core.
Her cell phone speaker trilled as she held it pressed against her ear with a leather gloved hand. After the fifth ring a recorded male voice announced without identification or ceremony, “Leave a message.”
Constance rolled her eyes as a sharp tone followed, then began speaking. “Drew, this is Mandalay. Hey, I know it's the holidays and all, but I got handed the 'Christmas Butcher' case and I'm up here in northern Missouri. I just finished a really interesting conversation with Sheriff Carmichael. Apparently our file on this whole situation is incomplete... Actually, that's an understatement... But... Anyway, since you were the last agent assigned, I wanted to run a couple of things past you. Do me a favor and give me a call back on my cell when you get this. Okay? Thanks.”
She stabbed off the device, then punched in a speed dial code using her ungloved hand, which she then promptly shoved back into her pocket once the requisite task was complete and nimbleness of digits was no longer required. Tilting her head to the side, she tucked the cell beneath a cascade of brown hair and pressed it to her ear once again. On the second ring a gruff but far more familiar voice issued from the speaker.
“Homicide. Detective Storm...” the voice said.
“Hey, Ben,” Constance half-cooed. “How is your day going?”
“Pretty damn quiet at the moment,” he replied. “But that'll change. It always does.”
“Unfortunately,” she agreed. “I'm sorry we couldn't connect before I had to leave town.”
“Shit happens.”
She could hear the shrug in his voice, but underneath it she could detect a clear note of disappointment as well. They'd both been busy with their respective jobs and getting together just hadn't been in the cards as of late.
“So, how 'bout your day? Where'd they send ya' off to this time?”
“Hulis, Missouri.”
“Hulis... Where the hell's that?”
“About four hours north of Saint Louis. Right on the Iowa border.”
“Ahhh... North Podunk Cornfield, eh?”
“Sort of. I hate to sound cliché, but quaint definitely fits...in a weird fashion.”
“Whadda they have ya' workin'?” he asked, then added with a chuckle, “Grand theft scarecrow?”
“I wish. It's a seriously screwed up case, actually...” She left her words dangling on the chilled air.
“That bad, eh?”
“In a word, yes.”
“Okay...” he said. “You're soundin' all depressed. Spill it. What's wrong?”
She hesitated to answer. After all, why ruin his mood too? But it took only a few seconds for her reluctance to wane, and in the end she just couldn’t keep herself from sharing. “Unfortunately, I just finished listening to a detailed account of a child abduction, abuse, and sexual assault from thirty-five years ago. A ten-year-old girl named Merrie Callahan. It was heartbreaking.”
“Jeezus...” Ben muttered. “Yeah... I can see where that'd royally fuck up your mood. Did they at least catch the sick bastard who did it, or is that why you're there?”
“They didn't have to, actually,” she told him. “The little girl he took escaped after he got drunk and passed out. But rather than take any chances, she hacked him to death with an axe first. On Christmas morning, no less.”
“Jeez... Awww... Just... Jeezus...” he moaned. After a brief pause, in a somber tone he added, “That's one tough little kid. Well at least she got away, and the sick fuck got what he deserved.”
“But at the cost of the girl's sanity, apparently. She never recovered, mentally.”
“That's fucked up...” he muttered, then fell silent.
She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. As jaded as he could sometimes be about homicides, no matter how gruesome, any act of violence against a child pierced his armor instantly and without fail.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I really didn't mean to call and depress you too,” Constance offered.
“S'okay,” he replied. “I asked. B'sides, can't be easy for you ta' deal with either.”
“No, it isn't...” she agreed.
“Gotta have someone you can talk to or it'll make ya' nuts.”
“Uh-huh. Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it.”
“Any time, hon. So... Stupid question. Why're you in North Podunk lookin' at a thirty-five-year-old closed case?”
“Because seven years ago, a man's body turned up here on Christmas day, also hacked apart with an axe. Since then, same thing every Christmas morning. Man's body, hacked up with an axe, and the external genitalia missing.”
“Damn...” he muttered. “That's some twisted shit. One body a year, eh? That's some serious downtime for a serial.”
“True, but not unheard of. Also, the murder is always preceded by a Christmas card delivered to the sheriff's office on December twenty-second, which is the anniversary of the day the little girl was abducted.”
“Well, that pretty much clinches your triggering stressor, right there, doesn't it?”
“I'd say so.”
“And it's been goin' on for seven years now?” There was a hint of incredulity in his voice.
She responded in kind. “I know... Tell me about it.”
“Who the hell's workin' lead on this?”
“That's just it. Nobody. Or maybe me, I guess. I'm actually the fifth agent that's been assigned over the course of the case thus far. And it's never a team. Just a single agent.”
“You're kiddin' me.”
“I wish I were. It doesn't make sense.”
“No it doesn't... Well... Lucky you, I guess.”
“Uh-huh, lucky me,” she spat.
“Well, I'm sure I don't need ta' even say this, but you've looked at family, right?” he suggested.
“Mother and father both dead. There's a younger sister, but it looks like she voluntarily disappeared into the woodwork about ten years back and nobody has been able to locate her, so she's a possibility. Finding her is the issue.”
“What about the girl herself?” he asked. “She'd be what, about forty-five now?”
“Not likely. She's institutionalized,” Constance replied. “Her body aged, but like I said, her mind threw in the towel. I've been told she has the mental capacity of a ten-year-old child at best.”
“Not good.”
“Other than that, no real extended family other than the people here in town. Apparently they've all chipped in to help take care of her since the parents are deceased.”
“Yeah, that's definitely a small town thing... Think it could be one of them? The townfolk?”
“It's an angle I'm working, but the sheriff thinks I'm way off base.”
“I wouldn't worry too much about what a small-town sheriff thinks.”
“I don't know,” she told him. “He's pretty sharp. Actually, he reminds me a lot of an older version of you.”
“Yeah, I am pretty damn sharp, ain't I?”
“Yes, but I'm fairly certain he's sharper.”
“Ouch.”
“Seriously. He's Sherlock Holmes kind of sharp.”
“He smoke a pipe and play the violin?”
“I'm serious.”
“So was I. Sorta,” he replied. “So listen, don't take this the wrong way, but if he's Sherlock smart, why's he need the Feebs?”
“Good question. Given the lack of evidence left behind, maybe the killer is Mycroft smart.”
“Yeah, but Sherlock's older brother was a fat, lazy bastard. I doubt he'd be motivated enough ta' kill anyone.”
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Constance allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible chuckle. “Bravo.”
“Yeah, kinda figured ya' didn't think I knew who Mycroft was.”
“Always full of surprises, aren't you?”
“That's what I keep tellin' ya'.”
“Well, in any case I'm still planning to talk to the original victim. In fact, the sheriff will be taking me over to see her in just a few minutes.”
“Gonna verify the case notes,” he said with a knowing tenor in his voice. “Good'a place ta' start as any.”
“That's another strange thing,” she explained. “I read through the file and thought I was up to speed when I arrived here. But it turns out our documentation on this case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is missing.”
“Lost?”
“That or worse. Maybe pure negligence. Or even incompetence. I don't know just yet.”
“Think someone coulda screwed with it on purpose?”
“I hope not, but I don't know why anyone would. It's not like this is a RICO case where there could be payoffs or something. It's a serial killer.”
“True,” Ben grunted.
“Except...”
“'Cept what?”
“Something that was in the file is that the victim is always dumped in the same location.”
“And so this is still an open case why?”
“Apparently the body just shows up. Whoever is doing it makes it past the surveillance without detection.”
“Bullshit. You've got a dirty cop on your hands.”
“I would think that too, except all four agents prior to me have been on the stake outs as well. I can't see all of them being complicit as well.”
“Yeah, I see your point. But then you've got that effed up case file...” he offered.
“I know... I left a message for one of the previous agents,” she told him. “Hopefully I can find out more when he calls me back.”
“That'd be good,” Ben agreed. “Just be careful. You never know.”
“I will.”
“So...I assume you'll be in Podunkville for Christmas then?”
Constance sighed and watched as her breath condensed in a thick cloud then instantly disappeared. “Unless there's a miracle, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. I know we had plans.”
“S'okay...” he told her.
The whoosh of weather-stripping against a metal threshold sounded in Constance's free ear, and she looked up to see Sheriff Carmichael trundling through the opening and then down the short flight of stairs. He glanced at her and pointed toward the diagonally-parked police cruiser that was nosed in at the curb several feet away from her own vehicle.
“The sheriff just came out, I need to go,” she told Ben.
“Okay. Don't worry about Christmas. We'll celebrate when ya' get home.”
“I'll hold you to that,” she replied.
“Won't be too hard,” he countered. “Remember... Be careful.”
“I will. I'll try to call later. Bye.”
“Sounds good. Bye.”
She slipped the cell phone into her pocket then pulled her glove back onto her bare hand. As she walked over to the passenger side of the Sheriff's Department cruiser, she thought about how much she and Ben obviously cared for one another.
The words they exchanged.
The time they spent together.
The sex.
Then she wondered silently why even with all that, neither of them ever seemed to be able to bring themselves to say to the other, “I love you.”