Eleven Days Read online

  “You might as well turn on the light,” came the sleepy voice from the bed.

  “Okay, but before I do, you might want to know I have a bandage on my head, and it’s not serious.”

  I turned on the light.

  “My God.”

  “It’s not serious. Just a couple of stitches.”

  “What happened?”

  I told her.

  “What did he hit you with?”

  “I don’t know. A board, or a handle, or something. Something hard, I know that,” and I grinned.

  “I’m surprised you’re home on time.”

  “Hey, Henry says I get a couple of days off …”

  “You won’t take them.”

  “Yes, I will. This time.”

  “Sure.”

  “You want to know how many stitches?”

  “No. I’m having a hard time handling this. I don’t like your work, and I don’t like what happens to you.”

  “Hey, it doesn’t happen very often. If it did, I’d quit.”

  “I don’t think you would. I think you like it.”

  And, with that, she turned over and appeared to sleep.

  Like it? Hardly. She really wanted me to be in another, more dignified line of work. Where people didn’t beat on me, and where I associated with a little better clientele. Well, in a way, I did, too. But the job was interesting most of the time, and hardly ever routine. I liked my work. Something I never thought I had to apologize for.

  Phone rang at 08:45. You can’t come to work, no reason not to call you. It was Hester, apologetic, but she wanted to come by to talk to me.

  I put the coffeepot on, took off the bandage, as it was giving me a headache, and washed my hair. Shaved. Tried everything I could to wake up. After the second cup of coffee, I was getting mad at Hester for being late. If they’re going to bother you, at least be on time.

  She arrived about 09:30. Bearing gifts in the form of a thick envelope of developed photographs of the Herkaman crime scene, and my photos of the McGuire scene. With a note from Lamar, wondering if I could label them while I was off.

  “I think I can get these done in the next day or so.”

  “Good. How’s your head?”

  “Still there.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about last night.”

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  We spent about an hour going over the events of the early morning hours, with her taping everything. I had already said it all in my report, and she seemed disappointed that we were uncovering nothing new in the interview.

  By the time we were finished, I was beginning to wake up.

  “Autopsy reports back yet?”

  “Oh, yeah, they were relayed up this morning. Got ’em in the car.”

  They were quite interesting.

  In the first place, the times of death placed the sequence as follows:

  1. William Sirken at approximately 10:30 P.M.

  2. Francis McGuire at approximately midnight.

  3. Unknown (possibly Peggy Keller) at about 1:00 A.M.

  4. Phyllis Herkaman at about 5:00 A.M.

  The causes of death were equally interesting.

  1. William Sirken, hemorrhaged, due to severing of the inferior vesicle artery and the anterior trunk of the right common iliac artery, caused by an apparent stab wound.

  2. Francis McGuire, death by asphyxiation, larynx crushed and hyoid broken.

  3. Unknown (possibly Peggy Keller), death by asphyxiation due to ligature around her neck.

  4. Phyllis Herkaman, hemorrhaged to death, due to puncture of the left common iliac artery and vein, the superior mesenteric artery, the abdominal aorta, and the inferior vena cava.

  McGuire was the only surprise.

  Removal of McGuire’s hand apparently occurred postmortem and explained the lack of blood, at least to an extent. The knife in the chest was also an apparent afterthought.

  The murders occurred over a six-to-seven-hour time span. Great. Somebody was really freaked out, because to sustain a murderous frame of mind for that long was really unusual.

  “Well,” said Hester, “what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me either. Somebody sure was mad, though.”

  “Yeah. Or extremely dedicated.”

  “I’ll go with dope.”

  “Well, it’s either that or crazy.”

  “Or both.”

  “Or more than one person. Each with an assigned victim or two.”

  She thought about that one. “You think it’s a cult, then?”

  “No, not really. But it does seem like a lot for one man to do. Or woman, I guess.”

  “A team effort,” she said, “would make it easier. Somebody will crack.”

  “Yeah. Sooner or later.”

  “Unless it’s a cult, where there’s no guilt involved to work on their minds.”

  “You know,” I said, “one thing bothers me …”

  “You mean ‘one more’?”

  “Okay. The lists I came up with? There’s nobody there I can associate with any of the victims. Nobody.”

  We talked long enough to consume a second pot of coffee, and she left to have lunch with Lamar, Theo, and Hal. Theo and Hal were still plugging away at interviews. Hester, by the way, was pretty sure that the unknown woman was Peggy Keller, but we were going to have to wait for dental records to make sure. I was pretty sure, too.

  I tried to go back to bed, but found that I was now up for the rest of the day. Combination of a headache, the coffee, and hunger. Plus a little excitement thrown in on the side.

  I went back downstairs and cranked up my computer. I loaded in the profiling program and started to work.

  I began with the victim section, entering everything I knew about the four people whose bodies we had found. There wasn’t much, but at least it got my thinking going in an organized direction.

  Three of the four were connected to a hospital in some way, and there was a good chance they had met each other in Iowa City. The fourth, McGuire, not only had no connection to any hospital, there seemed to be nothing he would have had in common with the others except an interest in Satanism. Easy to see how they could come together on that, but what the hell was he doing sticking his nose into that stuff?

  And, even with a Satanic interest, how did he get involved with the other three? They didn’t seem to have anything in common … not at all.

  What I was beginning to think was, if McGuire got involved, so did somebody else. Maybe the same way. And if I could figure McGuire’s connection, maybe there was somebody else I could come up with who had gotten into the group the same way. Unless, of course, McGuire had recruited the other three …

  Insufficient data, as they say.

  It was about 14:00, so I thought I’d at least get a nap. Went into the living room, had just lain down on the couch when the phone rang. Wonderful. It was Mike, and could he come over for a few minutes? Sure.

  Mike, being a night person, was prompt. What can I say? Anyway, he hit the door about three minutes after he called.

  He’d been talking to his wife and had found out that McGuire was gay. He’d also been talking to Hester, who had told him that she had just found out that Sirken was associated with a gay group in Iowa City. His wife had also said that McGuire had gone into a hospital in Iowa City for back surgery about two years ago.

  Well, well, well. Mike was as pleased as I’d ever seen him.

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Got any coffee?”

  “Will have in a minute.” I went into the kitchen, and Mike followed. “You say anything to Hester about this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did she think?”

  “She was pretty happy—so happy that she’s going to Iowa City to talk to some people there, who’re connected with the hospitals.”

  I poured the water into the pot. “Did she have a chance to talk to Theo?”
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  “I don’t think so. Theo’s out on interviews again today.”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, also, my wife said that there’s a problem with the funeral for McGuire.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “The minister has heard about the Satanic shit and won’t allow him to be buried in consecrated ground.”

  I leaned back on the counter and gave Mike a look.

  “How did a preacher find out about the Satanic stuff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Everything, of course, was supposed to be confidential, and nobody was supposed to talk to the public about the case at all. Someone always did, of course. I didn’t really give a damn about McGuire being buried, but I wanted to find the leak. You just don’t want details getting out, for three main reasons. First, you don’t want a suspect to know what you know, and second, you don’t want some flake “confessing” and providing a lot of detail. Screws up the case. Third, you don’t want the case people distracted by having to patch a leak. Takes a lot of effort to locate it, and in the meantime everybody is under suspicion. Flow of information comes to a complete stop, and the group effort goes to hell in a basket.

  “Which preacher is it?”

  “Pastor Rothberg.”

  “The church on the south end?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s always seemed pretty sound …”

  I had talked with Rothberg several times, when he had come up to talk to our prisoners. He’d always given the impression of being levelheaded and rational about his belief. Concerned about the prisoners’ spiritual well-being, not evangelizing. Doomed, as I always told him, to see his efforts with the prisoners come to naught. It was our little joke. But he’d never struck me as the sort who would refuse to bury anybody.

  “I sure would like to know how he found out.”

  “Well, Carl, it’s probably pretty common knowledge by now, what with Theo interviewing people all day. He talks too much, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but, shit, he has Hal Greeley with him. Hal wouldn’t let him say much about the Satanic stuff.”

  “I dunno. You know Theo.”

  We stood around the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew.

  “Mike, maybe we should talk to Rothberg …”

  “Doesn’t do much good to close the barn door after the horse is out.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the sort of thing I just gotta know.”

  “Well, I’m game, if you are.”

  I called the church, no answer. I called his home, and his wife answered. He wasn’t home, was making rounds at the hospital and the nursing home. I left a message for him to call me at my home.

  We drank our coffee at the dining room table, and the conversation turned to the unknown female who had made the first call about McGuire. We still didn’t know who she was, and the times of death sort of eliminated Peggy Keller, unless she called as she was dying. That didn’t seem likely, because of the manner of her death. If she had been surprised at the Herkaman house, and it looked like she had, and had tried to flee and been overtaken and killed, which seemed likely, she sure as hell wouldn’t have time to make any phone calls. And, besides, the caller had said that she was at the McGuire farm. On the other hand, if she’d called from there, and then returned to the Herkaman place and walked in on all the carnage, it would mean there was a second killer unknown to her, who happened to be killing as she was calling … Not what you’d call likely. Not what I’d call likely, either.

  I called Hester. “Did we ever determine if McGuire was killed at his house, or someplace else?”

  “We’re assuming at his house, at least for now.”

  “Ever find his hand?”

  “No.”

  “Look, is it possible that he was killed someplace else?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Herkaman’s, maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Before you go to Iowa City, could you call the lab and see if they found any clothing that could have been McGuire’s out at the Herkaman residence?”

  “Sure.”

  I went back to the dining room. The house is small. Mike had overheard the call.

  “Sirken and McGuire were pretty close to the same size, weren’t they?”

  “Yeah. But different kinds of clothes, different style of clothes. But I’m thinking something else … I think it’s a good bet that we have a survivor, and that she’s the one who called, and that she’s probably hiding somewhere.”

  “Pretty obvious.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. Got any more coffee?”

  “Yeah. It’s in the kitchen …”

  While he was out there, I had another partial thought. I’m famous for partial thoughts.

  “Hey, Mike, don’t you think it’s a good chance that she’s from Iowa City, too?”

  He came back in with a full cup. “Well, three-fourths of them had an Iowa City connection by living there, and McGuire had probably met the others there …”

  “You could have brought the pot. Well, then, isn’t it likely that she would have gone back there? And that would explain, at least a little, why she might have thought she was at the McGuire farm when she was at the Herkaman house.”

  He thought for a second. “Unless the perpetrator is connected to Iowa City, too. Then she probably didn’t go back there.”

  “I don’t know about that … where else could she go?”

  “Beats me … we’ll have to ask her when we find her.”

  “If we find her. And if we find her before the perp does. She’s a witness.”

  “It ain’t gonna be easy to find her. Especially not on the night shift.”

  And the phone rang. Pastor Rothberg. He said that he would come down, since I was injured. I had almost forgotten that small fact and probably sounded a little stupid for a second.

  Neither Mike nor I knew if Rothberg drank coffee, so we put on another pot just in case. At this rate I wouldn’t sleep for days.

  Mark Rothberg was also prompt. He came to the front door, which we hardly ever use, moving up the steps quickly and easily. He was about my height, but about 190 pounds, and pretty fit. He was also about ten years younger, which put him around thirty. Fit, intelligent, energetic. Never could figure out why I liked him.

  He did drink coffee, though. Took some of the edge off. But he didn’t smoke.

  “I presume you want some background information on Satanism?”

  “Well, no, actually. Hadn’t occurred to us. But go ahead, Reverend.”

  “I’m always ready to help out the police.”

  I handed him a cup of coffee.

  “By the way, Carl, how’s your head?”

  “Foggy, but then it usually is.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt any more than you were.”

  “Me too.”

  He laughed. “Good thing it was a head wound.”

  Mike, bless him, laughed, too.

  “Thanks, group.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, leaned back in the chair, and asked, “What do you want to know about Satanic cults?”

  Well, I had a few questions, and I know Mike did, too.

  “Why don’t you just tell us what you know, and we can ask questions as we go along?”

  He began by telling us that all Christian churches tended to accept the existence of Satan, in one form or another. That they accepted the concept of evil, and that Satan was the personification of it. Given that, it was no surprise, according to him, that misfits and sociopaths would gravitate toward a Satanic cult, or Satanist teachings. “Outcasts” was the word he used to describe them. He told us that he didn’t take them too seriously himself, but that he was very concerned about their influence on others, and the espousal of a philosophy that generally denied responsibility for your own actions.

  I chimed in. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that there are many other groups who have the same basic approach?”


  “Of course. But the Satanist is specifically an abomination, because he directly opposes and ridicules Christ.”

  Oh.

  He went on to discuss the Church of Satan, Anton LaVey, and other San Francisco-based Satanic connections. Michael Aquino, who particularly outraged him because of his U.S. Army connections. About the insidious approach they had, because they wouldn’t actually promote violence, but ended up condoning it by their basic philosophy.

  “It’s so like them, you know. Fostering that attitude, and then innocently disclaiming responsibility for it.”

  “Satanic, sort of?”

  “Yes, Carl! Absolutely.”

  He continued to describe their influence, especially among the young. Which got him briefly into heavy metal music, and then into the young people who had suffered, and some of them who had committed suicide, because of Satanic propaganda. He seemed controlled, of course, but very intense. I couldn’t help thinking that, if he could keep secrets, this man might be a pretty good ally in an investigation of this sort. He would be in a position to take the community pulse, so to speak. If he would only agree to tell us about what he found.

  “Reverend, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you come to know so much about this?”

  “In my former congregation in Ohio, we had a tragic incident involving Satanism. A very intelligent young man took his own life, and another very nearly did so. It was a close thing, I can tell you. Very close. I helped counsel the one who survived, and I had to do some pretty heavy research to give me the necessary background to talk with him and to counter their arguments.”

  I thought the conversation had reached a good level to try to find out what we originally wanted to know.

  I smiled. “I’m curious, and you surely don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not, but I would like to know just how you were aware that Satanism would be the subject we wanted to talk about today?”

  He smiled. “Four Satanic murders … I didn’t think you called to make a donation to our building fund.”

  “True. But, then, how did you know about the Satanic connection to the murders?”

  “Oh, just about everybody in town knows that. It’s a small community. These things can’t be kept secret for long.”

  “Yeah, I know. But, just out of curiosity, when did you find out about it? How long did this little community take to get the word around?”