Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries)

Crazytown

Jon Grilz

This is a work of fictions. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Jon Grilz

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 1484168372

ISBN-13:
978-1484168370

DEDICATION

To my
dad, who appears nowhere in this book. I promise.

Also by Jon Grilz

Crazytown: The Witch Tree

Rigged

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to my editor Autumn Conley and my cover artist Eric Blomquist.

Prologue

He knew what the consequences would be before he did it. Once his finger pulled that trigger, the firing pin would connect with the primer in the bullet. The bullet would leave the muzzle at around 1,230 feet per second. The bullet would travel approximately three feet and impact the back of the skull of the fifteen-year old boy who knelt before him, weeping, amongst the trees.

As the contents of the boy’s skull exited through his face, shattering bone like glass, the gas released by the combustion of the bullet would cause the slide of the gun to recoil. This would allow another bullet from the fifteen round clip to spring into place, just in case he needed to fire a second round, only he never did.

Then, several things would inevitably occur that could link him to the crime scene. First, the gun-shot residue would be deposited on his hand and sleeve. His fingerprint might appear on the bullet shell, from where he pressed the bullet into the clip as he loaded the gun. From the angle and trajectory of the shot, those clever investigators could easily deduce his height. His foot prints in the surrounding dirt and mud would provide them with his shoe size and weight.

Crime Scene Investigation was a detailed and brilliant science that he respected, but none of that concerned him. Knowing the risks didn’t change the greater truth: The boy had to die.

“Please! I didn’t do anything.” The boy’s voice came out in sobs as steam poured from his mouth. The poor kid was sweating even in the near-freezing air.

“I know,” the man said, his voice nothing more than a whisper. He took no pleasure in the act; he hated when they talked to him- and they all begged sooner or later, once they knew that he was for real.

The woods around him were lit by a full silver-dollar moon. It shone like a streetlight hovering over the woods and casting shadows in every direction, peaceful and haunting all at once.

A slight wind picked up, stirring the soft, whispering wind-chime of branches and rustling nettles. Though it was largely blocked by the thick forest, the breeze still sent a chill through him. His hand gripped a little tighter on the gun.

The young boy was only dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and the goose bumps on his flesh pimpled up far enough to show in the moonlight.

“If you know, then why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice trembling with the chill and the fear of the moment.

“It’s not what you’ve done. It’s what you are going to do.” The shooter’s words came out slowly, almost painfully.

“But… but I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“Please! D—”

Before another word could come from the fifteen-year-old lips, the man’s finger pulled the trigger. It all happened just like he knew it would: the trigger, the primer, the slide, the residue; all of it. The boy lay in a black pool next to his motionless head. The eerie silver moonlight made a puddle of tar out of the boy’s blood. The bullet shell had ejected itself from the weapon and lay in the crimson tar puddle, amongst the fallen leaves.

The man sighed deeply, just as he always did. He stood over the boy for just a few moments, and a tear ran down his face, catching the reflection of the moonlight on his cheek.

And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving the boy behind, motionless, beneath the whispering pines and silver moon.

Chapter 1

Special Agent Darren Lockhart exhaled a long sigh as he drove through the back roads of northern Minnesota, the kind of sigh that he would normally reserve for getting someone’s attention. But at the moment he was alone and the sigh was merely an outlet, a way to voice his displeasure.

Just over twelve hours earlier, he had been on his first date in six months. She was smart and beautiful, she found his job intriguing and she thought his taste in 1980s pop music charming.

In the small, intimate dining room of a restaurant that Lockhart had never been to before, he had been happy. The low, romantic ambiance, caused light to dance off his date’s diamond earrings—small flashes that walked up and down the nap of her long, beautiful neck, occasionally daring to dive down her plunging neck line.

Sure, the prices on the menu were slightly higher than what Lockhart would typically fork out, but he knew the importance of first impressions. It was the sort of restaurant where the wait-staff used words like “amusing” and “quaint” to describe the chef’s specials. No one would ever use such a cache of adjectives to describe their own culinary preparations, but surely they would be echoed by diners who would recount their experience to others. They were words that would be spoken by the five-star chef while the wait-staff sampled small portions of the specials before customers arrived to determine their personal favorite. Waiters and waitresses would quickly scribble the chef’s thesaurus down and regurgitate  the words over and over again so that by the time the big spenders came in after nine p.m., they could rattle it all off by heart and impress the potential big-tippers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lockhart watched the wait staff moving about like orchestrated worker ants, performing their duties in somewhat robotic fashion. It was a habit from his work. His mind never really got a chance to turn off, like a DVD player stuck on repeat, always playing things through. The only surprises he ever saw in life were those presented on the job.

Sometime between their appetizer course of steamed mussels in white wine with shallots and the salad course of mixed greens with feta and a honey-balsamic dressing, neither of which he would have described as “amusing”, as they discussed childhood pets, he received a text message. Even if his date did like Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” as much as he did, like his mind, his phone could never be turned off; after all, he was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation specializing in violent crimes.

He apologized profusely and promised to call as soon as possible, but he knew he would never get another chance with her. That was his life: murderers, rapists, and thieves took precedence, even over five-star dining and witty conversations with gorgeous, single women.

Twenty minutes later, inside the door of FBI Assistant Director Chalmers’s office, Special Agent Lockhart sat in a chair far more comfortable than his own pay-grade would allow. The walls were sparsely adorned, but what was there was undeniably impressive: Multiple commendations, pictures with foreign heads of state, and even photographs of Chalmers smiling- as much as he ever did- alongside two U.S. presidents.

Chalmers, Lockhart’s boss, sat across the expensive desk. He always resembled some kind of a medieval judge, in Lockhart’s opinion; his face blank and impartial. Lockhart had never seen Chalmers look flustered or heard the man raise his voice. This time, the director’s glazed focus was on the file lying open in front of him. Knowing the drill all too well, Lockhart sat silently, patiently waiting for the man to speak.

When Chalmers finally did open his mouth, it was like a stereo with the bass turned to full- an impossibly deep voice that could command with little more than a whisper. “A body was found in the Chippewa National Forest in northern Minnesota,” he announced with all the enthusiasm of an overworked mortician.

The director slid the file across the exotic wood desk to Lockhart.

Upon opening the file, Lockhart discovered several gruesome pictures of what was left of a dead teenage boy. He thumbed through them, and then glanced back at Chalmers.

“Given the nature of this case, I am going to send you there to investigate the death. We can claim jurisdiction on this one because the body was found in a national forest.”

“Yes sir,” Lockhart said.

“You’ve been to Minnesota before, haven’t you?”

“Yes sir, in ‘95. I was assigned to Minneapolis for about six months.”

“Did any of your investigations lead to the more rural areas?

“No, sir.”

Chalmers thought on that for a moment. “Well, I am going to send you to the city of Crayton, just outside the national forest. The boy lived there. And Lockhart…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to send you in alone”

“Sir?” Lockhart said, raising a questioning brow. It was out of the ordinary send an agent in to investigate a crime scene alone, and something about it made Lockhart feel uncomfortable.

“Small towns tend to exhibit certain…attitude, for lack of a better word, toward federal agents, Special Agent Lockhart. In order to get the full cooperation of the town, I am going to send you there first, alone, to conduct your own investigation for a period of seven days. If you are unable to get any leads or if things escalate, there is a field office about thirty miles from the location, and capable agents will be called into assist.”

Lockhart didn’t say anything, but his brow furrowed in thought. He couldn’t help being slightly insulted at the insinuation that he might not be capable.

“Is there something on your mind?” Assistant Director Chalmers asked.

“Well, sir, if I may ask, why am I being sent to investigate if there are agents only thirty miles away? Is that really the best option?”

“Read the details of the report, and I assure you that you will understand.”

Lockhart had become accustomed to an agent’s on-the-go lifestyle, and he always kept a bag packed in his trunk, enough clothes for three days, just in case. Over the years he had become an expert in air travel.  He knew that post-9/11, packing restrictions and ridiculous airline luggage charges meant the best bet was fitting as much as he could in one carry-on and a shoulder bag.

A quick scan of the report was all it took to land him behind the wheel of his car, en route to the airport. Lockhart grabbed his bag and boarded the red-eye to Minneapolis-St. Paul airport.

The body of fifteen-year-old Michael Weber, Jr., was found in Chippewa National Forest in northern Minnesota. From the Twin Cities, Lockhart caught a connecting flight to Duluth, Minnesota. The city boasted a population of 80,000 plus, but Lockhart was hard pressed to believe it because the city felt so utterly small. The Iron Range of northern Minnesota had all but closed, and unemployment forced people south, toward towns like Duluth.

Once he disembarked in Duluth, Lockhart was greeted by a pleasant, middle-aged travel agent who showed him to his Lincoln Town Car.

“And the map is in the glove compartment,” she said with a smile.

“Uh, thanks, but my phone has GPS.”

“Oh ya?” she asked innocently.

Lockhart suppressed a laugh. It had been about fifteen years since he had last been in Minnesota, and he’d nearly forgotten about the Minnesotan accent. There was the Midwest, and then there was Minnesota. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as bad down in the Twin Cities, regardless of what he had seen in movies, but it was still there, and it was very recognizable. His near-mockery made him feel particularly guilty when he was forced to pull the map out from the glove compartment. Even billions of dollars’-worth of satellite technology seemed helpless against the back roads of northern Minnesota.

His destination of Crayton, Minnesota, didn’t even bother showing up on his GPS, MapQuest or Google Maps, but there it was, on the folded map from his glove compartment, along with towns named Funkley, Black Duck and Northhome. Crayton’s border was on the immediate edge of the Chippewa National Forest, and the young body found there had naturally prompted the attention of the FBI. The circumstances prompted Lockhart’s expertise.

In all, it took nearly four hours and several wrong turns for Lockhart to successfully navigate the rental car to the thriving Metropolis of Crayton, population 642. The local youth had added a Z and W to the sign sloppily in white spray paint; evidently, residents—at least the younger ones—considered the place to be “Crazytown,” and Lockhart was relatively certain most of the people who lived there had never been to cities with greater signs of civilization. Perhaps the reason Google Maps had never heard of Crayton was because Crayton had never heard of Google Maps. Within two minutes he was sure he had found himself in a place where he was the only one wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, let alone anything tailored.

The police station was easy to find, as it lay at the crossroads of the only area that could possibly be classified as downtown. It also helped that there was a large wooden sign that read “Crayton Law Enforcement Office”. However, the office itself wasn’t what he expected. Instead of an ordinary one-story building, it was a house, or at least it used to be—a small, two-story house with three steps that led up to the front door. There was a bay window in the front through which Lockhart could see that a wall had been erected, complete with an open service window for a secretary or office assistant. He couldn’t even imagine what the place would look like on the inside, and its lackluster and rather unprofessional-looking appearance had him concerned about how the crime scene had been handled thus far.

In his briefing, Lockhart had been assured by his superiors that the local police had taken every care with the crime scene; however, he recalled that the crime scene photos looked to have been taken with a disposable camera, if they even still made those anymore. As Chalmers had said, there was an FBI Resident Agency in Bemidji, Minnesota, some thirty miles away and FBI personnel had taken over the scene as soon as the exact location of the body had been determined to be less than 100 feet inside the border of the national park. FBI or no, they were a small agency, and their resources were largely utilized in the preservation and transportation of the victim’s body. As they had been assured by the local police that the scene was secured and that Special Agent Lockhart was on his way, they returned to their offices to conduct the autopsy and evidence analysis.

In many ways, seeing the house/law enforcement office both fit and juxtaposed the town itself. The town was encircled mostly by residential housing, and many of the homes which resembled the police station. The actual layout of the town consisted of mainly three intersections with a limited variety of shops scattered here and there—mostly mom-and-pops as opposed to the Starbucks and Walgreens and McDonald’s chains that make their homes on corners in most American towns. Several bars and liquor stores, a dry cleaner, a few diners and some stores with signs so old and worn that Lockhart couldn’t really see what was supposed to be inside made up the town’s business sector.

Whereas the police station had been easy enough to find, the police chief himself was a different matter. The two-cell police station looked like something out of a 1950s television show, and Lockhart half-expected Andy Griffith to show up as the welcome party. A middle-aged woman, with a warm maternal-look about her sat at the desk near the door. Something about her made Lockhart smell fresh-baked apple pie, and he envisioned a large ball of yarn and knitting needle as she greeted him with what Lockhart had begun to think was a mandatory North Country smile.

“Good mornin’!” she said cheerfully.

“Ma’am, can you please tell me where I can find the chief of police?” Lockhart took out his badge. “My name is Special Agent Lockhart, with the FBI.”

“Oh jeez. You must be here about that poor Weber boy. It’s so sad, so awful. That poor child.”

Lockhart always did his best to dismiss sentiment regarding victims and the local population; they tended to cloud investigation, and his investigation was apparently going to be difficult enough as it was. To make matters worse, the two desks facing the front door were empty; one with a “Chief of Police” faceplate, and the other with a “Deputy” one.

“Ma’am, I—”

“Oh, Joy… please.”

“Joy, ma’am, can you please tell me where the chief of police is?”

“Oh, well, I guess he’s probably at breakfast.”

“Breakfast? He was made aware of my taking over this investigation, was he not?

“Oh my yes, but the Chief got diagnosed with that diabetes last year. Says he has to keep his blood sugar up.”

Lockhart maintained his professionalism, but only because the woman reminded him of an old—much cherished—school teacher. “And the deputy?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s with the chief at the diner.”

“Of course he is. A boy was executed in his town, so he decided to go have a Danish instead of waiting for the FBI.”

“Oh, I doubt he’s having a Danish. Too much sugar in those, ya know.”

It would have sounded patronizing coming from anyone else, but she was old, sweet, and sincere—her name was Joy, of all things. Minor incompetence aside, Lockhart decided anyone would have trouble disliking the woman, himself included.

“Where, if I may ask, is the diner, Joy?”

Joy seemed to light up when he stepped into informality and used her name. “Left out the door, first right, second door on the left. Dan’s Café. Can’t miss it. Best food in the state.”