Hex on the Ex (12 page)
Authors: Rochelle Staab
“What? Found what?”
“Go, go, go.” He picked up the box. “I hope it’s in here.”
I led him through the yard and opened the patio door, taking a last look over my shoulder for tagalongs from the
garage. The only creature behind me was one very animated professor.
He set the box on the living room floor, rifling through papers as he talked. “Rick printed pamphlets promoting devil worship and sex magick. The children sold copies door-to-door.”
“He exploited his children?” I sat on the floor beside Nick. “You saw the pamphlets?”
“I think I have one. The man at the gas station felt sorry for the kids so he bought a few and kept the pamphlets as souvenirs after Rick got arrested. I convinced the old guy to sell me a copy. I wanted to show it to a professor at Oxford who studied devil worship.”
“So you brought the pamphlet to Oxford?”
“No. Once I got to Chicago and read it, I thought the content was tripe. Rehashed satanic and devil worship tenets from the sixties. Here it is.” Nick pulled out a five-by-seven booklet bound by staples. The cover, red print on a black background, showed an inverted pentagram with a goat’s head drawn in the center. Across the top, the title: “Divine Rights.”
Nick paged through, stopping intermittently. “I forgot how shoddy this was. He plagiarizes the hell out of every devil fad from the nineteenth century to the sixties, and rants like a hedonistic, occult flamethrower. How anyone deemed this—Liz, look, I found it.” He held up the pamphlet, pointing to a yellowed page.
The page on the left showed the inverted pentagram with the number
5
in the center. Three blurred Petrine crosses underscored the
5
. At the top of the right-hand page, the misspelled header read “Vengence.” Beneath, “Thou shalt not turn the other cheak.”
I read through the text, appalled by the theme of hatred and frustration within blustering statements from “nobody owes you nothing but respect” (sic), to “payback is you’re right” (sic). The remainder of the pamphlet was filled with crass declarations of rules celebrating vices like indulgence, lust, and greed. Each rule was numbered inside the inverted pentagram image, some accompanied by crude drawings of figures enacting the benefits of self-indulgence and hubris.
“What do you think?” Nick said.
“Personally, his celebration of evil offends me. The author shows a lot of pain between the lines—a struggle to cope with disturbed, unresolved feelings. At a glance, I’d call him tortured. Someone taught to look at anger as wrong without defining or exploring the source. The text sounds like he moved to the dark side to justify his unresolved feelings and redefine himself to align with his pain.”
“Any comment on devil worship?” Nick said.
“As a therapist, I view it as an ineffective and troubled attempt to resolve complex internal issues. His devil imagery projects sexuality and anger,” I said. “How do you interpret this? Is his message meaningful enough to last thirty years? How would it relate to Laycee’s murder?”
“Rick’s message isn’t unique. He plagiarized the core spiritual principles of Anton LaVey, a magician and occultist from San Francisco who started an atheistic sect glorifying the self in the sixties. I’ve seen the triple cross notation in spiritual and Wiccan practices, a shorthand instruction to repeat an incantation or prayer three times, but never in connection with the LaVey sect or any theistic devil worship groups,” Nick said.
“Narrowing the field of possibilities for finding Laycee’s killer. How many devil groups are there?”
“Countless. Devil worship is widespread, without a centralized leader, and the individual groups are intensely secretive. It’s impossible to list or track down every sector. This is definitely the numbered inverted pentagram I remembered. I’ll get the images to Eagleton, but this part of the trail might end here.” Nick set the pamphlet on the table then repacked the rest of the box. “I wonder if the author is still alive.”
“I want to hear the rest of the story,” I said. “Who did Rick kill?”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’m amazed I recalled as much as I did. I don’t even know his full name.”
“I think I do.”
I
opened the pamphlet and showed Nick the title page. “Divine Right” was centered at the top in large capital letters. In smaller letters below the byline: By Herrick Schelz.
“Rick—short for Herrick,” I said.
“Can’t argue with the obvious,” Nick said, smiling.
“Now that we’re this far, don’t you have access to old newspaper articles? I’d like to read about his trial and see what happened to his family.”
“I love it when you challenge me.” He reached for his computer.
We curled up together on the sofa, my arm resting on Nick’s shoulder as he clicked the keys on his laptop. Soon the archive section of the Fort Wayne
Journal Gazette
filled the screen.
He drummed the side of the keyboard. “Let’s see. I was
twenty-three the year I took the trip. The guy said the family moved to town…”
As Nick studied the ceiling to work out the math, I opened the pamphlet to the second page. “The copyright is 1984. Start there?”
In a few quick keystrokes, a list of choices appeared on the screen. Nick clicked on the first article, and we read together.
DEVIL WORSHIPER SENTENCED TO LIFE
The Fort Wayne Journal Gazette
June 23, 1985
Herrick Schelz was sentenced to 50 years to life this afternoon for the 1984 murder of an Indiana social worker.
Early this month, Schelz, 38, was convicted of the brutal stabbing death of Adan Hunter at the Schelz home outside of Greenburg. Hunter, married and the father of three young children, was 34 at the time of his death.
In closing arguments in the penalty phase of the trial, Elkhart County prosecutor Carl Cates asked that Schelz be given the death penalty for the killing. Defense attorney Kenneth Rosenfeld urged the jury to be merciful, citing Schelz’s extreme emotional disturbance as justification for a lesser sentence. He acknowledged his client’s beliefs were “bizarre,” then cited the right of religious freedom. He stated that Schelz could finish his life in prison without posing a threat to society.
Prosecutor Cates called Schelz a demon who corrupted his own children, abused his wife, and murdered
Hunter in cold blood after accusing the social worker of having an affair with his wife. During the trial Hunter’s wife testified that she reported her husband missing when he didn’t return home from a scheduled appointment with the Schelz family. In a warranted search, law enforcement dogs located Hunter’s body buried in a shallow grave on the Schelz property. The victim was murdered with a knife found in the Schelz kitchen. Experts confirmed that blood found on Hunter’s body provided a DNA match to Schelz.
Schelz’s wife, witness for the prosecution, testified that her husband, an alcoholic and self-proclaimed devil worshiper, physically and psychologically abused her and their two children repeatedly after his failed attempts to organize a congregation of devil worshipers. Hunter, a social worker sent to the Schelz home to investigate reports of child abuse, encouraged Mrs. Schelz to leave with her children. On the day of the murder, Schelz learned his wife was pregnant, shoved her against a wall and beat her. Hunter interrupted the beating and Schelz accused him of fathering the child. Schelz attacked Hunter and stabbed him repeatedly with a knife. Schelz threatened to kill his wife and take the children if she reported the crime.
The prosecution produced a pamphlet Schelz had written, promoting devil worship, self-gratification, punishment for infidelity, and justified vengeance.
The defense countered with a claim that when Schelz learned his wife was pregnant with a third child, he was subject to extreme emotional pressure and guilt.
At the close of the sentencing, Hunter’s wife said, “Justice has been served for Adan but our pain continues. We will never forget him.”
“Disturbing. Sad,” I said, sitting back. “At least we know Schelz’s brand of devil worship didn’t spread.”
“Do we?” said Nick. “How did his version of the symbol end up on Laycee’s body? Coincidence? I’d like to hear what Eagleton has to say.”
“Do you think the police would try to interview Schelz?”
“If he’s still alive. Or attempt to locate the publisher to see how many copies were printed and where.”
“A vanity pamphlet from over twenty years ago?” I said. “Good luck.”
“If the pamphlet can be tracked to Encino, you get the detective of the year award for triggering my memory,” Nick said.
“I gracefully decline. Please don’t mention my name to Eagleton. I didn’t tell you about my conversation with Carla tonight.” I gave Nick the highlights then said, “I prefer avoiding her if I can.”
“What was in the box you picked up at Jarret’s house?”
“Nothing important. Research texts. A small collection of erotica.” My words flew out too fast to edit. Nick turned with a silly grin on his face. I put up my hands to bar the inevitable tease and said, “Robin sent me the erotica for my thirtieth birthday. As a joke. She said every old woman needs an erotica collection.”
“Remind me to thank Robin next time I see her.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “She’ll be thrilled you approve of her taste in literature.”
My cell phone rang and as I got up to dig it out of my purse, I glanced at the time. A call at eleven
P.M.
couldn’t be good news but on seeing the caller ID, I knew I had to answer.
“It’s Jarret. I should take this.”
Nick closed his computer. He lifted the box off the floor and said, “I’ll take this back to the garage while you’re talking.”
I slid the bar to answer and heard breathing. “Hello? Hello?”
“Lizzie-Bear? Baby? I’m s…so…sorry, honey. I didn’t mean it.”
I knew and despised that slur. Jarret was drunk out of his mind. I felt an urge to hold the phone away from my face or hang up.
“Where are you?” I said.
“I’m at…where am I?” He laughed. “I’m at the Sportsmen’s Lodge. Will you come over? I have to tell you…explain what…I’m sorry, Lizzie-Bear. Please come. I’m in, wait, what room…?”
“I’m not coming over. Jarret, are you okay?”
“I’m okay now that I’m talking to my Lizzie-Bear. I’m so sorry—will you forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what? What did you do, Jarret?”
Please don’t let him confess to murder over the phone. Please don’t erase the good I thought I knew about the man.
“I’m not supposed to…come over? Lizzie? Please?”
“You’re drunk, Jarret. Go to bed. We can talk in the morning.”
“Promise, baby? You’ll really come and have breakfast with me?”
“Promise. I’ll meet you in the hotel coffee shop at
nine-thirty.” I ended the call, curious why he chose me as his confessor.
Nick came through the patio door, talking on his cell. “Great. I’ll meet you there at one.” He hung up and said to me, “How’s wonder boy?”
“Drunk,” I said. “I agreed to have breakfast with him in the morning. He wants to apologize to me for something.”
“Murdering Laycee?”
“I hope not. He was upset, too out of it to make any sense. Who was that? Eagleton?”
“Izzy. We’re meeting at the library tomorrow afternoon. She needs advice, probably on a paper she’s writing.”
I tensed up. “What’s the paper on? Seducing older men?”
“Yes. And I’m her lab rat.” Nick pulled me into his arms and planted a knee-wobbling kiss on me. “You’re cute when you’re jealous, but you’re wasting your energy. I’m attracted to older, brown-eyed brunettes with long legs and complicated pasts.”
“Older?”
T
he next morning, I lolled in my bed half awake, realizing I should have planned better before I told Jarret I’d meet him at nine-thirty. Senseless to work out and shower at the gym and then drive home to let Stan in at nine, then drive back to meet Jarret at the hotel less than a block from Game On. Maybe if I buried my head under my pillow and slept for a few days, I’d wake up to a working shower in my own bathroom. Let Jarret work out his own issues, I’d sleep through Nick’s date with Izzy, and Carla Pratt would forget about me.
Erzulie stood over me and nudged her nose on my bare shoulder. Twice. In other words, get up and feed her. I rolled out of bed, threw on shorts, a T-shirt, and my running shoes, then fed Erzulie and addressed my need for caffeine. While I waited for the coffee to brew, I turned on the small TV in the kitchen—a housewarming gift from my parents—to check the weather. Below the “Encino Homicide Puzzles Police” headline beneath photos of Jarret and Laycee, the temperature in the lower right-hand corner of the screen read seventy-two degrees. Already. The predicted high for the day was one hundred. Degrees. I shut off the set and went outside for a run through my new neighborhood.
As the sun rose over Universal Studios a few miles east, birds chirped from trees in landscaped, white-picketed yards bursting with summer flowers in bright reds and yellows. I did my two-mile run up and down the center of the deserted, residential streets. Squirrels scrambled up trees, lights went on in kitchens, and a middle-aged man in shorts, a pajama top, and sandals with socks, waved hello to me while his golden retriever sniffed at a tree stump.