Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (27 page)

How much time went by, I'll never really know. My guess now is that it wasn't much more than three or four minutes. But that was all the time my poor eyes needed to grow bored, flutter closed again—and stay that way.

The next thing I knew, I was snoring. Head tilted back, mouth agape, body propped up against the passenger-side door. Had I not snorted myself awake, I might still be asleep today.

“Oh, my Lord, Dottie,” I said.

I scanned my surroundings desperately, searching for Big Joe, but he was nowhere to be found. I was sure I had only been out for a minute or two, but the damage had been done. Four parking spaces to my right sat the cowboy named Sandy's blue Dodge pickup, its passenger cab as empty as the truck bed behind it.

He'd come back while I was dozing.

I leapt from the truck and started running as fast as I could toward the ladies' room, giving no thought whatsoever to slamming the truck's door closed behind me.

“Joe!”

I entered the bathroom and found myself alone; neither Joe nor the cowboy was there. I went to the men's room next, just bolted straight in without warning, but again, the room was vacant. All the stalls were empty and silent.

I was now completely terrified.

I sprinted outside, spun around like a top looking for some sign of my husband, but there was no such sign to see. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

“Joe!
Where are you?!
”

And then I realized where he had to be: out there in the black void behind the rest stop's boundaries, where Corrine's cowboy would have surely chosen to take her if, as Joe and I had feared, she'd said or done something, thanks to me, to finally make a murderer out of him.

I went around to the back of the two mortar block buildings and studied the black, irregular horizon. They were next to impossible to see, but they were there: one human figure advancing on another, the latter a good fifty yards away. The one in motion was wearing a cowboy hat; the other, whose silhouette was almost certainly that of my husband, was not.

And the one with the hat was carrying a rifle.

“Joe!
Look out!
” I screamed.

I started running even though I knew it was hopeless. I would never reach him in time on this old woman's legs. As I closed in on the pair, I could see that a body lay in the brush at Joe's feet.

“Dottie, no!” Joe called back.

But it was too late. The cowboy with the rifle turned toward me just as I lost my footing and fell, slammed to the cold, hard earth like someone who was already dead. I heard the crunch of footsteps as they rapidly approached, looked up to see what I was certain would be the last human face I would ever gaze upon.

“Hey, are you all right?” the woman named Corrine asked.

“I swear, woman, I don't know how you do it,” Joe said several hours later. He was almost laughing, but not quite.

“What?”

“Bring us both so close to death without actually killing either of us. If the kids knew what you keep puttin' me through out here . . .”

We were Salt Lake City bound again, Joe back at the wheel, me fighting sleep right beside him. Corrine was in a Utah jail cell somewhere, and the boyfriend named Sandy she'd coldcocked to land herself there was in the hospital, trying to remember the serial number on the rifle butt he'd been clobbered with. Which shouldn't have been too difficult, I thought, considering the fact it had been attached to his own rifle.

The state troopers who had cleaned up the mess at the rest stop afterward thought it was funny, how Corrine had not only brained the abusive cowboy she'd finally—and somewhat “mysteriously”—had her fill of, but taken everything he owned as well, right down to the coat off his back and the hat on his head. They even got a laugh or two out of the cold feet that had brought her scrambling back to the scene of the crime. But myself, I couldn't find much humor in the situation at all, and neither could Big Joe. Mistaking the similarly built Corrine for her beloved cowboy after she'd fled the scene of his assault had, after all, cost my husband and me a great deal of grief. And maybe a few years off the ends of our already well-advanced lives, abject terror having that alleged effect on people.

But, hey. No harm was really done in the end. Corrine learned to stand up for herself, and I learned to save my advice for women who ask for it.

And Big Joe and I have yet another great story to worry our five children with.

We look forward to collecting many more.

The murder victims were discovered aboard the
Viking Warrior
tramp freighter on January 18. The freighter, which plied its trade throughout the Great Lakes waterways, had gone to sea with a complement of eight sailors and two officers on January 16. The freighter had sailed from South Chicago's frozen harbor out onto Lake Michigan. Its destination was the port of Milwaukee, where it was scheduled to unload a cargo of copper ore and pick up a load of scrap iron.

Nothing was heard from the
Viking Warrior
after it cleared the 95th Street drawbridge. The ship never made it to Milwaukee and was discovered adrift twelve hours after departure less than a mile off of Navy Pier on the shores of downtown Chicago. The Coast Guard was summoned and, shortly after the grisly discoveries were made on board, the police were called.

January 18 was not only a bitterly cold night, but also the day on which the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr.'s life of service and sacrifice to his country is commemorated. The
Viking Warrior
was tied up at Navy Pier, and bright floodlights illuminated its rusting sides. Coast Guard personnel and Chicago police officers moved rapidly up and down the gangplank. The news media was on hand, and reporters, fighting the
subzero temperatures, attempted to get a statement from anyone at the scene. However, no one was talking. At least not yet. The story of what had occurred aboard the
Viking Warrior
was as chilling as the bite of the frosty January air and could frighten the very marrow of the most hearty human soul.

On board the
Viking Warrior
a conference was being held on the bridge. Present was a Coast Guard lieutenant commander, who was there merely as a courtesy to the maritime agency that had discovered the murders. The rest of those present were Chicago police officers.

The ranks and functions of the cops varied, but the focus of everyone present was on three detectives—two active and one retired. They were in charge of the investigation, as well as the investigations of the other murders that had been committed with the same MO as those on the
Viking Warrior.
And the three detectives were terrified, not because they were the attention of such intense scrutiny from the cop brass that had come out on this cold night, but because they knew who was responsible for all of the murders that had been committed. Murders that brought the number of violent deaths to a total of twenty since the first of the year.

Such knowledge should have given the detectives some degree of joy or possibly even relief, but it did not. This was due to them being aware that the perpetrator of all of these horrible crimes was going to come after them next. The additional dawning factor was that this murderer was not human, but a werewolf.

“Their throats were ripped out,” said Detective Esmeralda Montoya, a beautiful Hispanic woman whose unnecessary use of heavy makeup made her partner, B. J. Jackson, derisively refer to her as “the Joker.”

It was New Year's morning, and B. J., a thin black man with wavy hair, a café au lait complexion, and a penchant for wearing pastel-colored striped suits with matching derbies, had a hangover. In response to her comment about the crime photos she was viewing, he said, “That'll happen at least a hundred more times in this town before the year is out.”

“But these victims weren't slashed with a knife, B. J. Their throats were literally ripped open. Look.”

On this New Year's morning, Detective Jackson was wearing a lime-green double-breasted suit with the obligatory matching derby hanging from the hat tree inside the homicide office squad room entrance. When Esmeralda was displeased with B. J., she referred to him as “the neon Stan Laurel.” Now as she extended the grisly photos to him, B. J. turned a sickly shade comparable to the color of his suit and said, “Esmeralda, please don't.”

She smiled and was about to begin tormenting him unmercifully for all those “Joker” cracks he had made about her over the three years of their partnership, when a sound carried to them from the homicide C.O.'s office, which made her turn a shade of sickly green similar to that of her partner's. It was their boss calling them, and he didn't sound pleased. As if going to the gallows, they went to find out what had the homicide lieutenant so displeased.

As they drove through the six-inch accumulation of snow across Chicago to the Washington Park Boulevard neighborhood, Detectives Esmeralda Montoya and B. J. Jackson were puzzled. On the orders of their commanding officer, they were going to see a retired detective named Thomas H. Hogan. Esmeralda and B. J.'s lieutenant had told them that this Hogan was going to be an “unofficial” consultant on the triple homicide case that they had been assigned to investigate that morning.

Hogan lived in a three-story, multi-unit apartment building on Indiana Avenue at 62nd Street. After consulting the lobby directory, B. J. moaned, “Why has it always got to be on the top floor?”

Esmeralda scolded, “If you spent more time in the gym and less in gin mills, a little stair-climbing wouldn't bother you.”

He gave her an evil glare, but didn't respond. As they slowly ascended the steep steps, he was gratified when he noticed that her breathing had also become labored.

At the door to apartment three south, they knocked. A peephole opened, and a suspicious eye carefully examined them before a deep male voice challenged, “What do you two rejects from the Barnum and Bailey Circus want?”

The detectives bristled and in tandem flashed their badges. A moment of silence ensued, which was followed by a chuckle from inside and a quite audible, “I don't believe it.” Then numerous locks were undone and the door finally swung open.

Retired Detective Thomas Hercules Hogan was seventy-six years old, stooped and white-haired. On this New Year's Day he had been retired from the Chicago Police Department for twenty years. Esmeralda and B. J., who both had less than ten years on the force, had heard of Hogan's exploits from some of the old-timers. However, most of these tales were a bit on the tall side, to say the least.

Tom Hogan had worked on a special squad out of the chief of detectives' office at police headquarters. The only cases he was ever assigned were of the “bizarre and unusual” variety, whatever that meant. But the strange thing, from what Esmeralda and B. J. had been able to find out about Tom Hogan, was that he never made any arrests, but had an unheard of 100-percent clearance rate.

There was one more unsettling element about the fabled detective that Esmeralda and B. J. had heard from an old sergeant. Supposedly, in his day, Detective Tom Hogan was considered more of an exorcist than a cop.

The retired detective's apartment was nicely furnished but as dated, in Montoya and Jackson's estimation, as he was. The furniture was sturdy, but would have looked more natural in a circa 1900s turn-of-the-century Americana history museum. Then there were the books.

Every available space in the apartment was loaded with books. They overflowed the floor-to-ceiling shelves, were stacked on every surface that would hold them, and covered the floors. There were so many books and the apartment was so cluttered that Montoya and Jackson were forced to stand. Stand under the amused scrutiny of their host.

“My, my, my,” he chuckled, “the department has changed quite a bit since I left.” He pointed at B. J. “I guess you'd call that ‘Kermit the Frog' outfit you've got on conservative business attire.”

As B. J. glared at Hogan, Esmeralda laughed. Then the elderly detective turned his humorous criticism on her. “And how long does it take you to put that face on in the morning, dear? You know, you look kinda like
that character that Jack Nicholson played in
Batman.
What was his name?”

Before Esmeralda could explode, B. J. stepped forward and said, hurriedly, “The lieutenant wanted you to take a look at these crime scene photos. He said you'd be able to give us a hand with the case.”

Hogan shoved a stack of books off the couch, took a seat, and opened the envelope. He became so involved in the crime scene pictures that he forgot about his still standing guests. Finally, he mumbled, “You two have got a bonafide werewolf on your hands.”

Detectives Montoya and Jackson exchanged glances which transmitted quite clearly that they were certain that retired Detective Thomas Hogan belonged in a lunatic asylum.

“Is that your area of expertise?” Esmeralda asked. “I mean, like, werewolves?”

“Oh no, my dear,” Hogan said, returning the crime scene photos to the envelope and standing up to begin rummaging around in one of the bookcases. “In my day, I handled it all . . . vampires, werewolves, even an occasional alien intrusion.” He found the volume he was looking for and pulled it down, causing a cloud of dust to rise into the air. “But you could say that I am one of the few remaining lycanthropists in the world.”

B. J. had retreated to a corner of the living room where he stood against the wall cradling his head in his hands. Tom Hogan had made his hangover worse, and he groaned.

Hogan merely glanced at Jackson before saying, “Now there are some folks who believe that werewolves are strictly a European creature. Well, I'm here to tell you, Detective . . . uh . . .”

“Montoya, but everybody calls me Esmeralda.”

“A beautiful name,” Hogan said. “Was the name of the Gypsy girl in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame,
right?”

She was less than pleased about the comparison, but managed to smile. “So werewolves come from other parts of the world?”

“Dear me, yes. There have been documented sightings in China, South
America, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Incidents caused by human beings shapeshifting into werewolves and ripping out their victims' throats, leaving wounds exactly like the ones in your crime scene photographs.”

“Wait a minute,” B. J. said, pushing himself off the wall and straightening his derby. “Couldn't the incidents you're talking about have simply been caused by an actual wolf, a very large dog, or even a human with an exotic weapon?”

Hogan frowned. “So you don't believe in werewolves, Detective?”

“You can call me, B. J., Tom, and as a matter of fact, I don't.”

“Well, B. J., you can call me Detective Hogan, and I'm going to make you a believer before this investigation is over. Now, shall we go take a look at the crime scene?”

The first three murders had taken place in the parking garage of a Loop hotel. Three New Year's Eve revelers, a woman and two men, were found dead with their throats ripped open.

Hogan, Montoya, and Jackson stood in the garage examining the positions in which the bodies were discovered. Although the remains had been removed hours ago, the places were marked with chalk and the entire area cordoned off with yellow barrier tape. B. J. had sufficiently recovered from his hangover to speculate as to what had occurred. Clad in a green overcoat which matched his suit and derby, the detective intoned, “The woman and the first guy were together at a party in the grand ballroom of the hotel, which has been verified. They were both a little tight when they left the party at about one
A
.
M
.”

Esmeralda interrupted with, “Look who's talking.”

Ignoring her, B. J. continued, “Their car was parked down here. On their way to it, the perpetrator confronted them, probably for a robbery, and then killed them both. The death of the other guy is still a mystery, but he was killed in the same fashion.”

“The death of the third victim is fairly obvious,” Hogan said. “He was killed because he came across the werewolf in the act of killing the first
two. His body being found over there indicates that he was running away and the monster pursued and caught him. Now the question we have to ask ourselves is, why did the werewolf come after the partygoers?”

B. J. rolled his eyes and muttered, “There he goes with that werewolf crap again.”

“Let me see those crime scene pictures, Esmeralda,” Hogan said.

She handed them over.

After sorting through them he pointed to a photo of the dead woman. “Her dress was ripped. Do we have any pictures of the couple while they were at the party?”

“We can check,” Esmeralda said.

An enterprising photographer was found who had taken a picture of the couple before they were murdered. The three detectives huddled together and examined the photo.

“What is that?” B. J. asked, pointing to a pin on the ground next to the dead woman.

“It looks like a star,” Esmeralda said.

“It is,” Hogan said. “A pentagram, the sign of the werewolf.”

A careful examination of the backgrounds of the three victims only revealed that they had gone to a New Year's Eve party, which had resulted in their deaths. The female victim's relatives and friends were interviewed in an attempt to determine where she had obtained the pentagram-shaped pin that had been ripped from her dress during the attack. But no one could remember seeing it prior to her death.

A search of her credit card records for recent jewelry purchases also proved negative. But it was there that Esmeralda noticed a pattern. During the late morning and early afternoon of New Year's Eve, she had made four charges at stores in the area of Clark and Diversey on the north side of the city.