Seeing Things

Thunder drummed in the distance announcing the approaching storm. Detective Derrick Jeffers stood a few feet from the body of a young woman who had been stabbed numerous times. Blood had soaked through her white blouse and pooled around her torso. Hours earlier she’d gotten dressed, put on make-up, met up with friends, never imagining her night would end like this. Hands in his overcoat pockets, Derrick had hoped his last month on the job would be quiet, laid back, but now there was this, a messy homicide with a killer on the run. He thought he’d seen his last dead child, but here was a new face to forever haunt his dreams. Isolated, heavy raindrops began falling from the night sky, and Derrick got into his car, hoping someone had a tarp to cover the girl’s body.

The passenger door opened and fellow detective Dominic Vilsich slid into the seat.

Jeffers scowled. “What’s keeping the Goddamn ambulance? Oh wait, I forgot what part of town we’re in.”

“Rain’s gonna fuck up the crime scene. You find anything?”

“Just another dead black girl.”

“I’m not hearing the cheery banter of someone who’s retiring in less than a month.”

“You believe in an afterlife, Vilsich?”

“Well, I guess you could put me in the ‘hopeful’ camp.”

“I’m certain there is one because I’ve seen ghosts of some murder victims.”

“Ghosts.”

“Mmm-mm.”

“You mean metaphorically, right?”

Jeffers turned on his headlights and illuminated the dead girl’s body in a misty white halo, then quickly turned them off. “You got a tarp in your trunk?”

Cold, wind-whipped sheets of rain poured from the sky on Michael Hurst as he hobbled along the sidewalk looking desperately for some alcove or doorway in which to escape the deluge. His ragged, grease covered clothes were saturated, heavy, clinging to his frail frame like a frozen blanket. In his three years living on the streets, this was the first night he’d experienced a sense of panic.

The rain was so thick and relentless he’d become disoriented, not sure what neighborhood he’d wandered into, unable to make out any familiar landmarks. A narrow alley suddenly opened up to his right and he slogged into the dark crevice searching for some overhang that might protect him from the incessant drumming of rain on his body. Feeling his way along, he groped until his hands hit air and there was a recessed doorway. He slid in and crouched in his small cave, pulling his wet coat around him tightly. After a few moments he relaxed a bit and leaned back, but instead of his shoulders resting against something solid, he continued to fall backwards as the door opened behind him.

He was on his back looking into a dark hallway lit only by a small table lamp. Lying completely still, he waited for the footsteps of the frightened residents, screams, frantic 911 calls, but there was only the beating of the rain through the open door. Pulling himself to his feet, he quietly closed the door and hesitated again, sure there was going to be a noisy confrontation at any moment. The room he was in seemed to be a small mudroom with a bench and hooks on the wall for coats and hats. He stood at one end of a long hallway with two doorways on the left and a stairway on the right, the front door at the opposite end. A burst of thunder sent a shiver through him he thought for a moment of leaving, but the warmth and apparent emptiness of the house convinced him otherwise.

Peeking into the first room on his left, he saw a large dining room filled with dark, expensive looking furnishings and a doorway at the far end he assumed went to a kitchen. Beyond the second threshold was a cluttered but comfortable-looking living room featuring a large picture window looking out on the now dark neighborhood. Too tired to continue the search upstairs, Michael made his way to the couch, peeled off his coat and sat, allowing himself to be embraced by the cushions. His plan was to stay only long enough to dry off and let the worst of the storm pass, but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open.

It was still dark outside when Michael returned to life, but there was now a light on in the living room. Forcing himself conscious, he was suddenly eye-to-eye with an elderly man sitting in a chair several feet away. Legs crossed, the man appeared to be in his late sixties, thin, with a full head of wavy silver hair, a creased but pleasant face and eyes that were deep with more grief than joy. Fight or flight? Then the man smiled.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I haven’t called the police.”

“This your house?” asked the wary Michael.

“Yes, it is. I’m glad you found your way in out of the rain. Horrible night to be outside.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about—“

“No, no. There’s nothing for which to apologize. I’m glad you’re here.”

Michael sat up and frowned in confusion. “You are?”

“I’m an old man spending the so-called golden years in relative isolation.”

“What about friends or family?”

“Friends and family,” repeated the man with disdain, standing and walking to the picture window. “I used to have friends, but they turned out to be false friends only interested in taking and not giving. The same thing with family. They were always far more concerned with the health of my bank account than my personal health. Greedy, heartless bastards, all of them.” He turned away from the window and smiled. “Sorry. You can tell it’s a sore subject. What about you? You’re obviously homeless. No friends or family to help?”

Michael looked down at his lap and his long, greasy hair fell forward, covering his face. “They tried, but I have…issues. Anger issues. Can’t hold a job, drink too much. It beats prison.”

“You’ve been in prison?”

“Two years. Hurt a guy pretty bad in a fight.”

The elderly man walked to the coffee table and sat on the edge close to Michael. “My name is Trent.”

“Michael.”

            “Michael, I don’t believe anything happens by chance. I think everyone has a purpose in life, even if they don’t realize what it is. There is a purpose in you being here tonight. Listen, my new friend, I want you to go upstairs, take a shower and shave, and I’ll lay out some clothes for you that I think should fit. And then, I’ll fix us something to eat. Okay?”

The stunned Michael nodded.

Ten minutes later, there were three loud raps on the front door. Trent came downstairs with a concerned expression and pulled open the door. Standing under the dim porch light was a heavy-set African-American man in a suit that looked as if he’d slept in it.

“Excuse me, Sir. Detective Derrick Jeffers. Sorry to trouble you, but there was an altercation at a bus stop a few blocks away and we—“

“Altercation?”

“A woman was stabbed to death. The suspect is at large and we’re letting area residents know to lock up their homes and not open the door to anyone they don’t know.”

“Like I just did.”

“Exactly”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the head’s up. Do you have a description of the person?”
“A sketchy one. White male, six foot, thin, long brown hair. Not trying to frighten you, just asking that you use some extra caution until we find this guy.”

“Thank you, Officer. Good night.” Trent closed the door and then leaned with his back against it. “This is my lucky day.”

The storm finally began to weaken and the incessant rumble from the roof turned into a sporadic snare drum roll. The clean and dried Michael sat on the couch hunched over the coffee table eating. “This is great,” he yelled in the direction of the kitchen.

“Just leftovers. Nothing special,” Trent called back.

As Michael’s fork drew close to his mouth, the front door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man and woman entered the house, setting down dripping umbrellas. The man was bald, round and red-faced, the woman squat with a frizzy helmet of red hair.

“I told you to turn off the lights,” said the man.

“I did, Wayne. I know—“ The woman noticed Michael first.

“You know what?” asked the man, finally looking up and following his wife’s terrified eyes to Michael in the living room.

The man turned wearing his fear. “Who the hell are you?”

Michael set his fork on his plate and stood up awkwardly. “Michael. Who are you?”

“Who am I?” echoed the man. “I’m the person who owns this house.”

“No way. He’s out in the kitchen.”

His crimson face glowing, the man took a step forward, but his wife held his arm to prevent any further advancement. “That’s bullshit. I own this house. We live here. You broke into my home.”

“Now hold on. The door was open.”

“That doesn’t make any goddamn difference,” yelled the man, pulling his phone out of a shirt pocket with a shaky hand. “I’m calling the police.”

Michael’s eyes widened and he put up his hands as if flagging down a car. “No. Please. No police. I’ll leave. Okay?”

“You stay right where you are,” demanded the woman, who was now directly behind her husband. But Michael took several steps in their direction. “Stay back,” she shrieked.

The man held the phone to his hear. “Yes…yes I do have an emergency I’d like to report.”

Trapped, confused, his street instincts kicking in, Michael lunged at the man. The woman screamed as Michael grabbed at the phone. The smaller, overweight man was no match for the veteran street brawler, and soon Michael twisted the phone out of his opponent’s hand and stepped on it. The woman rushed for the door, but Michael grabbed the collar of her blouse and jerked her back. She fell hard against the stairs and continued to scream, in pain as much as fear. The man now had his arms wrapped around Michael’s legs. Hands free, Michael pulled out a pocketknife and began stabbing the man with ferocious downward swings of his arm until the body went limp and slid to the bloody floor. A frightened, injured animal, the woman called for help and frantically lashed out until Michael plunged the knife into her fleshy neck several times and the screams turned to gurgling pleas for life and then stopped.

“Oh my goodness,” said Trent, surveying the carnage.

Eyes flaming, Michael whipped around to face the old man. “Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you help me?”

“By the looks of things, I’d say you didn’t need any help.”

Michael dropped the knife and put a bloody hand over this mouth. “What have I done? What the fuck have I done?”

“You stopped two intruders. It was you or them.”

“They said they owned the house. It was theirs.”

“Impossible. They are trespassers and liars. You did the right thing. Go wash up and change clothes, Michael. I’ll get some things from the basement and we’ll take care of this mess.”

The bodies were bound in tarps and taken to the basement for later disposal. Trent cleaned up the blood while Michael sat on the couch rocking back and forth and sobbing. He’d killed three people that night. He was going to jail and then hell. When he opened his watery eyes, Trent was gone and the front door was open.

“Trent?” he called out, making his way slowly to the door. “Where—“

“Mr. Himmel? Someone reported screaming. You okay?”

Michael pulled up next to the first stair step, frozen with confusion. Detective Jeffers’ large body suddenly filled the doorframe and the eyes of the two men locked on each other in a flicker of stunned silence. Jeffers deftly found his weapon and leveled it on Michael.

“You. Get down on the ground. Now,” he shouted.

It took Michael a fragment of a second to decide his fate. Let the cop silence the devils. It’s on him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bloody knife.

“Don’t do it, man,” he heard, and that was the last thing he heard.

For Detective Jeffers, another ten-hour day was coming to a close. The shooting of Michael Hurst was determined to be justified, the owners of the house in which Michael was killed were still being officially listed as missing, although it was expected that they were among the bodies found in the basement two weeks ago, and he was late for his own retirement party. He shut down his computer and stood, stretching his sore back.

“Don’t pull anything, Detective. You’ve got some partying to do.” Detective Vilsich sauntered into the pit holding some paperwork.

“Damn, boy, why aren’t you at my party?”

“I will be, don’t worry.” Dominic sat in a chair a cubicle away from Jeffers’ wearing an odd expression. “Thought you might like to hear the coroner’s final report on the Himmels, but you’d better sit down.”

“Sit down? Jackie is going to kick my ass for—“

“Sit.” Jeffers’ reluctantly complied. “Ten bodies were found buried under cement in the basement. The two newest ones wrapped up like Christmas presents belonged to the current owners, George and Glenda Himmel., as we expected. They had only been killed a short time before we arrived. The other ten bodies? Murdered at different times in the past. Some had been in the ground for over thirty years.”

“So either one or both of the Himmel’s were serial killers.”

“They’re too young, plus they’d only lived in the house for five years.

“We know Hurst stabbed three people to death, but he can’t be considered a suspect in the older murders either. He was only 27.”

“Right. Here’s where it gets interesting. Like George and Glenda, eight of the other bodies were also related to the original owner, Trent Himmel. The other two were business associates of his.”

“Okay, I met Mr. Himmel. The old guy’s a serial killer?”

Dom’s eyes widened. “The original owner.”

“Man, why are you messing with me tonight of all nights?”

“The Himmel house was built in 1945. Trent Himmel has been dead for thirty-five years.”

Jeffers’ drummed his fingers on the top of his desk for a few seconds, his chin buried deep in his thick neck, and then he stood. “Thank you, Detective, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word you said. You’re just another ghost, and there ain’t no such things as ghosts.” He grabbed his overcoat and briefcase and walked to the door. “I’ve got a party to go to. You coming?”