The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 4

The morning was overcast as Chief Blake Cutter joined Dr. Roy Ryan in the yard where Sgt. Jackson was kneeling as he made moulage casts of more footprints left by last night’s visitor.

Hands on hips, Cutter — who didn’t know what the hell to make of the large feet with the extended, gripping toes the prints suggested — said, “Well, what exactly did you see, Doctor?”

As Ryan watched Jackson work, he said, “Just what I told you. A low-to-the-ground shape in black, like the top half of a man, broad shoulders, long arms, fingers apart, as if about to... clutch or grab or climb. His movement was as much side to side as forward, yet he moved remarkably fast.”

“A dwarf, possibly?”

Ryan shrugged. “Maybe so, but I couldn’t make out any legs.”

Cutter’s eyebrows raised as he pointed to a print in the damp earth. “Well, he obviously has feet. I guess we can safely deduce he has legs.”

With a hint of dry sarcasm, Ryan said, “You’re the detective... It’s muggy out here. Hope the sun burns this off.” He turned to the chief. “How about some coffee? I made some breakfast, if you like grits.”

“No thanks. I’m not that Southern. But I’ll take you up on that coffee.”

In the spacious old-fashioned dark-wood kitchen off the big open living room, Helen Ryan — in a light yellow blouse and orange slacks and open-toed sandals — was seated at the table with a cup of coffee, a dish of grits and some toast. The lovely young woman, with her blonde shoulder-brushing hair and expertly applied make-up, rose and smiled politely at the chief, exchanging nods with him, and offered to get him coffee. Even casually dressed, the doctor’s wife seemed like the hostess at some elegant cocktail party.

“Thanks, Helen,” Cutter said. “Black.”

Ryan said, “For me too, please.”

She delivered on those requests and joined her husband and their official guest at the old cherry-wood table with the nicks and gouges of thousands of breakfasts. “No further incidents last night?”

Cutter shook his head. “None, fortunately. But unfortunately no one but Mr. Ryan here got any kind of look at your guest.”

“Not any of your four officers?”

“Nothing useful.”

Her look was coolly judgmental. “Yet despite those four officers, our intruder made it over the wall, hurled a burning missile, and made his way back over the wall and into the night?”

Cutter sipped his coffee. “Despite that, yes. But we’ve had presidents in this country killed surrounded by Secret Service security. The attacker always has a certain advantage in these situations.”

Helen raised her eyebrows. “That’s hardly a reassuring point of view.”

The chief tried to soften things with a smile. “Sorry. But before, having men posted was a precaution. Now, we’re on the alert.”

The two men resumed what appeared to be a conversation they were in the middle of.

Cutter asked, “Could your caller have been an amputee?”

Ryan smirked at that. “With feet?”

“Obviously there are prosthetic limbs available...”

“Which just as obviously would make him taller than the less-than-four-foot creature I saw. And what kind of prosthetic limb would leave those kind of footprints?”

Cutter sighed. “None I can imagine.”

Helen frowned at her husband. “You make it sound like something from a horror film — a ‘creature.’ This must be a person, a little person most likely.” To Cutter she said, “I could try to draw a sketch for you, unless you already have a police artist available.”

“We don’t. You’re an artist, Mrs. Ryan?”

“‘Helen,’ remember? Yes. I have a gallery in Buckhead, and a degree from UGA.”

Nodding, Cutter said, “That’s an excellent suggestion and a good offer. A little department like ours doesn’t have a sketch artist on staff, and this saves me begging Atlanta to send one down.”

They moved into the living room and onto the couch, the fireplace unlighted this time of day. Helen sat between the two men, her husband in a gray polo and darker gray slacks, Cutter in his usual short-sleeve white shirt with tie and chinos. The chief’s Stetson and black windbreaker were on a nearby chair as if keeping guard over the Rorschach blot of scorched wood on the floor from last night’s Molotov cocktail.

The sketch came quickly and Ryan identified it as an accurate representation of what he’d seen. But as that had been a rear view of their unwanted visitor, its helpfulness was limited, though the chief was impressed with the artistic skill of his hostess.

“So if, as you say, he wore a sweater or jacket,” Cutter said to Ryan, “that could have ridden down over legs, however stubby, giving the impression of a head and torso moving minus legs.”

“A dwarf, then,” Ryan said.

The chief shrugged. “That’s the only answer I can come up with. But most little people aren’t broad-shouldered, long-armed and, at the same time, remarkably agile.”

“Little or not,” Helen said, “they are first and foremost people, good and bad and in-between like the rest of us. Surely if there are criminals among them, that would be on the books. Small stature might prove useful in home invasions, wouldn’t it?”

Cutter nodded. “That’s a good point, and we’ll run checks. But this isn’t a standard-issue criminal — it would appear to be a madman. What the FBI these days is calling a serial killer.”

Helen said, “With a grudge against doctors.”

The chief again nodded. “As you suggested last night, possibly doctors whose patients include, or are exclusively, children. And if we can find a specific link between the three victims, a genuine tie-up, we would have a real shot at figuring what’s going on here... and stopping this madman.”

Helen’s eyes moved past Cutter and she raised “shush” fingers to her lips. “Here comes Richard...”

The boy, in a white and navy-blue-striped short-sleeve shirt and denims and tennies, trotted in, smiling. A stethoscope was around the child’s neck — Cutter had no idea what that was about...

“Morning, Dad,” Richie said, beaming. “Morning, Mom. Morning, Chief Cutter.”

Everybody said hello to the polite child.

“Did I miss breakfast?” he asked.

His mother assured him he hadn’t and the little group returned to the kitchen, where Richie helped himself to a bowl of grits. His mother got him a glass of milk and the boy unceremoniously joined them at the table, between his mom and dad.

“Dad makes the best grits,” Richie informed the chief. “He uses milk and butter. You should have some.”

“I already ate, thanks,” Cutter said pleasantly. He would just as soon grits be declared illegal, but he was clearly in the minority in this household.

“Mom,” the boy said, between spoonfuls, “are you staying for my birthday?”

That seemed to have blind-sided the woman. “Uh, sweetheart, that’s two weeks from now. I, uh...”

“If she doesn’t stay over that long,” Ryan cut in, “we’ll make sure to go down to Atlanta and see her.”

“Or maybe,” she said, patting her son’s hand, as he sat near her, “I’ll drive back here.”

Richie’s expression was hopeful. “But you might still be here.”

Cutter certainly hoped he and his men wouldn’t be.

“I might,” Helen said lightly. “Now, eat your grits and drink your milk. It’s a brand-new day, and you need a good start.”

Richie drank some milk and then, grinning under a milk mustache, said to the chief, “I don’t have to go to school today.”

“That’s nice,” Cutter said, not knowing what else to say as the mother wiped the boy’s face. “What will you do today, Richie?”

“Oh, I’m in training.”

“Training... for what?”

“The Olympics.”

“Special Olympics,” Ryan said softly to Cutter. “I’ve fixed up a little work-out area in the attic for him. He’s getting very fit.”

Cutter grinned and said, “Well, that’s great, Richie.”

Cutter’s man Jackson came in, frowning. “Chief?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

The big cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a UPS truck outside the gate, wanting to make a delivery. Needs to be signed for.”

Cutter looked to Ryan. “You expecting a delivery?”

Ryan shrugged. “We get medical supplies regularly. It’s nothing unusual.”

Drawing closer to the table, Jackson said, “I don’t think this is medical supplies. I eyeballed the package. It’s pretty good size, crated up. I had a look at it and so did Buster. You know, considering the situation here.”

“Buster?” Helen asked.

Cutter said, “Our Doberman Pinscher — our one-dog K-9 squad. Buster can sniff out nitro and plastic explosives and marijuana, too.”

This time Helen raised only a single eyebrow. “A ten-man department with a bomb- and dope-sniffing dog?”

The chief chuckled. “One of our guys came back from Vietnam with him and we adopted them both. But I told you last night, Helen — we’re a small but elite unit.” Cutter got to his feet and faced Jackson. “Where’s it from, Sergeant?”

“Return address is Chiapas, Mexico. From a Peter Potter.”

“Uncle Pete!” the boy blurted.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Helen said, smirking, shaking her head.

“Don’t be redundant, honey,” Ryan said. To Cutter and Jackson, he said, “Pete Potter is my sister’s husband. He’s an archeologist and so is she. They’ve been in Mexico all year.”

Richie had forgotten his half-eaten grits. “It’s my birthday present! I bet it’s my birthday present!”

Patiently, Helen explained to Cutter. “His uncle always sends Richard some oddball artifact from whatever dig he’s on. For his birthday. Isn’t that right, honey?”

Richie bobbed his head. “I have a whole collection in my room. I have a spear point...”

“From St. George Bay, Nova Scotia,” his father said.

“...and a harpoon handle...”

“From Quinhagak, Alaska.”

“...and a scary mask...”

“From the Judean Hills, Israel.”

“...and a bunch of arrowheads!”

“South Carolina.”

Richie was on his feet. “Do you wanna see, Chief Cutter? After I get my new gift, I mean.” To his father, the boy asked, “Do I have to wait till my birthday to open it?”

His father frowned. “Well...”

Cutter said, “I think we probably should have a look inside that crate now.”

“Why the hell not,” Ryan said with a shrug.

“Dad,” the boy said, “language.”

His mother smiled.

Soon, in the living room, in the open space between the couch and the stairs, two officers lugged in a wooden crate stamped FRAGILE and THIS END UP and bearing the markings of passage between various ports and countries. It looked weathered, as if it had come from a war zone.

Following the two-man parade, another officer led Buster in. The Doberman waited and watched patiently for its own closer look at the contents. The dog was a friendly pooch and allowed the boy to pet it and in return slathered his face with a few long-tongue licks that made the child giggle.

Jackson handed Richie a sealed letter. “You’re supposed to read this first, son.”

The boy looked at his father, who was at his side. His dad nodded and Richie accepted the envelope from the officer, opened it carefully and withdrew a card.

In red letters against a light blue background, the card said Feliz Cumpleaños in a dialogue balloon pointing to a sombrero-sporting dog that was definitely not a Doberman, rather a Chihuahua between two cacti.

The message inside the card was in cursive, which the boy could not read. He passed the card to his father, who took over.

“‘Happy birthday, Mexico-style, to my favorite nephew from his favorite uncle. Here is your own genuine Aztec mummy. Treat him like a friend and he’ll protect you. Love, Uncle Pete. P.S. This is a genuine artifact so don’t let your mom put him out for the trash.’”

Helen just stood there with her arms folded, shaking her head, clearly annoyed but saying nothing. Meanwhile, Ryan got a couple of claw hammers from somewhere and the officers pried open the crate.

As the lid came slowly off, Richie leaned in anxious while his father restrained him gently and the dog sniffed the air and growled softly, more fear in the sound than menace.

Within the boxy crate, roped in place, seated in the bottom with his knees up, was a desiccated, mummified body with wisps of white hair, sunken eye sockets, a lack of lips exposing teeth in a terrible smile. The seated passenger in the box wore a moldering, once-colorful Aztec tunic over a withered once-white woven tunic.

“Cool!” the boy yelled as his mother simultaneously gasped in horror.

Cutter goggled at it, saying, “What in the hell is this?”

Hands on hips, wryly amused, Ryan was appraising the grisly contents of his brother’s surprise package. “That’s what we call in the medical trade a dead man, Chief. I’d say two- or three-hundred-years dead. But you can get the Medical Examiner out here if you’d like a second opinion.”

Cutter gestured to the thing. “This is what your brother considers an appropriate gift for an impressionable kid?”

Ryan grunted a laugh. “Apparently. Pete’s always been an individualist.”

“A screwball is more like it.”

Ryan shrugged. “One in every family, they say.”

Helen was trembling and pointing to it she’d seen a ghost, and she wasn’t near wrong. “Get that goddamn thing out of here!”

“Language,” her husband said.

She spoke through her teeth, looking daggers at him. “It’s a corpse. I won’t have it in, in...”

“Your house?” Ryan with mild but unmistakable sarcasm. “Not your house, remember. Anyway, you were married to a medical student in another life. You’ve seen cadavers before.”

Her disgust almost twisted the prettiness off her face. “Not any dead Aztec corpses I haven’t. Get that thing out of here!”

“Doctor,” Cutter said, stepping forward, “what are you going to do with this... this whatever-it-is.”

“Dad,” Richie said, still at his father’s side, tugging at his father’s sleeve. “Why is he sitting? Mummies are always standing on TV. When they aren’t walking around slow and stuff.”

“I’m no expert, Richie,” Ryan said, “but I think Aztec mummies aren’t like the Egyptian ones you see on TV and in the movies. Typically they were put in a sitting position, particularly if they were buried with a king or a prince, who they were guarding. It was out of respect.”

“Can I keep him?”

“Oh my God,” his mother said.

Rolling his eyes, Cutter said, “Roy, this thing being shipped, much less in your possession, is almost certainly illegal.”

Ryan shrugged. “File your complaints with my brother-in-law. I’ll give you contact info. He’s still in Mexico. Of course he may be in some remote location. In any case, you could check with the authorities there.”

Cutter managed a smile. “Come on now, Roy — don’t be ridiculous...”

The doctor gestured at the open crate and its grisly contents. “Hey — I didn’t ask for this thing. And that crate wasn’t addressed to me, either. It’s an unsolicited gift to my son. Of course, if you want an autopsy, I can perform it for you. No charge.”

Sighing, Cutter raised his palms. “Ease off, Doc. It’s just... you have some oddball relatives, it would seem.”

Ryan’s eyebrows went up. “That’s just the husband. You should meet my sister.”

That, anyway, got a nod out of Helen.

“Well,” Cutter demanded of Ryan, “what do you think your goofy brother-in-law expected you to do with this thing? Make a conversation piece out of it? A clothes rack, maybe? Or let your boy add it to his collection in his room next to the harpoon handle?”

Seizing upon that last suggestion, the boy hugged his father’s arm. “Can I keep him, Dad?”

“Son — please. Your mom is right to object to this ‘gift’ even being in the house. It’s a dead person, after all.”

Richie frowned up at his dad. “Not new dead. You said he died a long time ago, and Uncle Pete called him a mummy. Like on Scooby-Doo!”

Ryan lowered himself to a knee and looked right at his boy. “Son, this isn’t a cartoon. It’s very real. And this really is a dead person, however long ago he may have died.”

Richie’s brow tensed. “You mean maybe he isn’t dead?”

“No, I mean... we can’t be sure how very long ago it was that he died. Your uncle may know, and when he visits we can ask him. For now we should—”

“Get it,” Helen said, arms folded again, standing well away from their seated intruder in his crate, “out of here.”

Richie frowned at her, his chin crinkling in prelude to a cry. “Why don’t you like him, Mom? He’s friendly.”

Her eyes widened. “Friendly?”

“Sure he is. Look at him! He’s smiling!”

Ryan put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “Richie, that’s not a smile. It’s just something that time and temperature have distorted into what kind of looks like a smile.”

Cutter, realizing this was turning into a family matter better suited to a counselor than a cop, said, “Look, Roy — you need to decide what you’re going to do with that thing. There isn’t a museum in Atlanta that’s appropriate for it. Maybe in New York or D.C., but—”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” Helen said, “just get it the hell out of here.”

Richie started to say “Language” and his dad cautioned him not to with a gesture.

Then Ryan got to his feet and looked at Cutter. “Blake, this is an item of both historic and scientific interest. I’ll look into where it belongs, and who might want it... when things settle down around here. Acceptable?”

Cutter let air out and nodded. “Acceptable.”

Helen said, “Well, putting it in our son’s bedroom is not acceptable.”

“Perhaps,” Ryan said to Cutter, “your men could haul our friend here up into the attic till I can research where to put him more permanently.”

Cutter was already nodding. “Certainly. I’ll organize that.”

The boy was looking from the mummy to his mommy and his daddy and stopping there. “Can I play with him while he’s here?”

Ryan shook his head firmly. “No. You have your stethoscope to fool around with, and your comic books to read, and there’ll be homework delivered from school before long. You have plenty to do.”

“But no friends to play with. They’re all at school. And, anyway, I don’t have that many friends.”

“Maybe so. But at least the ones you do have are breathing.”

Ryan was showing the officers bearing the crate and its contents up the winding stairs as Cutter went over to gather his Stetson and windbreaker. Helen followed him.

“Do me a favor, Chief? Blake?”

“Certainly, if I can.”

“Look into what law my husband is breaking, allowing that... that corpse in the house.”

“All right.”

“And I may need your testimony.”

Cutter frowned. “To what effect?”

“To my husband’s negligence in allowing that thing to be kept under the same roof as our son.”

He just nodded perfunctorily and went out, thinking, And here I thought they were starting to get along...