Gum Shoe Blues

Gum Shoe Blues

I'd been working at this thrift store for about a week before I stumbled across the box.

I say working, but it's more like volunteering. I'll save you the gory details, but needless to say that I screwed up after a night of drinking and ran into a bus stop with my car. Thankfully it was three am. There was no one in it, and the judge decided not to ruin my life over a mistake. He gave me community service and told me that it better never happen again. This was ideal since, as a college student, I don't have a lot of money. I also couldn't afford to get kicked out of college for going to jail either. So, with thirty-six weeks of community service to serve, I sat about working for my local thrift store, Charlies Second Chances.

It's a pretty easy job. I work in the back with the other court appointees. We clean and sort incoming items so they can be placed on the floor and priced. Most of my coworkers are also court-appointed screw-ups who do the bare minimum and get their cards punched by the boss every week. Unlike me, they usually leave this job and go to a second job to pay their bills while I go to classes or head off to bed. It is not difficult work, but it is a pain to have it cut into everyday life.

I had been on the line for a few hours, sorting boxes and cleaning items, when I saw a box in the corner that I didn't think I had ever seen before. The carton looked ready to split, and it was so dusty that it looked almost held together by the gray dust that coated it. I left the box I was working on and walked over to inspect it closer. It was wedged beside a bookcase and the wall, clearly having fallen off the top of the case at some point or another. I tried to lift it out, but the carton tore and out spilled what I at first thought was an ancient Dick Tracy costume. Inside was a hat, a fedora but not sharp enough to gain the interest of today's fedora wearers, and a long coat that looked well worn and well cared for. The front was covered in mud, and some kind of water or muck discolored the hem. There was a pair of dark boots as well, also covered in powdery mud.

The whole mess threw up a cloud of brown dust as it spilled out, and I coughed as I stood up, wiping my hand out to clear it.

When it cleared, I noticed the book at my feet.

If the coat was dirty, the book was filthy. It was a battered old journal, a leather relic that was bloated and water ruined. It must have once been a handsome thing, but now it looked like the act of opening it might be enough to destroy it forever. I slipped it in my pocket and brought the clothes back to the line to process them. The coat would never pass inspection, it was too dirty, so I decided to offer the boss a few bucks for it and take it home. It was a nice coat, good in rain and snow, I thought. I took the hat too when I saw it in the garbage on the way to my car.

There was no sense in breaking up the set, and I really did think I could make a detective costume out of them if I wanted.

I didn't remember the book until I traded my jeans for the comfy pajamas I intended to study in that night. The pants clattered loudly on the floor, and I realized that the bloated wreck had been in my back pocket the whole time. I didn't sit a lot in my line of work, and it had been virtually forgotten after I stuffed it in my back pocket. I took it out now and looked at it. The cover was moldy, the mold now little more than green powder, and when I opened it, the same dust as the boots puffed out.

The first page proclaimed it to be the personal journal of K. Barger, Private Detective.

The pages were worn, and some of them stuck together, but I could decipher enough to realize I had found someone's memoirs. These were notes that this K Barger had been keeping to write his story after getting out of "the game" as he called it. It detailed case after case where K. Barger had caught this person or that person, helping the Atlanta PD solve many difficult cases with his partner, Domfarth Wit. K had clearly been hoping to turn his stories into a book after he retired, living off the tales of his exploits long after they'd ended.

My psychology notes lay forgotten as I poured over the journal. On a whim, I googled K. Barger, Private Detective, but came up with very little. A few old newspaper articles, a squib about his disappearance, and an ad for the Barger and Wit detective agency that still operated in Old Town. K. Barger became Killian Barger, and it looked like I had his old journal. I also found a squib in a paper about his old partner paying for information about Killian, who had disappeared on a case nearly thirty years ago.

I looked at the journal now with new eyes.

This thing could be worth some cash, it seemed.

It was more than money, though, by this point. The more I read about Killian, the more intrigued I became. This guy had stopped everything from hitmen to drug lords, and most of it seemed to be because it was the right thing to do. His journal entries made him sound idealistic, if not a bit naive, and I wanted to know more about him. More importantly, I wanted to know what had happened to him.

I flipped to the end, the last few pages looking harried and sloppy, and found the entry I was looking for.

The pages were smudged, but I could still read his meticulous notes as he detailed the case he'd begun on September 8, nineteen eighty-one.

September 8, 1981

I knew it was only a matter of time before Chief Walker came to us. We had been monitoring the Lost Lamb case files with some interest for the past few weeks. Fifteen missing children, all from different walks of life, but the police didn't take much notice until Jessica Bradley went missing. She didn't fit the usual pattern. She was from an upper-class family and would be missed. All those before her had been from poor families, low-income houses, or street families that lived on the fringes. Dom and I had been out beating the pavement, talking to these families, but now that someone who mattered had gone missing, I guess it's time for the Chief to take notice.

He hired us as consultants. We would find the kidnapper and turn the information over to the police. We would not involve ourselves any further than that. The police would take care of this, and there would be no need for headlines such as "PD Duo Thwart Kidnapping Ring." We were working for the police and, as such, would be under their supervision.

Dom and I gave each other a look, silently agreeing that that was never going to happen.

We began immediately.

The families we had already spoken to had given us a pretty good starting place. All the kids, including Jessica, had been connected by their time spent at Little Lambs House, a children's home/ daycare center where Jessica often volunteered. The police suspected that the home was a front for some sort of shady dealings, but they couldn't prove anything. It looks like a great place to start for Dom and me.

The next two pages were stuck together pretty badly. They had become wet and had nearly fused. I tried to pry them apart carefully, but as they came free, I could see that some of the ink and paper had come free with them. The first page was almost ruined, the date showing up as September tenth of the same year, but I could make out a few words scattered amongst the damage.

I gleaned that they had gone to the Children's Home, asking questions of a childminder that he usually just called Minder, and been asked to leave. They had staked out the building but had found out very little. Dom thought they ought to speak to some of the families that let their kids stay there, but Killian wanted to break into the Minders Office and see if he could find anything incriminating.

September 10, 1981

After lights out, I made my way in through the back. Dom was out shaking the trees, asking questions, and getting answers. That left me to do the hard work. I found the Janitors locker, and after some convincing, I got the old padlock to open. One ball cap and a well-used jumpsuit later, and I was walking the halls with my mop and bucket. I cleaned up a spill or two to maintain appearances and made my way to the top floor so I could snoop in the boss's office. I had noticed a safe in a corner when we'd been grilling him earlier, not to mention that roll top desk he didn't seem keen to have us near.

A little more convincing with my lock picks, and I was through the door. I certainly hoped, at the time, that Dom was getting more than I was. It turned out that the roll-top just had some magazines that he'd taken from some students and maybe was keeping for his personal paroosal? The safe was beyond my skill, one of the expensive ones, but when I turned to go, I feared I'd been caught. The door started to jiggle as keys slid inside, and I was into the adjoining bathroom before I could really think about it.

Good thing, too, because not a second later in walked the Minder with five men in suits. The Minder looked harried, dare I say flush, and the other men seemed to be rather displeased with him. He'd made promises, promises he couldn't keep, promises about children.

"I can't risk the exposure. After you took that girl, despite my direct orders NOT to..."

"Orders?" one of them cried.

Their voices were all possessed of this odd cadence. I can't tell you what country they might be from, but it certainly isn't from around here. The speaker stalked in, and the Minder shrank from him like he thought he might be poisonous. The man leaned in, and, from my vantage point in the bathroom, I could swear that his eyes flashed with a deep redness.

"You don't ORDER us to do anything. We made a deal with YOU, and you have yet to fulfill your end of the bargain."

The Minder argued that the police were breathing down his neck. He said the law was all over him and his school at the moment, and another child would be out of the question. The two argued back and forth without any real conclusion. When they finally left, I let out a deep sigh of relief.

I might make it back with this information, after all.

I mulled over this information. The case seemed pretty cut and dry from here. Killian had the information he needed. He could simply pass it on to the police, and the case would be solved, right? The next few pages revealed how wrong I had been. Chief Walker needed more, it seemed. Five nondescript white men in suits didn't give him a lot to go on. Dom had struck out with his line of questioning. All the kids had been snatched from the home itself, and most of the parents were too distraught to be of much help.

The next few pages were ruined. The waterlogged pages stuck together like flypaper, and parting them just muddied the ruined the message. They seemed to be covered in the same gunk on the bottom of the coat, dirty water or soupy mud or something. The journal picked up on September fifteenth, and the news sounded more optimistic.

September 15, 1981

I've found a lead, the first one in days.

The organization that supports Little Lams House has been a local installation for generations. The Maldon Family can trace its roots back to the founding of Atlanta. They have been giving money to local businesses since this town was a wagon track. I saw a picture of their latest patron, Dexter Maldon, and he is a dead ringer for the man I saw yelling at the Minder that night. I may have stumbled onto some kind of child trafficking ring or an underage sex scandal. Whatever he wants those children for, it cant be good.

Dom thinks we should be careful with this information, but I say the sooner we bring it to light, the better. He's as eager to stop this pervert as I am, but the Maldon's are an ancient and distinguished family.

We need to bring the police into this.

Bring the arm of justice down on their heads and prove that money doesn't buy your way out of everything.

The next few pages came away easily, and I'm glad they did.

The writing was blocky and scratched. Killian seemed to be very angry at whatever exchange he had had with the Chief of Police. His pen had nearly broken through the paper in several places.

September 17th, 1981

Removed! We have been removed from this case!

We took our findings to Chief Walker, and he proceeded to get his ducks in a row to talk to Mr. Maldon. We returned to the office, expecting justice would be served. They would find the kids, and that would be that. Even if they didn't find them, they would find evidence to prove that it was them, and the appropriate parties would be taken into custody. Case closed

What we hadn't planned on is that the spineless chief of police would call us and tell us to back off. He said that Maldron's alibi was airtight and that we needed to leave this case alone. He removed us from the case, paid our outstanding fee, and told us he would call us if he needed any more help.

If I'm honest, he sounded a little scared too.

Well, I won't be scared off this case. Maldron knows something, and I'll be damned if I'll let him turn me off the scent. I don't know what he's up to, but I mean to find out. Dom wants to put it all behind us. "We've been paid; let's just let it go," he says. Well, to hell with that.

I'm going to solve this case even if it kills me.

The next few entries, what I could read of them, were mostly supplemental. Killian sniffs out leads, Dom tries to dissuade him, and Killian continues to pound the pavement. It was becoming like a real mystery story to me. Killian, the devil may care gumshoe, Dom the brave but cautious sidekick, and Dexter Maldon as Killian's foil. The two played a game of cat and mouse that seemed to infuriate Killian to no end. Maldon was very careful about cleaning up after himself, and Killian began to worry that he was being noticed.

Then, one night, things went off the rails.

Killian was attacked.

September 23rd, 1981

I still don't know how to describe what happened. I was working the Lost Lam case, despite what the Chief and Dom want. This case is deeper than even I imagined, and it gets twistier the deeper I do. You see, Little Lams House is not the first children's home that Maldron has had a stake in. Every eight to ten years, he suddenly seems to become interested in the plight of children. Orphanages, Children's Homes, Half Way Houses, Children Hospitals, you name it. Ten years ago, it was Pine Rise, an Orphanage near Decatur. Ten years ago, there was another string of disappearances at Pine Rise that are reminiscent of this very crime.

I tracked down a Janitor that used to work there. An old man now, he told me a fascinating story about his time at Pine Rise.

He told me about a night when the sound of crying children had woken him.

He had been staying on the ground. He was their twenty-four-hour caretaker, and his room was at the top of the stairs and overlooked the gathering area right in front of the double doors. Pine Rise had a grand staircase, it had once been a plantation house, and the double doors opened onto a large entryway that was looked over by a wide sweeping balcony.

He remembered rising from bed, thinking some of the children were out of bed past curfew, and walking out onto that balcony to see men herding children out into the cold October air. They were still in their nightclothes, barefoot and frightened, but the men pushed them along without a second thought. One of the men looked up then, sensing the janitor's eyes on him. The janitor had recognized Dexter Maldron, the smiling man who'd come just two weeks before to judge a sports day event for the little ones. He looked resplendent in his pinstripe suit, and he'd come up the stairs to put the man's cares to rest personally.

"He told me not to worry. Ms. Worthy, she was the children's custodian at that time, had found families for these children out west. They would need to leave right away so they could catch their train. Then he handed me a small money clip and told me to go back to bed. That never sat right with me, them kids going off in the night like that. They didn't even have any shoes on or anything, and it being the start of October and all."

He had heard I was looking for information on Maldron, God knows from where, and he had come to see me.

He called me back tonight to tell me a very different story.

He called me just before sunset and told me that he needed my help. He said he was being followed. He said that something was tailing him, men or things or something, and he needed my protection. I asked him where he was, and he gave me the name of a bar about twenty minutes up the road. I pulled on my hat and headed out, the car grumbling pitifully about the cold as we drove. It was going to be a real howler this winter, you can already tell, but I don't think it'll get any colder than it did tonight for me.

I can still feel that chill even now.

When I pulled up to the bar, I saw the old duffer being walked into the alley by a broad fellow in a pork pie hat. He looked like a real outfit type, a hitter, and I suddenly wondered if this was all about kids? Was the mob involved in this somehow? Maybe I was in too deep?

I shoved my 38 into my coat, though, and went off after them.

I'd worry about the details later.

They were at the end of the alley, and I had just gotten my gun out and started to yell at him when I saw what they were doing. The big guy had his hands around the old guy's upper arms hard enough to break bones, and the old guy was staring up at him like he was a serpent prepared to devour him. Then the thugs head and shoulders just peeled back like a rotten banana and what came out was so much worse than the porcine face that had been there. He was a living shadow, his skin like tv static and his eyes like fireplace coals. He opened his shifting mouth to reveal sewing needle teeth and a tongue like a boa constrictor. The teeth sank into the old man's face, and his scream was drank up by the hissing maw. It didn't eat him, not really. The old man turned into that same static, his skin going the off white of eggshell paint, and suddenly he was wafting into the creature as it slurped him up like a milkshake.

The old man's clothes hit the ground when he finished with him, and my scream finally careened up my throat.

It may have turned to look at me, but I was already running by that point.

I hopped in my car and was peeling up the road before my heart went bellow one hundred sixty miles an hour.

I have never been afraid of anything, not since I was old enough to know that people are the scariest thing out there. I have stepped into the ring with men who could have easily crushed me like a bug. I have gone up against men with more power than I could even dream of. I have never feared death; death comes for all of us whether we like it or not.

But, God help me, I feared that thing.

The next few entries were of Killian in hiding. He was terrified that something was now following him, that the creature had seen him, and that any minute it would come driving through the door to have him. He was drunk more than he was sober, his notes often confused, or his pages stained with alcohol as much as mud. He was a mess; his writings filled with fear and dismay. He was lost, his moring come undone, and it seemed that the case might have ended there.

Until he received the phone call.

October 1st, 1981

Final Entry

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a campground in Panola State Park.

The parking lot is full of expensive-looking cars. I hunkered down as I watched them lead the kids into the woods about two minutes ago. I'm about to dog their heels once I get done laying out this last little refrain.

The Minder called me back today. He was crying, and if he's still alive tomorrow, I'll be astonished.

He told me about how Maldon had come to him, told him of his need, and told him how he would give him what he needed.

"No," he'd sobbed, "not even give them to him. He told me that I would stand aside and let them be taken. He told me I would do these things, or I would die."

Then he showed the man what he and his cronies truly were, and the Minder had had little choice but the step aside.

"They aren't human, Mr. Barger. They are the servants of something old and dark. He comes with the cold, they said, and he is ushered in by blood. The blood of the innocent will make him strong. The blood of the innocent will secure his power. They said I would let them be taken, or I would be given to him as well."

"And who is Him?" I asked, not really wanting the answer.

"They didn't say his name, wouldn't say his name. He is the one who comes from Strange. He is the one who ushers in the frost; he is the one who brings the change."

"Why tell me this now?" I asked.

"Because tonight they will take the children to him. They will be gone after tonight, and maybe...maybe you can stop them, Mr. Barger. I certainly hope so."

He told me where they meant to go, and then he hung up.

My 38 feels good in my hand right now. I'm preparing to make my way to the fire now and find out just what the hell is going on. If I don't come back, I hope that whoever finds this knows what to do with it. If they do, tell Dom I'm sorry. If I don't make it out, tell him I hope he nails this son of a bitch."

And that was it. That was the last entry. I don't know what became of Killian Barger, but the news on the TV leads me to believe that it's happening again. They're calling them the Green Man killings, and if these children were taken by the same group of wacko's that are perpetrating these grizzly killings, then I can guess what must have happened to both them and Killian.

I'm on my way to Atlanta with the journal now. I've been getting some pretty weird texts from my boss for the last few hours, though. He wants to know what happened to the box in the back room? He's curious to know if I moved it? He's offering to wave the rest of my community service; just pencil whip the sheets if I bring that coat back.

That was an hour ago, though.

Now the messages are becoming a little darker. He's telling me that if I bring the coat back now, nothing bad will happen. He's asking me if I know what I've done to myself? He's asking if I want to die or if I'm still willing to be reasonable and bring the coat back. I don't think I will, though.

The coat and hat look pretty good on me as I look at myself in the rearview mirror.

Besides, I want to look sharp when I deliver this journal personally.

I want Dom to recognize what I'm bringing him when I take it home.