The town of Collinsport remains on edge as a vicious killer continues to elude State and Local authorities. Lieutenant Mills, who has just completed her interview with one Nathaniel Gregson, a local farmer, upon whose property were found a pair of decapitated victims, had hoped to come away from the interview with some new insight, or, at the very least a clue into the baffling mystery of these seemingly motiveless homicides. But now she seems to have only discovered new questions.
Lieutenant Mills makes her way back toward her desk. Well, it’s St. Clair’s desk really – and at one time, from the distance of her cubical, it was an expanse of her career she had rather ambitiously longed to traverse, only, now, having found herself so unexpectedly forced to not only take up residence behind her desk, but to have St. Clair’s responsibilities thrust upon her . . . having to deal with the mundane machinations of staff, their jealousies and gripes and petty grievances; having to contend with the daily insinuations and diatribes of the Collinsport Star, whose colorful brand of journalism was decidedly yellow; having to placate the Mayor, with his own set of ambitions, having to tolerate the advice and suggestions from the members of the Town Council with their never ending concern over the economic impact of the brutal homicides, while trying to investigate the horrendous crimes that consumed the morbid attention of everyone within the small coastal community — a community already predisposed to rampant gossip and superstitious fears — with a sigh, she longed for St. Clair’s return – which from the information she had received could be imminent.
Her chosen avenue to her desk this morning had led her to Sergeant Anderson to whom she gave instructions to take a few men back out to the Gregson Farm and have another look, even as she explained that she would seek another warrant for not only the farm house – but this time for any and all out buildings on the property. She had also taken a moment to have a brief conversation with Lori Ipso. At first thanking her for her cooperation – but diplomatically – as diplomatically as she could this morning – before admonishing the author for slipping into the observation room during an interrogation, which she explained was not at all helpful – to the investigation or the pending case, particularly when this came to trial, seeing as how she was a material witness and how a good defense attorney, especially someone like Evan Hanley or Madeline Usher, could turn her brief curiosity into a moment of procedural misconduct . . . only to find that as she had tried to be diplomatic, the endlessly irritating Ipso had seemed to play little heed to anything she was saying, as she was far more concerned with trying to foster upon her some loose pages of an old play that she said kept hidden away in a safety deposit box.
Frid, who had allowed her to enter into the observation room to begin with had of course begged off in order to make some phone calls, leaving her to listen to Ipso’s conjectures about what she had imaginatively pieced together based upon whatever she thought she had overheard of Gregson mneme lectures.
Now with Ipso having departed – no doubt running off to the bank and her safety deposit box – she found Frid growing comfortable at her desk, cell in hand.
“Do you really think that this man’s insane ramblings have something to do with these murders?” She asks as she sits down with an actual mug of freshly brewed coffee and taking a sip. God – it wasn’t even 11 and she already has a headache.
Frid looks up from his texting, “Some German scientist from the twenties? Well, we know they were doing some very bizarre work even before the war.”
She looks at him, “But—here in Collinsport. In 2012?”
Whatever he was texting, he has finished as he reaches into his black, woolen suit jacket in order to slip the cellphone back into the inner pocket, “We know that Officer O’Malley indicated that he had seen something, which he succinctly referred to as a Yellow Sign . . . and the owner of the construction company – the one who inexplicably drove his car quite repeatedly through his business offices—“
“Edison Banks.”
“The very one. Yes—he said nearly the same thing. And then, there is Miss Brook, our fortuitous fugitive.”
Lieutenant Mills sips her coffee and nods, “So, you think there is some connection?”
He sits back in his chair and knits his brow, “Even though there currently is not enough supporting evidence to propagate a clear probability of a link—there is certainly some very glaring supporting evidence to the contrary. In the case of Officer O’Malley, we do know that he clams to have seen, what he defines as a Yellow Sign, and that he subsequently murdered two individuals in their car, tourists, which does in fact fit the pattern; where as the others, who had articulated some allusion to having observed what they call a Yellow Sign, are not known to have been involved in any homicides – which, would at first glance, seem to discount a link. But, in and of itself does that necessarily mean there might not be a connection. Let’s look at the possibility. We have three individuals, each experiencing the same unusual, visual phenomenon – and demonstrating various degrees of mental instability, within the same time frame concurrent with a series of rather grim murders. That might lead one to suggest – had these individuals progressed further, say in the example of O’Malley, beyond a state of just mere visual hallucinations and seemingly incoherent actions – like driving ones car repeatedly through a business office, or setting fire to ones home – their mania may well have led to manifestations of further acts of violence and ultimately to the murder of tourists.”
“So—what?” She sits her cup down upon the desk and cups her palms around it, “You’re suggesting that somehow Gregson’s theory might have some validity? That there is some connection that traces itself all the way back to experiments from the 1920”s? Back to Germany?”
“That’s one of several possible theories.” Frid’s eyes are drawn to St. Clair’s vintage True Detective poster. “Another is some form of mind control.”
“MK-Ultra?” Mills asks incredulous, “Oh, come now. We’ve gone and jumped the track from supernatural speculation and gone full tilt into what, Conspiracy Theory 101?” She sighs and rolls her head slightly to loosen the tension in her neck and shoulders, “Even if I were to entertain some kind of link between this insanity of Yellow Signs and mnemes to murder, I would be far more inclined to think that this s**t links together more to some misbegotten loon, living back in the woods, involved in some kind-of-just around midnight, crazy clown town insanity cult than the CIA. . . I mean, after all this is Collinsport.”
Frid’s interest is piqued. “What do we know about Gregson?”
“From an old family here in Collinsport. From what I understand, they’ve owned their land since they inherited it sometime back in the 1800’s, when it used to be the Grimes property. From all appearances he is just as he appeared to be. Ordinary. Nothing very exceptional. A high school diploma, married, had a kid, a widower. No criminal record.” She relates as she looks down into the steaming surface of her coffee – then looks up. “Of course that was before he comes in with some complex thesis and starts name dropping some philosophers and critiquing an old play. Honestly I don’t know what to make of it. Do you?
“It is odd – I mean, a farmer who intelligently discusses the theory of mnemes?”
She shrugs, “It’s the Internet. Everyone thinks they know everything these days. But the question is why mnemes? And what in god’s name does any of this have to do with the murders? Damn, I wish we had brought his son in for questioning – I’ve sent Officer Henderson to the strip club.”
“I know this is your jurisdiction and I don’t want to be seen as trying to overstep my bounds as well as your good graces, Lieutenant, but, after this morning’s little philosophical discussion I did make a call to someone whom I think you might want to interview Gregson.”
“Oh?” She lifts an eyebrow
“He’s the head of an organization of mostly retired ex-FBI . . . with an occasional CIA operative or two thrown into the mix. A consulting foundation known as the Millennium Group.”
She frowns in recollection of the name, “The Millennium Group . . . were they not—“
“Discredited? Yes—but those responsible for the scandalous covert operations have been apprehended and incarcerated. In fact, the gentleman largely responsible for re-establishing the organizations credibility by chance just happens to be here in Collinsport. His name is Professor Raymond Frost – and he is here actually to see Chief St. Clair.”
“Well, I wish St. Clair was well enough to come back and take back her desk. I don’t mind telling you Frid, I feel like I’m a common foot soldier asked to lead an army as a general.”
He sits forward, “Lieutenant, I for one think you have been doing a exemplary job—I mean, you are after all, sort of having to play the role of the guard of an asylum—the asylum of course being this city.”
“I do admit though I would like to have St. Clair’s perspective – the woman has seen some fairly strange things – down in Arkham.”
One of the front doors the Paterson Justice Center opens and a tall, ash blonde gentleman enters. He takes a look around and is drawn toward the indoor fishing pond.
Curious he steps over to look at the pond and lifting a hand motions to an officer just exiting a cubical nearby, “Absolutely amazing. Is that, yes – it is. There are actually small-mouth Bass in there.”
The police officer having grown accustomed to the reactions of visitors to the Justice Center upon discovering the late Sheriff Patterson’s aquatic construction nods and smiles. “Yeah, we keep it stocked and operational in honor of Old Sheriff Patterson.“
The ash blonde man turns his gaze from the pond to the look at the officer, exiting his cubical. “Jim Patterson—” he says rather wistfully, “Truly a tragedy. But still, he served as Sheriff until he was what? Eighty-six? Remarkable when you think of it. A wonderful fellow—one hell of a fisherman.”
“Yeah – they certainly don’t make’em like Jim Patterson anymore.” The officer agrees.
And the gentleman continues to smile, “Raymond Frost. I am here to see Detective Frid. Jonathan Frid.”
“Oh, yeah, well, he’s over there with the Lieutenant,” The officer motions across the room toward the Lieutenant’s desk.
The ash-blonde gentleman nods ascent.
“I’ll call her up and see what her thoughts are later.” Lieutenant Mills takes sip of her coffee as she looks up to watch the approach of the ash blonde gentleman.
Detective Frid taking note of her gaze, turns and rises from his chair in order to extend a hand, “Professor.”
“Jonathan, it has been a while.”
“A little over a year ago.”
“Yes, that horrific business in the North Burial Ground. Gruesome. I must say, even today, I cannot abide the scent of tangerines . . .” He gives a rather dramatic shiver. “And you, you must be Lieutenant Mills.” He says as he turns his attention upon the dark-haired woman sitting behind St. Clair’s desk. She nods and is well aware that his light blue eyes, though appearing benignly bemused are intensely observant. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you . . . and I must say, her desk—you wear her desk well.”
“Professor Frost I take it,” They shake hands, “You know Chief St. Clair?’
“Oh, yes, I am acquainted with the whole family. Of course, having worked with the New York authorities on several occasions, one is destined to become familiar with the St. Clairs. Not only one of the more wealth and prominent members of the Social Register, they are infinitely, politically connected. Each has their own particularities.” He finishes his look about the station and then takes a seat, “Have you met any of family?”
“No—I haven’t.”
“Now—that is truly a pity. Catherine — Jamison’s mother — although the epitome of the matriarchy, the ultimate socialite . . . ” Professor Frost replies unbuttoning his coat. “Is as vicious as a tigeress. It’s in the DNA I would think. She comes from very old money, and an even older family, the Sinclair’s – and of course that whole sordid history.” He says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Her father was in munitions and died rather young. An most unfortunate industrial accident. Or so the report would indicate. Which of course left Catherine in charge of the family as well as all the family business.”
“There was some justification to keeping that case open rather than closing it.” Detective Fird admonishes the Professor.
“Money, Jonathan closes just as many doors as it opens.”
‘She sounds . . . so unlike the Chief.” Lieutenant Mills replies.
“Quite.” The Professor smiles, “Let’s just say, one would be wise to never find themselves on her short list. Now, as for the sister. Jules—she’s just as charming as Jamison. After all, they are twins. But, enough of my ruminations on the St. Clair’s. Jonathan here indicates that you could use a bit of assistance.”
Detective Frid nods, “A most intriguing and baffling case Professor, and to add to our dilemma, this morning, we’ve encountered a most remarkable suspect. A farmer, who during questioning, suddenly begins a rather informed conversation about mnemes—to the point of almost giving us a lecture upon them.”
“Mnemes?” Frost lifts a brow, “Now that’s not a subject one is not likely to hear everyday out on the tractor.” He looks over at the Lieutenant, “I would assume the baffling case Jonathan refers to is connected to the grisly decapitations?”
“Yes—you’ve read about them no doubt in the Star?”
“Actually, I was just discussing them with Jamison earlier this morning. Now this Gregson . . . so he’s your suspect?”
“He was a person of interest,” The Lieutenant explains, “Mr. Gregson was called in for questioning as a triple murder took place on his property, in the middle of the night. Although, to be candid, I don’t think he is the killer. He does not match our witness’s description. But, during questioning, he began offering information, for whatever it’s worth, as he seemed to think that this mneme business has something to do with the case.”
Frost sits looking at her for a long moment, which she finds a bit disconcerting. “Yes. Well, I dare say, many a criminal tires to misdirect questioning particularly when one has something they wish to conceal—so, in what context did he bring it up? The Mnemes. Was he trying to affix blame for the murders on mnemes or was it something he just randomly began to discuss?”
“It seemed to me to come out of no where.” And the Lieutenant pulls out a copy of the transcript from this morning interview. She flips the stapled pages and then reaching out across the desk, she hands them to Professor Frost; she points to the paper, “He first starts right after I show him the sketch of our witness’s description. He asks if I know what a Meme is?”
“Fascinating—Mr. Gregson is a farmer you say?“ He reaches across the desk to take the transcript.
Lieutenant Mills nods.
“The mneme as a concept was first formulated by the German researcher . . . Richard Semon . . . who, interestingly enough, committed suicide shortly after Germany’s defeat in the Great War. ”
“That’s what Gregson said – but, not about the suicide.”
He looks at the transcript, “He didn’t mention the suicide? Interesting. One might want to keep an eye on Mr. Gregson.”
“A suicide watch?” Mills asks.
“I did not pick up that he was suicidal Raymond,” Frid interjects.
Lieutenant Mills takes another sip of her coffee, “So, we are also looking for his son.”
“Ah, he has a son?” Frost looks over at Mills, “I see you allowed him to smoke . . . usual interrogation methods, Lieutenant? It is a non-smoking building. It does seem to have been effective, you gave him a right he knew he should not have and so, he began to open up to you. Very perceptive.”
“Well, as I said. He was not a major suspect at the time.” Lieutenant Mills explains, “So—do you think the sketch was the catalyst for his lecture, or was it simply something he wanted to say?
He looks up from his reading of the transcript, “Oh, this was something most definitely he wanted to say, Lieutenant.”
“A farmer with a high school education – and yet, and Professor, he seemed fully capable of giving a rather informed dissertation on the triggering effects of the concept of the Mneme – just how does that happen?” Frid asks.
“The Internet? Phoenix University? Wikipedia?” Frost replies, “There are any number of ways he could have come into contact with . . . oh, now, here is something that bares further scrutiny. The son frequents a strip joint.”
“Which bares further scrutiny?” Mills cannot resist the irony.
“I would not be so jejune, Lieutenant. Especially since it would appear to be operated by an Auntie H.” Frost cuts a knowing glance to Frid, “That would not be Luisne Harpootlian by any chance, would it Jonathan? If so, she’s certainly a long way from Providence”
“Lusine Harpootlian?” Lieutenant Mills asks.
“A truly nasty piece of work.” He explains, ” She immigrated as a child to the US with her mother and uncle, owing to her father’s death during the Nagorno-Karabakh War with neighboring Azerbaijan. Of course, the true circumstances of his death are all a bit dicey – seeing as how he was an asset for MI6. Well – a special branch of MI6. But . . . that’s all rather hush-hush.” The Professor puts down the transcript for a moment.
“And so, Lusine and her mother — with a maternal uncle in tow — were allowed, owing to the special circumstances of her father, to immigrate to New York. MI5 making a deal with the cousins by calling in a favor for some particular wetwork in Greece. All very clandestine and all very, very classified. Now—the uncle, Hovik, was a true ogre of a man. Not only did he have a terrible disposition, but he was gifted as well with an overwhelming penchant for teen-aged girls. And a talent for enticing them into prostitution. As I said– a truly disgusting gentleman. . . . And so, also immediately upon their arrival in the US, Uncle Hovik becomes deeply involved with various criminal enterprises – but, of course, given his temperamental disposition and rather unsavory proclivities, it was only a matter of time before his business associates, found his lack of restraint not only unpredictable but extremely problematic. And so, one day his business associates gathered together and decided to do what was best for their business interests, which was to put a bullet in the back of his head – which, was bad for him, but, very fortuitous for Lusine. She took controlling interest of her uncle’s prostitution business. Graced with her father’s uncanny intelligence, and the wiles of an ambitious, but totally unrepentant seventeen-year-old delinquent, she quickly turns the place around. Some renovation. A couple of coats of paint. New sheets . . . and increased revenue. Now, I am of the opinion it was based on continuing connections with various governmental intelligence agencies, foreign and domestic, that Lusine quickly seized upon a remarkable new business strategy and soon began to procured a far more selective clientele. Individuals seeking someone to caterer their particular services to the more socially respectable, while guaranteeing discretion and complete anonymity, seeing as how the more socially respectable they were, the more their proclivities were entirely reprehensible and considerably more arcane – for which, she seemed to have had a knack . . . seeing as how she had not only inherited her father’s strategic wiles, but her mother’s fondness for the macabre. Which did not go unnoticed by her rivals, who soon found the whole idea of the success of a seventeen-year-old particularly vex-some. Thus, she found herself drawn into a terribly protracted prostitution war with a real hellion, Magdalena Szabo.” He seems for a moment to be lost in reflection, before he looks up. “Truly a vicious woman. Who just happened to have been aligned with the Russian mafia.”
“But I thought you indicated she was from Providence.”
His smile widens, “Wars can’t go on forever, Lieutenant. They eventually become bad for business. And so various interested colleagues convened a meeting to call a truce. Thus, the Powers That Be, well aware of Lusine’s taste for antiquarian objects and rare occult esoterica, as well, as her seemingly uncanny access to even nastier pornography, devised an rather lucrative opportunity, which, understandably at the time, she found to be mutually advantageous to her, and her associates, continued business interests . . . “
“And so she moved to Providence.” Lieutenant Mills surmised as she took another sip of her coffee.
“Precisely.” Professor Frost “But Auntie H being Auntie H soon found herself the principle conspirator in a particularly unfortunate and misbegotten midnight escapade – an attempt to acquire a rather offensive objet d’art from a gallery in New York – which placed her squarely at odds with The Fate.”
“The Fate?” Mills lifts an eyebrow.
He nods as he once more begins to scan the transcript, “There is a legendary and nearly invisible organization known as The Network, which is the most powerful, and perhaps the least known, criminal syndicate in New York. It has over the years systematically taken control of New York’s criminal infrastructure. The five major crime families that comprise the New York Mafia; the ethnic gangs with Chinese, Russian, Irish, Jamaican, and Colombian affiliations, who scrabble for whatever the Mafia doesn’t touch; the inner-city street gangs who pick up their crumbs; the lone psychos who ply their own murderous trade – all live in fear of The Network. And the shadowy echelon of this enterprise is collectively known as The Fate – although, in truth, the complete control of The Fate as well as The Network resides in only one man. Stephen Alzis. And so, rather than being yet one more missing person, as had so many others who had found themselves in Alzis’ disfavor, I heard Lusine Harpootlian had been displaced once more. Forced to move Woonsocket.” He dramatically shivered once more and cocked an eyebrow at the Lieutenant.
“But—she’s now in Collinsport?” Lieutenant Mills set her cup of coffee down – what was happening to this supposedly quaint little tourist village.
“If this is in fact Lusine Harpootlian.” The professor took up the transcript once more, “Which I suspect is highly likely seeing as how one of her nom d’emprunts is Aunite H.”
“You said occult esoterica?” Lieutenant Mills, “and a fondness for the macabre. Just what is your particular field Professor.”
“Mythological Forensics.” He said in all seriousness.
She looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Mythological Forensics?” She repeats unable to conceal the skeptical tone.
The professor had long since grown accustomed to sarcasm and skepticism—as well as to the horrific screams that have all too often replaced those derisive twins of cynicism and disbelief. St. Clair had warned him – sitting at her breakfast table this morning in her bright kitchen, her tongue just capturing the sweet, dollop of apricot jam that was about to fall from the edge of the piece of her un-cut toast, “Just warning you. She’s intuitive, tenacious, and very intelligent. And when it comes to straight up police procedure, Rebecca Mills is brilliant. But, in the shadowy world in which we reside, she is a complete skeptic Professor – so I would tread lightly . . .” and then, she took a bite of her toast.
“I detect a hint of incredulity, Lieutenant. But you must admit that there are certain cases which seem baffling, perplexing—some of which even become ascribed to having been tinged with elements of the supernatural . . . “
“Professor – this is the 21st century: the age of logic and reason. Broken mirrors, black cats, salt over the shoulder, carrying of caskets out head first, is nothing but unreasonable superstition. Mankind should have left all that silliness in the Dark Ages. There is no such thing as magic—Demons and Wizards is an album by Uriah Heep.”
Professor Frost cannot suppress a chuckle, “Uriah Heep? Now that does bring back memories – as well as some recollections of some very bad fashion decisions.” He smiles aware, as he has been warned, that he must tread lightly, “Lieutenant, as Arthur C. Clarke once said, magic’s just science that we don’t understand yet. I have found that if you look at the underlying root cause of many seemingly inexplicable occurrences, you will find, for the most part, their origins can be traced back into myth, into stories, the narratives we tell ourselves, have been told, that we believed in as children. They shape us. Like for example, here in Collinsport, with it’s “History” – and say, New England in general, with its own history of witch trials and even a belief in vampires, as late as the nineteenth century. In Mythology, you will always find a seed of truth.”
Although he was friends with St. Clair and apparently her family as well, which for some reason she found herself feeling . . . well not affronted, or insulted, actually . . . but there was a sudden feeling of being, well yes, disappointed, and even more, oddly of being a bit hurt, in that St. Clair had never revealed she had a sister – a twin, who was in Law Enforcement also; but then that could be less about her relationship with the Chief and more to do with St. Clair’s relationship with her sister – or her family for that matter. She seldom spoke of them – and in fact, in recollection, she couldn’t think of a time in which St. Clair had ever mentioned anything about her family. Perhaps they rarely communicated – not like her own family, and her Mother’s daily calls. Yes, St. Clair was brilliant – a mentor – someone she had immediately aspired to emulate – but, over time she had been become aware of some very substantial differences. Mostly those dealing with her predisposition toward secrecy, but the major flaw was, for whatever the reason, St. Clair was far more tolerant of the occult and prone to mystical conjecture. And for that reason, Lieutenant Mills was beginning to re-evaluate her opinion of this Professor. “Or more occult fanaticism – more magical mumbo-jumbo.”
Frid looks at her, “Lieutenant the truth is that even though it was several hundred years ago they held witchcraft trials here in New England—to which there are museums and thousands of tourists traveling to peruse each year. I can assure you the occult has never truly gone away.”
“I thought you were far more level headed, detective,” She sits back and sighs, shaking her head. “Just like the original witch trials, this is all just smoke and mirrors. An excuse, or a smokescreen, or both. Five tourists have been murdered by decapitation this month at two separate crime scenes. And just because some odd occult symbols are all too obviously left behind, rather than building a profile for some homicidal predator, some psychotic serial killer – you are suggesting what? That we should instead instantly fall for the smoke and mirrors, the sleight-of-hand, the intentional misdirection and conclude that some ghostly apparition has come out of the fog? Some woe-is-me Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist transformed into a rag-pickers ghost, with a fetish for tourists, who, I guess, what? failed to drop enough coins into his beggars cap?“ The headache is decidedly getting worse, “No—I am sorry, Frid— what we are dealing with is something far less transparent and far more substantial. Something made of flesh and blood. So, rather than getting out our Ouija Boards, perhaps it would be a better use of our time if we tried and put ourselves into the killer shoes. It is more than obvious — what with this town’s crazy fixation on all things that go bump-in-the-night – he wants to make it look like some arcane magical ritual, and so to that end he symbols as obvious clues in order to draw upon folklore to scare the locals and confuse his agenda”
“Which is?” Frid asks.
“Like I said—the obvious binding connection between all the victims is that they were all out-of-towners. Tourism generates a lot of revenue for this town. And there are some in Collinsport not at all that happy with several of the Town Council’s renovation decisions. Tearing down historical buildings. And so, while everyone is looking at the misdirection, they continue to seek out and attack the source of the town’s major revenue . . . their one way of making a statement – an insane one I admit” She sits her coffee cup down, wondering just how long Frid has been harboring his secret occult theories – which is no doubt why he’s called in this Professor Frost.
“But—“ Frid begins . . .
“And so, if I may—can I direct our attention once more to your transcript,” The Professor interjects.
“Certainly.’ Lieutenant Mills replies.
“There is a rather crucial statement. ” He leans forward to place the transcript on the desk in order to turn it around for Mills to see as he points out, “He is talking about his son. Ezra?”
“Yes – Ezra.”
“Right, you see he says, here, he’s rather hedonistic you know. But then didn’t Freud say it was Sex and Death. Death and Sex that kept us all going around and round on this mundane old world of ours? Frost looks at her in all seriousness, “I must say, this Gregson is really quite an interesting fellow. I would like to have a few moments with him at some point, Lieutenant, if that is at all possible”
“As I said, he was merely brought in for questioning and so we didn’t detain him – we really didn’t have enough to do so, even after all that mneme s**t.” She replies evenly, “But based on this mornings interview, I have sent a few officers to go back over the property. And I am going to seek another search warrant.”
“Perhaps Professor Frost could join you Lieutenant, when you head over there later.” Frid offers
“Perhaps.” She’s not committing to anything – especially owing to the fact that the thinly veiled supernatural beliefs of Detective Frid have begun to show – and she has no idea of this Professor’s true motivations.
“Lieutenant—you are aware of why this statement, the one about Freud is so critical to his later discussion about mnemes?” The Professor asks looking up from the transcript.
“No.” She admits.
“Fear, Lieutenant. You see what motivated Gregson in his interview with you was fear.”
“Fear – so he does have something to hide.”
He points to the transcript again, ”When you ask him specially about where his son was on the night in question, his response in regards to as his whereabouts is that he is not certain at all, and yet, he’s already directed you to his frequent visits to the strip club.” Frost explains, “And then he alludes to the fact his son does the weeding. Which has a connotation I am sure you have surmised has nothing whatsoever to do with your basic gardening. Based on his background and the narratives that inform his imagination, it is more than obvious he strongly suspects that his son is involved, owing to what he may believe is some psycho-sexual deviation – which is why he fears that his son, Ezra, is the murder.”
“And the lecture on memes, he was looking to establish some form of defense should his son be apprehended.” Lieutenant Mills offers.
Frost shrugs and sits back with the transcript in order to continue reading.
“Now that makes sense, Professor.” She looks at her cup of coffee thoughtfully. . . going over the interview in her head.
Suddenly Frost stops reading and looks over to Frid . . . “You did not tell me he had mentioned the name Castaigne.”
“Yeah, well that was toward the end.” Lieutenant Mills confirms.
Professor Frost places the transcript on the edge of the Lieutenant’s desk, “Comte La Castaigne, now – there was a true hedonist.”
Lieutenant Mills looks at Professor Frost—certain she is about to hear some more strange s**t.
She does not have to wait long: “In the 13th century the Castaigne family were wealthy Spanish aristocrats. Infamous long before the advent of the inquisition. It was rumored that the Comte LaCastaigne was involved in all manner of alchemical and necromantic activities. Truly, some rather horrific stuff. There is even an obscure book that details how he attempted to husband humans and animals – a Dr. Moreau long before the birth of H. G. Wells. The man absolutely terrified everyone. And then, suddenly – he just disappears. Very mysteriously. A satanic ritual gone wrong is what the peasants whispered as was the gossip of the Spanish Government, but I figure it was an assassination authorized by the Pope. For after the Comte’s mysterious disappearance, the church ordered the destruction of his castle. I am talking complete obliteration. Later, during the Napoleonic Wars, a French collaborator, by the name of Hildred Castaigne, claiming to be the heir of LaCastaigne received permission by the government to rebuild the castle upon the ruins of what little of the original remained. Later in the 19th century, Alessandro Castaigne, immensely wealthy and totally deranged sends out agents of acquisition all over the world in order to fill his library to overflowing with some of the strangest and bizarre works of art ever collected. Widely known in certain occult circles as the Castaigne Collection, it was a key target of acquisition by the German’s during World War II, who were notorious for their belief in the occult. “
“The Pope? Nazis?” Lieutenant Mills lifts an quizzical brow.
“I know – history is a rat nest. A veritable rest nest of truths and lies. Half-truths and legends. And I have spent a considerable amount of time Lieutenant trying to decipher though them.”
“I see.”
“First, I would suggest you put out a BOLO on Ezra Gregson.” He tells her with a very sincere and yet knowing smile, “And then, I would take a closer look at that strip club, Jonathan.” He turns to Detective Frid. “Best to find out precisely why Auntie H has chosen to set up house in Collinsport.”
“We will look into that—“ Lieutenant Mills replies curtly — Frid has no jurisdiction here. And her professional assessment of him has changed – particularly having met his friend – this Professor Frost.
“Of course—“ But the Professor is suddenly distracted now by the sight and sound of various police officers either moving toward the front of the Patterson Justice Center in order to make a hurried exit from the building or they are entering.
He turns in his seat to watch as officer, having just re-entered the building, makes his way past two patrolmen heading towards the exit, to engage the front desk, “We made a call to Woodward Memorial – were are the damned EMT’s?”
The front desk respond: “What call to Woodward?”
“It would appear that something is very amiss.” The Professor says looking across the desk to the Lieutenant, who has risen from her chair.
She hurries down to the officer at the desk: “Higgs, what’s wrong?”
“It’s the Chief.” The officer replies with concern.
Professor Frost and Detective Frid, who have followed in the lieutenant’s wake arrive in time to hear.
“St. Clair?” Frost asks with some anxiety.
“What’s happened to Chief St. Clair?” Detective Frid asks.
Before there is an answer to their inquiry, yet another officer pushes open one of the glass front doors of the Justice center and yells toward Higgs, “Where is that ambulance?”
Upon hearing the word ambulance Lieutenant Mills hurries past the desk and races toward the front doors.
“Ambulance?” Frost asks Higgs. “What is going on, officer?”
The officer looks at him, “It’s the Chief. She was – I don’t know, I guess she was coming to visit. She apparently had gotten out of her car and was walking toward the front of the building – when this homeless guy, just comes up to her, and they say he spoke to her for a moment and then she just suddenly collapsed!”
Professor Frost looks at Officer Higgs with deep concern, “Collapsed?”
“She says, she can’t feel her legs.” The Officer explains. She can’t walk!”
Frost looks at Detective Frid, as they make their way toward the glass doors of the Justice Center, “Your instincts are correct Jonathan. There is far more at work here than you can imagine. And so you need to be particularly cautious. Collinsport, although remarkably similar to Kingsport, is far more sinister I can assure you.” He opens the door to stand at the top of the steps of the Patterson Justice Center to watch police officers hurrying toward a black automobile – it is St. Clair’s. He grimaces. “There are entities that were here long before the advent of man – and once man arrived . . . they found inspired uses for them.’” He begins to hurry down the steps with Detective Frid beside him, “Others, acolytes, mystics, dreamers, and worse—wizards are drawn here by powers within the very soil. Can you not feel it?”
A officer hurries up the stone steps past them.
“Gregson?” Fried replies, “Then we were right to suspect him –“
“I suspect everyone, and you would be wise to do so as well.” He stops for a moment, “You need to find the son.” And with that as way of conclusion, Frost turns away from Frid and makes his way swiftly over to the black automobile and pushes aside those standing about, as he looks down to see St. Clair sitting propped against the car.
Lieutenant Mills is kneeling beside her, “Don’t move, we’ve got an ambulance en-route. Who did this?” Mills motions for the officers to move back.
St. Clair presses her palms on the asphalt and tires to push herself upward to no avail.
“Some panhandler. . . he came up asking for some money and then said something I couldn’t hear.” St. Clair tells her and with a grimace and leans back, “That’s when my legs went out from under me.” She smiles wanly, “It looks like you are going to be more than just acting Chief—“
“Where is that Ambulance!” Mills snaps at the closest officer. She rises and takes out her cellphone—what was the problem, Woodward Memorial was not that far away.
St. Clair sitting with her back against the side of her automobile looks up as Professor Frost moves closer and kneels beside her. His fingers reach out and brush back loose strands of hair fallen across her forehead.
He cannot conceal his concern. “Jamison.”
She grimaces and sighs, “I cannot believe. . .”
“Yes,” He nods, sympathetically “Well—it appears you may have left her no other choice.”
Cue Music End of Episode