The Dark Man Read Free Page B

seasoned detective, but more than once, I’ve come up with an angle that helped spark their creative thought processes before I ever set foot in an investigation site. Beginner’s luck, I guess. Often a baffled, desperate police department has begrudgingly brought me in at the request of someone at the station who was a fan of the show, and frequently, the spirits of “the deceased,” as Detective Thomas refers to them, are uncooperative. I can’t make them talk any more than I can make a proper omelet on a regular basis. If it ain’t in the cards, it ain’t happening that day.
    I still charge them for my time. The way I see it, detectives go to work every day and don’t solve cases, yet they still get paid. I could easily do this work pro bono, no problem, but I’ve found that if someone is paying me, they’re far more likely to be reasonable and accommodating.
    I stop and start a few sentences. I come up with nothing, not a single approach that I think Detective Thomas can check out. He tried it all. He’s been trying again for the last six months, which means we’re down to my last line of questioning for him.
    “Then that leaves us here,” I say, sitting up straighter. “A lot of times PDs will call me in for the novelty of it. They’re out of options, and they think, ‘Oh, what the hell, this guy works for peanuts. Why don’t we give him a try?’ I don’t like those. I’m not saying you are one of those, I’m just saying it’s hard walking onstage where the crowd hasn’t been warmed up first. See what I’m saying?”
    He taps a pencil against his cheek and acknowledges me by dipping his chin.
    “Then, other times, some detective has seen something he can’t explain and wants a second opinion, which I’m happy to help with. Those are great. It means there might be something there, and we might already have a solution to work toward. Even rarer still are guys like you, the ones who call with a little extra edge to their voices, the ones who are hesitant to say exactly why they’re calling. Guys who are nothing but curious? They’ll admit it right away. They’ll say, ‘This weird thing happened; we want you to come check it out.’ But detectives like you, been at this twenty years or more, seen everything there is to see, all the evil in humanity … you don’t need me. You got new evidence, fresh clues. You’re not ready to throw in the towel after six months, Detective. I don’t believe it when you say you’re back to where you started. You called me here for a reason. Something spooked you. So let me ask you this: What was it? What did you see?”
    “I’ll never forget it,” he answers with that somber tone I’ve come to recognize so well.

CHAPTER THREE
    We’re standing in front of the Craghorn residence. It’s too damn hot in the Hampton Roads area this time of year, and I can feel the sweat beading up in places where I don’t enjoy being swampy. It’s part of the gig, though, and I agreed to let Detective Thomas explain himself here rather than back at the station. He said it would make more sense if Dave Craghorn, husband of the deceased, was there to back him up.
    Detective Thomas tucks his hands into his pockets and looks up at the top floor of the three-story home. We’re over in Portsmouth, a small city adjacent to Virginia Beach, where some of the residences are centuries old, built back when the masons didn’t mind stacking stones thirty or forty feet in the air on all sides. These things were built to last.
    The detective admires it, head tilted, back angled as we look up toward the hand-carved molding along the eaves. He says, “Beautiful place, ain’t it?”
    I lie to him and say yeah, it’s nice, while I try to see it through his eyes. I get what he’s saying; the place has a strong presence. It’s bulky and broad-shouldered, reminds me of a middle linebacker, but I don’t really see the beauty in it, per se. To me, it’s a giant collection of rocks and