I flipped through the file and saw the black-and-white police photos as rendered by AnneMarie's laser printer. Another flip showed me autopsy notes.
"You've read it?" I said. "Give me the Cliff Notes version."
AnneMarie said, "Piper lived in a little economy apartment in Montrose Park. One day, he didn't show up for work. His boss knew the apartment manager personally, so when he called and got no answer, he asked the manager to look in on him. Found the late Mr. Piper sitting in his chair, staring at a blank TV screen."
And – flip – there was the image, the balding, slightly portly man sitting in a chair that had once been overstuffed, head slumped to the side, eyes drifting off aimlessly.
"Coroner's report?"
"No sign of foul play," she said. "No signs of anything, really. Best guess is some kind of congenital ganglionic failure, by which they mean he just decided to up and die."
While she spoke, I skimmed through the report.
"You gave me a copy of all this on a floppy, right?"
Her face looked pained. "Please. I burned you a CD. It's in the pocket in the back of the folder."
Right. Silly me.
She handed me her invoice. I shook her hand, and we chit-chatted about her kids as she led me back to the front door. Aside from reading the material I had had her hunt up, she showed no sign of curiosity into whatever I was working on. She's a professional.
I picked up a fast food salad on the way back to the office and sat at my desk, reading the autopsy report and crunching on croutons. Buried in the middle of the clipped, clinical text was what I was looking for:
"There is a 1 cm incision on the tip of the right index finger. Blood around incision and lack of inflammation indicate the injury took place within the hour previous to death."
Further on, toxicology reports showed that there were no poisons or other unexpected foreign substances present in Darren Piper generally, or in his thumb wound specifically, and the examiner ruled out any relationship between the injured digit and Mr. Piper's demise.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
According to Ernst Vielstich's recollection, the ritual for summoning the heralding spirit involved an offering of mingled blood from all participants in the course of the invocation. Of those who participated to summon the spirit, one would die. It looked like Darren Piper lost the lottery.
So. If the herald was already here, it would be inhabiting the body of one of the other men present for that ritual. Hans Mueller, I was sure, had been a part of it. Philip Castler was also a likely participant. I had no idea how many others might have been involved, much less any of their identities.
Which meant I should work from the assumption that either Castler or Mueller was the herald until proven otherwise. Unfortunately, Mr. Vielstich had been unable to enlighten me as to how a man pseudo-possessed by a minor demonic entity would differ significantly in demeanor from a garden-variety white supremacist.
** ** **
Having no other ideas, and being a glutton for thought-provoking boredom, I decided to go back and watch the Castler house further. I went back to that neighborhood and parked in the same vacant driveway. Since no one, presumably, had seen me pick up my car hours after my footrace through the neighborhood the night before, no one would recognize it as mine. I had left my hair loose and wavy, and the blonde that had been toned down by gel before was now in full evidence. I didn't think anyone would make the connection without giving me a good hard look, and I didn't intend to give anyone cause or opportunity to do so.
I watched through the afternoon. The mailman came. Mrs. Castler brought the mail in. The kids came home from school. The girl left again and went down the block to the neighbor's house. The boy took a bag of garbage out. The sun slowly drooped in the sky. As it got close to dinnertime, I called the Gordell sisters and asked them to feed Beth for me.
Philip Castler came home, and was greeted with normal good cheer. No indication that beneath his skin lurked some hellspawned entity. On the other hand, from here you also couldn't tell that he wholeheartedly advocated the forced deportation of all "mud races."
I stayed past seven o'clock, until it was apparent that no one was going anywhere that night. There was no sign of Hans Mueller.
My stomach was empty and my bladder was full. Another productive day for the investigative professional. I started the car and went home.
** ** **
Beth's nightmare woke me a little after 3am. Once I got her settled back to sleep, I had a brainstorm. Quietly I got up, dressed, left her a note on the kitchen table, and drove back over toward the Castler's neighborhood.
On the way, nothing appealed to me more than the idea of a 48oz. styrofoam cup of coffee, but I didn't relish another few hours of ignoring my bladder, so instead I picked up a small bottle of spring water and used it wash down a Vivarin from the glove compartment.
It was nearing 4:30am when I arrived and settled in at what was becoming my usual spot. The Castler house was dark, and stayed that way until bedroom lights started shining from the master bedroom at 6am, followed closely by the bathroom. By quarter to seven, as the sky was lightening, all of the bedroom lights had turned on. All except the spare room.
By seven it was light enough for me to read without turning on the dome light. I browsed further through the file AnneMarie had given me, this time paying as much attention to the police report as to the coroner's play-by-play.
Philip Castler was the first to leave at 7:20am, dressed in his work duds. I didn't have my binoculars out, so I couldn't be sure that I saw a Band-Aid wrapping his thumb.
The children trotted out the door with backpacks slung over their shoulders at 8:10am.
I stayed until almost nine. There had been no light, movement, or other sign of Hans Mueller's presence in the spare bedroom. The most obvious conclusion was that Mueller had not only made the book scarce, but himself as well, leaving me with exactly one person to follow. I didn't relish the idea of taking up permanent residence on Castler's street until he decided to go meet with his compadres.
Dejectedly, I perused further the file on Darren Piper and discovered that, even though Piper's death was pretty much ruled attributable to natural causes (or at least, not blamed on foul play), the police file was still nominally open. Piper's truck, his sole means of transportation, had not been found in the parking area of his apartment complex. The report wondered if perhaps he had died at some other location and been brought back to his easy chair by person or persons unknown, which might possibly constitute a crime on their part, especially if the truck was technically stolen.
This seemed little more than idle speculation to the investigating officer, who didn't see much in the way of heinous wrongdoing here. I, who know there was much more heinous wrongdoing going on than the police did, was much more interested. I don't know how many hidey-holes the members of StormFront had, but finding Piper's truck had at least a passing chance of helping me find Hans Mueller.
