“Oh wait!” said Mike. A sudden flash brought an idea of how to convince Pat that this was a paranormal event, and that the two incidents must be connected. “If my theory is correct,” he continued, “and the same creature committed both crimes, then he would have to be on foot, so the murders would be separated by at least a day or two. Wait, how far apart are Montville and East Motton?”
Pat folded his arms as he listened. “Forty miles,” he informed Mike.
“So you would think that it would take him at least a couple of days to cover that distance,” said Mike, “but this guy moves fast. Probably about ten miles an hour, but he only moves at night. I bet he made the Montville couple within twenty-four hours.”
“Okay,” said Pat. “A guy doesn’t have to travel on foot to take a day between killing.”
“How about this then,” offered Mike. “I bet something was missing from the bodies. Maybe an organ, probably even the brain, because he’s trying to figure out where and when he’s at.”
“Where and when?” prompted Pat.
“Yes,” said Mike. “I think he was asleep for a while. I have data that suggests that he was in the same location for several months. I’m guessing that he was there for years before that, trapped underground.”
The other man at the table, Red Bisson, leaned forward and whispered something in Pat’s ear. Pat glanced at Red and then nodded while he frowned.
“It seems that each time you start a sentence, some new detail emerges that completely changes the nature of your story,” said Pat. He pushed up his sleeve and glanced down at his watch. “In the interest of time, start from the top, from his hiking trail, and give us one more quick run-through.”
“Okay,” said Mike, “but some of this stuff is a little hard to believe.”
“Don’t worry about that part,” said Pat. “We’ll get that sorted out later.”
Mike nodded, tilted his head back, and stretched his neck. “From the top: I conduct paranormal investigations,” he glanced to Red and Pat, pausing until they nodded their affirmation. “My former colleague, Gary, discovered a paranormal power source off that trail called The Ledges. The other day, I went to check out that place and I saw a giant footprint.”
Pat scribbled a note down on his pad and tilted it up so only he could see it.
“I didn’t think that much of the footprint until I saw the news today. On the news, channel six, the camera panned down after the press conference, and I saw another giant footprint. When I heard that another murder had happened in Montville, I put everything together and decided to come up and see the scene for myself, so see if I could find any other clues as to the origin of this giant-footprint creature.”
Red leaned forward and whispered to Pat for a second time.
“Thank you,” said Pat. “Can I get you anything? We’re going to have another officer come in and continue this interview.” Pat gathered his papers and pushed his chair back from the table. Red straightened his back and began to press down on the arms of the chair.
“Am I free to go?” asked Mike. “I thought you had to let me go if you weren’t going to charge me with anything.”
“Good question,” said Pat. “You’re actually not free to go, and we haven’t figured exactly what we’re going to charge you with yet.”
“Wait,” said Mike, suddenly more concerned for his freedom, “there are very few entities that could actually do this kind of manipulation of the physical plane.”
“Is that so?” asked Pat casually, not slowing in his preparations.
“Yes,” said Mike, rushing his explanation to try to convince the men before they left, “it could be a ghoul or a revenant, but those usually don’t have the power to kill, but certainly like to feast on the dead. Maybe if the victims were weak already?”
“Someone will be right in for you,” said Pat. He and Red moved towards the door.
Mike turned around in his chair to continue his plea—“If you just give me more information, I’m sure I can help you figure this out. For instance, it can’t be a wight, because they’re always small, like dwarves.”
The door clicked shut behind Pat and Red.
AFTER A FEW MINUTES, two uniformed officers offered Mike a phone call before moving him to a cell. He left a message for his lawyer with his location and his circumstances.
ELEVEN THAT EVENING, two new officers came to Mike’s jail cell and brought him to meet Bob Farrell, the lead investigator. They were back in the same interview room, and Mike sat in the same hard seat. Bob didn’t have a partner or any papers. He sat across the table for several minutes just staring at Mike. Uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, Mike looked at the table and the ceiling, only touching his eyes to Bob’s occasionally.
Bob unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his shirt and suit jacket up to his elbows before propping them up on the table.
“What’s with all the fairy tales?” he asked, finally.
“I’m sorry?” asked Mike.
Bob narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils as he inhaled. He spoke low, forcing Mike to lean forward to hear the question—“Why have you been ranting like a lunatic every time someone asks you about these murders?”
“I haven’t been,” Mike said slowly with his voice low. He wasn’t trying to mock the lead investigator, but understood immediately that he sounded like he was.
“What’s your game here, Mike?”
“I really don’t have a game. I explained why I was looking…”
Bob cut him off, “You have admitted to knowing details of the murders that have not been released.” Bob’s voice rose with each syllable, until the last sounded like a threat.
“I have experience in this field,” said Mike. “I keep explaining that.”
“You’re a geneticist. Murder is not part of that field.”
“I am also a paranormal investigator,” Mike said slowly, enunciating each word.
“Great,” said Bob. “Chasing ghosts also doesn’t get you access to unreleased information about an ongoing investigation. Who told you about the missing organs?”
“It was a guess based on the type of entity that would…”
Bob cut him off again, “Or did you take the organs? That would certainly explain a lot: how you just happened to show up at the first house; how you knew about the organs; how you knew the victims were sick.”
“I didn’t know those things, they were educated guesses…”
This time Mike was cut off by the door swinging inward and plain-clothes Pat peeking in the crack.
“Bob?” said Pat. “Got a sec?”
Bob locked his eyes onto Mike’s before rising from his chair. He thrust out his rear as he stood, sending his chair skittering back to the wall.
Mike sat alone for several more minutes. He chewed at his fingernails, three of them already bleeding from the stress of the day. Finding no purchase, he turned his teeth to his cuticles and glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. He regretted almost everything he had done that day. All the mistakes jumped out as he considered the events. Seeking the crime scene, impersonating an investigator, talking about paranormal things, guessing at the details, all the bad decisions looped over and over as he nibbled on his skin. Even with his hindsight firing on all cylinders, Mike hadn’t the slightest idea how to proceed without doing more damage to his credibility and freedom.
The lead investigator, Bob Farrell, ended Mike’s rumination when he burst back through the door. He slapped his hands down on the table and hunched over without sitting.
“Assuming you think you’re telling the truth, what next?”
“Pardon?" Mike was genuinely confused.
“In your crazy world,” explained Bob, “where murders are being committed by a paranormal entity, what’s our next move?” asked Bob.