Uncle John

The search for a missing college student leads Tom and Rachel on the trail of serial killer from years past—a boogeyman carrying an ominous black cane.

Uncle John, Part One

We got out of the car and looked at the dorm: two residential wings, three stories each, framed by a trim green lawn where five college students were throwing a frisbee. Rachel gazed at them, her arms crossed.

"Nostalgia?” I asked her. 

“Acid flashbacks.” She slammed her door.

I’d asked if she wanted to come with me to central Illinois for a case, expecting her to laugh. Instead she was in the mood for a road trip, even for work. So we’d packed and driven three hours, arriving on campus with the midafternoon sun shining down through the clouds.

            Inside, a student sat behind a desk with a textbook and a laptop in front of her. She glanced up, nervous at the sight of strangers the age of someone’s parents. “Yes?”

            “We’re here to see April Brown. My name’s Tom Jurgen. This is my associate, Rachel Dunne.” I showed her my card. 

            Her eyes widened. Probably she’d never seen a real private detective’s card before. “Oh. Just a minute.” She picked up a phone.

            Five minutes later April Brown came down an east wing staircase, looked around, and spotted us. She led us to a lounge where a TV was playing a Star Trek rerun—original series—and two students were huddled in a corner studying. Or pretending to study. Whatever.

            We sat at a table. “Hi.” April had short blond hair and shy blue eyes. “It’s about Kayla, isn’t it?”

            “Yes.” I gave her my card. “Tom Jurgen, and this is Rachel. Kayla’s grandparents hired us to look into her disappearance.”

            April flinched. “I already talked to campus security. And the state police.” She was the last person to see Kayla before she’d vanished from campus. 

            “I know. We just have to start somewhere, and Kayla’s grandparents can’t travel.” Her grandfather was struggling with Alzheimer’s and her grandmother couldn’t leave him alone, and they were both in their 80s. Kayla’s parents had died in a car accident three years ago, and her grandparents were paying for college. And they were close to panic about Kayla.

            Kayla Barth. 20 years old. Last seen at 9:30 six days ago on the campus of Rackham College in the middle of the Illinois prairie. No body found, no ripped clothing or bloodstains, no note, electronic or otherwise. Just gone. 

            “You saw her Wednesday night?” Rachel asked. She helps me with my cases. She’s psychic, but she also puts people more at ease than I do. Not that I’m especially intimidating, but sometimes people like to talk to a cute redhead with hazelnut eyes more than a 40-something guy with hair heading toward gray.

            April nodded. “We had a Lit class. Southern American Lit. We’re reading Flannery O’Connor right now.” She made a face. “Anyway, like I said, we were just walking back after class. It was raining a little, not hard. We were just at the part where we go different ways—Kayla lives over in Hanley—when we saw this, this guy standing on the grass, next to a tree.” She shuddered. 

            “Who was it?” I asked.

            She shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. He was wearing this long raincoat with a hood. It wasn’t a plastic raincoat, it was cloth, black, almost to his feet. I got the feeling he had a cane. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at us. I looked at Kayla, and we walked faster, and then we came to the split, and she went her way and I went mine.”

            Kayla had never reached her dorm room.

            “How tall was the man?” I stood up. “Taller than me?”

            She looked me up and down. “No. A little shorter, an inch or two, I think. Thin. He looked kind of old. Older than you, I mean.”

            “Could you show us where he was?”

            April sighed. “Sure.”

            The frisbee players had dispersed. Students in T-shirts walked by carrying backpacks, looking at their phones, chatting. The day was sunny and warm. I kept my jacket on, but Rachel tied hers around her shoulders.

            April led us down one sidewalk, turned, and up another until we were a few hundred yards from a classroom building. “About right here. About.” She pointed. “That’s the tree. I’m pretty sure.”

            Rachel and I walked over. Rachel crouched, reaching down to press her hand against the grass and soil. She closed her eyes.

            “Anything?”

            She stood and shook her head. “It’s been too long.” 

            April was watching us, curious. “I’m psychic,” Rachel said. She giggled, as if she didn’t believe her, and then we turned to head back to the dorm.

In the lounge we sat down again, and she gave me a list of Kayla’s friends—all she could think of—as well as the prof of the Southern American Lit class. We thanked her, and she nodded and headed quickly for the staircase, looking relieved that we were finished with her. 

“Cute,” Rachel said, watching her climb the stairs. 

I didn’t risk a reply that would get me punched. We left the dorm. 

Out in the parking lot, two campus security officers in uniforms were waiting at our car. They wore beige shirts with shoulder patches, and thick belts holding radios and cuffs and spray and whatever else they needed to keep unruly college students in line. Their own patrol car blocked us. 

I’d been expecting this. Maybe I should have checked in first. “Can I help you?” I tried to offer a friendly smile.

A young woman, blond, stepped forward. “You have business here?” Her voice was firm, not hostile, but it hinted at trouble if I gave the wrong answer.

I slowly handed over my card. “Tom Jurgen. This is my associate, Rachel Dunne. We’ve been hired by Kayla Barth’s grandparents to look into her disappearance.”

She looked at the card and passed it to her partner, a tall Black man. “You’d better come over to see the chief,” she said. “Follow us.” 

“Right behind you.” Rachel and I got in and buckled up.

“That was quick.” Rachel leaned back in her seat.

“Maybe the kid at the front desk.” I started up and waved to the cops. “Let’s see what they say.”

 

The head of campus security, Larry Stogue, was in his 60s, with thick shoulders, sparse white hair, and a grizzled chin. He peered at my card through horn rimmed glasses, then looked up at Rachel and me.

            “We’ve been investigating the Kayla Barth case thoroughly.” He crossed his arms. “There’s no need for anybody from outside. We have all the resources necessary right here.”

            And they hadn’t found her in almost a week. But I didn’t say that. “Her grandparents just want to make sure that everything is covered. We don’t want to interfere. Just ask some questions.”

            “What kind of questions?” His shoulders were taut.

            “Where she went, who saw her, what anybody noticed the night she disappeared.” I kept my tone calm and professional. “Kayla’s grandparents have a right to know as much as possible about what happened.”

“This college—and my department—takes every student’s safety very seriously.” Stogue lurched forward, his chair creaking. “We aren’t going to be a scapegoat. If that’s why you’re here—”

The college was worried about a lawsuit. Of course. I held up a hand. “Like I said, just asking questions. So far we’ve only talked to one person.”

“Who’s that? What’d they tell you?”

“April Brown. Friend of Kayla’s. She told us about seeing a man standing in the rain holding a cane the night Kayla disappeared.”

Stogue nodded, shifting in his chair. “Nothing new there.”

“Have you found him?”

“We are pursuing every viable lead. Believe me, both of you.” Stogue frowned at Rachel. “Do you speak? Or just sit there?”

She smiled. “When I’ve got a good question I’ll ask.”

“Fine.” He folded his hands on the desk. “We’re done for now. I want you to stay in touch with me. And let us know as soon as you’re finished here.” He looked at me without smiling.

Out at the car Rachel tapped my hand. “When you said ‘cane’? He reacted. I felt it.”

Having a psychic girlfriend comes in handy sometimes. “Felt what?”

“Scared. A little angry. Like something we aren’t supposed to know, maybe. One of those things cops hold back in case someone confesses?”

“Could be.” I opened the door. “Let’s split up. Drop me at Kayla’s dorm. I’ll talk to the roommate and some of her friends.”

“What about me, kemo sabe?” She crossed her arms.

“Go find the student newspaper. It’s a pretty big campus, they probably have a good one. Ask about Kayla. And anything else that sounds interesting.”

She cocked her head. “Do I flirt a little?”

“Just a little. Unless it’s really good information.”

She grinned. “Gotcha.”

 

Kayla’s roommate Julie was irritated when I knocked at her door. They were just roommates, she told me, not close friends, although they got along well enough. 

“She was okay.” Short, with skinny arms, Julie avoided looking at me as she folded underwear on her bed. “She was quiet when I needed it. Didn’t mess with my stuff. She didn’t have boyfriends around. Or girlfriends. Not that she was gay or anything, as far as I know.” She held up a pair of pink panties as if deciding whether to throw them away. I tried not to look too closely.

“Did she say anything that day? Before she disappeared?”

She put the panties in the pile. “She had a big paper to write about somebody, some writer. And she forgot her laptop and came back for it. That’s it, I think.”

“When she didn’t come back that night—”

“I didn’t think about it, okay?” She straightened up to glare at me. “Everything thinks I should have called security right away! She didn’t always come home! She just—” Julie stopped and took a breath. “Like I said, she didn’t have boyfriends or hookups, but sometimes she stayed with friends to study. Or maybe get high. I don’t know. She just didn’t always come back, or she came back so late I don’t know what time she came in. It’s not my fault!” She picked up another piece of underwear. “I’m sick of people thinking it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” I agreed. “You did your best.”

“I should have called sooner.” She sighed and sank down on her bed. “I waited until the next day, when she didn’t come back again. I should have called sooner.”

“Not your fault,” I said again.

After a moment she stood up and opened a drawer to put her underwear away. “Is that it?”

“Did Kayla notice anything around campus? Anybody? Something that made her nervous? Something unusual?”

Julie stuffed her panties into the drawer. “I don’t think so. We didn’t usually talk about stuff like that. I did see . . .” She hesitated. “There was a guy hanging around outside the library a couple of nights before—before.”

“What kind of guy?”

“I didn’t look at him. He was just standing there, and I was going to Josh’s room—he’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend—and I was walking past the library and there was some guy standing next to a tree. In the shadows. I thought he had an umbrella or something, which was weird because it wasn’t raining. I just looked away right when I saw him, and I walked faster.”

“Did you tell the police?”

Julie shook her head. “I didn’t think about it. They didn’t ask. Should I?”

“Maybe.” I gave her my card. “If you think of anything else, could you let me know? Any time.”

“S-sure.” She looked at the card. “Okay. Is that it? I’ve got studying—”

“When you said ‘umbrella,’ could it have been a cane?” 

She thought for a moment. “Maybe? I didn’t really look that hard.”

“All right. Thank you for your help.” I left as she started sorting through her bras. 

I headed over to a classroom building to track down Kayla’s Lit professor. She was polite, worried, and tried to be helpful, but she didn’t know anything about Kayla’s disappearance or the man with the cane. “Sorry.”

My next stop was a sorority house where Kayla had some friends. It was a big house with a wide porch, flowers and plants everywhere. No front desk, but I had to press a buzzer to get in. A big girl in sweats came to the door and looked me and my card over skeptically, but she let me in and told me to wait in the lounge.

As I was waiting, my phone buzzed. A text from Rachel: Where are you?

Sorority house. Find anything?

Wait there.

While I waited, one of Kayla’s friends came down. Liza Bowen was distraught, tugging at her long black hair as she talked, shifting in her seat with each question. She had lunch with Kayla the day she vanished, but didn’t have any idea what had happened to her—all she could think about was maniacs in slasher movies wielding boat hooks and chainsaws. But everyone liked Kayla. She didn’t have any creepy guys following her around, no jealous boyfriends, no disappointed would-be boyfriends, no crushes. She studied, partied a little, played volleyball, and didn’t do drugs. Maybe a little weed.

I was waiting for another friend when Rachel showed up, waving at me from the porch to come out.

We sat on a swinging bench. “What’d you find out?”

She had notes on her phone. “Seven years ago four students disappeared in one semester. All females. They were eventually found in a cabin outside of campus.”

Not good. “Dead?”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “He chained them up and kept them half starving, feeding them drugs to keep them under control until they died. Most of them.”

“Most?”

“One of them was still alive, chained up with the others. She went insane from the drugs and the torture. That’s the story, anyway. Sounds like a bad slasher movie.”

“Who did it?”

She looked at her phone notes. “A professor named Garner, Steven Garner. Anthropology. The cops shot him when they found the cabin. And get this—” She slid over to show me her phone. “He walked with a cane.”

The image showed a middle-aged man in jeans and a Rackham sweatshirt, leaning on a cane.

“So is he still alive?”

“Uh-uh. They shot him dead.” 

I took her phone to scroll through her notes. “Where’d you get this?”

“Student newspaper, like you said. Most of them weren’t there back then, but a cute guy who works at the college hangs around to help them out with their computers.”

Cute? “How cute?”

“Very. I think he’s gay. But cute.”

My relief didn’t last very long. “So the obvious suspect is dead?”

“That hasn’t stopped us before.” She took her phone back. 

She was right. My cases do tend to veer toward the supernatural more often than I’d like. Vampires, ghosts, the occasional demon—I can’t seem to avoid them.

I nudged my foot, swinging the bench back and forth. “But one of the victims was still alive. That means Kayla might still be alive.”

“If this is connected, yeah. Maybe. Stop that, it’s making me nauseous.”

I stopped. “Is the cabin still there?” 

“Yeah. I’ve already got it programmed into my GPS.”

“Smart as well as sexy.” I stopped the glider and squeezed her hand. “Let’s go.”

“No more sorority girls to question?” She stood up and peered through the window. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

I laughed. “I never had much luck with college girls. Even when I was in college.”

“Good thing you met me.” She grinned. “Let’s go check out the cabin.”

Uncle John, Part Two

The cabin was 15 miles north of campus, off a long dirt road. Red brick, one story, surrounded by trees at the top of a low hill overlooking a narrow river, it had the crumbled look of an ancient ruin lost in the jungle for centuries.

            The windows were broken. The front door wouldn’t budge, but the back door had been pulled off its hinges and left leaning on the wall. I got a flashlight from the car.

            Rachel followed me through a kitchen that had been wrecked—cabinets torn off the walls, garbage filling the sink, cracks in the tile floor. In the main room a stained, ripped sofa blocked the front door. Beer cans littered the concrete floor, along with an empty beer keg, soiled blankets, a broken bong, and other trash. The smell of pot lingered in the air.

“Looks like the campus party spot,” Rachel said, kicking an empty bottle of whiskey across the floor. “If these bricks could talk . . .” 

She paused for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. “They’d tell you things you don’t want to know.” She pointed to a dried-out condom on the floor.

I turned the flashlight to the rear. Two doors, one hanging off the wall, the other one mostly closed. The first was a bathroom, toilet and sink shattered long ago, but smelling as if it had been used for its original purpose for years.

            The other door felt stiff as I pushed on it, as if reluctant to let anyone through. I ran the light up and down, across the walls, from the hardwood floor to the thick wooden beams overhead, looming down from the ceiling. No window let any trace of light in.

            Rachel tensed. “They were here.”

            “Yeah.” I could feel it even though I wasn’t psychic. The air was stagnant, silent, with a faint odor of mold and decay. 

            I took a step into the room. Rachel stayed in the doorway. There was no trace left of the prisoners from seven years before, just a bare floor and dark walls with a few nails driven in randomly. I looked up at the beams. Had the girls been chained from them? Arms stretching toward the ceiling, feet straining to reach the floor? 

            Rachel shuddered. “I have to leave.”

            I scanned the floor with my flashlight. The hardwood was dark and cluttered with rat droppings, cat food cans, crumpled papers, plastic bottles, a shoe, the dried remains of vomit. Half a candle lay in one corner, red with a gold stripe, its wick black.

            I leaned down to look at the candle. One of the floorboards was loose. I pried at it, and it popped up easily. Underneath I found only dirt and worms, and a long, thin dent in the soil as if something had been buried there. A cane?

            I straightened up. Rachel’s instincts were right—this place was creepy.  I followed her, eager to get away from whatever ghosts might be lingering in the shadows. 

            Back in the main room I took one last look around. I hadn’t expected to actually find any clues, but if Kayla’s disappearance was linked to the kidnappings seven years ago, I had to take a look. But nothing here gave me anything to go on. 

            A rat skittered along one wall. I managed not to yelp. Rachel took my arm. “I’ll protect you, big guy.”

            “Thanks. Wait—” I leaned down. Next to a crumpled beer can lay a sheet of yellow paper. 

            A flier for a church service. One sheet, folded over. CHURCH OF THE RISEN GOD read the block lettering above a sketch of a building with a cross on top. Beneath the sketch was the address, and a date. Two Sundays ago.

            The service itself, on the inside pages, looked pretty typical for Protestant worship. Hymns, verses, offering, and a sermon titled “Embrace Life.” The pastor was Edward Vining Jr.

            Rachel looked it over. “Clue?”

            “It’s newer than most of the stuff around here.” I scanned the floor with my flashlight. No more flyers. 

            It might be completely unrelated. Maybe Kayla had just run away, or been abducted by aliens. But this seemed worth checking out.

            The afternoon sun was getting low as we returned to the car. “Let’s check out this church,” I said as we buckled up. “Then find a motel.” We’d packed bags to stay the night.

            “Good.” She stretched. “I could use a bath. Long drive.”

            I nodded. “Yeah.”

 

The church was closed and locked up when we reached it, west of town. A small parking lot, a well-kept lawn, and shady trees surrounded its walls. I knocked and peeked in a front window, then gave up. A sign said it opened again at nine in the morning.

            We ate dinner and found a motel. I wrote up a report to send to my clients while Rachel took her bath, and then she started flipping through channels, looking for a good reality show. 

“UnReal Housewives, no. Survivor Island Volcano Edition, no. Kim and Jack Get Back, no, Quarantine Hustlers and Lovers, no—hey, it’s Soap Opera Offspring! Taboo Edition, yes!” She turned the sound up.

            My phone buzzed. Rachel likes reality shows a whole lot more than I do, but I tolerate them to keep the peace. But I wasn’t unhappy to be interrupted. Until I found out why.

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Liza. Liza Bowen? We talked today?”

            The girl at the sorority. “Yes. What’s up.”

            “They’re saying—” She gulped. “Another girl’s disappeared.”

            I stared at the TV, where mothers and sons were drinking champagne together. Then I looked away. “Who?”

            “Her name’s Benji. Benji Shawner. She lives here. I saw her outside, and then—she didn’t come home. There’s a text alert. I don’t—I don’t know if it has anything to do with Kayla, but—I wanted to tell you.”

            “Thank you.” I hung up.

            “What?” Rachel turned the sound down.

            “Another one. At the sorority house, or near it.” I swung my legs off the bed and reached for my shoes. 

            “Want me to come?” She sat forward.

            “No. Unless I call you. The campus cops won’t let me do too much. I just want to check it out myself.”

            “Call me. Often. I don’t want you chasing some serial killer on your own again.” She reached for her clothes on the chair next to the bed.

            “I will stay far away from any serial killers.” 

            “Liar.” But she kissed me. “Just be careful.”

            The motel was just off campus, so I reached the sorority house in 10 minutes. Two campus security cars were parked in front. A cop leaned next to the door on the porch. Every window was lit up. I could see shadows moving around in some of them. Others were still.

            The guard at the door was the Black cop from this morning. “You.”

            “Hi. Tom Jurgen? Private detective?”

            “I remember.” His eyes were steely. “What do you want?”

            “Another student disappeared?”

            He tilted his head, looking at me like I was an annoying bug. “Get the hell out of here.”

            “I don’t want to interfere with your investigation.” I held up my hands. “I just want to be able to report to Kayla Barth’s grandparents.”

            Before he could answer, the door behind him opened. I expected Chief Stogue, or whoever was handling the night desk. Instead it was Liza Bowen, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail now. She wore jeans and a hoodie, slippers on her feet. “Tom? Mr. Jurgen?”

            “Go back inside,” the cop said, but Liza squeezed through the door and ducked under his arm. He glared, but decided not to risk a lawsuit by picking her up and hurling her back through the door. “Stay on the porch,” he grunted.

            She led me down to the swinging bench. “I saw her,” Liza whispered. “Benji.”

            “Where?”

            “Out here.” She gestured toward the road in front of the sorority house. “Across the street.”

            Two smaller houses looked at us from the other side. One had a For Sale sign on its lawn. The other was dark, as if everyone was asleep, or the place was abandoned.

            “She was walking home, on the other side of the street. I saw her from my window.” She pointed up. “I saw her stop, like she was talking to somebody. I didn’t think anything about it. But then I went to get her for dinner, and she wasn’t in her room. I freaked. I called her phone, and she didn’t answer, and I started freaking out some more. I called everyone I knew, and they hadn’t seen her since her last class. And then I called campus security.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

            I nodded. “You did the right thing. The faster they get involved, the more likely they can help.”     

            She wiped her nose on her hoodie. “Yeah. And I told them, I saw her talking to someone, right? I didn’t see him, he was wearing this long coat and a hat or something—”

“Did he have anything in his hand? An umbrella, a cane maybe?”

“I didn’t . . .” She stopped and closed her eyes. “Yeah. There was a cane. Out in front of his feet. It looked funny.”

            Uh-oh. “Did you tell that to the police?”

            “Yeah.” Liza nodded. 

            “Did they check across the street?”

            “Yeah. I saw them knock on the doors. No one answered at either place. They went in back. But they didn’t find Benji.”

            I looked across the street. The two houses were about ten yards apart, with a fence between them running into the back, narrow pathways on each side. 

            I could go check the back yards out, but the cops had probably already been there, and I wouldn’t find anything they missed. And I’d get them on my ass for no good reason. 

            I thanked Liza, and she went back inside. The cop stared at me until I stood up, but then Stogue lumbered out of the house, one hand on the pistol at his hip. He didn’t look thrilled to see me.

            “This is an active investigation, Jurgen.” He crossed his arms. “Get the hell out of here.”

            “Man with a cane,” I said. “Liza saw him.”

            “We’re on top of everything.” He pointed toward my car. “Go.”

            “Steven Garner’s dead, right? Did he have any offspring who might be carrying on his work?”

            The name Garner made his eyes flinch. “I told you twice. I’m not telling you a third time. Get out.” 

            He sort of just had, but pointing that out might not be smart. I lifted my hands. “Got it. Hope you find them.” 

            In my car I thought for a moment while the Black cop watched me. I started up, drove a block, then parked and called Rachel. 

            I filled her in. “I’m going to go check out the cabin again. It’s probably empty, but—”

            “Come and get me,” she ordered. “I’m not sitting here watching aunts and nephews get it on and worrying about you.”

            I’d learned not to argue. “Give me a few minutes.”

 

I pulled up to the cabin with Rachel beside me. There were no patrol cars around the place, but a battered Toyota sat in front, with a rusty motorcycle leaning against its hood. Light flickered in the broken windows.

            “Good hunch.” Rachel reached for the glove compartment.

            “Not even a hunch. Just being thorough.” I got out and opened the trunk. A long, heavy flashlight lay on the floor, bigger than the one in the glove compartment. Along with our pepper spray, it would make a handy weapon. If I needed it. I hoped not.

            “Wonder if the cops came out already.” Rachel flicked on her flashlight as we rounded the cabin.

            “They’d have shut it down. Whatever this is.” I led the way, nervous. 

            The back door was still hanging open. I kept one hand in my jacket, holding the pepper spray.  We could already hear music and smell pot and beer as we made our way toward the big room.

            Six people—no seven, one was sitting in a dark corner—sat on the concrete floor around a lantern. College kids. They were passing a bong around. One girl was making out with a man. Another girl, in just shorts and bra, was passed out, her head on top of a balled-up sweater. The music came from a phone hooked up to a small speaker. A case of beer sat next to the lantern, and empty cans dripped on the floor.

            No one noticed us at first. Then a guy in a Rackham College sweatshirt caught the light from my flashlight and twisted around, almost tipping over. “Wha—what the hell?”

            Another guy stood up, wobbling in his sneakers. “Who are you—what are you, uh, why are you here?” 

            “Nobody. Just passing through.” I flicked the flashlight around the room. No chained-up bodies or pentagrams on the floor. No serial killers, just college kids having a party in the middle of nowhere. “You know about the history of this place?”

“The death house.” That came from the guy in the corner, in a gray T-shirt and camouflage pants. “Cool place to have a party.”

“Yeah.” I left Rachel for a moment to check out the back room. Still empty. No sign that anyone had been here in the hours since we’d left.            

Everybody was sitting down again when I came back, watching Rachel. “Okay, have fun. Oh—” I reached into my back pocket for the flier I’d picked up. “Any of you guys go to the Church of the Risen God?”

There was no response, until the guy in the corner raised a hand. “Sometimes. Pastor Vining is pretty cool. He’s the one who told us about this place.”

“Okay.” I steered my flashlight again toward the sleeping girl, breathing softly. “Make sure she gets home all right.”

Another girl nodded. I took Rachel’s arm, and we left.

“So, did we learn anything?” she asked, buckling up.

I started the car. “Everything’s a possible clue. But I don’t know what.” We drove. “I want to swing by the church again.”

She sighed. “Fine. You’re blowing your chance at hot hotel sex, though.”

I glanced over at her. “Damn it. I guess I’ll live.”

She punched my arm.

The church was still closed up and dark. I walked around it once, looking and listening for voices or lights, but it seemed as quiet as the night. I didn’t really expect to confront any killers here. I just had to make sure.

We got back to the motel after midnight. Rachel yawned, kicking off her shoes. “What’s on the to-do list for tomorrow?”

“Ask more questions.” I still had the list of Kayla’s friends to work through. “Try not to get thrown out of town by the sheriff.”

“It’s good to have goals.” She pulled off her shirt. “Mind if I watch a little more TV?”

“Knock yourself out.” I climbed out of my clothes and got into bed. Rachel watched a home improvement show while I drifted off, but I didn’t get much sleep even after she quit. Too many questions were swirling around my brain.

Uncle John, Part Three

We were eating breakfast at a café when Rachel’s phone buzzed. She smiled as she answered it. I watched her as I sipped my coffee. She nodded a lot, asked a few questions, then smiled again. “Thanks!” 

            “Car warranty renewal?” I asked.

            She giggled. “Guy from the paper. Guy is actually his name. Now I’m not sure he’s gay.” She sighed, then looked at me. “Oh. Anyway, he was looking up stuff last night and he found out that there was another series of kidnappings on campus before Garner.”

            My eyes widened a little. “Do tell.”

            “Around seven years before that, three students, all girls, went missing in a semester. They eventually were found dead in a cave down by the river—I guess there’s a river somewhere? They’d been chained up, and  . . . .” She shivered. “The guy who did it was a local farmer, Donald Evans. Killed himself.” 

She leaned forward, arms on the table. “This is pretty good work, huh? Do I get a raise, boss?”

“Huh.” I looked at my empty plate, glad I’d finished before getting this news. “Seven years? Dead suspect. That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Is it really?” She raised her eyebrows. 

Maybe not. “Okay. Go see your friend Guy. Find out if there’s anything more. Try not to flirt too much.” 

Rachel pouted. “You take all the fun out of it.”

“You’re a young hot babe. I’m a middle-aged P.I. who needs to work out more. He’s cute. You do the math.”

“Aww.” She leaned across the table to kiss me. “You’re still the only guy I want to have hot motel sex with.”

I felt better. A little. “Okay. I’m going to go talk to Chief Stogue.”

 

Stogue glared as I entered his office, as if he wanted to hurl his computer monitor at my face. “Didn’t I tell you to get out of town?”

            “You just told me to stop hanging around the sorority house. I’m not there. I’m here in your office.” I sat down.

            He leaned back in his chair, looking me over. “I checked you out, Jurgen. Chicago PD says you like to go around spreading crazy theories about vampires and monsters and ghosts. Well, we don’t have any vampires here at Rackham College. We do have cells where I can have you locked up for interfering with a police investigation. Food’s not good in our jail, but you’ve got cockroaches for extra protein if you like.”

            I’m used to not being popular. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. “Look, the only reason I’m here is to ask about the pattern you’ve got here. A seven-year pattern. Do you know about that?”

            He grimaced. “Yeah. Garner. Nothing to do with this. He’s dead.”

            “And seven years before him, a farmer named Donald Evans pulled the same stunt. Four dead girls. He’s dead too. Isn’t that at least a little interesting?”

            Stogue blinked. “You’re talking fourteen years ago. I was a cop in Milwaukee then.”

            “You keep records, don’t you? I’m sure you can look it up.”

            He stared at me for five seconds. Then, with a long sigh, he turned to his computer. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Jurgen. I’ll be sure to look into it when time permits. We’re pretty busy right now.” The message was clear: Get out.

            The Chicago cops tolerate me because sometimes I’m right about vampires and monsters—although they do their best to cover it up when it happens. But Stogue would put me on a cockroach diet, and that didn’t sound very appetizing. So I left. 

In the car I texted Rachel. Then I drove out to the Church of the Risen God.

            In daylight the church looked serene and more welcoming. The open front door helped. I parked and walked in quietly, in case I was interrupting a service in progress.

            Instead an old man with white hair was sweeping between the pews. He bent down to pick something up—a yellow paper, like the flier I’d found in the cabin—and stuffed it into his back pocket, then continued sweeping.

Stained glass windows filtered the morning light from the east. The sanctuary’s wooden pews looked well used. Red and gold candles sat on the altar, where a gray-haired Black woman was dusting and humming. I walked up and asked her if Reverend Vining was in.

            She looked up from her dusting as if she’d been lost in her work. Smiling, she pointed toward a door by the side of the riser where the choir would sing. “Have a blessed day,” she said.

            Through the door and down a short hall I found a half-open door. CHURCH OFFICE. I leaned in. “Pastor Vining?”

            Edward Vining Jr. was a young man, early thirties, with curly brown hair and a warm, welcoming smile. He stood up eagerly, as if happy for a new soul to save. Or at least some company to distract him from whatever paperwork a minister does. “Yes! Can I help you?”

            No cane. I told him my name and offered my card.

            He sat down behind a small desk with a computer next to a candle in a brass holder, red and gold, like the ones I’d seen on the altar. The office was square and clean. A crucifix hung on one wall. A bookcase covered the other wall, filled with a random collection of books—theology, philosophy, science, and a few bestsellers. I saw Dan Brown and Stephen King crammed beside Aristotle and Kant. 

            Vining looked at my card, puzzled. “A private detective. How can I help you?”

            I explained why I was on campus, but I didn’t know what to ask. Obviously he didn’t walk with a cane—although that didn’t mean he didn’t own one—but I didn’t really have anything tying him to the kidnappings, or killings. Just the church flier from the cabin. So I showed it to him.

            “I found this at the cabin where those girls were found, seven years ago. Any idea how it got there?”

            He took it from me, opened it up, turned it over, and set it down with a shrug. “We print up a hundred or so of these every week. I ask people to recycle them. But they end up all over town. I’m sorry, are you trying to imply something?”

            “I’m just trying to cover every base here.” I looked around the office. “Do any of your congregation walk with canes?”

            Vining cocked his head, staring at me with narrow eyes. “We have a lot of elderly people. I haven’t really noticed how many use canes, or walkers, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any serial killers in my pews on Sunday.”

            “It’s just that people have reported seeing a man with a cane when the girls disappeared. Now, and seven years ago.”

            Vining stiffened behind his desk. “I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Jurgen. What’s happening is—terrible. I’ve prayed about it. But the only direction I can point you in is toward Jesus.”

            I stood. “Thanks for your time. If you hear anything, please call me.”

            The woman dusting the altar was down among the pews, checking hymnals. The sweeping janitor was gone.

            I sat down on a pew to think for a moment. Maybe divine inspiration would tell me what to do next. I still had a few more names on my list of Kayla’s friends, but I didn’t have much confidence that I’d find anything useful from them. The campus police were on the case, and the state police had to be involved too, and they had more resources than me—plus, the prospect of students fleeing the campus and parents not paying tuition and alumni holding off on donations would put fire under campus cops’ feet.

            The church had been a shot in the dark anyway. Maybe I was just cynical about religion. I stood up to go, and found the gray-haired woman coming up the aisle with a plastic bucket in her hand.

            “Terrible about those missing girls.” She set the bucket down.

            I looked at her. She was old enough to remember seven years ago—and before that. “It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” 

            She nodded. “Long time. More than once.”

            “What’s going on, do you think?”

            She turned to gaze out the window at the trees outside. “The man who walked with a cane.”

            I waited a moment for her to say more. “What man?”

            “Out in the woods. Next to the river.” She looked at me. “Uncle John.”

            “Who’s that?”

            Suddenly she laughed. “The boogeyman. We called him Uncle John. My mom would always say, ‘Look out for Uncle John! Don’t let him get you!’”

            I glanced around, startled by her laughter. The sanctuary was empty. “Uncle John.”

            “That’s what they called him.” She reached into her bucket for a spray can and a rag. “Every town’s got its boogeyman, right?”

            “Where’d the name come from?”

            She shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably somebody’s uncle.”

            “That makes sense.” I stood up and handed her a card. “I didn’t get your name?”

            “Louise.” She took the card. “Louise Graham. A private detective? Do you have a gun?”

            “Not yet.” I thanked her and left.

            In the car I called Rachel. “Still there with Guy? The cute guy?”

            “Just having coffee. He’s looking stuff up on his laptop. Find out anything?”

            “Ask him about a local boogeyman named Uncle John.” I looked at the trees around the parking lot. “He walks with a cane. I’ll be right over.”

            “To check him out? Jealous much?”

            “Very. Try not to make out with him.”

            She gave me a breathy sigh. “It’ll be hard.”

            “I’ll hurry.”

 

Guy Mantell was in his early 30s—closer to Rachel’s age than mine. Black, with a trimmed beard. Attractive, I guess, if you liked broad shoulders and turtleneck shirts and strong handshakes. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled. “Rachel says you’re a P.I.?”

            “That’s right.” We were in the hallway in the student union building, where the student newspaper office was located. Rachel sat at a table, sipping coffee and grinning. “You, uh, hang around the newspaper here a lot?”

            He laughed. “Kind of. I’m a math instructor, but I worked on the paper when I was here. That was 10 years ago.” He glanced over his shoulder at the office’s open doorway. “Kind of an unofficial faculty advisor. I help with computers and stuff.”

            “Is there much news backed up?”

            “You’d be surprised. They’ve got scanned print editions going back to the 1980s. And there’s the local news, too.” He leaned down to tap at his laptop. “Rachel says you’re interested in someone called Uncle John?”

            “Yeah, sort of a local boogeyman?”

            He nodded. “Yeah. First I was looking at the stuff about Evans, the farmer.” He worked the keyboard. “He was a soybean farmer. No one knows what made him start kidnapping students. Three of them, all female. He kept them tied up in a cave by the river for two weeks. They died of exposure.”

            Yuck. I tried to stay focused. “Did he walk with a cane?”

            Mantell shook his head. “Nothing says he did. But he was 74 when they caught him, so maybe? He hung himself in jail before the trial.”

            He pointed to the screen, and I leaned over to skim an article about the case from the local newspaper. 

            “Anything before that?” Rachel scooted her chair next to him until their shoulders were touching.

            “I looked at 2001 and 1994, but I didn’t find anything.” He scrolled down, going back through the years.

            “What about Uncle John?” I asked.

            “That’s different.” He exited the screen. “There’s one or two references in the student news. One’s a letter from a student complaining about campus police—here.” He clicked. “‘What are they doing, protecting us against Uncle John?’ Stuff like that. I had to go into the college archives and the local history sites. There’s a paper in a folklore journal on urban legends that mentions him—here.”

            I peered at the screen. “ . . . in the Midwest, a character called ‘Uncle John’ or sometimes ‘Creepy John’ is said to kidnap or punish misbehaving children. He lives near lakes or rivers and is usually described or depicted as carrying a cane with—”

            Mantell switched to a different article. “This one looks at boogeyman myths from different cultures. The sack man, el coco, gogol, and others around the world. Uncle John’s in a footnote, but it does include the cane. Rachel said you were interested in canes.”

            “The witnesses both saw a man with a cane,” I said. 

            Mantell sat back and crossed his arms. “You think Uncle John is real?”

            He wasn’t saying I was crazy. But maybe he was just humoring Rachel in hope of hooking up with her. Yes, I’m insecure. My job has taught me to be skeptical of everything.

            “We know Garner and Evans were real.” I reached over his arm to take the mouse and click backward. “Maybe he can possess people.” 

Mantell pushed his chair back to let me navigate.I went to the previous article. The sentence continued: “a cane with a skull or other round object, gold or the actual skull of a small animal.”

“What is it?” Rachel planted a hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m not sure yet.” I pulled out my phone. I had April Brown’s number. She picked up on the second buzz. “H-hello?”

“April? It’s Tom Jurgen. We spoke yesterday?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She sounded nervous. “Are you still here? There’s another one missing. I’m going home this afternoon.”

“Probably a good idea. I’m still on campus. I have a question: When you saw that man, did you notice what kind of cane he was holding? What it looked like?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “It was raining. I didn’t really see it, just the bottom part, you know? I really don’t know.” 

I hid my disappointment. “You don’t happen to have a number for, uh, Liza Bowen? She’s a friend of Kayla’s, and she saw the other girl last night, right before she disappeared.”

“Liza? Yeah, I know her. Just a second.” I waited. “Here it is.” She gave me the number.”

“Thank you. Get home safe.” I hung up and started calling Liza while Rachel cocked an eyebrow at me and Mantell watched.

“Liza? It’s Tom Jurgen again. I was just wondering—is there any chance you got a look at that man’s cane? The handle of it? I know he was across the street—”

“Oh, yeah.” She sounded out of breath. “I told the police. It wasn’t like a regular handle, you know? It didn’t stick out. It looked round, the way he held it. The way his hand was on it. I thought it was funny.”

“Round.” I nodded. “Thanks. Stay safe.”

“A skull?” Rachel asked.

“She didn’t say that. But not a regular cane handle.” I put my phone away. 

“Like Uncle John,” Mantell said.

“Maybe.” My momentary surge of triumph faded. Now what? I wasn’t any closer to finding Kayla or the other girl—or their bodies—or the kidnapper. Uncle John. I couldn’t even tell the campus cops about it. Stogue would—well, he probably wouldn’t laugh. But he definitely wouldn’t listen. 

“What’s next, chief?” Rachel punched my shoulder. “Hit the streets looking for people with canes?”

Not the worst idea, but not a very efficient use of our time. And the clock was ticking for the second girl, Benji. And maybe for Kayla.

I remembered what Louise Graham had said at the church. “Uncle John hangs around by the river?” 

Mantell reached past me to tap at the keyboard. “Yeah, here.” He read: “ . . . lives near lakes or rivers and is usually described—”

“There’s a river near that cabin,” Rachel said. 

“And the first group of girls was found in a cave by the river.” I looked at Mantell’s computer. “Guy, tell us about the river?”

“We call it, uh, Pig River.” He looked a little embarrassed by the name as he started working the keyboard again. “The real name is, uh, the Wonauk River. Native American. I guess there were some pig farmers or something—”

“Got it.” Rachel had her phone out. “It runs northeast, past the campus, down by the cabin on the west. And—wait for it—about a mile from that church. It’s here on the map, see?” She shoved the phone in my face.

“Let’s check it out.” I stood up. “Thanks for your help, Guy.”

“Sure thing.” He looked at Rachel. “Any time.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Gotta run. ‘Bye!” She grabbed my hand and led me away.

“Did you have to kiss him?” I asked as we headed down the hall.

“We might need him again. I’ll make out with you in the car if that makes you feel better.”

“Rain check.” I pushed on the door.