Gargoyles, Part One

They had red, bulging eyes and jagged fangs jutting from thick, bony jaws. They stared out at me, four of them.

            Four photos. Actually, one was a five-second video, with the creature’s lips slobbering as it breathed in and out, its eyes flicking left and right as if looking for an enemy to attack, ready to leap through my computer screen and tear me to shreds.

            It was a hell of an email to start the day with.

            I sipped my coffee, rubbed my eyes, and read the message beneath:

 

Mr. Jurgen,

Please call me at 10 a.m. at the number below to discuss a possible case for you involving the attached images. A retainer has been paid to your account.

Sincerely,

Lawrence W. Raymond

 

I checked my Venmo account and found that, yes, $5,000 had been deposited, which was a slightly better way to start my day. Whatever Lawrence Raymond wanted, I was willing to listen to for that kind of money. 

            The email had been sent at 5:47 this morning. Raymond was an early riser. It was almost 8:30 now.

            I was looking at the images when Rachel trudged into the office, barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, carrying coffee in her Supergirl mug. 

            “You’re up?” I looked her over. “You didn’t come to bed until, what, 2:30?”

            “Three-fifteen.” She yawned. Rachel has red hair, hazelnut eyes, nice legs, and some psychic powers. She’s also my girlfriend, she’s a graphic designer, and she’s currently in grad school studying psychology. Late nights had gotten to be routine. “What’s that?” She pointed at the monsters on my screen.

            “My new case, apparently. Maybe. Someone sent this and $5,000 at six o’clock this morning. I’m calling him later. You okay?” This was her third late night this week.

            She groaned. “I’m almost finished with my paper. I’ve got a web page redesign and class today. I’m surviving on willpower, caffeine, and Coco Puffs. Which we’re all out of, by the way.” She yawned again. “Wait, were we going to have sex last night? Was I supposed to wake you up?”

            “We can save it for the weekend. Unless you’re good to go right now.”

            “Hah.” She made her way to her chair. “Saturday. It better be awesome. But not too early. Three-ish?”

            “Can’t wait.” 

            I spent a few minutes checking out Lawrence Raymond. If it was the same guy, he was a professor of medieval history at the University of Chicago, author of a dozen books on the Middle Ages, married with one adult daughter, winner of a couple academic awards, and collector of antiquities. All that from his U of C faculty page and social media. I decided to hold off on digging deeper into his background until I knew what the case was, and went on to a financial fraud case until 10.

            At 10 a.m. I punched the phone number from his email and listened. One buzz. Two. Three—

            “Hello? Who’s this?” The demand was curt and suspicious.

            “Uh, this is Tom Jurgen. I’m trying to reach Lawrence Raymond? I’m responding to his email from this morning—”

            “What’s this about? What’s your business with him?”

            “I don’t know what it’s about. I’m a private detective. He emailed me this morning asking me to—”

            “Hang on.” The phone went mute.

            I thought I knew who was on the other end of the line, in general if not in particular. Twenty seconds later I found I was right. “This detective Paul D’Amati, Chicago Police Department. Who is this and why are you calling?”

            Experience has taught me to be patient with the Chicago PD even when they weren’t being patient with me. “My name is Tom Jurgen, I’m a private detective, and I got an email from Lawrence Raymond this morning asking me to call him at 10 a.m. What’s going on?”

            “Jurgen, right?” He sounded as if the name was familiar. Too familiar. Some Chicago cops know about me. They mostly think I’m crazy. A pain in the ass too, but mostly crazy. 

            “Tom Jurgen, yes,” I said.

            “Well, Tom, what’s going on is that Lawrence Raymond is dead. Would you know anything about that?”

            “Dead how? What happened?” I saw Rachel look up from her desk, curious, and put the phone on speaker for her to listen.

            “He was stabbed early this morning in his home. Did you know about that?”

            “No. I never heard of him before this morning. Do you know who did it?”

            D’Amati made me wait for 10 seconds, then said, “I’m going to want you to come down to police headquarters and make a statement. Bring the email with you. Right away.” He hung up.

            I looked at Rachel. “Nice guy.”

            “He’s probably busy. Just like me.” She turned back to her computer. “Don’t say anything stupid when you give your statement.”

            “Stupid? It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

            She snorted. “Riiight.”

 

At police headquarters on South Michigan avenue I talked to a detective named Crossen, a woman with a short haircut and humor-free eyes. “What the hell is this?” she asked when I showed her Lawrence Raymond’s email on my laptop, monster pictures and all. The short video held her gaze for several repeats until she looked away.

            “I did a reverse image search on the internet,” I told her. “They came up as gargoyles. Gargoyles are made out of stone, of course, and these don’t look like—”

“I know what gargoyles are. I’ve been to Europe.” She leaned in on my laptop. “These aren’t statues. Is this some kind of joke?”

“No idea.” I shrugged. “I never got to talk to him.”

She frowned, asked me a bunch of questions, and finally took a formal statement, which I signed. “Okay. You can go.”

I packed up my laptop. Crossen stared at me, her eyes like glaciers. “Are you that Jurgen?”

I smiled. I could have asked who she was talking about, but she didn’t seem like the type to find that amusing. So I nodded. “I probably am.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get out.”

Here’s the thing: I run into a lot of monsters—vampires, demons, killer plants, and other scary stuff. It started when I was a reporter, and it keeps happening to me as a private detective. I don’t know why. Maybe because I keep an open mind. Maybe because I keep asking questions when cops and other people don’t want to know the answers. Maybe it’s because I’m a stubborn asshole, as Rachel frequently says. Maybe I’m just unlucky.

But these monsters in Raymond’s email were the kind of thing I’m known for. I’ve gotten a reputation with the police, and with potential clients caught up in something outside the norm. Maybe that’s why Lawrence Raymond sent me that email.

So I left. But I didn’t head home. 

Lawrence Raymond had sent me money, and I had to either refund it or do something to earn it. So I found my car and headed down to Hyde Park, where the U of C lives, and where Raymond had lived up until this morning.

I could see the Museum of Science and Industry as I parked. A doorman inside frowned when I asked him to call Lawrence Raymond’s suite. “The family is not receiving visitors,” he told me sternly. “There’s been a tragedy.” A camera up in the ceiling seemed to silently judge me as well. 

“I know. He contacted me this morning. Before the, uh, tragedy. Please ask if they’ll talk to me for just a minute.”

He frowned. “Can I see some ID?”

I showed him my drivers license. He was reluctant, but he made the call. After talking with someone quietly, he nodded and pressed a button that opened the door in front of me. “Suite 1402.” He still disapproved. 

On the 14th floor I pressed a bell. A moment later the door opened. A woman in her 30s answered. Blond, in a turtleneck, with blue eyes behind thin wire-rimmed glasses. She looked me over. “You’re the guy from downstairs?”

“Tom Jurgen.” I gave her a card. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that Mr Raymond contacted me early this morning and deposited—”

“Just a minute.” She motioned me inside. “Let me get my mom.”

She left me in a spacious living room with a view of the museum across a wide park. A sectional sofa, big armchairs, lush carpeting, and bookshelves on every wall. Some held books, mostly hardcovers, generally history and textbooks with a few bestsellers mixed in. Most of the shelves were shielded by glass. They held antiques—pots, vases, runes, pictures carved in stone and other items.

I looked around. No TV. Maybe Raymond watched it in the bedroom. Maybe he was the kind of intellectual type who didn’t watch TV at all.

“Yes?” An older woman stood in the doorway. She had gray hair tied back, and wore a plain white blouse buttoned to the throat. “I’m Carla Raymond. This is my daughter Adrienne. How can we help you?”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to bother you, and I’ll leave if you tell me to. I just wanted to check something with you.”

“What is it?” Adrienne crossed her arms. She was skeptical, and I didn’t blame her.

“Your husband—your father—sent me an email this morning. It had some, uh, disturbing pictures, and he wanted me to call him at 10 a.m. He also apparently deposited $5,000 in my Paypal account. Now, I’m happy to return that you and leave you alone. I just felt I should ask if that’s what you want, and if there’s anything I can do for you. I mean—” I shook my head as Adrienne opened her mouth to speak. “I’m not fishing for business. I’m just offering my help if you want it.”

Mrs. Raymond cocked her head, frowning like her daughter. “What sort of—pictures?”

I opened my briefcase and took out my laptop. “They’re not, uh, sexual, if that’s what you’re thinking.” They could have been worrying that someone was trying to blackmail them. Or that I was. “Just, uh, brace yourselves.” I pulled up the email and zoomed in on the four images.

Adrienne gasped. Mrs. Raymond just blinked. She leaned forward for a closer look. “What on earth—”

“An image search says they might be gargoyles. I’ve never seen anything like them before.” And I’ve seen my shares of supernatural creatures and hellish beasts. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Raymond looked away. I closed the laptop. The two women looked at each other silently. Adrienne seemed more confused than her mother, but she still shot me a glance that told me she didn’t trust me yet.

Mrs. Raymond sighed. “This way.”

They led me into another room, almost as large as the living room. I wondered how large their suite was, and how much money history professors at the U of C make. This room had more books and antiquities, plus a desk with a computer on it and a small leather sofa.

Mrs. Raymond pointed to an empty shelf behind the desk. It had a lock, but nothing sat behind the clear glass.

“There were four of them.” She stared at the shelf as if she could see something still there. “Four heads—gargoyles, from a church in Germany, 14th century. We bought them legally—Larry was very careful about that. Every once in a while, yes, he got fooled and bought something that didn’t rightfully belong to a dealer, but when he found out, he always returned it to the correct owner—and sued the bastard for as much as he could get.”

Adrienne smiled. “They weren’t always easy to track down, but we did it.”

“Like I said, we had four of them. There were five, originally, but one of them disappeared ages ago, before Larry ever heard of them.” Mrs. Raymond sank into the sofa. “One of ours was stolen three months ago. We know who did it—Galen Harvey, a friend of Larry’s. Former friend. We were having a party, and Larry was showing them off, and he forgot to lock the case. Galen had a suitcase, he claimed he was going to the airport right after the party. It was the only way anyone could get one of the heads out. He didn’t bother to deny it when Larry called him, but he refused to return it. And Larry didn’t want to call the police.”

“So you let him keep it?” I asked.

“Larry wanted his lawyer to handle it.”

“I’m his lawyer,” Adrienne said. “It’s taking a while.”

“After that, Larry decided to take them somewhere safer. We have a vacation home on the lake in Wisconsin, and it’s got a solid vault in the basement for keeping items when we’re not there.”

“Okay, what about this morning? Did security pick anything up at the front desk?”

“We looked at some of the footage,” Adrienne said. “We can’t tell who he is. Skinny, young, in jeans and glasses and a hat, so you can’t get a good look at this face.”

“The doorman says he called up here, and Larry said to let him up.” Mrs. Raymond sighed. “He gets up ridiculously early in the morning.”

“Did he give a name? I had to show the doorman my ID just now.”

“That was probably because of the police,” Adrienne said. “But usually they do ask your name.”

“Clyde—the doorman—said he talked to Larry directly. Larry just said to let him up.” Mrs. Raymond bit a lip, shaking her head and fighting back tears. 

I looked at the empty shelf. “How long ago did you relocate them?”

“About—about two months ago.” She took a deep breath, pulling herself together. “After the one got stolen.”

“Are they still there? When did you see them last?”

Adrienne tensed. “What are you saying? That they came to life or something? Just because somebody sent dad a few pictures? Are you—”

“I”m not saying anything,” I interrupted. “I mean, I’ve never heard of gargoyles coming to life, but I have heard of stranger stuff. Ask around.”

Adrienne took out her phone as if she was going to Google me right now. Mrs. Raymond stood up. “What do you think, Mr. Jurgen? You said you wanted to help us, and you have $5,000 of Larry’s money. My money. Do you have any ideas?”

I didn’t. I just had questions. “How was your husband—I’m sorry, but how was he killed?”

“Stabbing.” She took a short breath. “That’s what the police said. In the chest, several times. The knife—it wasn’t there when we found him.”

“Nothing was stolen? Nothing missing? Money?”

She shook her head. “As best as I can tell, Larry let them into the apartment sometime before I got up. He was obviously up early, sending you that email. He’s an early riser, up with the sun. Was.”

“Did he have a cell phone? Is that what I called this morning?”

“Yes. It was in here when we heard it.” She reached forward. “Actually, it’s right here.”

“Could I look at it?”

She handed it over. “The pass code is 1066. Battle of Hastings, you know.”

“Right.” I tapped it in, trying to remember my high school history.

“What are you looking for?” Adrienne looked up from her phone.

“The pictures he sent me. The email isn’t marked as coming from a phone, but still . . .” I hesitated. “May I look through his photos?”

Mrs. Raymond laughed, probably for the first time all day. “I’m pretty sure Larry never took naked selfies. If he did, let me know.”

I skimmed through the album. No gargoyles. That meant he hadn’t taken the photos himself, or seen them in the monster flesh. Probably.

I looked around the room, stopping at the desk. “Could I look at that computer?”

“Be my guest.” She gestured to the chair. “The password is AlexanderG. For Alexander the Great.”

I sat down and tapped it in. “I want to check his email, if that’s all right.”

            “Fine. I can’t think of anything—well, try not to look too hard at anything personal, but—”

            “Oh my God.” Adrienne looked from her phone to me. “Tom Jurgen? Is that you? Is this all true?”

            I stifled a groan. “Some of it, probably. My girlfriend checks it every once in a while to get rid of anything too crazy.” Apparently there’s fanfic, which amuses Rachel, but I try to avoid looking at myself online. Some days it’s hard enough to look at myself in the mirror.

            “What are you looking for?” Mrs. Raymond asked.

            “The photos. I’m trying to see where—” I stopped. “Here.”

            The sender was Geoffreylong121. The email was from last night, 9:32 p.m. The message read: This is what they look like. They’re dangerous. I’ll call later.”        

I picked up the phone again and checked Raymond’s recent calls. He’d gotten a call from “Geoff Long” at 10:17.

            “Do you know a Geoffrey Long?” I asked.

“He was a student.” Mrs. Raymond thought for a moment. “A long time ago, 10 years maybe. He kept in touch—his family is wealthy, I guess, and he got the bug for collecting. He’d call Larry every once a while for advice, or to brag about something he bought.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t careful. He bought at least a couple of forgies, and some stolen pieces that he had to give up.”

“Did he know about the gargoyles here?” I glanced at the empty shelf.

“Probably. Maybe. He hasn’t been here in a long time.”

“He tried to date me once.” Adrienne grimaced. “But he was never here with me. We didn’t—it didn’t work out.” 

“Is he the man in the security footage?”

She closed her eyes, thinking. “It could have been. Maybe? You can’t really get a good look at him, or his body language. Should I call the police?”

I tried the number from Raymond’s phone. Four buzzes, then voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Y-yeah.” She looked embarrassed. “I was just there for a party once. We didn’t—ˆ never—”

“It’s fine, Adri. Whatever.” Mrs. Raymond shook her head. “I don’t see what he could have to do with—this.” She looked down at the floor. “I suppose . . . could you go talk to him?”

I was on my feet. “I’ve already been paid, so sure. I’ll just need his address.” I looked at Adrienne.

She started tapping a text. “Just keep track of your hours and expenses.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Adrienne.” Her mother stood up. “I just want to know what—what—” She bit her lip to keep from breaking down in tears. “Be—be careful, Mr. Jurgen.” 

“I will. Thank you. Again, sorry for your loss.”

Adrienne put an arm around her mother’s shoulders.  For a moment they forgot I was there, and I used that moment to leave.

 

Geoffrey Long lived in Lincolnwood, north of Chicago and south of Skokie. He had a small house, one story, with a narrow front  lawn, one tree in the center and a thick hedge along the driveway. Curtains drawn shut in front. I parked on the street, texted Rachel to let her know where I was, and walked up the driveway to the front door.

            I heard the doorbell inside when I pressed the button. No answer. I rang again. The Raymonds, mother and daughter, said he worked from home, trading crypto or Bitcoin or something like that, so chances were good he’d be home. Maybe I should have called first. I pressed the button again.

            The door opened. Six inches. “Yes?”

            The voice had a faint accent—from Russia, or maybe Eastern Europe. I couldn’t see much through the crack—narrow cheeks, yellowed teeth, a hood drooping over a tall forehead. “What do you want?”

            “I’m, uh, looking for Geoffrey Long. My name is Tom Jurgen. Are you—friends?”

            The man didn’t answer. He stepped back, and I waited for him to open the door. When he didn’t, I gave it a nudge with my foot.

            He was walking away, past a closet door on the left, through the living room, without looking back. Puzzled, I took a step forward. “Hello? Geoffrey Long?”

            A groan answered me. 

I blinked. The long curtains blocked out the sunlight from outside. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the living room had been trashed. Bookshelves pulled down, pots and vases smashed, the TV screen shattered, chairs scattered and upended, lamps on the floor with broken bulbs—

            And a human body on the carpet, moaning in pain. 

            He was on his side, bleeding from his chest and neck and face, his shirt in shreds, the skin on his back peeled away in jagged strips, exposing whatever’s under the skin when you shred it with a knife. Or a claw.  

            “Geoffrey?” I dropped to my knees, trying not to get any blood on my pants. I didn’t know what to do. Roll him onto his back? Find a towel for the bleeding? 

            Next to his body was a dagger. Used on him? No, it had blood on the blade, but it was dry. Bronze. An antique, or a replica. It looked sharp enough to kill, though. I didn’t touch it.

When I looked up, the old man was watching us. Under his hood I could see a bald scalp and deep eyes, dark as coal. He was short, in his 70s or older, but still solid, built like a bulldog. His fingers were thin and bony.

            He stood in the hallway, motionless. Behind him I saw a shadow. Tall, angular, breathing heavily. Long arms. Bulging red eyes.

            It lifted an arm. I saw its claws twitch.

            I lurched back on my heels, ready to jump up and flee. Leaving Long behind? Maybe. I never claimed to be brave. 

            But before I could decide between running or staying, the old man turned and grunted something too soft to hear. The creature behind him backed away, and then seemed to fade and shrink away until it vanished into the darkness of the hall.

The old man took one step, then two, and then he was gone too. 

            I decided against following him. Them. I looked down at Geoffrey Long again. If this was him. “Geoffrey Long?”

“Y-yeah . . .” Blood dribbled from his lips. 

Geoffrey Long wasn’t dead, but he looked close to it.I took out my phone and called 911, then knelt beside him as he moaned and struggled to breathe. 

“Mr. Long? I’m Tom Jurgen. I was sent by Lawrence Raymond’s wife. About your email to him?”

            “Ray—Raymond,” Long choked. “Oh God . . .”

            “What happened? What were those creatures?”       

“I’m sorry.” Long murmured, his eyes shut. “I told Guy—”

            What did that mean? I felt bad, interrogating him as he lay there in pain, probably dying. But I didn’t have anyone else to ask. “What were those creatures?”

“Guy—” Long coughed. “Guy, I couldn’t . . .” His eyes flickered. “Sorry. Sorry about . . .”

            His eyes closed again. I waited with him until the ambulance arrived.