Demon Inside, Part Two

We were too late.

            Police lights flared across the North Avenue beach. Walker had told me he was close to a boat in the sand—a restaurant open all summer, but closed in the fall.

            Rachel and I came up from the tunnel under Lake Shore Drive to see cops walking around, laying down crime scene tape and talking on radios.

            “Damn it.” Rachel’s arms drooped. “Now what?”

            I wanted to run away. But I needed to know what had happened.

            “Stay here. Or go back to the car. Whatever you want.” I turned off my flashlight. “Let me see what’s going on.”

            “No way.” Rachel slugged my arm. “I’m coming with you.”

            “Whatever.” I’d learned not to argue.

            One of the cops recognized me as I walked toward the building. “Jurgen?”

            I stopped. “Hi, uh . . .”

            A tall black officer swung her flashlight across my face. “Cameron. And you are . . .?”

            “Rachel Dunn.” She stood close to me. “I work with him.”

            “What’s going on?” A detective in plain clothes stalked toward us. This one I knew.

            “Detective Hawkins.” I kept my hands free of my pockets. “Nice to see you.”

            “This isn’t a vampire case, Jurgen.” Hawkins, built like a linebacker, glared at me and Rachel. “What are you doing here?”

            Just talking a walk? That wouldn’t cut it. But anything else I could say would get Rachel and me sent downtown. I depended on Rachel to bail me out if I got arrested, but she couldn’t do that if she got thrown in jail too.

            So I chose my words carefully. “I’m checking on a client. If he’s not here, I can—”

            “What client?”

            I shook my head. “I can’t tell you that.”

            Hawkins smirked. “Officer Pauling, take them in.”

            “Wait!” I held up a hand. “What’s going on?”

            “I’ve got a dead woman on the beach here, Jurgen!” Hawkins pointed a finger. “Now you tell my everything you’ve got right now, and maybe I won’t lock you and your girlfriend up for the rest of the week.”

            Damn it. I looked at Rachel.

            She shrugged. “I can take it.”

            I shook my head. “I’m not sure I can.”

            Pauling looked at Hawkins. “Sir?”

            “Okay, okay!” I stepped back. I’m not a lawyer or a doctor. I can’t protect clients from the law. “My client’s name is Jeremy Walker. He’s possessed by a demon. I’ll give you everything you want—just leave Rachel out of jail. All right?”

            Rachel stared at me. For a moment I was sure she’d slug me—hard. But instead she turned away, breathing a sigh of relief.

            “A demon.” Hawkins spat in the sand. “Goddamn it, Jurgen, can’t you ever get into anything normal?”

            I sighed. “I wish I could, detective.”

            Pauling looked at me, then at Hawkins. “Do I take them downtown, sir?”

            “No.” Hawkins shook his head. “Sit them in a car and get everything you can about this Walker guy. Then let them go.”

            So we sat in the back of a squad car and I gave up everything I had. Including the attack I’d stopped earlier tonight.

            Pauling scowled at me through the rearview mirror. “You witnessed an attack and you didn’t call it in? I can arrest you for that right now.”

            “I’m cooperating, aren’t I? He was my—”

            “If you’d cooperated a few hours ago, that woman might still be alive.”

            It hit me then, like a wave of nausea. I managed not to throw up, but I did hyperventilate a bit until Rachel slugged me. “Snap out of it!”

            “Yeah.” Pauling shifted in the front seat, “Throwing up in my squad car will definitely get you arrested.”

            I started talking. I didn’t know much—just Walker’s phone number and address. Pauling took it down, then told us to wait in the car while she talked to Hawkins.

            I sank forward, my face in my arms. “I got that woman killed.”

            “The demon killed her.” She rubbed my shoulder. “Plus, you saved that woman tonight.”

            I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. I should have . . . done something.”

            “Like turn your client in to the police? Oh wait, you just did that.”

            “I’m not Sam Spade. I don’t have any legal protection here. I’ll do my best to keep you out of it—”

            Rachel snorted. “You notice how she didn’t ask me any questions? She only talked to you.”

            I sat up. “So you may have to bail me out again.”

            She sighed. “That’s what a good girlfriend does, right? A little dinner, a certain amount of sex, bail the boyfriend out of jail—”

            The door opened. I jerked up. Ready to go to jail.

“Go home.” Pauling jerked a finger. “I would have taken you in right now, but Hawkins thinks he can trust you. Be ready to come downtown tomorrow.”

            I clambered out of the squad car, my legs shaking. “Thanks.”

            “There’s no ‘thanks.’” Pauling backed away as Rachel climbed up from the back seat on the opposite side. “Wait—who are you again?”

            “Rachel Dunn.” She lifted her hands over the squad car’s roof. “Do you want to see my ID?”

            “She’s my—associate. And my girlfriend.” I kept my arms spread. “She’s okay.”

            Pauling stared at her. Then she glanced over her shoulder, looking at the detectives and crime scene techs on the beach.

            “Okay.” She nodded. “Same deal. Don’t run. Or we’ll find you.”

            Rachel smirked. “Not going anywhere.”

            I looked at the lights on the beach. “What was her name?”

            Pauling checked her phone. “Lori Santos. She was 27.”

            I lowered my head. Rachel grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The next morning I called Sharon Marmont. She was a lawyer. Not mine, but she’d sent a lot of clients my way.

            Fortunately she wasn’t in court. “Good morning, Tom.” I heard her clicking her Montblanc pen. “What can I do for you?”

            “I may need a lawyer.” I gulped some coffee. “Maybe not you—no offense. I just don’t want a conflict of interest with my client. He may need you more.”

             Heard Marmont tap her pen on a desk. “What’s going on?”

            I’m a coward. Okay, I’ve faced down vampires and assorted monsters, but the thought of taking showers in jail with big guys named “Red” and “Skippy” filled me with terror.

But as much I wanted to stay out of jail, I still wanted to protect my client’s interests if I could. “Hypothetically, if a man attacked and killed people while possessed my a demon—what would you do?”

            Marmont laughed. “Well, there’s the insanity defense. But that hardly ever works. And the defendant would probably end up in an institution. I probably couldn’t find any expert witnesses to testify authoritatively on demonic possession—at least nobody I could convince the judge and the prosecutor to admit any testimony from. So I’d probably end up making a deal. And I hate that.”

            “Yeah.” I sighed. “So, let’s say there was a hypothetical P.I. who got hired by a client who thought he was possessed by a demon. He follows the client around until he stops an attack. He doesn’t call the cops. Then later the demon apparently kills a woman. What do—does he do?”

            Marmont took a deep breath. “Your best bet—his best bet—would be to bring the client in, or at least convince him to give himself up to the police. And then get a good lawyer. I can send you some names.”

“Thanks.”

Rachel came down a few minutes later. “Anything new?”

The murder hadn’t made the print edition of the newspaper, but it was online. I shoved my laptop around. “Take a look.”

“Woman killed on beach,” the headline announced. It had all the facts: Lori Santos, 27. A nurse. Cause of death, strangulation. No sign of sexual assault.

At least my name wasn’t in the story.

“So now what?” Rachel poured herself some coffee and sat down across from me at the table.

I shrugged. “I try to find Walker before the cops do. And convince him to give himself up.”

She snorted. “How likely is that? Either of those?”

“It’s all I’ve got.” I looked at my laptop. “You were looking him up last night. What did you find?”

Rachel opened up her computer and started tapping keys. “Yeah. Before we had to rush out, I had where he lives, where he works, his ex-wife Haley—”

“The cops will already be all over all that.” I shook my head. “Anything else? Aside from cat pictures?”

She glared at me. “Don’t make fun of me if you want me to visit you in jail.” She tapped some keys. “I had to visit this guy in jail downtown once. It wasn’t fun.”

I nodded. “I had to interview a serial killer in Joliet once—”

“Shut up.” She pounded at her keyboard. “This isn’t the same thing. He was . . . nobody.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes half closed. “Just a guy.”

We don’t ask each other a lot of questions about the past. Rachel knows I was married once, and I know that I’m far from her first boyfriend.  “Sorry.”

“Anyway . . .” She sat up and swung her laptop around. “There’s this.”

A social media profile for someone named Janeanne Lane. Young, brown hair, she wore black, mostly. She worked at a bank. The same bank Walker worked for.

“Janeanne.” I looked at Rachel. “He said that last night. When you were—”

“Yeah.” Rachel ran a hand over her forehead. “Don’t remind me.”

“Is she his girlfriend?” I reached for my phone.

“You’re the detective. I’m just your gorgeous assistant.” She lurched up from the table. “Is there more coffee?”

I was already looking for the bank’s number. “Help yourself. Make more. Please visit me in prison. Hang on, here we are . . .”

The bank’s customer service number prompted me to press one for account information, press two to talk to an investment counselor, press three for recent activity on my account, press four to discuss loans and mortgages . . .

I hit zero, which is usually the fastest way to get to a live person. But when the young man on the line transferred me to Janeanne Lane’s extension, all I got was: “Hi, this is Janeanne Lane, I’m not in the office today. For immediate account needs, please contact Mona Hollis at extension—”

I hung up.

Rachel went to make more coffee. By the time she came back, I had a home number for Janeanne Lane in Winnetka.  She refilled my cup as I punched the numbers.

            “H-hello?” The voice on the other end of the line quavered.

            “Janeanne Lane? My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective trying to locate Jeremy Walker. He’s a client of mine. I’m trying to help him—”

            “Oh god.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “He told me about you.”

            “Where is he?”

            “I don’t know. He called me a few hours ago. He said he’s in trouble.”

            I bit my lip for a moment? How much to tell her? “The police are looking for him.”

            “I know.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “What should I do?”

            “Call the police.” Since I was going to anyway. “Tell them what you know. It’s the best way to help him—and keep yourself safe. If you don’t, they could charge you adding and abetting.”

            “Oh.” I heard her swallow. “Right.”

            “In the meantime, call me if you hear from him.” I gave her my number.

            “Okay. Wait—there was one thing.” She hesitated.

            “What?”

            “He said he was looking for a priest. He didn’t say why. He’s not even Catholic!”

            Not much of a lead. I couldn’t call every Catholic church in the city, obviously. But at least I knew what he was looking for. “So call the Chicago Police and ask for detective Hawkins. He’s in charge of the case.”

            “All right. God, this is a nightmare.”

            My nightmares were worse, but I didn’t want to get into that. “Thanks for your help.”

            I called Hawkins immediately. “You’re about to get a call from a woman named Janeanne Lane. She’s Walker’s girlfriend, and she’s heard from him, but she doesn’t know where he is.” I gave him her phone number. “And . . . she says he’s looking for a priest. Presumably for an exorcism.”

            Rachel gave me a skeptical look. “Think that’ll get you out from under?”

            “It can’t hurt.” I gulped some coffee. “I’m too pretty to go to jail.”

            Rachel snorted. “Riiight. I’ll visit you every Sunday.”

            “We’d better do a binge re-watch of Orange is the New Black.” I tapped my phone.

            She cocked her head. “Now what?”

            “Walker’s looking for a priest. I might know a guy.”

Father Neal Simmons was a friend of a friend. I’d never met him in person, but he called me back half an hour after I left him a message. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jurgen?”

            I took a breath. Would he think I was crazy? “A client of mine is—possessed by a demon. I think he’s looking for a priest for an exorcism, but he’s not Catholic himself. Do you have any ideas where someone would just start looking for an exorcist?”

            Simmons laughed. At least he wasn’t hanging up on me. “Well, we both know an ex-priest who does them, but your client probably wouldn’t know to ask him. I suppose he’d call the closest church. He might try the Cardinal’s resident if he wants to go straight to the top. Either way, he’d most likely get a dial tone.”

            “I half-expected to get one from you.”

            “Well, I’ve seen a lot of things.” Simmons paused. “Of course, he doesn’t necessarily need a priest. My bosses won’t like me saying this, but anyone can cast a demon out in the name of God. Mind you, it isn’t quick or easy, and the demon will taunt you to make you lose faith, but they usually flee in the face of our Lord.” He chuckled. “Sorry for the sermon.”

            I’d lost my faith a long time ago, but I didn’t see any need to tell him that. “Good to know. Thanks, Father Simmons. Say hi to Luther for me.”

            “Will do.”

So I could start calling churches randomly, maybe starting with those close to his house. Or I could stay out of it.

            My phone buzzed before I could talk myself into either option. Hawkins. “Good afternoon detective, how’s your day going?”

            “Great, up until the part where I had to call you.” His voice was rough. “We talked to Janeanne Lane. How did you find her, anyway?”

            “A little psychic detective work and a glance at Facebook. Any luck finding my client?”

            “We’re working on it. I’ve even got people calling churches. And thinking I’m a complete nutjob.” He groaned. “Anyway, you’re not off the hook for this, but it helps.”

            “So you don’t want me to call the Cardinal and ask if anyone has rung up looking for an exorcist?”

            He laughed. That was a good sign. “The only call I want you to make is to me, telling me where to find him.”

            “I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair.”

            “That makes my day.” Hawkins hung up.

            So now what? I had other cases I could work on, none of them urgent, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to focus. A nap sounded like an idea, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep, and Rachel had gone back upstairs.

            So I made myself a sandwich, then took a walk around the block to clear my head.

            When I got back, Jeremy Walker was waiting outside the building’s front door.