Gargoyles

 A mysterious email and a brutal murder lead Tom Jurgen on the trail of deadly, demonic gargoyles.

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.

Gargoyles, Part Two

I made a quick call to Mrs. Raymond telling her that Geoffrey Long was dead, and another one to Rachel telling her I was alive. Then the police started asking me questions.

I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t much. Lawrence Raymond’s murder, the email from Geoffrey Long, the old man, the creature standing right behind him—and the dagger next to Long’s body. With dried blood on it. “You might want to check that for Lawrence Raymond’s DNA,” I told the patrolman. Just to be helpful. 

He nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get right on that.”

Back in my car, I sat for a moment taking slow, deep breaths to calm myself down. Then I called Rachel again.

“You jerk—are you all right?” She’s used to me almost getting myself killed, but she never likes it. 

“I’m fine, mostly. It was one of those things we saw in Raymond’s email this morning. With an old guy who looked like Nosferatu. They killed a guy, and then they disappeared. Literally. Just gone.”

“Magical portal? Transporter beam?”

“I don’t know.” I looked out my window at the front door.  “Hey, can you come up here and look around? Do you have time?” Her psychic powers—

“Time?” Her laugh was scary. “I’ve got class in an hour, and my web page redesign still looks like crap, but I’ll add driving up to Skokie to look at a murder house to my to-do list right now.” She sounded irritated.

“Okay, never mind. Go back to work.”

“Be careful.” She hung up.

Next I called the Raymonds again. Adrienne answered. “So Is Geoff really—dead?”

I’d seen the body bag carried into the ambulance. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. I know this is already a tough day for you.”

“Yeah. I mean, I liked him okay, I just never . . . anyway, do you have any news? Any other news?”

“I think I’m going to have to talk to Galen Harvey. If this is really related to those gargoyle heads, he may know something about the weird old man I saw.”

“Right. Hang on a minute. . . .  Okay, he lives in Skokie too. I’d better come up there with you, he’ll talk to me. I mean, he knows me.”

“Fine, as long as you’re up to it. How’s your mother holding up?”

“She took a nap. Now she’s talking to relatives. And her lawyer. Her real lawyer.” She sighed. “I need to get out of here. I’ll meet you in an hour, okay?”

I got some lunch, even though I wasn’t very hungry, and met Adrienne outside Harvey’s house an hour and 10 minutes later. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, slamming the door on her Accord. “Traffic.”

The house had two stories and stone columns around the porch in front. Adrienne rang the doorbell.

The door opened a moment later, and a teenage girl looked out at us. “Oh. Hi. Are you—oh, hi, Ms. Raymond. I’m sorry about your father. We heard it on the news.” She looked me over but didn’t acknowledge me. “Do you want my dad?

“Thanks, Ella. Yeah, is he home?”

She nodded. “Come on in.” 

She led us into a large living room with a big TV, a leather sofa, a bunch of chairs, and two bookcases with antiques on the shelves behind glass. “Just a second. Dad!” Ella left.

“Galen’s daughter,” Adrienne said. “College. Kind of a brat.”

A moment later Galen Havey appeared. Tall, heavyset, he had a thick beard and round glasses. “Adrienne.” He looked sad. “I was so sorry to hear about Lawrence. And shocked. Horrified, really—”

“Thanks, Galen.” They shook hands. “This is Tom Jurgen. He’s helping us with dad’s death.”

“You’re a lawyer?” He looked me over, judging my shirt and windbreaker.

“Private detective.” I offered my card. 

He lifted an eyebrow. “Is this about—well, what’s going on?” He was being cautious. Not giving us an opening.

“The gargoyle head from Lawrence Raymond’s house,” I said. “Do you still have it?”

He groaned. “Adrienne, we’ve been over this—”

“I don’t care about the legal issues,” I interrupted. “I’m just asking if it’s here in your house.”

He frowned. “No. It’s safe, but it’s not here.”

“Are you sure? Have you checked? Can you check now?”

“It’s in a secure location. I don’t have to—” He paused. “What is this all about?”

“Has anyone contacted you about it recently? Asked about it? Offered to buy it?”

I was poking in the dark, but I hit something. Harvey blinked, and glanced at Adrienne. Then he said, “Two days ago. I got a phone call—a man asking about Ringo.”

“Ringo?”

Harvey looked embarrassed. “A bunch of us—we called them John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It was easier than their real names. From the church they came from. They were larry’s names, actually.” He looked at Adrienne. “I thought it was silly, but—”

“What about the man who called you?” I asked Harvey.

“He had an accent, German, maybe, or Russian. He said something like, ‘Paltar is mine.’ I asked him what he was talking about, and he just said, ‘He’s mine’ again. That’s Ringo’s real name. I thought—” He looked at Adrienne. “I mean, I know you’d never do that, Adrienne, but I thought it was someone playing a joke.”

She grimaced. “Not very funny.”

“No name?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. He hung up.”

“Do you know Geoffrey Long?”

“Geoff? Yes, we’re, well, acquainted. It’s a fairly small community of collectors.”

“Did he know where Ringo is?”

“No. He asked me about it a few days ago, but I assumed he was asking for Larry, and I never told him. Wait a minute—” He stared at me. “Did something happen to Geoffrey?”

I swallowed. “He’s dead.”

Harvey  took a step back, confusion mixing with anger. “Like Larry? Did someone murder him too? Are they—is it some kind of serial killer?”

“Not exactly. Lawrence Raymond was stabbed. Geoffrey Long was—attacked. By some sort of creature.”

“Huh? An animal?”

I wasn’t sure what he was ready to believe, but I took out my phone, pulled up the email, and showed him the gargoyle images.

Harvey stared at the screen, then looked at me, glanced at Adrienne, and finally peered at my phone again. “What the hell?”

“Long sent these images to Lawrence Raymond this morning. Geoffrey Long was murdered a little over an hour ago. I saw them. It was pretty gruesome.” 

He gulped. “My God.”

“There was a man with him. Old, bald, skinny. Foreign accent. Any idea who that might be?”

Harvey shook his head. “No idea.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t think of any more questions just then. “Thanks for your time. Just—make sure Ringo is safe. I don’t know for sure what those heads have to do with this, but those things look pretty terrifying.” I looked at Adrienne. “Let’s go?”

She nodded. “Thanks, Galen.”

“Yeah. Again, sorry about your father.” 

Outside, we leaned against my car, watching Harvey’s house. “What now?” Adrienne asked.

“I think I’ll stick around, just to see if he goes anywhere to check on Ringo.” It’s an old tactic, but sometimes it works. ”What’s the legal issue around it, by the way?”

“He claims he and Dad went in together on the purchase, so he’s entitled to two of the gargoyles. Dad paid him, but he says it was less than they agreed on. The paperwork is—” She sighed. “Murky. Dad didn’t want to go to court—they were friends before all this—so we were trying to work out an agreement. Galen would never tell us where his head is.” She shook her head with a smile. “I never heard they were named after the Beatles.”

“At least they have good taste.” I opened my door. “Drive safe.”

I drove down the block and parked just around the corner, in sight of Harvey’s house but not right in front of it. I called Rachel, got her voicemail, and left a quick message. Then I waited.

Two hours later I gave up. Harvey wasn’t going anywhere, although I saw his daughter head up the street on a bike. Time to go home and do research.

Back home I opened a Coke and sat down at my computer. First I checked the early coverage of Geoffrey Long’s death. There wasn’t much, and fortunately nobody mentioned my name. The authorities were calling it a wild animal attack—possibly coyotes, which sometimes wander into the suburbs. 

Lawrence Raymond’s murder was getting more attention, because murders of white rich men always attract more eyeballs. Police were reviewing security videos from the building and the neighborhood—Hyde Park has a pretty hefty security presence, with its own police force, thanks to the U of C—and were confident of making an arrest soon.

Mrs. Raymond appeared on camera. “I’m obviously devastated,” she said, her face stony with shock. “Larry was—he was a world-class scholar, a devoted father, a wonderful husband, and I’ll miss him so much . . .”

They cut away to a reporter regurgitating the facts again.

I thought for a few minutes, jotted down some questions, and then called Galen Harvey. He picked up right away. “Yes? Oh, Jurgen. What is it?”

“I forgot to ask—the caller asked you for Paltar? That’s the real name of the head?”

“Yes. They’re from a church in Germany, 14th century. The church is gone now. The others were, uh, let me check—” I waited a moment. “Okay. Aistolf, that was John, Baldhere          was Paul, Gautwin was George, and Paltar was Ringo. It was sort of random, I mean, ‘Baldhere’ is sort of like ‘Paul,’ but—”

“What church?”

“Cathedral of Our Lady of Grace. In Neuburg. Bavaria. Look, I made a phone call, and Ringo is fine, so stop worrying about that, all right? I’m sorry about Larry, and Geoff, and—well everything, but that’s all I’m going to say right now.” He was getting angry. Or maybe scared.

“That’s fine, Mr. Harvey. Thank you very much. This is a big help.” I hung up. With my scribbled notes in front of me, I started my internet sleuthing. 

The cathedral in Germany had been built in 1337. A lightning strike destroyed its steeple in 1407, and a fire in 1553 burned half of it to the ground. The town rebuilt it, and the church thrived for centuries until World War Two, when bombs blew apart its northern and western walls. The town demolished it after Hitler died, but people salvaged bits of it, including the altar, some of the stained glass, a statue of the Virgin Mary, and four gargoyles from the roof above. 

I had to dig deeper into history to find any information about the gargoyles. It turned out they’d been added as part of a drainage system after heavy rainfalls damaged the sanctuary in the 1390s. The sculptor was a woman, Sabina Mundt, the daughter of a stonemason named Gregor Mundt. The gargoyles were the only confirmed works she’d ever completed, presumably because Gregor had given them to her while he was busy with other commissions from the aristocracy.

Gregor died at 56—poisoned by his wife, who was accused of witchcraft and other sins. She was hanged. Sabina got married and left town after that, and dropped off the historical map as far as I could determine. 

I sipped my Coke, trying to decide what to do next. It occurred to me that I wasn’t exactly sure what my jobs was, or if Mrs. Raymond really wanted me to do anything. I’d gotten caught up in researching the gargoyles, but all she’d asked me to do was check on Geoffrey Long. 

Maybe I was done. I was curious, but that didn’t mean I needed to keep going without a clear order from my client. So I called the Raymond condo.

Adrienne answered. “Did anything happen with Galen?”

“No, he stayed put. I’ve been looking into the history of the gargoyles.” I told her what I’d learned. Then I said, “So, I’m not sure what you want me to do next. I’m fine with returning the money your father sent me if you want—”

“What about Geoff? Did he kill my father? Why’d he send those pictures?”

I’d told her about the dagger next to his body. “I think—yeah, although we’ll have to wait for the police to check the DNA on that knife. So it’s possible that he’s the one who came to the condo last night and—did it.”

“Why?” She took a breath, controlling her rising voice. “He wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t like him all that much, but I never thought he was someone who’d do—do something like that.”

“I can try finding out how he ties into this. Did you tell the police about the email?”

“Y-yes. Mom called them. I’m not sure what they thought.”

“Okay. Let me find out what I can about Long. Do you know any of his friends, associates, that I could call?”

“Uh, a few, I guess.” She gave me a few names and numbers. I wondered how many of them already knew about Long’s death. I hate having to drop bombs on people like that.

I went to work on Geoffrey Long, starting with the standard background check. He was 29, founder/president/CEO and apparently sole employee of Long Enterprises, which traded cryptocurrency and other imaginary types of money. His website claimed he had a dozen clients and had earned more than $8 million trading in crypto over the last two years. 

He had a B.A. in Finance from the University of Illinois, M.A. in Art History from the U of C. Long was on every social media platform I could find, most of them devoted to his business, but his interest in art was prominent as well. He shared paintings, sculptures, photography, antiquities, and more, bragging about his ability to spot “quality” and bargain for the best price, and showing off his financial prowess and success. That included his car—a BMW—a parade of girlfriends, mostly blond, and vacations around the world. 

I wasn’t jealous. No, not at all.

He had a DUI and a few minor drug offenses, mostly for marijuana. His company had been sued twice, and they’d settled out of court, sealing the records. I could get to them, but not entirely legally, so I left that for later, if I needed to. 

The front door opened. Rachel was home. I stood and stretched, then went out to greet her. “How was class?”

“Boring.” She yawned. “You okay? Rough day?”

“I’ve had worse. As you know.”

She kissed me. “Doesn’t get you out of making dinner.”

It was my night for it. “Yeah. Baked Mac and cheese, or are you sick of it yet?”

“That’s fine.” She slumped on the couch, slipped her laptop from her bag, and picked up the TV remote. “Bring me a beer? And some Doritos? If I finish my paper, we can have sex tonight.”

 “It’s a deal.” I headed to the kitchen. 

Gargoyles, Part Three

The next morning I did some paperwork on other cases, then started in on the list of Long’s friends that Adrienne had sent me.

            I had to be a little careful in my approach. “Hi! Did your pal Geoffrey Long ever mention vicious killer gargoyles in your casual conversations?” probably wouldn’t get anything more than a swift hang-up. I’d have to ease into it somehow.

            Lydia Franks, the first name on the list, was an account manager at an investment bank, and she didn’t want to talk to me, mostly because it turned out she didn’t know Long as well as Adrienne thought. “I went to a gallery opening with him once,” she told me, clicking through emails as we talked. “We didn’t hit it off. Maybe he thought—I don’t know. While I’ve got you on the line, have you given any thought to your current investment portfolio?”

            The next person was more talkative. Gerald DeMann ran a small investment boutique catering to high rollers. He also collected stuff. “Yeah, Geoff was into all kinds of art and antiques. He was looking for investments, mostly. Some of the older pieces were things he really just liked, but he was always on the hunt, looking for stuff. Some of the people he talked to were pretty shady.” He chuckled.

“Shady how?”

He stopped chuckling, suddenly nervous. “Just, uh, you got the feeling they weren’t quite, uh, legal? You know? I don’t want to say they were selling stolen stuff, but the way Geoff talked, you couldn’t be sure. And he didn’t always seem like he cared, as long as it was a good piece.”

            “Did he ever mention gargoyles?” I asked.

            “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Those are those statues that spit or something? In France?”

            “Yes. Just checking.”  I thanked him for his time and moved on.

            Rachel came in at 10, kissed me, and went to her computer. “The game’s still afoot?”

            “Like a chain of shoe stores. You sleep okay?”

            “After you let me go to sleep. You animal.” She turned away and went to work. 

            The next two people didn’t have much more to add. I left a message for another one, gazed at Rachel for a while until she threatened to punch me, then refilled my coffee and went to the next to last name, Holly Downs.

            “God, I can’t stop thinking about it.” She was a model slash actress, currently working at a catering company. “I mean, we dated a little, and I liked him, and I was kind of worried about him, but I didn’t think anything like this would ever happen.”

            “What were you worried about?”

            “He was just—I saw him last weekend, and he was nervous all the time. Like, he was always watching his phone, and every time he got a call or a text he’d go into the other room. I asked him what was wrong, and he just said some guy was bothering him.”

            “Do you know who it was? Or what the problem was?”

            “He said—I thought the guy’s name was Guy, or Guy-a, or something like that. I heard him arguing, something like, ‘I don’t think I can do that,’ but he wouldn’t tell me what he was talking about. He was drinking a lot, smoking a lot of weed, couldn’t sleep. It was a pretty lousy weekend, but I was worried. And then this happens. But it couldn’t have anything to do with that, could it?”

            “I don’t know.” Actually I thought it did, but I didn’t want to scare her. “And this was just last weekend? Not before that?”

            “No. Like, a few weeks ago, he was really excited about something he bought, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. That was more like him, always working on the next big acquisition or deal, you know?”

“But last weekend he was different,” I said. 

“Yeah. I mean, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks. We weren’t seriously dating, just hanging out sometimes. It’s not like I was his girlfriend or anything.”

            “Right.” I thanked her, left her number, and hung up.

            “Eureka moment?” Rachel asked from the other side of the office.

            “Not exactly. He was scared about something. Maybe the something that killed him, maybe something else.” 

I had one more name to call, but before I could punch in the digits, my phone buzzed. Adrienne Raymond. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “I just got a call from Galen.” She sounded out of breath. “He says he wants to return the gargoyle head if I’ll drop everything against him. He’ll hand it over to us at six o’clock.”

            That was . . . interesting. “What happened to change his mind?”

            “He wouldn’t say. But he sounded nervous about something.”

            “Huh.” I checked the time. 11:32. “Where is it now?”

            “He wouldn’t say. He said he’ll text me the location at five.”

            Yeah, he was nervous. “Okay. Do you want me there?”

            “Yeah. Mom can’t come, and I don’t want to meet him alone. I’ll send you the address when I get it.”

            “Sounds good. See you at six.” We hung up.

            Rachel swung around in her chair. “Where are you going?” 

            I told her. Her eyes narrowed.  “Is she cute?”

            I shrugged. “Reasonably.” 

When we were first dating, Rachel would deny she was my girlfriend, then get suddenly territorial around any attractive women I met. I didn’t exactly resist it. Now that we’d been living together for a few years, her instincts still sprang up sometimes. “I’m coming with you.”

            “If you want.” If nothing else, her psychic skills might come in handy. “We can go out to dinner afterward.”

            “Okay. It doesn’t count as a date, though.” She turned back to her computer.

            “Whatever you say, my queen.” I went back to work. 

 

A few hours later my phone buzzed again. This time it was the police. Not the Chicago police, but the Skokie version. Rachel was in the living room doing some yoga to relax. Usually I like to watch, but she gets mad at me, so I was stuck in the office.

            “Mr. Jurgen, this is Detective Parker in Skokie, we’re handling Geoffrey Long’s death.” The cop was female, talked fast, and sounded annoyed. “You’re a private detective?”

            “That’s right. How can I help you?”

            “What was your business with Geoff Long yesterday?”

            I explained that I’d been hired by Lawrence Raymond’s wife, that Geoffrey Long had sent an email to Raymond the night before his murder, and that I’d gone up there to ask him some questions. 

            “Thought you’d solve the murder all by yourself?” Her annoyance actually faded; she sounded more amused. “You’re Hercule Poirot or something?”

            “More like Inspector Gadget, without any of the cool gadgets. No, I didn’t expect to solve the murder, I just wanted to ask him about the email. But I did find that knife on the floor—has it been tested?”

            “Turned over to Chicago PD. Haven’t heard back yet.”

            “Lawrence Raymond was stabbed. Maybe I did solve the murder?”

            “Couldn’t say.” But she sounded like she thought the same thing, only she didn’t want to admit it. Certainly not to a P.I. from downtown.”Look, there were a couple messages on his machine from a guy named, uh, Geer. Or maybe Gi-er, something like that. Does that name mean anything to you?”

            I thought of Holly Downs. “Do you know how that’s spelled?”

            “No idea. He was vaguely threatening. No specifics. Older male, foreign accent. Ring any bells, Inspector?”

            “Sounds like the guy I saw. I didn’t get his name.”

            “Did you go anywhere in the house except the living room?”

            “No. I didn’t follow the old man, if that’s what you mean.”

            “In the kitchen we found some boxes lying around with packing material. And tape, and  shipping labels, that kind that peel off, you know? Like he was in a hurry to send something out of the country.”

            “Why out of the country? Not just across town?”

            “One of the labels was messed up, and he tore it up, but they put it together, and we could see ‘Mexico’ on it.”

            Interesting, but it could mean anything. “I know he collected a lot of art. Maybe he was selling it to someone.”

            “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Okay, call me if you think of anything.” She gave me her number, then hung up.

            Rachel was still in the living room. I called Adrienne Raymond. “The police out in the suburbs just called me. They found a threatening voicemail on Long’s machine. It might be the same person who called Galen Harvey.”

            “Oh, God.” I heard her swallow. “Do you think the same person’s after him?”

            “It’s possible. I’m bringing a friend when we meet him.”

            “I better call him. Move it up, maybe.”

            “Good idea. Let me know.”

            Rachel, warm and sweaty, came in as I hung up. “What’s going on?”

            “The cops found a voicemail from someone threatening Long, and it might be the old man I saw in the house, and he might be the same person who called Harvey to demand he give up the gargoyle head he stole from Raymond.” I was working the internet, trying variations on the name Geer or Guyer, but I paused to gaze at her legs for a moment until she rolled her eyes at me, then turned back to my computer. “She’s seeing if we can meet Harvey before six.”

            “Okay. I’m going to go change.” She left.

            Adrienne called me five minutes later. “One hour. It’s a neighbor’s house.” She gave me the address. 

            “Okay, we’ll be there.” I hung up and headed for the bedroom.

            Rachel was pulling on a pair of jeans. “What?”

            “It’s on right now.” I opened the closet and reached up for the box on the top shelf.

            “Donald?” Rachel cocked an eyebrow.

            “If you saw that thing, you’d know why we need this.” I pulled the box down.

            “Not fighting you on it. Bring plenty of bullets.”

            I unlocked the box and removed Donald Duck, our nickname for the Glock we keep stored there. I loaded it carefully, checked the safety, picked up the extra magazine, then slipped into the very cool shoulder holster I bought when we got the handgun. 

            It was a heavy bulge under my arm, like a tumor. I hated carrying it, but after one particularly disturbing case we’d agreed I needed one. If I was going to face that gargoyle again, I wanted to find out if a bullet would stop it before it ripped my face off.

            I found a jacket to wear over the handgun, and Rachel put on a sweater. “Let’s roll.”

            The house was two blocks from Harvey’s own dwelling, a small ranch house with a flower garden in front. We got there in 40 minutes, waited 15, and then Adrienne pulled up behind us. She got out, a purse slung over one shoulder, and slid into our back seat.

            I introduced her to Rachel. “She’s my associate on—”

            “And his girlfriend,” she cut in. “But not his assistant.”

            “Plus, she’s psychic,” I added. 

            Adrienne seemed confused, but just nodded. Then she pointed. “There he is now.”

            Galen Harvey was walking down the sidewalk. He wore a warmup jacket and sneakers, as if about to go out for a run. We got out.

            He nodded to Adrienne, said hello to me, and checked out Rachel as I introduced her. Then he sighed and glanced at the house. “In back.”

            Harvey led us to the back yard. “They’re not home right now,” he told us as we walked past more flowers. “They’re in France, actually. But they let me store some things in here. It’s very secure.”

            He stopped in front of a shed. The red aluminum siding felt solid as I rapped my knuckles on it, and instead of a padlock, it had a panel where Harvey punched in a passcode with at least 10 numbers and letters. I figured it held more than garden tools.

            We heard a click, and the red light on top of the panel turned green. Harvey turned to us.

            “I’m not conceding anything.” His voice was firm. “I’m not going to sign anything. I just want this out of here. Understood?”

            “That’s all we wanted,” Adrienne said. “Thank you.”

            He reached for the door handle. 

Then Rachel grabbed my arm. “Wait!” 

He didn’t. Harvey pulled on the handle, opening the door—

And then a gargoyle leaped from the top of the shed, roaring in rage.

I glimpsed a swift shadow at the doorway as the creature landed on Harvey, knocking him to the grass. I bent down and clamped its jaws on his shoulder, the fangs digging into his skin. Harvey shrieked in pain and hammered at the thing with his fist, rolling and twisting as he tried to push it off his body.

Adrienne jumped back, her mouth open as she stared at the creature in shock, but she stayed rooted place, her legs trembling as she dug into her purse.

The creature looked up, Harvey’s blood dripping from its fangs, and Adrienne pointed a bottle of pepper spray at it. She blasted it into its face.

Rachel had her own spray out—she carries it everywhere—and sprayed it at the beast’s eyes along with Adrienne, keeping an eye on its long arms as she stepped toward it.

The gargoyle howled and reared up, waving its arms, clawing at Adrienne, who was closer. She jumped back, tripped, and fell on her butt, cursing, but Rachel kept up her spraying until the creature turned on her, growling with menace.

That’s when I shot it.

I’d never actually fired the Glock at anything more than a target, or into the air to scare someone. I held it with both hands, bit my lip, and squeezed the trigger like the trainer told me.

I hit its shoulder. Black blood spurted out. Its red eyes glowed with fire as it turned to look at me, as if it hadn’t noticed me before. I hunched down, gritted my teeth, and shot it again, straight in the chest this time. 

The gargoyle staggered, more black blood streaming down its body. Rachel scrambled away, helping Adrienne get up, and Harvey rolled over, moaning and clutching his shoulder.

The creature lumbered toward me. I backed away, ready to fire again.

Instead, a voice from inside the shed froze it. The gargoyle turned slowly, breathing in heavy gasps.

The old man stood in the doorway, half-hidden by the shadows inside. Almost bald, he wore a long black coat and boots, and he had a backpack slung over one shoulder. 

He spoke again—it sounded like “Paltar,” Ringo’s real name—and lifted one hand. Glaring at all of us, but mostly me, he waved a hand, and the gargoyle turned and disappeared  into the shed.

I didn’t want to follow them, but I was working up my nerve to. Then Rachel was beside me, a hand on my arm. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”

“What the hell was that?” Harvey demanded from the ground.

Adrienne crouched next to him, her phone in her hand to call 911. I looked down at the black blood spattering the grass. “This is going to be tough to explain.”

Rachel headed for the shed. I reset the safety and slid the Glock back into its holster, my hands trembling, but before I could follow her she was back outside again, holding a plastic square box. “Is this where you kept the gargoyle head?”

Harvey blinked. “Y-yeah. It’s—how did he get in?”

“When the gargoyle jumped down.” Rachel dropped the box. “He was—shadowy. And fast.”

“I saw him too,” I said. “I was just a little distracted.”

“Sure you did.” Rachel patted my arm. “I believe you.”

“I did!” But this was no time to argue. We could already hear the sirens approaching.