Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal" Coming To An Agreement

When we finally arrive at the diner, the place is packed. We find Uncle Will and Ian at a small table to the right of the door. The pair have a clear view of the door and seem to be watching it closely. I can’t help but wonder what they’re up to. We grab a couple of chairs that have just been vacated and prepare to squeeze in when Uncle Will shoos us away.

“We are a couple of single gents out on the town. We don’t need our style getting cramped by old fogies like you two. Go over there.” He says and waves us towards the other side of the diner.

The two furthest booths are empty. We take the one that is not in the corner, neither one of us is too keen on eating in the dark. Pulling a menu from between the salt and pepper shakers, we begin looking for dinner.

I look up from my menu to study Uncle Will and Ian. “Those two are acting weird.”

“They just have a little cabin fever.” Detective Farina says without looking up from his menu. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll get lucky.”

“With what? Bingo? It’s Sunday night.”

“Maybe they just want to blow off some steam.” He says as he lowers his menu to the table. “Maybe I wanted to be alone with you.”

I look at Farina.

“I think we need to talk about the murders, the suspects, and why we can’t seem to agree on who’s behind them...”

“I agree.”

The waitress approaches the table and takes our orders.

Farina dives in. “The FBI’s preferred suspect, Desmond Parrish...”

“...is not the killer.” I finish his sentence.

“We both agree on something.” He says.

“It’s about time.”

After dinner salads full of interrupted sentences and dirty looks, we both agree that we should discuss why our suspect is the actual killer and why the other person’s is not at the farm. Where there’s better coffee and visual aides. Not to mention detailed notes and police reports.

By the time the salad plates have been replaced with open faced turkey sandwiches with the best gravy in the Midwest, we have agreed to disagree and move on to a lighter subject for the time being.

“Heather said she was happy?” Detective Farina asks.

“She did.”

“She deserves to be.” He says.

“She does. If nothing else for putting up with all of us.”

“What do you mean by that?” He asks. “I am an excellent roomie.”

“Excellent yes. Perfect no.”

The detective looks disappointed.

“You’re not perfect,” I say looking at Farina, “but you are perfect for me.”

He reaches out and takes my hand in his. He smiles. “I found something,” Farina gets so excited reaching for something in his coat that a thumb hooks his fork and it goes flying towards his lap. He catches it just in time, puts it back on his empty plate and retrieves one of my grandfather’s old journals. He opens it to the page that he’s marked with an old playing card and hands it to me.

“You said that Heather told you it is possible that Clyde and Desmond knew each other when he was four or five. I found a passage where your grandfather writes about Clyde telling him about an intensely curious little boy who helped him every minute that he was on his last job. Some of the servants even referred to the pair as CD because D follows C. He recalls a story about how Clyde had just fixed the oldest clock on the client’s property. It was so old that he had trouble finding a replacement part. Clyde came home for the weekend and crafted his own using pieces from a similar clock. The client and his wife were so pleased they complimented him repeatedly on his work, calling him “Amazing,” a “Genius,” and an “Artist.” Clyde told them he was none of those things, if he was anything he was a clockwork cannibal, because he cannibalized one clock so that he could make another clock work. Clyde told your grandfather that a day or two later, he heard from the staff and the other children living in the house that the four year old was telling everyone he met about his amazing friend the cannibal. There were a few concerned phone calls from the parents of the small boy’s playmates.

“Clockwork Cannibal?”

“It’s quite a story.” The detective says.

“Hmmm...” I look at the detective.

“I know that look.” He says. Farina raises a hand to get the waitress’ attention. “Could we get those

desserts to go?”

Excerpt--"Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal" -- Heather Darling gets caught breaking the rules.

Focus, precision, and patience. Why else would that phrase be familiar? I open my eyes, the room is dark. I can hear Detective Farina sleeping. He snores lightly. He’s having a good sleep tonight. There’s another sound. I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a laugh. He does fart in his sleep. Caught you. I think I’ll save that little bit of information for another time. I get out of bed as quietly as possible, procure the stack of paperwork that the detective brought back with him and hope that a copy of Congressional Assassin or ‘whatever the hell they’re calling him's' psychological profile is hidden within the stack of files. I tiptoe out of the bedroom with my treasure, grinning from ear to ear.

The first thing that I do is go into the kitchen and make some coffee. Because up at two a.m. without coffee? What kind of a woman do you take me for? Besides, it’s always a good time for coffee. I have been drinking coffee and finding everything except the psychological profile when Ian comes into the dining room with his own cup of tea and one of Grandpa’s journals.

“Oh.” He says.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing up?” He asks.

“I was getting ready to ask you the same thing.”

“I thought I saw something in Zeb’s journal yesterday that might be useful. I didn’t want to wait until morning to look for it. You?”

“I thought that Detective Jillian told me something about the guy shooting at representatives that sounded familiar. I didn’t want to wait until morning to look for it.”

A smile comes to Ian’s eyes. “I guess that’s something else that we have in common.” He says.

“Deep curiosity?”

“A complete lack of patience.”

“I have patience.” I counter.

“Not according to Heather, Uncle Will, or Detective Farina.”

“Hey. Christmas doesn’t count. Besides, that’s only three people. What do they know?”

My father smiles. We both dig into our reading.

“I found it. Listen to this. ‘The assassin is focused, he only has one purpose. He is precise in what he does. Only one bullet is ever fired. He is patient. The assassin has studied his target over an extended period of time and chooses his moment carefully. Look for a suspect with a military or intelligence background.’ Focused, precise, patient.” I start to underline the words and remember that these are private. I shouldn’t be looking at them. At all. “I heard that all the time when I was a kid. Clyde Thompson uses that exact phrase.”

“What exact phrase?” Farina asks as he pads into the dining room barefoot.

“Focus, precision, and patience.” I answer. “It’s in the assassin’s psychological profile. It’s also what Clyde Thompson says about hunting. All the time.”

“He’s also older.”

“So?”

“Take another look at the psychological profile you have already looked at once. Illegally.” He says.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal"

The detective and I each accept a pair of gloves from someone from the Medical Examiner’s office before squatting on either side of the body. Detective Farina pulls back the tarp and points to the hole in Earl’s back. I look at it and nod. He turns the body over enough for me to take a good look at the gunshot wound on the front.
  “What do you see?” He asks.
  “A hole.”
  “Where is it?”
  “His stomach.”
  The detective lays Earl back the way we found him. “One hole in the stomach. One in the back. It’s likely there were two separate shooters.”
  I think for a moment.  “No.”
 “Why not?”
 “The wounds are the same size. We only found one gun. Earl’s.” Something also felt familiar.  What...I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s too soon to share the information with Detective Farina.
 “The wounds are in two very different places.” Farina counters. “The wound in the front indicates a shot that was made quickly. A crime of passion. The killer didn’t even take time to aim. The shot to the back was the fatal one.”
 “That’s your theory?” I ask.
Detective Farina nods. “There were two shooters. The first shooter was angry with Earl and wanted to kill him.  The second shooter came for moral support when the first shooter failed, the second shooter knew that the only way to keep from getting caught was to finish the job. The second shooter is more experienced with firearms. He or she fired the fatal shot.”
 “Earl’s body is going to St. Louis with you so Amy can verify that you’re right.” I say.
 “And to take any additional evidence. Teddy Baskins...” Detective Farina looks at the person who gave us the gloves and smiles briefly, “...is the recently elected County Coroner and the son of the local mortician. This is his first death by homicide.”
 I look at Mr. Baskins. He’s a bright eyed young man with cheeks that I haven’t seen since the last time I watched “Leave It To Beaver.” He’s a little pale but sticking it out. Doing okay with the Lamaze breathing. “This your first dead guy outside of work?” I ask.
He nods.
 “It’s my second. Creepy as fuck isn’t it?”
Farina glares at me and then looks at The Beav.
The Beav begins checking his pockets. “I don’t have my...I need to go get it from the truck.” Baskins says as he walks away quickly, whispering to himself.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of the Clockwork Cannibal"

“What happened while I was gone?” I ask.

“The doctor stopped by and everything looks good.” Ian says.

“Looks good.” Farina repeats.

“His kidneys are working like they are supposed to.”

The detective finds his bed sheet fascinating. “Went for a walk. Took a whiz.”

“His behind was uncovered. Several nurses have stopped by to say, ‘Hell-o.’” Ian says with a grin.

“My patootie is a cutie.” Farina says with a smile.

I smile back.

He looks at me and says. “You’re so pretty.” He looks at Ian and says, “She’s my wife.”

I look at Ian. “He’s like a broken record.”

“You picked him, Lassie.”

“That’s right. You picked me. Where’s Lassie?”

I send Ian out of the room to eat something and spend the entire time he’s gone trying to convince Detective Farina that Lassie didn’t come to see him. Which leads to a long discussion about Lassie and why Timmy’s parents let him play around so many dangerous things like wells. Fun times. I’m tempted to call for reinforcements. Why should his partner miss out on the fun? Detective Farina finally starts to come down from whatever the stuff is. By midnight, he is in and out of sleep with random comments about Lassie and his desire for a root beer float. Kids, you gotta love ‘em.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal"

Following him inside, I find that the house is nearly as crowded as the front yard. I head up to the master bedroom first to put Earl’s shirt away. I stop in the doorway and watch as a small group of women stand in front of the closet and search through Earl’s clothes. I have an urge to scream at the ridiculousness of this reaction to Earl’s death. You’d think Elvis had died the way they’re acting.

I clear my throat. Everyone looks at me. One lady says hello.

“Hello.” I respond.

The lady nods and everyone goes back to doing her own thing.

“Excuse me. Beth Peters is my cousin. So if y’all would do me a favor...get out of her stuff.”

The lady who greeted me politely picks up her choices and says, “Sweetie, I am so sorry for your cousin’s loss and of course you and the rest of your family. As you can see we aren’t going through your cousin’s things. Just her husband’s.” She turns around and goes back to what she’s doing.

“Okay...apparently I didn’t say this clearly enough. Earl is dead. Beth is his wife. His stuff became her stuff the moment he died. Please get out of her stuff.”

No one is listening although everyone’s moving faster. I take a peek at the hallway outside. Empty. I close and lock the bedroom door. Then I pull out my little friend.

Everything stops when you pull a handgun out of your bra. I don’t know if these women were shocked at the sight of the firearm or amazed that it hadn’t fallen straight through. Either way, the room got real quiet real fast. “I tried to be nice, courteous, and ladylike about this. But y’all don’t seem understand English. At all. Put that shit down. Get your butts out of Beth’s stuff, out of this house, and don’t ever come back.” I got several glares and bad wishes. There might have been a voodoo swear word mixed in for good measure. Everyone dropped their “treasure” and left. Not before I checked their purses and had them open their coats. The cordial woman with the “manners” was last. I checked her purse and her coat. “Now get out.”

“You don’t understand. I know your cousin from way back. Lucy Stubblefield? I’m the secretary at the church that Beth and I attend.” She says, extending a hand.

“You should know better than anyone not to covet anything belonging to your neighbor.” I say.

“She’s not my neighbor. I live on the other side of town.”