Crimes by Moonlight Read online

  “Oh, Christ,” I said. “Ghost hunters. Here. Did you find out whose bright idea that was?”

  “The male half of the Vermont immigrants,” Melanie said. “I guess ... well, he claims that he and his wife, ever since they moved into the place, there’s been, quote, events, unquote. And the wife, she’s thinking of turning the place into a bed-and-breakfast—”

  “Like this county needs another Victorian bed-and-breakfast.”

  Another smile from my young officer, who’s the daughter of the selectmen chairman, and who works twice as hard to prove she doesn’t get any favors. She said, “But that’s the deal, Chief. This one, they could say it was haunted. That, plus the view of Vermont and the buttered scones for breakfast, I guess they thought that was a selling point.”

  I tried to peer through the window, just saw the three shapes, sitting there silently. “What happened to Peter?”

  Melanie’s smile faded a bit. “You can see for yourself. Kinda gross. Looks like he took a fall from the third floor stairs, went down to the second floor landing, and ... well, the railing for the landing. There was this lovely sculpted ear of corn or something on the railing, very kitschy and decorative, but it had a sharp point and went right through his throat. Bled right out, up there on the landing.”

  I took my uniform hat off, rubbed at my head. “All right. You got statements from all three of them?”

  “Yep,” she said.

  “You got pictures and preliminary measurements?”

  “Yep, again.”

  “What’s your gut telling you?”

  She looked at me with a calm, clear expression, and said, “Untimely death. That’s all. Nothing suspicious.”

  I stared right back at her. “Okay. Not bad ... but you screwed one thing up.”

  “Oh?”

  I motioned to the living room. “You left the three of them alone in there, while you were out talking with me. Those are all witnesses. They should be separated so they don’t get a chance to chat and compare stories, and come up with a nice little narrative.”

  Melanie said, “Good point, Chief. Won’t do it again. But still ... guy took a tumble.”

  “Sure,” I said, going to the door. “But if we find out later that somebody in here pushed him, the attorney general will be all over our ass. Look, stay out here and keep the eager beavers from the fire department from coming in. You’ve done well.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Chief.”

  And so I opened the door and entered what was technically a crime scene, but which I thought was something else as well.

  IF I was concerned about a crime being committed, I suppose I should have checked out the body of the recently deceased, but I was more interested in talking to the witnesses, aka residents, who were in the house at the time the young man died. Sitting on a couch that looked overstuffed and upholstered, like it belonged to some Manhattan designer’s idea of what constituted Victorian style, were Ralph and Carrie Toland. Ralph had on a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that said COLBY, while his wife had a light blue terry cloth robe on, her white-knuckled hands tight about the top. Her blonde hair was mussed and her eyes were red-rimmed, like she had been silently crying for the past hour. Ralph was about ten years my junior, black hair cut nice and short, but his face was just a bit flabby and shocked, like he could not believe that his entire life had led up to this, a pleasant home in a pleasant town with a dead body on the next floor.

  Slumped in an easy chair that was an uneasy match to the couch was Josh Lincoln, who looked to be about the same age as our county dispatcher. He had on black sneakers, blue jeans, and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that had the same logo displayed on the van outside. There were tattoos on the back of his hands, and he had earrings in both ears. His dark hair was in a ponytail, and he was just staring at his feet.

  “Mr. Toland? Sir?”

  Ralph looked up, like he just recognized that someone else was in the room, and said, “Yes?”

  “Sir, I’m Chief Hoyt Graham, Salem Falls Police. Is there a place where we could talk, just for a few minutes? Just the two of us?”

  “Um, sure,” he said, getting up from the couch, squeezing his wife’s free hand. “Sure, come with me,” and then Carrie looked up at him, her face pinched, and whispered, “Your fault, damn you, your fault.”

  He sighed and ran a hand across the top of his head, and I followed him as he walked into a kitchen, flicking on a light. I took in all the stainless steel gear and thought my wife would drool at seeing such a display. He took a stool and so did I, and I said, “I know you’ve talked to Officer Harris, but I just want to hear it from you, what happened.”

  He shook his head and sighed and said, “Damn ... I mean, it seemed like a hoot at the time, you know? I was watching some TV last month, saw this program on the paranormal, and saw a bit on an outfit called the New England Ghost Hunters. And Carrie and I thought it would be great to have someone come here and investigate our house.”

  Sure, I thought. Your idea and your wife’s idea. I wasn’t buying it, but I went on and said, “And what would be the purpose of this ... investigation?”

  He shrugged. “Some publicity. We’re thinking of converting this place into a bed-and-breakfast, and we thought a television program about what’s been going on here would be wonderful in getting our name out to the public.”

  “Has the planning board approved your proposal?”

  “Not yet, but our lawyer’s confident it will get approval.”

  I flipped over a page in the notebook and thought, Then your lawyer doesn’t know Salem Falls that well, but poor Ralph was already having a terrible night, so I didn’t want to add to his misery. Aloud I said, “So tell me, sir, what’s been going on that you thought about bringing in ghost hunters?”

  Ralph looked embarrassed and said, “Oh, stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Well ... ever since we moved in, there’s been ... incidents.”

  I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Like what? I don’t like games, Mr. Toland, so tell me what’s been going on here, what’s occurred so that you felt compelled to bring in two strangers from Massachusetts to spend the night here, one of whom is now dead in your house.”

  That certainly got his attention, and he stared at a point about a foot above my left shoulder and said, “Little stuff at first. Carrie’s always on me for leaving the toilet seat up, and I swear, I always put the seat down ... and she’d always find it up. And doors would open and shut by themselves ... and you’d be walking down the stairs and man, you’d just get a blast of cold air ... and at night ... well, sometimes it got worse at night.”

  I didn’t say a word. Just waited, and he added, “Just as you’d be drifting off to sleep, there’d be whispers out there, whispers that you could barely hear ... and when you’d sit up, they’d go away. Or if you went around, thinking maybe the TV or a radio was left on, there’d be nothing. But back into bed ... more whispers. And ... shadows on the wall ... odd lights that would just flicker at the corner of your eye ...”

  I sighed. “Mr. Toland ... this house is more than a century old. Odd things happen to the foundation. The house can settle and either close or open doors, make creaking noises, or let in drafts that’ll freeze your fingers. Old pipes can rattle or gurgle water ... make it sound like whispers. And lights ... the eye can play tricks at night, especially ... well, especially when you’re predisposed to think something’s going on.”

  He stopped staring over my shoulder, now looked at my face. He said, “Two weeks ago, my wife woke up screaming, saying something cold had grabbed onto her foot. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t me. So don’t tell me it’s just an old house, all right?”

  I went to my notebook. “All right, we’ll leave that be. Now, tell me about these two ghost hunters.”

  Another shrug. “At the time ... like I said, it was just a hoot. I called their one-eight-hundred number, they came up here, asked if they could spend
the night, and we said, sure. They have all this gear, you know, cameras that can take pictures in the night, stuff that measures variations in temperature and electromagnetic radiation. I was going to stay up with them, but they said, no, they got better results with the homeowners not being present. So Carrie and I went to bed, and just before two a.m ... I woke up, heard some screaming, and then a thumping sound, and then more yelling. That’s when I got out of bed.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Up to where I heard Josh yelling, yelling about his bud Peter. His friend ... it was awful. Blood everywhere. And that’s when I had Carrie call nine-one-one.”

  “And what was Josh yelling about his friend Peter?”

  “Upset talk ... that’s all ... that he had fallen, was bleeding hard, what was he going to tell his parents, stuff like that.”

  “All right,” I said. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help with our investigation?”

  He shook his head. “To think something like this would happen in our house ...”

  And I don’t know, maybe I was feeling grumpy or something for being woken up and having my weekend ruined, but I said, “Oh, one thing, Mr. Toland. Just so you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Earlier you said this was your house. Not entirely accurate. This is the Logan house, named after the man who built it, back in 1882. It may be your house for a while, but it will always be the Logan house. Funny thing, I know, but that’s one of the funny things about small towns. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to your wife for a few minutes.”

  I don’t think Mr. Toland liked being corrected like that, and truth be told, I didn’t particularly care.

  NEXT I spoke to Carrie Toland in her fine kitchen, which was mostly a waste of time. She was at times weepy and other times angry, and she mostly repeated what her husband had said, with one notable exception, that the visit of the alleged paranormal experts was entirely her husband’s idea, and not hers.

  And when Peter had died a couple of hours ago, she was fast asleep and heard a thump, and yelling, and that’s all she knew. She got up from bed with her husband, went upstairs to the second-floor landing, and when she saw the blood on the stairs and the crumpled form of Peter, she retreated back downstairs to the living room and called 911.

  “All right,” I said, looking at my notebook. “But tell me this. Your husband claims that ever since you moved into the house, that there’s been ... incidents. True?”

  She tried to draw her bathrobe even closer about her neck. “I ... I don’t know.”

  “Could you be a bit more precise, Mrs. Toland?”

  “Ralph ... he’s really the one who thinks something’s been going on here. At first, it was a little joke, you know? That there was somebody else living here, somebody sharing our house. We even talked about charging rent or something ... just a little joke.”

  “Was you waking up a couple of weeks ago, screaming that something had grabbed your leg, was that a little joke?”

  Her eyes were sharp, and I could just imagine what she’d be saying to her husband at the first opportunity, about telling family secrets, and she said, “No. That was just a nightmare. Nothing else.”

  “Your husband believed otherwise.”

  “Maybe so, but I never really believed. I just thought it was Ralph and his imagination ...”

  And then her mood and voice changed. “His damn imagination. And look what it’s brought us. A dead boy in the house. A dead boy.”

  She shivered and said bitterly, “But maybe Ralph will be happy now. A real dead body in our house. Maybe that poor boy’s spirit will haunt us now ...” Then the sniffling started, and I patted her on the shoulder and said we were done for now.

  JOSH Lincoln, the surviving 50 percent of the New England Ghost Hunters field team, seemed kind of shaky, so we sat at a dining room table in the rear, adjacent to the kitchen. I took notes as we talked, and after getting his age, hometown, and that usual stuff, I said, “So. How long have you been doing this kind of work?”

  “Just over a year,” he said glumly, looking down at his tattooed hands.

  “What else do you do?”

  “Huh?”

  I said gently, “Oh, come on, Josh. This can’t be a paying gig, can it? What else do you do?”

  He looked a bit embarrassed. “Tend bar. In Newburyport, Massachusetts.”

  “And your buddy Josh?”

  “Dishwasher. Same place as me.”

  “So how did you end up doing this?”

  Josh shrugged. “We love Goth stuff, the supernatural, that sort of thing. King, Poe, Lovecraft ... and Newburyport’s got a lot of haunted history. We read up on ghosts and ghost-hunting on the Web, seemed like fun, you know? Do stuff firsthand. Got some gear, made a connection with a cable station, and there you go ...”

  “And probably get to boast some to the young ladies, right?”

  Just the hint of a smile. “Maybe.”

  “And how did you end up here, in Salem Falls?”

  “The guy that owns the house, he gave us a ring. And once we looked into the history of this house, man, of what happened here—”

  I held up a hand. “I know. The Logan place. I’m a native. I know all about it.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “So how many times have you done investigations like this?”

  “About ten, fifteen times,” he said.

  “Any ghosts? Spirits? Things that go bump in the night?”

  Josh rubbed his hands together. “Indications ... increased levels of electromagnetic radiation, some whispers caught on audiotape, flashes of light ... stuff like that.”

  “But no pirate ghosts, waving a sword, that sort of thing?”

  He wiped at his eyes. “Look, maybe you’re having fun with this, you know? But my buddy’s dead out there.”

  I felt properly chastened. “My apologies. You’re right. Look, Josh, what happened when Peter came down the stairs? Where were you?”

  He took a breath. “I was in the living room. There was some indication in the far corner ... just a sudden dip in the temperature. Peter was upstairs, on the third floor. Then I heard him moving fast, and a yell ... and then he fell. I ran upstairs and just saw him there ... bleeding ... and ... it was so quick, you know? It didn’t take long. The woman ... Christ, I forget her name, she called nine-one-one and then that woman cop showed up. And that’s about that.”

  “All right,” I said, making my last notes. “You said he yelled ... did you hear him saying anything in particular?”

  He wiped at his eyes again. “I ... I don’t know. He said something.”

  “And what was that? What did he say?”

  Josh suddenly looked about thirty years older. “He said ... he said ... ‘It’s coming after me. It’s coming after me.’ ”

  OUT in the living room, I saw the reflection of red strobe lights, bouncing off the wallpapered walls, and on the porch, there were a handful of Salem Falls volunteer firefighters, eager to do their job. I went out on the porch and nodded to my officer, and spotted Skip Durban, the chief of the volunteer fire department. He weighs about three hundred pounds and needs to have a specially tailored fire coat, but he’s been the chief for nearly a decade, and while his department may be volunteer, it is very professional.

  “Looks like an untimely death, Skip, but you know the drill. Can’t move the body until the county medical examiner says he’s dead.”

  Skip, being a good sort, just nodded and said, “State police coming?”

  I said to Melanie, “Would you take care of that, then? Contact the State Police Major Crimes Unit and the medical examiner. Sort of slipped my mind.”

  Melanie looked coolly at me and said, “Not a problem, Chief.”

  Skip said, “Mind if I get a look?”

  I said, “Give me a couple of minutes first, all right, Skip? I haven’t seen the poor bastard yet ... just want to get first impressions by myself.”

 
; Skip said, “Sure.”

  And I was going to ask him to have his guys switch off the red strobe lights, but he was being so agreeable, I let it pass.

  BACK in the house, I ignored my three interviewees and decided it was finally time to see the death scene for myself. I went up the first floor steps—nice wide oak steps—and then to the landing, where I detected the odor of blood and other bodily fluids. The poor guy was dead, all right. He was crumpled up on his side, facing the living room, and his throat was a bloody mess. Blood had sprayed out onto the banister and the wall, no doubt from a severed artery. I stepped a bit closer. Peter looked to be about the same age as his friend downstairs, had on jeans and black sneakers, and he had on the same kind of T-shirt, save his was short-sleeved, showing off tattoos on both bare arms. His eyes, thankfully, were closed. I looked up the stairs going up to the third floor, looked at the banister, an old, carved, ornate piece of work, matching the adjacent railings.

  And my officer had been right. The railing here on the landing was low, much lower than any present-day building inspector would allow, and on either end of the railing, there were carved, decorative pieces that in fact looked like narrow corncobs. The one at the end facing the stairs going down was nice and plain. The one at the end facing the stairs going up was bloody, and it looked like the top three or so inches had been broken off.

  I stepped around Peter and his pool of blood, looked upstairs to the third floor. This set of stairs was narrow and steeper, and the wood was highly polished. Easy to see what must have happened. The young guy was up on the third floor, got spooked, and tried to come downstairs quickly. Slipped on the steps, fell, and impaled his throat on that nice hundred-year-old bit of decorative railing work.

  Untimely death. My officer had called it, I had confirmed it, and I was sure the medical examiner and whatever state police detective on duty tonight would sign off on it as well.