The Language Of Cannibals

The Cairn police station turned out to be a dispatching room, two-office and two-cell section of a town hall that was housed in a magnificent old stone building set down near the river a few blocks from the center of town. One of the offices was occupied by Cairn's chief of police, whose desk plaque identified him as Dan Mosely. Mosely, a dapper man who looked to be in his mid- to late forties, was dressed in a crisp, starched uniform that I suspected had been specially tailored for his wiry, six-foot frame. He had a thick head of curly steel-gray hair, and gray eyes to match. Ugly, puckered acne scars ringed his neck near the collar line, but the rest of his face was clear, with the kind of deep, even tan that comes from spending a lot of time on the water. His office was decorated with framed prints of old sailing ships. There was a case filled with sailing trophies and above it a photograph of a sleek, nineteen-foot Hoby catamaran with a power jib.

Mosely rose as I entered, extended a sinewy, bronzed hand, and flashed a grin that revealed even, white teeth. 'Dr. Frederickson,' he said in a deep, resonant voice. 'It's a pleasure to meet you.'

'Likewise, Chief,' I said, shaking his hand and wincing when pain shot through my wrist.

'Sorry,' Mosely said, quickly withdrawing his hand and grimacing in sympathy. 'It looks like you hurt yourself.'

'Just a slight sprain,' I replied, sitting down in the chair next to his desk that he had motioned me into.

'Did you do that when you coldcocked Trex?'

'Trex?'

Mosely sank down into the chair behind his desk and nodded amiably. 'Gregory Trex. McAlpin tells me you really rang his bell for him. That must have been some surprise for him, not to mention the people watching.'

'Yeah, well, being a dwarf sometimes has its advantages; nasty people don't always take you seriously at first, and you make a small target when they finally do.'

'I wasn't surprised,' Mosely said evenly as he studied me with his steel-gray eyes. 'Your reputation precedes you. Black belt in karate, right?'

'I take it this Gregory Trex is related to the Trex who heads the Vietnam Veterans?'

'Father and son. You couldn't meet two people who are more different. Jack seems to think it's his fault that Gregory is the way he is. . but I don't want to get into town gossip. It's a sad story.'

'I'll bet. Psychotics always make me sad, especially when they're pushing women around or trying to take off my head. It seems to me that you've got a town bully on your hands.'

Mosely grimaced again, nodded slightly. 'Gregory's got his problems, that's for sure. He's a pain in the ass, always full of piss and vinegar, and always looking for a fight. Town bully, yes, but when the town bully's father is a bona fide war hero, sometimes you have to tread lightly. Gregory's obsessed with the fact that he was too young for Vietnam. He thinks he could have been a war hero-and it doesn't help that his father has kind of soured on the whole war and Vietnam thing. Some people around here think Jack has lost his patriotism.'

'It looked to me like he'd lost his leg.'

'That too. But Gregory kind of feels cheated, like he's John

Wayne forced to act in a Shirley Temple movie, if you know what I mean.'

'So why doesn't he enlist in the Marines or some other branch of the service? The Vietnam War may be over, but the last I heard, the armed forces were still in business.'

Mosely's response was a thin smile and a slight shake of his head.

I asked, 'More town gossip?'

He nodded.

'Let me guess,' I continued. 'They either wouldn't take him or they threw him out on a Section Eight. Mental problems.'

'Column B. It's good that you know.'

'Why? What difference does it make?

Mosely studied me for some time, then said: 'I'm sure you've seen the movie where the sheriff says to some guy that trouble follows him wherever he goes.'

'Ah, I think I've got it. You're the sheriff, and I'm the handsome, mysterious stranger who's just come to town.'

'You're no stranger, Dr. Frederickson. And trouble does tend to follow you around, doesn't it? I'm trying to tell you that Gregory Trex is a very dangerous man, and he's not about to forget that you humiliated him in front of all his veteran buddies. The man's a PKA champion, and if you meet again, he may not be so easy to surprise. I don't want anybody hurt, but if I did try to warn you to get out of town, you'd be the one quoting old movies.' He paused, leaned forward in his chair, and narrowed his eyelids. 'I don't suppose you would consider going back to New York as soon as possible?'

'Thanks for the warning, Chief. Trex shouldn't be too hard to spot; I'll watch out for him.'

He nodded, and grunted softly. He didn't seem too pleased with my answer. 'How's Garth?'

'You know my brother?'

The man with the gray eyes and hair nodded again. 'I don't know if he remembers me, but I remember him, all right. Good cop with a big rep-not only for doing his own work but for the way he handled himself when he'd get tangled up with all those cockamamie cases that used to come your way. We worked out of the same precinct; he was with homicide, and I was with safe and loft. I put in my twenty years in New York, applied for this job last year, and got it. I like it real well in Cairn. Pulling down a New York pension and being chief of police in a town like Cairn is what New York City police detectives dream of when they dream of heaven. But then, I guess Garth found his own heaven when he teamed up with you, didn't he? I hear you two guys are doing really well.'

'Yeah. Garth has always considered me an angel.'

'So, how is he?'

'He's fine.'

Mosely frowned, leaned back in his chair, and glanced at the ceiling. 'Didn't I hear something a couple of years back about him being the head of some kind of religious cult?'

'Garth is fine, Chief. I'll tell him you say hello.'

Suddenly the intercom on Mosely's desk buzzed. Cairn's chief of police looked surprised. He waited until it buzzed a second time, then punched an orange button at its base. 'What is it?'

A male voice, presumably the dispatcher's, came over a speakerphone on the side of the intercom. 'You've got a phone call, Chief.'

'Emergency?'

'Not exactly.'

'Tell whoever it is to call back later. I'm in conference.'

'Mr. Culhane, Chief.'

Dan Mosely looked even more surprised, and then his gray eyes glinted with annoyance. 'Tell him I'll get back to him,' he said curtly, and punched a black button. He was just starting to turn back toward me when the intercom buzzed again. He punched the orange button. 'I said-!'

'Mr. Culhane’s pretty insistent, Chief. I just thought you should know.'

Mosely's annoyance flashed to anger, and his face flushed, making the acne scars on his neck stand out like a necklace of flawed pearls. 'I'll take it out there,' he snapped and punched the black button again. Then he rose and strode stiffly from the room.

I waited, idly rubbing my sore wrist while I stared out the small window in his office at the river. There was a marina to the east, and a covey of sailboats gently bobbed in the wake of a passing powerboat. Under a full moon, the river shone like a great silver highway. Mosely was back in less than a minute. His anger had passed, and now he looked merely embarrassed. I felt a little sorry for him. It seemed there were a few shadowy, dank corners in the heaven he'd found, and Elysius Culhane lurked in one of them, obviously expecting the chief of police to be at his beck and call; in another corner lurked a murderous young thug the police were expected to ride herd on, while at the same time protecting him from the consequences of his actions.

'Like I said, Frederickson,' Mosely said in a low voice as he sank back down into the leather swivel chair behind his desk, 'your reputation precedes you. You make people nervous.'

'Why should I make Elysius Culhane nervous?'

'Ah, you've met Mr. Culhane?'