Midnight Whispers Read online

  “I don’t doubt it. But that’s not why you’re here.” He shuddered slightly. “Besides, I work here…I’m not sure I want to know how many ghosts are lurking around every corner.”

  They walked through a door marked Evidence, and Brian passed a piece of paper to a gray-haired cop standing behind a mesh barrier. The cop looked at it, then looked back at Brian before disappearing around a corner. Five minutes later he reappeared carrying a manila folder, which he passed through a gap in the mesh just above the small counter. In turn, Brian signed a document, which he passed back to the cop.

  “We ever gonna catch that bastard?” the cop asked.

  Brian lied. “Looks like we’re going to give it another shot, based on new evidence.”

  “New evidence?” The cop shook his head and walked away from the window.

  Brian led Blake and Melody to a conference room just four doors down. He flipped a light switch, and the stark neon lighting and lack of windows made Blake feel slightly queasy. The room was Spartan, with nothing more than a worn conference table and six industrial-looking chairs in the center. How could Brian work in such a place day after day? For someone who had basically grown up onstage, such surroundings seemed almost claustrophobic. Still, somebody had to do this kind of work, and if it weren’t for people like Brian, who would? Blake glanced around the room again with a shudder.

  He and Melody took a seat on either side of the table, with Brian sitting at the end, facing them both. He opened the evidence folder, pulled out papers encased in clear plastic sleeves, and began laying them out on the table between him and Melody. Each sheet contained a crude drawing portraying violent scenes. The drawings, not much better than stick figures, were accompanied by frantic, scrawled messages. Melody picked one up and grimaced at the image, a woman with curly hair and her throat cut. The words “stuck-up bitch” were written across the bottom of the page, along with the date.

  “Jesus,” she muttered, picking up a drawing of an Asian woman with long, dark hair. The wounds on the Asian woman appeared more numerous and were on her arms, legs, and torso. The legend “screaming bitch” accompanied this drawing. Disgusted, Melody pushed them away, ignoring the rest on the table.

  “What a psycho,” she said, a pained look on her face.

  Blake flipped through the drawings and nodded. Although the murders had occurred before he was born, he’d read about the Doodler—maybe in the papers, he didn’t remember. Like most people, he’d wondered what had happened to the elusive killer. Most people assumed that the Doodler was dead, others speculated he had simply stopped killing for fear of getting caught, and although Blake hadn’t given too much thought to it, he’d supposed the man was simply in jail, locked up for another crime.

  “Did you pick anything up from them?” Blake asked Melody.

  “You mean, besides the guy was a sexist asshole who had serious issues with women?” Melody asked, curling her lip.

  “I could pick that up, and I’m not psychic,” Blake said, “but did you get any, you know, vibrations or anything from them?”

  Melody sighed loudly and picked up one of the drawings. “I’m glad these are encased in plastic. I’d hate to catch the crazies from them.”

  She was silent for a moment and closed her eyes. “He lived near Twin Peaks,” she finally said. “He knew his victims, and his name began with a J.”

  “We know he lived near Twin Peaks and that he knew his victims,” said someone new, startling Melody into opening her eyes. “Christ, we’ve had psychics tell us that since day one.” He said “psychics” the way some people said a racial epithet. “And, as far as the letter J goes, that’s a new one. That should narrow things down.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Good afternoon, Chief Norris.” Brian quickly rose from his seat. “We were just reviewing the evidence.” He kept his voice even. “This is Blake Danzig and his friend Melody. Blake, Melody, this is Chief Norris.”

  The chief, a barrel-chested man in his early fifties, merely nodded at them. His gray hair was closely cropped and a triangular scar rested above his right eye. His white shirt was pit-stained and his tie was a floral print that resembled a Hawaiian shirt. He turned back to Brian, his expression serious.

  “I didn’t agree to any more psychics,” he said, with no regard to Melody’s presence. “They’ve been no help to us for the last twenty years. I only agreed to bring in the ghost talker here because you said he really can talk to ghosts.”

  “He will,” Brian stammered, seeming embarrassed. “I thought this might be a good start.” He shrugged. “We have to start someplace.”

  The chief scowled before abruptly turning and walking out.

  Brian closed the door and returned to the table. “I’m sorry about that. He’s not a big believer in this sort of thing.”

  “How does he expect me to find the ghost of one of the victims?” Blake asked. “I can’t just pick up a piece of paper and talk to ghosts. It doesn’t work like that, Brian.”

  “That’s what I haven’t told you. There’s talk that an area up on Twin Peaks is haunted. It’s the same area where they found one of the victims.”

  *

  The traffic on Market Street was fairly light, so the drive up to Twin Peaks was a short one. Although Blake was afraid of what they might find there, the day was crystal clear as they made their way up the twisting road to the top. Once they were there, the vista was breathtaking, with clear views of the ocean to the west and the Oakland hills to the east.

  As Brian maneuvered the unmarked police car into the parking lot at the top of the hill, Blake marveled at all of the tourists milling about, snapping photos of the panoramic view and pointing out distant landmarks. Market Street lay far below, winding its way slowly up the hill. Downtown San Francisco seemed to shimmer in the distance. The East Bay stretched out beyond a lone cargo ship that crept along. “Jesus,” he said, peering out the window. “At least three tourist buses are up here.”

  “You afraid somebody will recognize you?” Brian asked.

  “No. I’m afraid somebody will see me talking to thin air and think I’m nuts.”

  Melody laughed from the backseat. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brian said. “The spot we’re looking for is just over there, out of sight.”

  As he led Blake and Melody to the place where the body of Ms. Cho was discovered, he explained that numerous forestry employees had reported “something odd” about it, and the story quickly spread that the area was haunted. The interesting thing was that none of the forestry employees knew of the area’s history or that a body had been found there decades earlier. As they rounded a rocky mound covered with brush and wild sage, Blake was happy to be away from the crowds of tourists.

  “Right over there,” Brian whispered, his tone almost reverent. “That’s where they found Betsy Cho and where people have reported strange occurrences.”

  “What sort of ‘occurrences’?” Melody asked.

  “Cold spots, strange, disembodied voices, even tossed stones.”

  Blake suppressed the urge to point out that high atop Twin Peaks—even on the warmest days—cold spots didn’t sound that unusual. Even the disembodied voices could be attributed to voices emanating from the surrounding houses, carried on the wind. Still, the fact people had gone to the trouble of reporting these things—coupled with the coincidence of the location—made Blake hold his tongue.

  “Do you sense anything?” he asked, turning to Melody.

  Melody, who had remained standing beside Brian, was quiet for a moment.

  “No. But it’s a very unhappy place.”

  Blake turned back to the spot, facing west. Funny, he thought as he gazed out over the Sunset District toward the Pacific, that this could be considered an unhappy place. Nevertheless, he wanted to help Brian solve the case, if only to prove his chief wrong. He half closed his eyes, focusing his gaze across the dusty path. Suddenly, a man appeared on the path. He was w
earing seventies-style clothing, and the only part of him visible was from the waist up. The spirit instantly stopped, hovering in midair and staring at them.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “How can you see me?”

  “We’re looking for a ghost, one that’s been causing trouble up here. Is it you?”

  The phantom smiled in a twisted, evil manner but didn’t answer.

  “Did you know Betsy Cho?”

  The spirit became visibly irritated at the mention of the name and averted his gaze to a clump of bushes to his right.

  “Did you kill her?” Goose bumps suddenly covered Blake’s arms.

  The spirit suddenly seemed to recover from his shock and smiled again.

  “And the others? Did you kill them, too?”

  “Bitches,” the ghost hissed.

  Blake felt he was truly in the presence of evil. “Does your name begin with a J?” he asked, undaunted.

  “Idiot,” the ghost spat, “my name is Jay!”

  Brian, who had been standing at a distance beside Melody, nervously cleared his throat.

  “Blake,” he asked hesitantly, “who are you talking to?”

  “We found the Doodler.”

  *

  Despite Blake’s efforts to extract additional information from the spirit, the name Jay was all he was willing to offer.

  As Brian maneuvered the car back down the hill, he cursed loudly. “How the hell am I supposed to tell the chief that we found the Doodler, but, oh, by the way, he’s dead now?”

  Blake thought for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “he must have died up there, too. Surely there would be records of a man named Jay who died on Twin Peaks.”

  Brian was silent.

  Melody chimed in from the backseat. “After the last known killing.”

  “I don’t know,” Brian said. “It doesn’t sound like much to go on.”

  The car fell silent as they continued back to the police station. Brian was angry at himself for not feeling even the slightest bit of elation over the news that the Doodler was dead, but what was he supposed to tell the chief? As he parked in his spot on the police lot, he turned to Blake.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not sure how the chief will take this new information. He’s not exactly the most tolerant person when it comes to this sort of thing.”

  “Then we’ll get him evidence. Don’t mention what we saw up there. Not yet.”

  Brian nodded, kissed Blake lightly on the cheek, and got out of the car. Blake and Melody shared a brief, knowing look before they followed him.

  The records department of the SFPD was massive and meticulously maintained. Blake and Melody waited as Brian requested copies of old police reports, beginning the week of the last known murder. He returned with a stack of manila folders, each one three inches thick, and directed his guests to an empty table against a far wall.

  “Here,” he passed a random folder to Blake and then one to Melody, “we might as well get started.”

  Blake looked across the table at his boyfriend. Brian was so level-headed and sure of himself. Blake couldn’t help but feel slightly aroused as he watched him in action. He suggestively nudged Brian’s leg under the table but Brian, engrossed in the contents of the folder in front of him, ignored the flirting. Blake sighed and opened his own folder, reading reports of crimes committed before he was even born. Rapes, murders, assaults, burglaries. The aging reports in front of Blake ran the gamut of human evils. How could people be so callous to other human beings? After a mere ten minutes of perusing the folders, Melody gasped. Both Brian and Blake looked up from their own folders, expectantly. With wide eyes, she pushed a page toward them.

  The report in question was classified Hit and Run, with the fatality listed as Jay Dean Mitchell, thirty-five, of 411 Crestline. No witnesses to the incident were listed, which occurred three days after the last murder known to have been committed by the Doodler.

  “Holy shit.” Brian reread the report. “Crestline is on Twin Peaks.”

  “So the other psychics were right,” Melody said. “He did live nearby.”

  “Still, this doesn’t prove our ghost is the Doodler.”

  “But he is. He practically confessed as much to Blake.”

  “But how do we prove it? As far as everyone else is concerned, this is just some poor guy who got hit by a car.”

  “The report says that Mr. Mitchell lived on Crestline with his mother,” Blake said. “If she’s still living maybe she can help us out.”

  Brian silently considered his suggestion for a moment before rising from his seat, the report in hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said, then walked briskly from the room.

  “This is right, I know it,” Melody whispered, once she was certain he was gone.

  “I agree, but…”

  Brian re-entered the room holding a photocopy of the original report. After replacing the original report he silently gathered up the remaining folders and took the stack back to the captain behind the counter. Blake and Melody remained silent, even when Brian returned to the table and sat down.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, staring at his hands. “I think we’re onto something and, according to the records, Jay’s mother still lives at the house on Crestline. But we can’t barge into his mother’s house without a search warrant—”

  “So get a search warrant,” Melody said.

  Brian held up a hand to silence her.

  “We can’t get one based on the evidence at hand.”

  Once again they fell silent and Brian stared wistfully at the photocopied police report.

  This time Blake broke the silence. “I have an idea.”

  Brian and Melody looked at him expectantly.

  “Just drive us up there and I’ll explain on the way.”

  The plan was brilliant in its simplicity, although Brian still had misgivings after Blake went over it. He would simply introduce himself, explain to Mrs. Mitchell her son’s ghost had appeared to him, and Brian could look around for evidence while Blake kept her preoccupied.

  “Still,” Brian said, “it’s been over twenty years since the murders. I don’t know what kind of evidence you expect me to find.”

  The houses perched on Crestline seemed to cling unnaturally to the steep hills, as if one strong breeze would send them all crashing to the valley below. They were similar in design, with minor differences here and there as if to set them apart from their neighboring houses. Where space allowed, eucalyptus and bald cypress trees clung to the earth. Blake imagined they would still be rooted to their spots long after the houses were gone.

  411 Crestline was an unassuming two-story stucco abode, set into the side of the hill. Similar in appearance and style to the neighboring houses, it easily blended in, made unique only by the street number above the door. Brian parked on the street in front of the house and they made their way up the steps. After they quickly knocked on the door they could hear a deadbolt being released and a short, graying woman in her seventies appeared.

  “Yes?” she asked, obviously surprised by visitors.

  “Mrs. Mitchell?” Brian asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Brian Cox with the San Francisco Police Department.” He showed her his badge. “I have someone who wants to speak with you.”

  Blake stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mrs. Mitchell, I’m—”

  “Blake Danzig,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “Why, I watch your television show all the time! What in the world?”

  “May we come in?” Blake asked.

  “Heavens, yes.” Mrs. Mitchell stepped aside to allow entry. “Where are my manners? Please,” she gestured to a sofa and some armchairs, “make yourselves comfortable.”

  Blake looked around the cozy living room and the unmistakable furnishings of an elderly grandmother. Lace curtains covered a large bay window facing the street, a comfortable-looking chintz sofa was flanked by two over-stuffed armchairs and porcelain fig
urines lined a shelf on the wall. He hoped they were wrong, but when he spied a photo of Jay on the wall leading into the kitchen, chills ran down his spine.

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” he said, turning to her, “I’m here about your son.”

  Mrs. Mitchell looked confused and her eyes moistened. “You mean Jay? He’s been dead for over twenty years now.”

  “I know.” Blake touched her arm. “He contacted me.”

  Blake took a seat on the sofa next to the perplexed woman and explained his encounter on Twin Peaks, careful to omit any references to the murders. When he finished, Mrs. Mitchell walked to the wall and removed the framed photograph Blake had already seen. She touched the glass lovingly and offered it to Blake. He hesitantly accepted the photo and stared into the eyes of the man he knew was the Doodler. The man looked like a typical thirtysomething—happy, healthy, and well-dressed. He could have been anyone, a nameless face on the street, with nondescript hair, a long face with a pointed chin, and blue eyes hidden behind silver-rimmed glasses. He passed the photo to Melody, who seemed visibly shaken when she held it. She hastily passed the photo to Brian.

  “I’m not surprised you saw my Jay up there on the peaks,” Mrs. Mitchell said, accepting the photo back from Brian and replacing it on the wall. “He loved to go running up there at night. He was so into keeping fit.”

  Blake and Brian exchanged a quick look, then Blake turned back to Mrs. Mitchell.

  “Didn’t he think it was unsafe to go running up there at night?” he asked.

  “I warned him all the time,” she replied, wistfully, “but he assured me he would be all right because he wore light clothing so that cars could see him in the dark…”

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” Blake said, “did you happen to keep any of your son’s belongings?”

  She stared at him, seeming confused.

  “If I could touch something that belonged to him…” Perspiration was beginning to form under his arms.

  “Well, of course,” she said, finally understanding. “I kept his room just like he left it. I never changed a thing.”