The Dark Ages Trilogy: Malignance

By Sturmen Krieg

Returning from Panama, and the savaging of Team Bravo, contract DEA operator, Captain Alexander Scott Richter, finds he returns six days late of his daughter’s funeral. With no help from his ex-wife, her new husband, or the police, Richter embarks on a quest to uncover the murderer of the only thing he ever truly loved, his child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9780996426817

Book preview

Twenty-Eight

One

Continental flight 881 got Richter out of Tocumen within thirty minutes of its scheduled departure. Once at altitude, passengers in coach unbuckled then packed their faces with goobers and Coke. Few, if any, paid for available liquor. Most merely squandered honey-coated peanuts and soft drinks provided free of charge.

A quick changeover at Houston Intercontinental Airport put Richter on Delta flight 573. A low pressure system advanced from the southwest, but the pilot, Richter surmised, felt he could outrun the squall. He was wrong. The front caught them broadside over Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Basin, about one hundred miles short of the runway at New Orleans’ Louis Armstrong Airport.

The aircraft shuddering, passengers and crew securely buckled themselves, then conspicuously white-knuckled their armrests. A few overhead compartments inadvertently unlatched, and from them personal articles scattered. As Richter locked his arms about the silver metallic briefcase resting on his lap, he watched one flight attendant heave her Houston brunch.

From her buckled-down position she reached for a nearby vomit receptacle. She clenched the bag with one swift swoop of her right hand but failed to apply it in time. Before the container sealed about her lips, a thrusting chuck shot past its rim. Pretty girl, thought Richter. So much for café au lait.

He looked right and glanced out the starboard window. He heard two subsequent up-chucks from a passenger seated behind him. Evidently, he guessed, this passenger’s uncontrolled release was in response to the young attendant’s wretched audio-visual display.

A few minutes later, the aircraft rocked its way over the Mississippi River and aimed for the threshold bars of runway 01. Seven minutes following, pale-faced passengers wobbled their way up gangway D to baggage claim. As he ascended the concourse, Richter peered through a window right of him. He eyed Moisant tower jutting well above the main terminal and the dull, overcast sky beyond. At baggage claim, he found his olive-drab duffle bag easily enough, whereupon, he left his emotionally distraught travel companions to themselves.

He ascended an escalator and saw two diverging glass doors leading outside. Once beyond them, Richter stepped to the curb where a black and white checkered cab sat parked at a stand. He pulled the rear door open, threw his ragged bag across the seat, settled himself, then stashed his briefcase between his feet.

Richter lifted a folded piece of paper from his inside coat pocket. When he looked up, he noticed the cabby eyeballing his wardrobe.

Take me to Memory Gardens, Richter said, 4900Airline Highway.

Already there, guy, the cabby replied.

The driver engaged the ignition three times before the engine caught and settled to an even idle. He guided his vehicle to the end of the service road, where he turned left and onto Airline Highway. Thinking his passenger as just one more Mardi Gras pilgrim with a flair for the peculiar, the hack attempted to enrich his livelihood.

He was a young man, perhaps mid to late twenties, not very tall. Richter guessed his height to be roughly the same as his own. His neatly cut, straight brown hair lay well. It separated at a part on the right side. His bronze flesh looked artificial, like someone who spent hours in a tanning salon. That, thought Richter, or he laminated himself with tanning goo from a tube. Either way, the end result was unimpressive.

Instead of remaining on Airline Highway, the hack turned left and headed north on Williams Boulevard. Richter immediately caught this unwarranted maneuver. He leaned forward and rested his arms onto the front seat back rest.

We were already on Airline, he said. Why did you turn off?

The cabby made eye contact using the rear-view mirror. A stressful pause followed, that is, before he glanced over his right shoulder. He stared into the passenger’s knowing eyes. He swiftly faced forward, using traffic as an excuse to divert. Airline winds north for Lake Pontchartrain, he explained. We’ll catch it at just about the place you want to be.

Richter revealed a subtle smirk. He cocked his head to one side. He pulled on the front seat and stretched his neck in an effort to regain eye contact. Airline bisects the city on an east-west heading, he reminded the man, until it turns into Tulane after I-10.

I’m just trying to make a living, man.

Try at someone else’s expense, warned Richter. Make a right on 21st Street. Work your way back.

The hack maneuvered his vehicle onto 21st Street. He made another right turn onto Georgia and a subsequent third right onto 20th Street, returning to Williams Blvd. From there, he steered south to Airline Highway. Behind him Richter quietly sat.

From Airline Highway, they rolled onto Clearview Parkway and drove south for a short leg, three or four blocks. Turning off Clearview, they moved into a residential area. The hack worked his way west, through a subdivision, to the remote entrance of Memory Gardens. Richter gazed upon tombstones and vaults as the cab took to a road adjacent to the cemetery.

Most monuments showed a polished gray or white. Their faces appeared window-like when eyed from an angle. Even in drab overcast, their honed surfaces easily reflected what little daylight there was. Less prominent sandstone and granite monoliths — and less costly — displayed gritty, dull faces. Their textures lacked a refinement, but their deeply carved epitaphs boldly stood out — no glitz to muddle the message.

On reaching the entrance, Richter asked the driver to stop. The hack pulled his vehicle to the curb and waited with meter running. For a half minute, Richter quietly remained seated. He took in his surroundings and imprinted the geography’s tranquil morbidity.

He looked beyond a seven-foot iron fence, to a structure appearing much like a sarcophagus. He deduced this was some kind of administration building or visitor center. Its white granite face, also lustrous, gave the edifice a compatible presence within the tomb-laden field. Two, nine-foot high Corinthian columns on each side of its door lent an official yet harmonic air. It had a businesslike quality while maintaining a low-key tone for humanity’s sake.

Richter stepped from the cab. He set his attaché case and duffle bag on the sidewalk. He saw no traffic along the route they had just traveled. The quiet residential area adjacent to the cemetery enhanced the atmosphere of serenity. Reciprocity in the making, he thought—one dull, lifeless existence mutually supporting the other. Richter felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

He glanced skyward and saw the weather had modified. The cloud ceiling looked much denser. He guessed it had reduced the sun’s penetration by another ten or fifteen percent. Diminished light gave the afternoon an almost twilight effect. The wind picked up. Eddies swept through branches of nearby trees. Leaves quaked as the currents brushed past them.

Richter stiffened his arms and tugged on his coat sleeves. He tried to gain additional warmth from his flimsy tweed jacket, a futile measure. He turned and faced the cabby. The driver did not waste time. He did not enjoy being outdone by an outsider on his own turf.

That’s fourteen-fifty, he said.

We only went four miles, said Richter.

Meter says fourteen-fifty.

Richter looked beyond the cab, to the single-family, ranch-style homes across the street. He reached for his wallet while considering their simple design. One cookie cutter after another, he concluded, all looking much the same. He withdrew three, five-dollar bills and handed them to the hack. Keep the change.

Richter pivoted and faced the gate. He briefly paused before gripping his briefcase and bag. The cabby watched him step away.

Hey! yelled the hack. Aren’t you going to shut the door?

Richter did not reply. He strode for the gate as if the vehicle had already left. The aggravated driver gave his cheap fare a hard look before speeding away. Richter heard squealing tires and the hack’s voice over howling, hot rubber.

You piece of shit!

The vehicle’s acceleration forced the cab’s door to slam shut, which Richter heard as well. By the time he reached the visitor center, however, the cabby’s existence had already reduced to a nonexistent state.

Inside the crypt-like dwelling, a highly polished, dark-stained, ash counter ran the room’s entire width. A long bench positioned against the opposite wall. Its grain showed lighter than the counter. Richter took particular notice of its carved, ornamental features and decided the old piece was most likely a pew from a bygone church.

From behind the counter, a woman beamed a pleasant smile as she rose from her desk. Approaching the counter, Richter set his case and duffle down.

Yes, sir? she invited.

She was perhaps in her early thirties, not more than thirty-five. Her light-brown hair touched her shoulders at the under-curl. Her wardrobe was conservative. A white, long-sleeve blouse buttoned to her neck was neatly tucked into her well-fitted, brown slacks. Reading glasses hung from a gold, box-linked chain about her neck. This gilded-gold contrast enhanced the copper tinge of her suntanned complexion. Her eyes were blue.

I’m trying to locate a grave, said Richter.

Yes, sir, she replied. If you have the deceased’s name and date of death, I can look it up.

Her name is Courtney A. Richter. I haven’t seen her death certificate, so I can’t give you an exact date. As I understand, she was buried here five or six days ago.

Oh, that recent, she remarked. I am sorry. Let me check my files.

She returned to her desk and fingered through two tandem in-boxes set at the right corner. She looked through the top box, but without success. Richter saw that the lower box proved fruitful when she withdrew a document. She returned to the counter while reading aloud. Yes, here it is. Courtney A. Richter, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Mark Schatz.

I beg your pardon?

It’s what the paper shows, sir, she replied. Is this the person you’re looking for?

She’s the one, affirmed Richter, but you have it wrong on the parents. I’m the father.

Oh, I see. And your name sir?

Alexander Richter.

She spoke while penciling his name at the document’s lower left margin. Alexander Richter… And your middle name, sir?

Scott.

She reached for a tablet. I’m very sorry for your recent loss and for the clerical error. She jotted down the lot’s location. We’ll have this changed as soon as we can verify relationship through the family and hall of records.

I am family, retorted Richter.

It’s required, sir.

Richter took in a deep breath and relaxed on a slow exhale. It’s not your fault, he assured her. Thank you.

He stashed the paper into his coat pocket. After gathering his gear, Richter quickly departed the building. He concluded the lady was kind enough, but his systematic elimination from Courtney’s genealogy had generated a slight defensiveness. Although she was just a clerk, this lady was the one who informed him of his severance. She was the face of a bureaucracy that arrogantly presumed correctness until proven otherwise. He had to get out of there.

Outside, he again viewed the heavy overcast. Cloud cover looked no different, but the temperature had decidedly dropped.

He lifted the paper from his pocket. On it was written, Section G, square seven, plot four, lot eleven. So generic – sanitary, thought Richter. He used a grounds map at the building’s east face to pinpoint Courtney’s section and square.

The grave easily stood out among others within the plot. Unlike most stone or tomb-delineated sites, Courtney’s grave lay under a spread of wilting yellow, red, and white tulips, some chrysanthemums. As Richter approached the color-laden field, he tried to envision his daughter under the bouquet. In his own bleak way, he wanted to confirm to himself that his little girl was truly gone.

It surprised him to find her grave in such a meager state. He expected to see a granite vault or at least a stone border margining the lot. He took notice of the adjacent monuments. In comparison, his daughter’s bed looked meager.

He set his case and duffle aside. He took a step forward, then bent down on one knee. He squinted for a clearer view of her memorial. It was a bronze marker, little more than a piece of metal stabbed into the earth. At the spike’s apex was a machine-pressed framework. Within it, a typed form provided information about the interred. It lay sealed under a thin, plastic coating. He eyed the cellophane’s discoloration. After only a few days, it had already fallen victim to the elements. You get what you pay for, he thought.

Richter lowered his other knee and curled his legs under him. He did not know for how long he sat. He did not notice men approaching. He felt something, but of what he was not sure – so he treated it as a personal invasion. He looked up and glared into a caretaker’s gentle eyes.

He was a kindly looking black gentleman in gray coveralls. He was short, stocky, and broad shouldered. A touch of gray highlighted his temples. Richter guessed him to be about fifty-years old. Next to him stood another black man, also dressed in coveralls. He was taller and appeared roughly ten years younger than his companion. Each respectfully allowed Richter a silent moment more.

Mr., the older man said, The flowers. It’s been six days. We got to clean ’em up.

Once more Richter looked upon the grave. His scan traveled the lot’s entire length. He noticed wilted petals and saw how, much the same as people, time reduced these florets to only a remnant of what they once were. He faced the conscientious wardens and gave an affirming nod.

He remained where he sat and selfishly forced the two men to work around him. At that moment, Richter cared little of, for, or about anything; that is, except for what was no longer within his grasp. He was numb to the chilly afternoon breeze. He was unconscious to the cold groundwater soaking through his pants.

The taller custodian bunched three bouquets and exposed the freshly turned earth beneath. On doing so, near the base of Courtney’s memorial, Richter spotted what looked like the talon of a large bird. His eyes locked onto its digits. Wait!

Unaccustomed to terse commands, the caretakers froze. They looked at each other, then at Richter. They watched the grieving parent rise and straighten onto his knees. Richter leaned forward and grasped the claw in his right hand. He drew it close.

What’s this? asked Richter.

The man closest to Richter, the shorter one, stepped to beside him. He stooped next to the mourner and took the talon in his left hand.

Don’t know, the caretaker said. Looks like some kind of bird foot—big, maybe rooster.

Was it here when the flowers were laid? asked Richter.

Don’t know. Me and Jim didn’t lay ‘em.

Richter slipped the talon from between the man’s fingers and gave it another thoughtful perusal. Again, he viewed the grave. Pull off the rest.

The three men collected and tossed bouquets clusters aside, scattering the dead plants indiscriminately. Within a minute the grave lay exposed. Richter searched every square inch of turned soil.

Where’s the rest? he asked.

Ain’t here, replied the older man.

Richter raised the claw to eye level and once more viewed its digits. That’s because someone put this here, he said. Does this mean something?

He caught a look askance made by the shorter man to the taller. Richter glanced up and at Jim, the quiet, taller man. He searched Jim’s eyes. He returned his focus onto the shorter man. He awaited an answer.

Don’t know, he said. Jim, you got an idea?

Jim took a step nearer, but remained beyond the edge of the lot. He leaned forward while appearing to avoid coming into contact with hallowed ground, or so it seemed to Richter.

Naw, ain’t seen nothing like it – butcher shop maybe.

Jim glanced at his coworker while retreating. He immediately returned to gathering dead plants. Like that of his companion, Jim’s discomfort was readily apparent to Richter.

Two

Hack two possessed a more appealing, professional side. She also traveled a more direct route. Richter guessed her to be in her mid-forties. She wore a Baltimore Orioles cap with a blocked bill. Her pulled-up brown locks were secured under the hat. Richter rationalized the tucked-in strands had a twofold purpose: to keep her neck cool and, more importantly, to prevent her peripheral vision from becoming impaired should a fare turn hostile.

She remained on Airline Highway until it intersected with I-10. There, she rolled onto the Pontchartrain Expressway and worked her way southeast. She stayed on the turnpike as it wound to the northeast and paralleled Claiborne Avenue. Richter had a deep appreciation for both her geographical insight and honesty.

She used the exit ramp at Elysian Fields Avenue, then turned left. The name had its origin in the word Elysium, from Greek mythology, where the blessed went after death. Just one of those tidbits of useless information Richter had acquired over the years. From where, he could not recall. As his trustworthy cabby guided her vehicle north for Lake Pontchartrain, Richter admired the pleasant looking, midwinter foliage.

He looked left and saw luxuriant, full-colored Live Oaks running Elysian Fields’ center median. Their leaves’ lush green complemented their huge trunks and branches. Spanish moss hung from the limbs, and he saw how the long, gray-green filaments fluttered in the breeze. The wispy tufts suggested a macabre ambience, though beautiful all the same.

The driver was kind enough to give him a block’s notice before guiding to the curb.

Richter exited the cab at the corner of Elysian Fields and Mirabeau Avenue. He appreciatively handed the lady a ten-dollar tip, both for her integrity and her frugal