The Ninth Sabbat

By Richard Haddock

All DC police sergeant Mike Wesley wants to do is coast through his last year before retiring, but when he is assigned a 21 year old female rookie to "mentor", she turns their first murder case into a serial killer scenario that covers 20 years and scores of Satanic-type murders. When his partner targets a local businessman as a suspect, Wesley is caught between his quest for the truth and his Captain's orders to squelch the investigation. As they shadow the suspect, Wesley discovers an even greater scope to the murders than his partner had imagined. When he bypasses his Captain and goes to the FBI, Wesley discovers the impact of high-level politics on law enforcement, the pervasiveness of Satanic cult behavior, and uncovers the shocking truth behind "the crime of the century." Will you believe what the story suggets, a crime so staggering as to defy belief, or is this just another clever horror story? There's only one way to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469701196

Richard Haddock

Dr. Haddock is retired and lives with his wife, Marilyn, in Northern Virginia.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

April 30th (Walpurgisnacht) A sharp ripping noise broke the still of the night, like old sheets being torn into rags. The woman’s eyes blinked open and, as she tried to turn over in the bed, her hand instinctively groped for the covers. The jerk on her wrist stopped her short. She tried again, but her arm would not cooperate.

There was a blur of dark movement at the foot of the bed. The woman squinted to see without her glasses. Suddenly, her hips were pulled violently upwards and another ripping noise filled the room. She tried to yell out, but her mouth was taped shut. She struggled to get up, but both ankles and wrists were tied to the corners of the bed. She couldn’t move. Her eyes widened in confusion.

Shafts of flickering yellow light in the room revealed a grotesque, unshaven face hovering over her. There was a pungent odor of wet rubber. The light flashed off the long blade of a knife. The face moved closer. The voice was low and guttural, a growl. Then a gloved hand grabbed her face by the chin. She stared up into the wild eyes. They glared down at her. Then the hideous growling grew louder.

The hand released her face and moved slowly down her neck and across one bare breast. She shuddered. As the face moved closer, a splotch of red hair appeared out of the shadows. Then the mouth was on her skin, the tongue tracing a slimy snail-like path across her bare stomach. The woman groaned, her voice trapped deep in her throat. The hand moved down her body. She twisted and tried to turn away, but the ropes held her down tightly.

The grotesque face leaned back over her, silhoutted by a strange circle of lights on the ceiling. Then the dark figure lowered itself between her legs. Its breathing quickened. The woman tensed and closed her eyes.

The powerful body moved rhythmically back and forth against her. The thrusts quickened. The woman’s eyes opened wide, filled with anger and loathing. Her attacker paused and then there was a low moan. The bearded face was impassive, expressionless. The head leaned backwards, released another moan, and wetness splattered across the woman’s stomach.

The bed moved as the dark figure slowly stood up. It moved to the head of the bed and slid a rope into place around the soft flesh of the victim’s neck. She groaned and twisted, her eyes wide with terror. The rope crackled as it flexed and tightened. The smell of sweaty rubber filled the room again. The growling became a hot whisper in her ear. Then she closed her eyes, for the last time.

The candlelight cast eerie shadows across the room as the dark figure stood up. One end of the rope fell to the floor. The growling stopped. The beast’s labored breathing subsided, becoming regular and controlled. After a few moments a muted bell rang.

The woman’s naked body lay unfeeling while the room echoed with the soft whir of a camera, its flash illuminating the monstrous scene from every angle. The beast stared down at the results of its work and smiled. The candle flames flickered back and forth, as if moved by the icy wind of death. It was over.

# # #

1

My name is Sergeant Michael Wesley. I’m forty-three, divorced, a twenty year veteran of the Washington, DC police force. Like many cops, I live my job. It isn’t just a way to earn a paycheck; it’s a way of life. I revel in the excitement and satisfaction of solving a crime, catching the bad guys and seeing justice meted out first hand. But there are, what-do-you-call-them, counterbalancing frustrations, of course: long hours, lousy pay, witnessing the squalor and depravity of life up close, seeing a scum bag, two-bit crook walk because of some stinking legal technicality. But it’s what I know, what I want to do with my life. At least, it used to be.

I tell you all this, not because I think it’s particularly interesting or exciting, and not because I’m one of those Narcissistic guys who enjoys talking about himself, but because you need to understand the contrast between the kind of guy I am and the sort of life I’ve led, and that of my partner. For you see, after twenty years of duty, being shot once, decorated twice, burying a partner and divorcing a wife, surviving eight Captains, three mayors and six Presidents, they’ve teamed me with a woman. A woman, for Christ’s sake. A brand spanking new rookie assigned to me for a full year. A whole freaking year.

I’ve already heard the jokes: Beauty and the Beast, Sonny and Cher, the Odd Couple and a number of other less flattering epithets that are being bantered about the station. This was not exactly going to be a marriage made in heaven.

Look, Rachel Austin said as she walked down the steps of police headquarters, I know this isn’t easy for you. After all, you’re the senior Detective in the division, but let me assure you, I can hold my own.

I continued down the steps, unwilling to look my partner of fifteen minutes in the eye. We reached the bottom of the steps and headed across the parking lot, on the way to our first investigation together, an apparent homicide in Northwest D.C. Look, Rachel said with a grimace, I’m not thrilled about being teamed with a guy who—

Who what? I stopped and turned to look at her.

Well, the Captain said—

Said what?

She frowned. Well, that you would be, difficult.

Difficult? I laughed. Let’s see, I’ve been called vulgar, unkempt and Neanderthal, but difficult? I turned and moved toward the line of cars. Je-sus! You wanna talk difficult? How about twenty years on the force and they team you with a rookie just out of her training bra. And for a whole freaking year. I shot her a look of disdain. And I’m supposed to be your mentor, the Captain says. What the hell is a mentor, for Christ’s sake? I shook my head and started off across the parking lot.

She strained to keep up with me. Well, the Captain was hopeful I could learn something from you, and he thought that—

That some of your Academy smarts might rub off on me? I scoffed. Honey, I never needed a computer yet to bust the nogood-nicks. I glanced at her. You ain’t about to change that.

We reached our car, a gray Ford Escort. You know, I just don’t get it, I said, fumbling in my pants pocket. This policy of rotating partners every year is bullshit. I pulled the car keys out and pointed them at her. Partners get a sixth sense about each other. They learn what they can count on in a pinch, when to cover for the other guy. And it takes longer than a year, you know? I shook my head. And now, on top of having to learn all that over again, I gotta watch my language, hold my gas, and explain why there aren’t three outs in a football game. This is a freaking nightmare.

Rachel drew a breath. Detective, other than holding your gas, which I would greatly appreciate, there is nothing you need to do differently just because I’m a woman. She yanked open the door, got into the car, and slammed the door.

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, right. I opened the door and slid in behind the wheel, glancing at her as she ran a hand through blonde hair that hung to her shoulders. Her face was void of makeup, save a hint of lipstick. She had strong features: a pug nose, high cheekbones dotted with freckles, eyes of gray blue. Her fingers were unadorned by jewelry, her nails unpainted. At twenty-two she looked more like she was sixteen.

She cleared her throat. Look, Detective Wesley, I know we both feel awkward about this assignment, but—

I started the car and yanked it into gear. We lurched forward. Awkward? Why should I feel awkward? Because you’re the only freaking woman in the division? Or that I’ve logged more time taking a leak than you have total experience?

I turned the wheel and drove out onto Twenty Second Street, heading north. As we roared away, Rachel grabbed the seat belt and clicked it into place.

I rolled down my window and glanced in the side mirror, then looked back at my partner. Okay, you want to learn something from me? Let’s start with your clothes. You’re dressed like we was going to a freaking embassy ball. She wore a simple white blouse and a blue plaid skirt. Black belt and flats, no hose.

What’s wrong with my outfit? She looked indignant, yet reexamined her wardrobe.

I shook my head, eyes fixed on the road. Lose the shoes. You’re gonna be on your feet a lot. You need something comfortable, something you can run through shit in, huh?

She glanced at my dingy, scuffed tennis shoes.

Suddenly, I slapped the steering wheel with the heel of my hand, then laid on the horn, swerving around the car in front of us. Jesus! A family of tourists from Indiana stared open-mouthed as our unmarked car roared past their station wagon. I reached across the front seat and popped the glove compartment open with my fist. I reached inside, pulled out a miniature police light, and pushed a switch on its base. It began to flash, alternating red and blue. A quick toss into my other hand and my arm was out the open window, the light affixed magnetically to the roof of the car.

Is that really necessary? she said.

I grinned. Just saving the taxpayer’s money. The quicker we can get to the scene, quicker we can do our jobs. No since wasting time sitting at a freaking red light, huh?

No sense driving like a maniac either.

I shrugged, then turned back to my critique of her appearance. Second, you gotta hide the legs.

Rachel opened her mouth to object, but another sharp turn caused her to grab the door handle with both hands.

Too many goombahs out here will be more interested in sneaking a look up your skirt rather than answering your questions, or taking your orders. My eyes quickly demonstrated my point.

Rachel turned in the seat and pulled her skirt tight over her knees. I negotiated the turn onto Massachusetts Avenue and hurtled through Sheridan Circle. She turned to look at me. Look, the department doesn’t hand out Detective’s badges to just anyone on the street corner. It so happens that I graduated at the top of my class at the Academy.

I slowed briefly at the next intersection, shot a glance in both directions, then punched the accelerator to the floor. I produced a wrinkled pack of Camels, pulling one out with my lips. Well, honey, it so happens that being first in your class out here ain’t worth two dog turds. I lit the cigarette with my silver Ronson, smoke streaming out the open window.

I noticed she was looking me over. Okay, so my hair is oily black and styled like something out of the fifties; combed straight back on the sides with a pompadour curl dangling on my forehead. I have a bony nose, broken a time or two, and dark brown eyes. I had on a black, wrinkled sports shirt, collar up, and a brown sports coat, tan cotton pants, white socks and black Nike’s. I suppose the Academy had classes about guys like me, huh?

She looked at me strangely. I beg your pardon?

You know, seminars like how old farts like me would be threatened by a more educated, aggressive, and younger officer. Male or female, huh?

Look, I know I’ve got to earn your respect, but—

Hey, I said as we flew past the Naval Observatory, I got nothing against you personally, huh? I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled. But, in my opinion, it’s broads like you that cause most of the trouble we gotta deal with out here.

Rachel leaned forward. Excuse me?

I waved my cigarette. Yeah. It’s this whole women’s rights thing. Leaving the home, destroying the family. That’s why kids go bad. There’s no discipline, no role models, you understand what I’m saying? I turned right onto Wisconsin Avenue in front of the Washington Cathedral. It was a bright, clear morning and the huge gray body of the church was topped by spires that reflected gold in the sunlight.

She shook her head. Most women work because they have to. It isn’t as much a social movement as an economic necessity. In my opinion, it’s the absence of the dead-beat fathers that has undermined the discipline and authority.

I frowned. Oh, sure. Ain’t never been a woman that’s stolen or lied or used her body to get what she wants. Never been a woman who’s stepped on some poor slob’s head on her way up the ladder. I turned to look at her. So what’s your story, Detective? You working because you got three kids to feed?

She stared straight ahead, face flushing. All I want is to be the best there is in this business. She turned to look at me. And I have no plans to step on anyone’s head.

Well, it’s too late for that, honey. From what I hear, you got special treatment at the Academy.

She turned to face me. And from what I hear, you’re just going through the motions until you retire.

I laughed. I don’t know who you been talking to, honey, but if I gotta baby-sit rookies, then maybe I will freaking retire.

She stared straight ahead, arms folded defiantly across her chest. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me honey.

Oh, that’s right. My boss can call me a horse’s ass or a dumb shit, but I can’t call you honey or babe or toots. That would be offensive. I drew out the last word, leaning into yet another turn. The whole freaking world is ass-backwards. Criminals got rights, students got rights, minorities, whoa, minorities really got rights. I shook my head. Nobody’s got any responsibilities. Everybody wants a free ride.

Her voice was low. That’s exactly what my father used to say.

I frowned. And that’s another thing. The Captain told me all about your old man. I’m sure he was a helluva cop, but I don’t need no reminders of how he did things, what he thought about this and that, kapeesh?

She bit her lip, obviously struggling to control her emotions. Fumbling in her handbag, she produced a bright blue key, and held it out to me. Here.

I glanced at it with a frown. What’s that?

It’s a key to my apartment.

Huh? What the—

It’s rule number five from the Academy. She held the key aloft between us, wiggling it back and forth.

I refused to take it.

It’s important for partners to have access to one another at all times.

Now, how the hell is it gonna look if I got a key to your apartment?

Did you have a key to your last partner’s place?

I glanced at the blue key again. That was different.

She shoved the key into my shirt pocket. No difference at all. This isn’t an invitation to just come barging in any time you feel like it, it’s just—

Yeah, yeah. It’s rule number five from the Academy. I glanced at her. And no, I ain’t got an extra key to my place.

She frowned. I bet when you were a rookie your partner didn’t give you this much trouble.

That hit a soft spot. I sighed and backed off the accelerator. We drove in silence for several blocks and I actually stopped for a red light. I closed my eyes for an instant. Okay, I said softly, you’re right. I got one year left until I can retire and all I want to do is keep my nose clean. That don’t mean I’m gonna sit on my ass, but, well, let’s just say I ain’t gonna go out of my way to put my nose where it don’t belong, huh? I frowned. Already done that more times than I’d like to count. I looked at her. "Anyway, we got a

job to do and the sooner we get along the better."

She sighed. Thank you, Detective.

I waved a hand at her. Call me Mike. I shot her a grin. It’s like my last partner, Larry Farina. I’m a Skins fan, he was an Eagles man. We had our differences, but we learned to adjust, to co-exist, huh?

Rachel frowned. Well, I hardly think our differences are as trivial as which football team we support.

Yeah? And who do you root for?

There was a pause. Miami Dolphins.

I scoffed. Probably because you think Dan Marino’s so cute. I screwed my face up like I had just bit into a lemon.

Rachel smiled. Actually, it’s because I like the way he looks bending over in the huddle.

I shook my head. Je-sus. We had arrived at the crime scene and I reached out the window and retrieved the blinking light. A whole freaking year, I said as I put it back in the glove compartment. A whole freaking year.

# # #

2

It had been a while since I’d been in the American University Park section of D.C., an area that lies north of the campus, in the quadrangle formed by Massachusetts, Nebraska, Wisconsin, and Western Avenues. Tall maples and oaks covered the neighborhood, while azaleas added blotches of pink, lavender, and white to the dark brick houses. The crime scene was an eight-story apartment house called University Towers.

I informed dispatch of our arrival and we clambered out of the car. Two white D.C. patrol cars blocked the circular drive in front of the building, and the Medical Examiner’s dark blue station wagon was parked by the canopied entrance. A small line of curiosity seekers stretched behind the yellow strands of police crime scene tape.

We flashed our credentials to the patrolman at the entrance and were quickly in the elevator heading to the sixth floor. We stepped off into an uncarpeted vestibule and were greeted by the faint smell of Lysol. Apartment six fifteen was at the end of the dimly lit corridor to our left. We walked down the short hall and through the open door of the apartment.

Van Gogh’s Sunflowers greeted me in the tiny foyer, a red and white Persian rug at my feet. Two patrolmen stood talking at the entrance to the living room. They nodded to me in recognition and eyed Rachel suspiciously.

Dick-less Tracy, one of the patrolmen whispered to the other. They snickered under their breath and I watched as they eyed the rookie Detective’s backside as she swept past.

I scanned the living room: oyster white walls and a polished wood floor, two facing tan leather couches, a blue rocking chair, and a trio of glass tables edged in brass. The room was tidy and neat, like a furniture store display.

I noted what appeared to be a woman’s suit jacket slung across the rocker, a pair of low-heeled black shoes in front. There was a small pile of letters and newspapers on the table in front of one of the couches. We moved across the living room, up a short flight of stairs, and down a hallway lined with Picasso prints.

Two more patrolmen stood outside the bedroom door, one laughing and gesturing, the other scribbling in a small notebook. The latter looked up. Mike, howya doing, pal? His eyes moved quickly to Rachel, then back to me. He pulled a cigar out of his mouth. Got a rape/murder. He nodded towards the bedroom. Victim’s a Carol Ann Freeman. Twenty-eight, single. He looked at his notes. Body was found by the building super’ and a colleague from work this morning around eight. She was late for work, her friend got worried, couldn’t reach her by phone, yada, yada. He looked up. The M.E. says strangulation.

I nodded. Any signs of forced entry or robbery?

The patrolman shook his head. Naw. He stuck the cigar back in his mouth and I watched his eyes wander up and down Rachel’s anatomy like a used car salesman sizing up a trade-in. He tilted his head towards the front door. The co-worker is downstairs. She’s pretty shook up.

My gaze traveled the length of the hallway back into the living room. Victim live alone?

The patrolman nodded. Yeah. Been a tenant here for about two years according to the super. His eyes drifted back to Rachel, a silly smirk on his face.

Rachel looked toward the bedroom. Has the apartment been photographed and dusted?

The patrolman still wore his smirk. Yeah. They’re just finishing up in the bedroom.

Rachel nodded. Go down to the super’s office and get him to let you in Ms. Freeman’s mail box. Put everything you find there in a large plastic bag and bring it to me. Okay? She raised her hand, pointing her finger toward the patrolman. Oh, and handle all the mail by the edges.

The cop shot me a glance, then raised a finger to the bill of his cap. You got it. He turned towards the living room to go.

And officer, Rachel said.

The patrolman stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

Call me Detective, Rachel said.

The patrolman smiled and touched the bill of his cap again. Sure, Detective. He shot his companion a furtive look, then turned and hurried down the hallway and out of the apartment.

Rachel pushed her way past the other patrolman, through the open doorway, and into the large bedroom. I followed behind, pulling my dog-eared notebook from my jacket as I surveyed the scene.

The bedroom had bright yellow walls, Kelly green curtains, and a thick, egg white shag rug. I recognized a print hanging over the bed; a Christmas scene with kids playing in the snow, neat little houses with white wisps of smoke curling up from the chimneys, and a frozen pond being traversed by a dozen skaters.

To the right, I glanced into a small bathroom, its door open wide. The shower curtain had a white and green design with a matching cover on the toilet lid and tank.

My gaze moved back into the bedroom where a trio of officials surrounded the bed. A police photographer strained to take pictures from a variety of angles, while the M.E. moved back and forth between the body and his evidence kit. Another man in a white lab coat was packing up his brushes and powder.

Any prints, Eddie? I said.

The man shook his head. Not many. A couple in the kitchen, a good thumbprint on the mail out there in the living room. Probably the victim’s though.

I nodded. Let me know how the trace comes out, I said, referring to the vacuuming of the room that had already been done. Trace searches turn up everything from hair to soil to strange fibers, to nothing.

Yeah. We’ll have that analyzed by tomorrow, Mike. He snapped his evidence kit closed, picked it up, and walked out of the room. The M.E. was completing his examination of the body, combing through the victim’s pubic hair in hopes of finding some from the assailant.

Rachel moved cautiously towards the bed, getting her first look at the body. Then the odor must have hit her. Unlike the sterile autopsy environment at the Academy, she obviously had never experienced the putrid smell of decomposed flesh. She raised a hand to cover her nose and mouth.

Some cops use tricks to avoid the stench, I said. I jerked a thumb back towards the front door. Freddie there smokes a cheap smelly stogie. Martin Wiley used to put cigarette filters up his nose. I pointed a finger towards the body on the bed. So, what did the Academy teach you about decomposition?

Rachel took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the