Arcanum (Tales from the Tarot)

24. Chris

Chapter twenty-four

Chris

“ H ilary Henriquez,” a female huffed into the phone as soon as she picked up.

“Hilary, Chris Brandt. You got a minute?”

“Chris!” Her tone brightened. “For you, yes. Literally one minute, I’m on my way into court.”

“I’m building a stalking case but most of the offenses have occurred out east. What do you need for a conviction?”

“Oh, Christ. Seriously? Send ‘em back east, then!” The phone shuffled and her voice lowered, softening somewhat. “Why are we cleaning up other people’s messes?”

“Because they’re not pursuing it out east and the vic lives here now.”

“Did any of the offenses happen in our county?”

“At least one letter. Some electronic,” I bluffed, though I’d wager it was a safe bet. Stalkers like that didn’t give up easily and electronic harassment was fairly easy to prove with a subpoena. “And a possible break-in.”

“And we have that on file here?”

“Not officially, no.”

“Get it, officially , and get me the shit from out east. I’m not promising anything. Even if we go after them, you know a conviction is only good for one to three years, max.”

“I know. But it’s a start. Thanks, Hilary.”

She hmphed and hung up on me.

While I might have put all thoughts of murdering that asshole on hold, I sure as shit wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing while Greyson lived in daily fear because of him.

With an official reason at last, I ran Greyson’s name through one of the federal databases we had access to, making a list of every address he had lived at in the past two years. Then I turned to the trusty Googles and figured out which police department covered which addresses and compiled a matching list of agencies and their contact information.

Within the hour, I’d phoned and emailed every single department, asking for any and all information on Greyson, including the death investigation CPD had for his family. All I had to do was wait for the records to come in.

By the following week, I had copies of everything I needed. I burned through a ream of paper on Chicago PD’s file alone. The other agencies didn’t require as much paper, but there was still more than there should have been. With that much evidence, that asshole should have already been arrested, but because everything was spread out over so many jurisdictions, no one bothered putting two and two together.

Once everything was printed, I started assembling it into chronological order. Surprisingly, the initial flurry of reports weren’t filed by Greyson—they were against him.

Donald Nielsen lodged several complaints with CPD that Greyson had kidnapped his daughter, Lola, and was holding her prisoner about a year before her death. Needless to say, those claims were unfounded and Greyson could prove he wasn’t even in the country during one of the alleged kidnappings. Lola, by all accounts, had gone off the deep end and disappeared for weeks at a time before she came home, raving like a lunatic about witches and magic and her vow to learn “the secrets.”

Greyson filed his first no-contact order in September, two years prior, citing Lola’s death as the catalyst for Don’s stalking. The order had since expired, which could have been for a multitude of reasons I would ask him about later, while insisting as gently as I could that he get another one. Pronto.

Eventually, Greyson filed numerous reports of his own, claiming Don had violated the no-contact order on various occasions, but without sufficient proof, it was his word versus Don’s and the cases went nowhere.

The electronic harassment I was so sure we’d be able to track proved to be another source of contention in the case files. Either Don had gotten smart about cell phones and IP addresses or he had help. Despite the fact Greyson had been inundated with disgusting texts and emails from “unknown” senders, the police couldn’t tie anything to Don directly.

After a while, Greyson appeared to have quit reporting anything unless it resulted in physical damage, and I’m guessing that was only done for insurance purposes. One time, he came home and found his apartment trashed. Another day, his car was vandalized. “Someone” had sprayed slanderous graffiti all over the private school he worked at. Of course, reports were taken, but even with video footage of the masked individual responsible, no arrests were made.

Until the most recent Fourth of July.

The picture where Greyson looked like he was capable of murder flashed in my mind as I read through the report.

Don was finally arrested—for trespassing. He crashed the Darkholme’s party and went to jail for his efforts. He was out the next day with a slap on the wrist and ultimately sentenced to a fine and some community service.

After that, the reports came to a standstill until late August when Greyson’s family was murdered. The two year anniversary of Lola’s death.

I rubbed my forehead, turning page after page, reading everything that motherfucker had gotten away with. Copies of emails, texts, scans of greeting cards—all with fucking cats on them and some disgustingly cheery or lovey message, followed by Don’s personal tidbit threatening violence and death.

In addition to compiling the background information for Hilary, I started an incident log for our jurisdiction, including the break-in and the cat greeting card, which I’d pocketed and sealed in an evidence bag, along with the envelope. Sadly, as Greyson had predicted, the only fingerprints to be found were on the envelope and I’d bet they belonged to me and any number of mail carriers.

As October drew to a close, I obsessively reviewed video footage of Greyson’s house every day before bed. Greyson had pretty much taken to sleeping at my house every night without argument, which was a relief, but Selene was still occupying the house next door and from what I knew of stalkers, she was also a prime target. I told him he could bring her to my house, but until we knew what we were doing in terms of our relationship, Greyson didn’t want to stress her out with another move and rooming with a giant dog who didn’t understand the concept of personal space.

The morning after Halloween, I did what I always did—came home from work, had dinner/breakfast with Greyson before he went to the store, climbed into bed, and pulled up the footage from the night before.

We’d agreed it was safer to not hand out candy, so both houses remained dark and devoid of trick-or-treaters. The kids in the neighborhood were used to me working, so I didn’t expect anyone TPing the trees or smashing a pumpkin in the driveway.

Imagine my surprise when the camera picked up a man in black walking up the porch steps at Greyson’s house.

I sat up in bed, staring at my phone. Even if it had happened ten hours ago, it still made my stomach churn.

The man was wearing a white cartoonish cat mask, illuminated eerily by the motion light over the front porch.

Climbing the steps with purpose, he stopped in front of the doorbell camera. He didn’t push the button, nor did he knock. He simply leaned down, right in the lens, and tilted his head slowly. After thirty uncomfortable seconds of staring, he straightened and pivoted, descending the steps just as slowly. He turned left on the sidewalk, disappearing toward the Campbell’s house and out of the frame.

I kept watching, waiting to see a vehicle drive by, but none did. He must have parked around the block. Fuck! And because he was masked, there was no way to prove it was him. But a grown-ass man in a cat mask at midnight? He might as well have worn a name tag that said, “Hello, my name is Don!”

I forced myself to lay back down, staring at the ceiling. Did I tell Greyson or did I not? If I told him, he’d understandably worry more than he already did. But if I didn’t tell him and he got surprised by that asshole, then the fallout could be even worse.

Grabbing my cell phone again, I called Greyson. As soon as he answered, I blurted out, “What’s his deal with cats?”

“Um…” Greyson cleared his throat. “Don?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s because I like them. When he sends cards, it’s always a cat. He used to post on my social media and tag me in cat videos or memes. Bea said whenever he would do something to me, or my stuff, that he’d post a celebratory cat meme online.”

“Like a fucking tracker?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“A timeline,” I said to myself, making a mental note to file a subpoena for his social media the second I got off the phone. Posting memes in and of themselves wasn’t criminal, but if we could show a pattern of violence and damage whenever they were posted, it strengthened our case.

“Yeah. Why are you asking? I thought you were going to bed?”

“I was. I am. Did anything weird happen last night while I was at work?”

“No. I turned in pretty much after you left. I think I read until ten or so and fell asleep. Why?”

“I saw something on the cameras,” I said with a grimace. “I don’t know if it was him, but maybe you should come home anyway. Just to be on the safe side.”

“I’ll be fine. He doesn’t do anything in the daylight. Rather like a vampire that way…”

“Grey—”

“Chris. I’m at the store, in the middle of downtown. There are people everywhere. I’m ok. I promise.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

I huffed before I could help it. I didn’t like it one bit, but I couldn’t very well tell him to close up Arcanum. Without Karen Carlisle picketing, people in Mapleton had started shopping there on a regular basis. Now that he was finally making money, I couldn’t tell him to stop just because I had a bad feeling.

“Ok,” I said at last. “Call me if you need me.” “I will. Get some sleep.”

I doubted that I would, but I hung up anyway, glaring at the ceiling and willing my brain to turn off, at least for a few hours.