Too Many Deaths, a Jim Wolfe Short Mystery by Tim Wohlforth in Web Mystery Magazine, Summer 2005

Too Many Deaths
A Jim Wolfe Short Mystery

“This is a perfect campsite, Lori,” I said. I looked out over Maude’s Lake. The reflection of snow-capped mountains on the alpine lake’s smooth surface had taken on a golden cast.

“Are you kidding?”

“What's wrong with it?”

“For starters, no television, no running water, no soft king-sized bed, no people, and too damned quiet.”

“I warned you.”

“I know but I couldn’t send you up here alone. John Friendly’s my uncle, not yours.”

Lori, my best friend and one-time lover, runs Big Emma’s bar on Jack London Square in Oakland, California. A city person, if there ever was one. Had to be surrounded by crowds and every possible convenience of modern technology. Particularly television. Her uncle was different. Loved the outdoors. He had lived for years in Placerville and had recently moved up to the lake as a campground host. They were not close. He hadn’t contacted her in a decade. He called her out of the blue. Said he had heard she knew a private eye. She sensed fear in his voice. Lori can’t say no to anyone. She volunteered my services. I can’t say no to Lori.

“Hey, look at that duck with a Mohawk haircut,” Lori said.

“That's a merganser.”

Hair stuck straight up on the top of her head. Ten chicks with mini-Mohawks followed her in perfect formation. Swallows twisted and turned like fighter pilots, chasing dragonflies.

“Got to admit it’s beautiful here,” I said. “So peaceful.”

“Too peaceful.”

“Where's your uncle?”

“He'll be along.”

I heard the putt-putt of a little motor.

“Here he comes now,” I said.

A round, bald-headed man, with a worried red face, drove a little motorcycle, an American flag attached to an antenna on the back, into our campsite. He wore a blue flannel shirt, jeans and a sweat-stained hat covered with fishing lures. He shut off the engine and rushed to Lori.

“Oh, God, it’s good to see you. Been years.“ He turned to me. “And you’re Jim, the private investigator. Thanks for coming. I didn’t know who to turn to. I need your help in finding evil.”

“Up here in paradise?” I asked. “Can’t believe it.”

“There's a dark side to paradise. Oh God, there is.”

Two women approached the campsite. The older one had a pleasant, full figure. She had to be the sister of Lori’s mother. I could see the family resemblance. The younger one towered over her. With long, straight, blond hair and very pregnant, her face blossomed with the hormones of imminent childbirth.

“My wife, Joan, and daughter, Alicia. Don’t let them know I asked you up here. We’ll talk… in the morning.”

”Lori," the older woman said. “Never thought I’d see you camping.”

Younger than John, Joan looked more like a sister to her pregnant daughter. She wore round silver-metal glasses, her braided blond hair pinned to the top of her head. A peasant blouse and jeans completed the picture.

“Jim's idea,” Lori said. “Kind of an experiment.”

The two women exchanged glances. Did I detect fear? Or was I letting John’s mention of evil cloud my judgment? What should have been a warm hospitable scene became uncomfortable. John and family muttered excuses, promised to spend time with us tomorrow, and headed off.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked Lori. “Your uncle gets us up here and then proceeds to put off talking with us.”

“Shush." Lori held her finger to her lips. In the distance I heard strands of choral music. All male voices, singing in perfect harmony.

“Can't make out any words, but it's gorgeous.”

“Come on,” Lori said. “Let’s go find the source before it gets too dark.”

Lori and I headed down the road that meandered between campsites. Sunday night and the campground had largely emptied out. At least I looked like a camper with my blue chambray shirt, slim-cut jeans, and moccasins. Lori, determined not to succumb in any manner to camping, wore tight black leather pants, a bright red silk shirt, and high heels.

Our quest led us to a field in the very center of the campground. About fifteen men and boys stood in a semi-circle near the center of the meadow. John Friendly’s little motorcycle rested on the ground next to a large RV at the edge of the grass. A white Toyota pick-up with “Campground Host” in red letters on its side sat next to a netted tent that secured a picnic table from the mosquitoes.

A tall, thin, gray-haired man led the group. His pale, almost colorless, blue eyes mesmerized the chorus as his delicate long fingers directed them, phrase by phrase. Young boys, each with identical close-cropped hair, wearing white shirts with black string-ties like their leader, and blue jeans, made up most of the singers. They stood stiffly, unnaturally.

The children flinched with each movement of the leader’s hands, as if his fingers were fists directed at their heads. A handful of men stood behind the boys, filling in harmony as needed. Or were they there to help the leader keep order? I wasn’t sure.

In the very center of the chorus stood a little freckle-faced, tow-haired boy. No more than eight. He stepped forward and sang a solo in a high soprano that soared out over the meadow. His adoring eyes never left those of the leader.

I stood, mesmerized. The purity of the vocal line, the setting sun, blackbirds chirping in the background, a light breeze rustling through the boughs of the surrounding lodge pole pines. He couldn’t have been more affecting if he had been singing in a choir loft at the Sistine Chapel.

A man, who had been circling among the campers at the side of the field, walked across the grass and approached us.

“Who are you?” Lori asked before the man could speak. She gave him one of her seductive smiles. He did not reciprocate.

“My name’s Bob. We’re The Bible Way Church, from near Placerville. That’s the Reverend Hosea leading the chorus. You believe in Jesus Christ?”

He directed the question to me, not Lori. I suspected he didn’t believe women who wore leather pants could possibly believe in Jesus Christ. Pissed me. My views on religion were my own private business.

“No. We’re Jewish.”

I answered for both of us. Lori smiled and stuck her elbow in my ribs.

“Oh," he said, taken aback. He then turned and walked towards the chorus, finding a place among the men in the rear.

“Jim. You’re not Jewish. And I’m Catholic. Frightened the poor man. Probably never met a Jew. He’ll be up all night praying for our souls.”

“Good. I don’t like being preached to.”

“Then, we better get out of here.”

“They frighten me.”

“Why?"

“Well, the music is beautiful. But it’s almost too perfect. Those kids don’t move a muscle. That Hosea fellow has unnatural control.”

“You think this is what worried my uncle?”

“Possible . Yet, it’s hard to conceive of children singing gospel songs as evil.”

“Should we check the Friendlys out?” she asked. “They’re right across the field.”

“John said tomorrow morning for a reason.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Back to the tent and bed.”

“How far is the nearest motel?”

“Over an hour away.”

“Shit!"

* * *

“God, it’s only 6:30,” Lori said. “What in the world are you doing up?”

I had awakened her when I crawled out of my sleeping bag in our tent. For all her complaints she had fallen asleep within minutes of bedding down. I had to leave the tent to piss four times in the middle of the night. She never stirred.

“Couldn't sleep last night,” I said, “so I thought I’d take a walk.”

“Don't blame you. That chorus was weird.”

“Maybe our trouble is that we’re just not used to dealing with ordinary church-going Middle America,” I added. “We’ve lived too long in the Bay Area. Anyway, I’m off.”

“Wait a sec’. I’ll come with you. Not leaving me alone to be fed to the bears.”

Lori pressed her body against mine, shivering slightly, as we walked along the pine-shrouded dirt road. She wobbled a bit as her high heels dipped into potholes. Her own damned fault. We passed the meadow in the center of the campground, where the boys chorus had performed the night before. Not a cloud in the sky. The early morning gray light turned to bright blue. A covey of blackbirds landed in the midst of the meadow and pecked away. The tantalizing smell of cooking bacon drifted out of the Friendly’s RV.

The road led us back into the pines. Most of the campsites were empty. Here and there a large RV loomed like a stranded freighter in a green sea, occupants fast asleep. I turned a bend as a large woman emerged from a round blue tent. In her late thirties, she had brown hair in braids, wore khaki shorts and a tee shirt featuring a picture of Jesus.

A dozen or so persons lay sacked out on the ground around a tree stump in the next campsite. The tow-haired boy soprano from the night before sat on top of the stump, shivering, wrapped in an old olive army blanket. Two large white vans were pulled into the site, “The Bible Way Church” lettered on their sides.

“The boys chorus,” Lori said. She looked in the child’s direction. “Isn’t that kid crying?”

He noticed us. The boy said, “They won’t wake up.”

Lori rushed towards the little fellow. He stood up, dropped his blanket, pointed at her, and shook with fright.

“You're with the Fallen Angel. Go back.” He took his two forefingers and made a cross to ward her away.

“Back off,” I said. “The kid’s crazy. Look’s like he’s seen one too many Dracula flicks. Has some fear of women. Let me try.”

Lori moved away as I approached the kid. He lowered his fingers and stopped shivering. I tripped over a little boy, curled into a ball on the ground. He didn’t stir. I reached down, grabbed his hand, and gave him a real shake. Nothing. I felt for a pulse in the cold little limb. None.

I ran to the next boy, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him up. I dropped the lifeless body back on the ground. Then the next and the next. They were all dead.

“Wake up. Wake up,” I shouted. “Damn you all.”

“Oh God.” Lori reached down to a tiny boy lying near her, no more than six years old, and started tugging at him. Limp, like a doll. She opened his eyelids. I could see vacant blue pupils staring back at her. “No, no, no.”

“I told you,” the little boy said.

“They're all dead,” I whispered to Lori, trying not to further upset the one live child. “Go ahead for help. The Friendly’s RV is just down the road. I’ll follow with the boy.”

* * *

I dashed down the road towards the entrance to the campground, the little boy in tow. He squeezed my hand tightly. He needed me. The only life he knew had expired around him. Luckily he asked no questions because I had no answers. How cruel. What monster could have done such a thing?

We rushed past the next campsite. The woman in the Jesus tee shirt glanced at us while she threw her possessions into the back of a small red Honda Civic hatch-back. She didn’t even take the time to put the tent in its carrying bag. As I approached the Friendly’s RV, the Honda sped past, almost hitting me. A bumper sticker proclaimed “Life Is Hard - So Pray Harder.” I memorized the license plate number.

Out of breath, I ran up to the RV’s door. The little boy pulled away from me. He retreated to the meadow, shaking, watching my every move. I left him be. I pounded on the door. A worried John Friendly opened it. Lori clung to him.

“There's a bunch of people up the road dead.”

“I know. Lori told me.”

“Is this what you thought would happened when you called Lori?”

“Not the children. We’ll talk later. I…”

He broke down in tears. Incoherent.

“Oh my God,” sighed Joan, who began to lose her balance. “The nightmare will never end. We are cursed.”

Joan fell on the floor. Lori helped her up and to the couch. Alicia came over and sat down next to her, holding her in her arms. I was sure Joan felt as crushed by the death of those children as she would have been if they had been her own. John kept his distance from his wife. He stood by the door, eyes cast down. Then he realized I still stood in the doorway.

“You better come on in,” he said. “Got a radio phone in here. Connects me to the ranger station. My son Ricky’s the ranger. He’ll contact the State Police. Be here in minutes.”

“Have him tell the police to put out an APB on a red Honda Civic, driven by a large woman. License plate is ‘1 WOMYN.’ Easy to spot. She just came tearing out of here. Was camped next to the boys. Might be involved or at least a good witness.”

“Got it.”

“I think Joan, Alicia and Lori should go out to your screened patio,” I said. “The little kid’s frightened of women for some reason. Then I’ll bring him in here so we can try to find out what happened.”

Lori and Alicia helped Joan to get up. They held her by the arms as she staggered out of the RV in a daze. John’s sad eyes followed her. Joan was taking the killings so damned hard. Harder than Alicia.

John turned and looked blankly in my direction.

&nb sp; “Too many deaths,” he said.

* * *

&nb sp; “WhatR 17;s your name?” I asked.

&nb sp; The child sat bolt upright in the middle of the Friendlys’ sofa. He sipped a cup of cocoa John had made him. Lace curtains and crocheted doilies transformed the motor home’s interior into an old-fashioned farmhouse. John sat in an old rocker, lost in thought. No doubt his favorite chair.

“Jimmy."

“Jimmy who?”

“Jimmy Christian.”

“I know you’re a Christian. What is your father’s name?”

“Christian. Hosea Christian. He’s father to us all.”

“You mean all the boys here are your brothers?”

“Yes."

“And the other men?”

“They're our uncles.”

Weird. Damned weird. I smelled cult. Clicked with the impression of the Hosea fellow conducting the chorus in the meadow.

I plunged on, “What happened last night, Jimmy, after the concert?”

“We came back to our campsite. Father Hosea gathered us all together around the campfire. He opened a bottle of wine. Uncle Bob got some Dixie cups. Then Father poured a little in each cup. We all made a pledge. He said we had to drink the wine. It was the blood of Christ, that dripped from his wounds on the Cross. It was a sacra... like the city.”

“Sacrament.”

“Yes. Then they all got tired and fell asleep. So did I after awhile. But this morning nobody would wake up. It’s time for prayers.”

“Did you drink the wine?”

“Promise not to tell Father if he wakes up?”

“You have no worry on that score.”

“I don’t like wine. It’s bitter. And I kept thinking about Jesus on the Cross, and everything. Giving his life for us. I just didn’t want to drink his blood. Not right somehow. So when no one was looking I poured the wine into a hole in the tree stump.”

Could this be some kind of suicide plot, like Jim Jones’ Peoples Temple or the Heaven’s Gate cult? I had to get more information from Jimmy.

“What did you pledge?”

“We’re not supposed to tell.”

“But you must if you want us to discover what caused your father, uncles and brothers to fall asleep and not wake up.”

“Are they all in Heaven?”

“Did Reverend Hosea tell you that drinking the wine would send you all to Heaven?”

“No. But they’ve gone and left me behind. I want to go to heaven and be with them.”

“Not just yet, Jimmy. What did you pledge?”

“We pledged to destroy the Fallen Angel. She must die so that the mothers and sisters will return. She’s here you know.”

“The Fallen Angel?”

“Yes, here at this very campground. Father Hosea finally found her. She’s why they won’t wake up. She must have cast a spell. She’s the Devil’s Disciple.”

The more Jimmie talked, the more pissed I got. The poor little kid was brainwashed. That Hosea guy was downright evil. Still I had to find out more. I couldn’t make sense out of the Fallen Angel business. And I suspected it was the key. Somehow linked to the deaths.

“But why wouldn’t you let my friend, Lori, approach you?” I asked. “She’s not the Fallen Angel.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I’ m trying. Please explain it to me.”

“Women. They’re all under her spell. They do her bidding. That’s why she must die.”

“I see.”

I heard a knock on the door. John let in a lanky man wearing ranger khakis.

“This is Ricky, my son,” John said as he grasped the ranger’s hand, holding on a little too long.

Ricky’s sun-burnt face suggested what a younger and thinner John might have looked like.

“Ricky meet Jim Wolf, a close friend of your cousin, Lori, and a private investigator. Lori and Jim were the ones who found the … bodies.” He gestured to the boy. “This is little Jimmy.”

“The state trooper’s up by the crime scene,” Ricky said. “The Sheriff and some deputies are on their way.” He turned to me. “Why don’t you tell me everything you know about this matter?”

I began with the boys chorus’ performance the night before. Then described the scene Lori and I had encountered on our early morning walk. Finally, I summarized Jimmy’s story in detail.

“Sounds crazy,” Ricky said. “Can’t always believe these kids. I suspect we’ll find it’s a suicide pact. Some of the church groups here in the Sierras are pretty fanatical.”

“Maybe," I said. “But whatever happened last night is linked to this Fallen Angel business. Jimmy’s telling the truth. I’m convinced of that. He’s the key. Did you catch that woman camper?”

“No problem,” Ricky said. “The trooper ran into her heading down 50 as we came up here. Did a U-turn, turned on the siren, and she gave us no trouble. I got another ranger outside with her.”

“I suggest,” I said, “we try a little experiment. For the moment, let’s assume Jimmy is telling us the truth. He insists that ‘the Fallen Angel,’ who could be the killer, is here at the campground. Let’s take him outside and see if he can identify that camper. We can start with Lori, the Friendly women, and the woman camper that ran away.”

Jimmy’s eyes opened wide. He stared at me like I was leading him to slaughter.

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in testing out the kid’s story,” Ricky said.

“No!" Jimmy shouted. “She’ll kill me. She’s the Devil’s Disciple.”

“No one is going to hurt you,” I said. “We have Ranger Ricky here. He’ll protect you. You’ve got to do this. You know we must always expose evil.”

Jimmy slowly nodded his head, putting on his bravest face. I came over and took Jimmy by the hand, leading him out the door. John and Ricky followed.

I marched the terrified boy towards the patio tent. With each step closer, I could feel Jimmy pull back. I reached the tent door and I yanked the flap open. John followed me in. Joan, Alicia, and Lori stood behind the picnic table. Ricky marched the camper with the Jesus tee shirt in and lined her up with the other women.

I gave Jimmy a gentle push into the enclosed area. The child stared at the four women, petrified. Then he let out a terrified shriek.

“There's the Evil One, the Fallen Angel,” he shouted.

He pointed at Joan Friendly.

The little boy pulled away from us and fled out of the tent. He ran directly into the arms of the other ranger, who stood by the tent opening. The ranger tried to calm the terrorized child as he guided him back towards the RV.

Joan stiffened. A look of horror came over her face. Then she began to cry. Her daughter, Alicia, rushed to her side and held her in her arms. John didn’t move a muscle. He stared at her, a hollow look in his eyes. As if he had been hypnotized.

“I must tell the truth,” she said.

“There have been too many deaths,” John said.

Yes, “too many deaths.” He repeated it like a mantra. Made me wonder. How many deaths were acceptable to John?

“O.K., Mother,” Ricky said. “Now what’s this all about?”

“John has nothing to do with this. He knows nothing.”

“About what, Joan?” I asked. “Take your time and tell us everything.”

“I killed them all but I didn’t mean to. Not the children. Oh God, not the children!”

She broke down crying again. With great effort she made another attempt to explain her actions, talking directly to me.

“As soon as I saw Hosea in the campground, I knew I had to kill him. If I didn’t he would kill me. More important, he would take Alicia back to that hell on earth in the Placerville hills. I used to be a nurse. I had a hypodermic needle in my old nurse’s bag. I had gotten Tubarine from the hospital where I used to work. Deadly poison like curare. Mixed it with Phenobarbital. I went to their campsite while they were singing in the meadow.

“I had some crazy idea of hiding in the bushes and jumping him when he returned. Then I saw the wine bottle. I plunged the needle through the aluminum foil covering and cork. I left only a very tiny hole. Never guessed he’d give wine to the children.”

“But why, Mother, why?” Ricky pleaded.

“Ten years ago he took his whole congregation into the hills near Placerville. He slept with all the women. Said it was God’s way. He made our daughter pregnant.

“He started sleeping with the young ones, the teenagers. Some were his daughters. The women had finally turned against him. I helped Alicia and all the other women escape from that commune last June."

“That dirty bastard,” Lori said.

“He’ ;s the Devil. He’s the real Fallen Angel,” a red-faced, angry John blurted out.

“Do you understand the full meaning of your accusation?” Ricky asked, his voice shaking. “He slept with his own daughters?”

“It’s true,” Alicia cried out. “They were all his daughters. All the children were his.”

“Please continue, Joan,” I said softly.

“John didn’t know a thing. I’m glad that evil man is dead. But the boys? Their deaths weigh upon my soul.”

Joan stood up and reached into a pocket of her housedress. John, the closest to her, stood still like a statue. I plunged towards her, shoving John out of the way, and grabbed her arm just as her hand entered her open mouth. She fell over on the ground. I landed on top of her and yanked her hand out of her mouth. Using one hand to hold her teeth apart, I scraped half a dozen small purple pills from off her tongue. Then I released her.

* * *

“She wanted to die,” John said. “Why did you stop her?”

Lori and I stood next to him in the meadow waiting our turn to be interrogated by the state police.

“Because she isn’t the murderer,” I answered.

“You're not serious,” Lori responded.

“Couldn't be more so.”

“Then why did she confess?” Lori asked.

I turned and faced John Friendly. I looked directly into his eyes. He tried to jerk his head away to break my gaze. He couldn’t.

“To protect you,” I said. “And because she felt herself responsible for causing you to act as you did.”

John, terror in his eyes, ran towards his motorcycle.

I chased after him, knocking the poor fellow flat on the ground. Ricky dashed out of the RV and pulled me off of his father.

“What’s the hell’s going on here?” Ricky asked.

“Your father has something to confess,” I said.

John’s face reddened, glowing with hatred.

“I killed Hosea,” he said. He spoke in a monotone. A broken man. “I killed evil. I’m happy I succeeded. But not the children. I knew Joan stored that poison in her bag. And the hypodermic needle. This morning, before you arrived, I told her I had killed Hosea and how. She said it was all her fault. She had driven me to kill. All she wanted was for me to forgive her. I couldn’t. That’s why she wanted to die. Because I wouldn’t forgive her. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t.” He started to cry.

“But why?” Lori asked.

“She left me for that charlatan. Took Alicia with her. Gave herself to him. Only left him when he took Alicia to bed. And I was supposed to accept her back without questions.”

* * *

I packed the tent into my car. Had to get out of there. A place of beauty had become the killing field of innocent children. The coroner had already taken the bodies away. But no one could remove the stain of the horror we had witnessed.

“Why do you think my uncle invited us up here if he planned to murder someone?” Lori asked me.

“He needed me to find Hosea. The bastard had abandoned his compound and was traveling around the Sierras looking for Joan. Then he ended up here. All John could do at that point was postpone meeting with us.”

I always liked Joan but never John. Seemed so self-centered. Treated her like a servant. Now, when she comes back to him, he wouldn’t let the past be. Forgive. There is no greater virtue than forgiveness. He didn’t kill out of love. Or rage over what Hosea did to his daughters. He killed for baser reasons, jealousy, possessiveness.”

“Hosea deserved to die,” I said. “Sexually molesting his own children. If he gave me half an excuse, I’d have been happy to take him out.”

“Not me.”

“Not even if he slept with your twelve year old daughter? His daughter?”

“God, I don’t know. I just don’t know.” She stopped for a moment, wrestling with the question. Then she changed the subject. “The Jesus tee shirt lady. I was sure she was the Fallen Angel. Why did she take off in such a hurry?”

“She told Ricky she had to go to work that day. She’s from Pollack Pines, about an hour from here.”

“One last question. How did you know John was the killer?”

“When Joan took those pills, John stood right next to her. He made no effort to stop her. The way he looked at her. No affection. Almost hatred. When I asked him if he had expected the deaths, he answered, ‘not the children.’ In other words, he had expected the death of Hosea. Only the killer would have. Everything became clear to me.”

“I see.”

“Three words. An unconscious confession.”

“What words?”

“‘Too many deaths.’”