"YOU SURE this is the right address?"
"Yep, 146 East Jefferson," Reuben said.
"A residence?"
"Twenty first century tweeting Reg. Some shrinks work out of their homes.”
Reg shrugged. “Put in somewhere and let’s find out what Madame Foot knows."
"Be right there,” a woman’s voice responded to the doorbell, from inside the quaint, white Colonial home. When she opened up, the delightful aroma of blueberries rushed up Reg’s nostrils. The Boot Lady wiped her hands on a blue-stained towel, slung over her shoulder.
"Excuse my mess. I’m making marmalade. Can I help you?"
Quarterman spoke the truth. She was no old lady out of a shoe. In the doorway stood a woman in her early forties, with neatly cropped brunette hair, naturally puckered lips, and the deepest marble-green eyes Reg had ever seen. Her skin was a light mocha-latte and looked like it would taste just as good.
"Are you Mrs. Boot … I mean, Sandra Whitfield?"
"Who’s asking?" she smiled, showing off large, pearly whites, stained a hint of blue.
"Detective Reginald Williams.” He motioned to Reuben hovering next to him. “My partner, Detective Reuben Garcia. We’re from Bay City, ma'am, and were wondering if we might have a word?"
"Come in, and call me Sandy."
Sandy dropped them off in the living room and departed for the kitchen. She returned after a short delay, with the towel on her shoulder a deeper shade of blue.
"Have to keep an eye on marmalade, or it will burn easy."
Across from the leather sofa where she seated them, Sandy eased onto a matching love seat.
Reg said, "You didn’t seem surprised when we told you we were cops, or from Bay City."
"I was hoping you guys would come and see me, sooner rather than later."
"Why you?" Reuben raised an eyebrow.
"The Animal murders," she said in a way that implied ‘Duh, what else?’
Reg said, "I'm a little confused."
"I’ve been reading about the case in the papers for the past four months. At first, I wasn't sure. By the third one, I was confident they were connected to the Artemisians."
"Come again?" Reg said.
"This will go a lot smoother if you act like Roger Quarterman sent you, and you know a little about what I am saying."
"How would you know who sent us, Mrs. Whitfield?" Reg asked.
She sighed deeply. "First, I asked you to call me Sandy. Second, Roger Quarterman was the only one who seemed to care about what happened that night. If anyone talked, it was him."
Reg said, "Granted, Sandy, but why wait for us to come to you?"
"As Him began to open up, a KIWI representative showed up at my door with a gun. I got the message.”
Sandy swiped a hand on the towel over her shoulder, leaving a tiny blue streak in one of the few remaining white patches of cotton.
“I gave in, but with an addendum. I keep my mouth shut, unless asked. I think they relented knowing no one would come asking when they were done.”
Reg heard the intimidation story from Quarterman. Nothing new there. But something caught his ear early in her explanation.
"Did you mean to say ‘him’ began to open up, or was that a slip of the pronoun tongue?"
"I meant Him, or rather, Johnathan Fare. Sorry, after all those years of counseling, even I refer to John as Him sometimes."
“How’s that?” Reg said.
Sandy’s timid laugh tickled Reg’s ears.
“Suppose I should explain. Johnathan Fare was referred to me by the city when he was eleven years old. They had done all they could and gotten nowhere. I nearly screeched in horror when I first saw him. He was dirty, malnourished, and riddled with scars from head to toe. His blond hair was tangled down his back in a frizzy lion’s mane. He looked like something out of the wild.”
Sandy swiped a hand on the towel again. Reg wondered if she was wiping off blueberry residue, or tensely reacting to recalled horror.
“He spent the first day sitting right where you are. He was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth, a post-traumatic glaze in his eyes. Every time I got inches from him, he would scream at the top of his lungs. My God, I thought, how am I going to help him?"
Reg said, "How did you help him?"
"I placed food at the foot of the sofa, and returned later for whatever wasn't eaten. I gave him a chocolate bar for a reward if he finished the whole plate. He caught on quickly, and soon was getting one every day.”
Sandy wiped both hands this time. Reg was sure she wasn’t aware she was doing it.
“Several months of this produced an observation. Every month, for a couple of days or so, Johnathan was more extroverted. It was as if he was someone else, or maybe there was someone else inside of him."
Reuben beat Reg to the question. "Someone inside of him?"
"It didn’t conform to the definition of split personality, but there was definitely someone else there."
"Like a dominant one?" Reg said.
"Johnathan was part of a group of children who were abducted to, how shall I say … service the needs of the cult."
Reg assumed as much after he heard Quarterman's tale from Alan, and then from Quarterman himself. It still assaulted his ears to hear it again.
"They killed the sacrifice at the beginning of the lunar cycle. Drug euphoria and degradation of the children followed. They kept the poor souls in cages on the Head Mistress’ property."
“Twenty four hours a day?" Reuben asked.
Sandy nodded.
"And this non-definition split personality?" Reg said.
Sandy averted her eyes. Her chest rose and fell heavily. "The Head Mistress charged a fee for sex with the children outside of the ritual. Since he was one of the fairer children, Johnathan was chosen a lot. The cult members would simply stroll up to his cage, point, and say, I want him.”
Reg’s teeth clamped tighter. He didn’t notice when Sandy wiped her hands again.
"This went on for the five years they held him captive. After a while, say, two years, he began shielding himself with Jeremy."
"Jeremy?" Reuben said
Sandy nodded.
"If Johnathan recessed and someone else emerged—"
"Not recessed, Detective Williams, shielding himself. Johnathan and Jeremy were cognizant, simultaneously."
"How is that possible?" Reuben said.
"Imagine a painting of a landscape, mountains, trees, and the horizon. Multiple personality disorder is painting a city on top of the landscape. Johnathan put in a few houses, some farms, and a couple of windmills. The original then is not hidden, but accentuated."
"Why not let this Jeremy take the reins?" Reg said.
"There were aspects of Johnathan’s captivity he liked. The only unbearable part was the sex."
Reg held up a forefinger. “Just so I’m clear, you’re saying that when it came time for them to use him in that way, he poofed up Jeremy, and when it was over, he poofed him away again?"
"Yes."
"Why Jeremy? Why not Bob, Harry, Sebastian?" Reg said.
"The woman who gave him birth told me Jeremy was the name of his imaginary friend as a child."
"Curious,” Reuben said. “What part of his detention didn’t he mind sticking around for?"
"The cutting and the blood. Johnathan would imagine doing to his captors what they did to their victims. He couldn’t, of course, and turned the abuse inward. The wounds that littered his body when I met him were self-inflicted.”
The towel rested in Sandy’s lap now. She made use of it.
“Also, they often gave him blood to drink. It ultimately became his favorite food. Thankfully, I achieved a measure of success in weaning him."
"How did Jeremy feel about the blood?"
"Indifferent, if I had to guess, Detective Garcia. He was there for the sex. Sadly, post release, it proved difficult for Johnathan to shut out his creation during the lunar cycle. By then, it was near an automated function, like breathing.”
The towel fell from Sandy’s lap. She picked it up, wiped her hands, and continued.
“What you might find interesting is that Jeremy was the smart one. I’d swear he was restricted to the left hemisphere of Johnathan’s brain."
Reuben shot up from the sofa and pointed at her. "This is bullshit. You knew who the killer was and did nothing. How do you sleep at night, lady?”
Sandy also bolted from her loveseat. She got in Reuben’s face. “Excuse me for wanting to live, so I could sleep at night. You judgmental asshole, I had to see my own counselor after talking to that kid for half the day. My marriage didn’t survive the trip. Did you know that, detective? Did you?”
Even amidst the yelling, and all he had just heard, Reg couldn’t help smile. He hadn’t seen anyone stand up to his partner like this in some time. Reuben was more than twice her size, and she didn't give a damn.
"How many skeletons in your closet, Detective Garcia? A shit-load, I’ll bet. By the way, I told you I knew the Artemisians were involved, not that I knew who killed those women.”
"You just gave us the prime suspect. This Johnathan, or Jeremy, or whoever. He’s got to be at least twenty by now."
"Johnathan couldn't be the killer,” Sandy cried.
"Why is that, Doc? You tell me, why is that?”
"He is dead, you moron!”