t o: Roger

f r o m: John

r e: True Tales of Demon Infestations, by Carlos Detweiller

Detweiller's ma.n.u.script came this morning, wrapped in shopping bags, secured with twine (much of it broken), and apparently typed by someone with terrible motor control problems. It is every bit as bad as I feared- abysmal, beyond hope.

That could and should be the end, but some of the photos he enclosed are intensely disturbing, Roger-and this is no joke, so please don't treat it as one. They are a weird conglomeration of black-and-white glossies (made with a Nikon, I would guess), color slides (ditto Nikon), and Polaroid SX-70 shots. Most of them are ridiculous-middle-aged men and women either got up in black bathrobes with cabalistic designs sewn on them or middleaged men and women in nothing at all, displaying skinny shanks, dangling b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and pot bellies. They look exactly like what you'd guess the folks of Central Falls would imagine a Black Ma.s.s should look like (in some of them there is a much younger man who is probably Detweiller himself-this young man is always shot from the rear or with his face in deep shadow), and the locale appears, in most cases, to be a greenhouse-a.s.sociated with the florist's where Detweiller told me he works, I imagine.

There's one packet of six photos labelled "The Sakred Seance" which show plasmic manifestations so obviously faked it's pitiful (what appears to be a balloon frosted with Day-Glo paint is floating from the medium's fingertips). A third packet of photos (all SX-70 shots) are textbook-style "exhibit" shots of various plants which purport to be deadly nightshade, belladonna, virgin's hair, etc. (impossible for me to tell if the labels are accurate-I can't tell a maple tree from a ponderosa pine without help; Ruth would probably know).

Okay, the disturbing part. Some of the photos (four, to be completely accurate) in the "Black Ma.s.s" scenes purport to show a human sacrifice- and it looks to me as if maybe they really did kill someone. The first photo shows an old man with an extremely realistic expression of terror on his face lying spread-eagled on a table in the greenhouse I mentioned. Several people in hokey robes are holding him down. The young man I presume to be Carlos Detweiller is standing on the left, naked, with what looks like a Bowie knife. The second shows the knife plunging into the old fellow's chest; in the third, the man I presume to be Detweiller is reaching into the chest cavity; in the last he is holding up a dripping thing for the others to look at. The dripping thing looks very much like a human heart.

The pictures could be complete hok.u.m, and I'd be the first to admit it-a half-decent special effects man could cobble up something like this, I suppose, especially in stills...but the efforts to mislead in the other photos are so painfully obvious that I wonder if that can be.

Just glancing at them is enough to make me want to whoops my cookies, Roger-what if we've stumbled onto a bunch of people who are really practicing human sacrifice? Ma.s.s murder, perhaps? I'm nauseated, but right now I'm more scared than anything else. I could have told you all of this in person, of course, but it seemed important to get this down in writing, just in case it does turn out to be a legal matter. Christ, I wish I'd never even heard of Carlos f.u.c.king Detweiller.

Come down and take a look at these as soon as you possibly can, okay? I just don't know if I should pick up the phone and call the police in Central Falls or not.

John

PART II.

January 30, 1981

Dear Ruth,

Yes, it was good to talk to you last night, too. Even when you're on the other side of the country, I don't know what I'd do without you. I think this has been just about the worst month of my life, and without you to talk to and your warm support, I don't know how I could have gotten through it. The initial terror and revulsion of those pictures was bad, but I've discovered I can deal with terror-and Roger may be locked in his impersonation of some crusty editor in a Damon Runyon story (or maybe it's that Ben Hecht play I'm thinking of), but the funny thing is, he really does have a heart of gold. When all that s.h.i.t came down, he was like a rock-his support never wavered.

Terror is bad, but the feeling that you've been a horse's a.s.s is a lot worse, I've found. When you're afraid, you can fall back on your bravery. When you're humiliated, I guess you just have to call up your fiancee long distance and bawl on her shoulder. All I'm saying, I guess, is thanks-thanks for being there and thanks for not laughing...or calling me a hysterical old woman jumping at shadows.

I had one final phone-call last night after I'd talked to you-from Chief Barton Iverson of the Central Falls P.D. He was also remarkably forgiving, but before I give you the final gist of it, let me try to clarify the whole sequence of events following my reception of the Detweiller ma.n.u.script last Wednesday. Your confusion was justifiable-I think I can be a little clearer now that I've had a night's sleep (and without Ma Bell in my ear, chipping off the dollars from my malnourished paycheck!).

As I think I told you, Roger's reaction to the "Sacrifice Photos" was even stronger and more immediate than mine. He came down to my office as if he had rockets in his heels, leaving two distributors waiting in his outer office (and, as I believe Flannery O'Connor once pointed out, a good distributor is hard to find), and when I showed him the pictures, he turned pale, put his hand over his mouth, and made some extremely unlovely gagging sounds so I guess you'd have to say I was more right than wrong about the quality of the photos (considering the subject matter, "quality" is a strange word to use, but it's the only one that seems to fit).

He took a minute or two to think, then told me I'd better call the police in Central Falls-but not to say anything to anybody else.

"They could still be fakes," he said, "but it's best not to take any chances. Put 'em in an envelope and don't touch them anymore. There could be fingerprints."

"They don't look like fakes," I said. "Do they?"

"No."

He went back to the distributors and I called the cops in Central Falls-my first conversation with Iverson. He listened to the whole story and then took my telephone number. He said he'd call me back in five minutes, but he didn't tell me why.

He was actually back in about three minutes. He told me to take the photographs to the 31st Precinct at 140 Park Avenue South, and that the New York Police would wire the "Sacrifice Photos" to Central Falls.

"We should have them by three this afternoon," he said. "Maybe even sooner."

I asked him what he intended to do until then.

"Not much," he said. "I'm going to send a plainsclothesman around to this House of Flowers and try to ascertain whether or not Detweiller is still working there. I hope to do that without arousing any suspicions. Until I see the pictures, Mr. Kenton, that's really all I can do."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that I thought there was a lot more he could do. I didn't want to be dismissed as a typical pushy New Yorker, and I didn't want to have this fellow exasperated with me from the jump. And I reminded myself that Iverson hadn't seen the pictures. Under the circ.u.mstances I guess he was going as fast as he could on the basis of a call from a stranger-a stranger who might be a crank.

I got him to promise he'd call me back as soon as he got the photographs, and then I took them down to the 31st Precinct myself. They were expecting me; a Sergeant Tyndale met me in the reception area and took the envelope of photographs. He also made me promise I'd stay at the office until I'd heard from them.

"The Central Falls Chief of Police-"

"Not him," Tyndale said, as if I was talking about a trained monkey. "Us."

All the movies and novels are right, babe-it doesn't take long before you start feeling like a criminal yourself. You expect somebody to turn a bright light in your face, hook one leg over a beat-up old desk, lean down, blow cigarette smoke in your face, and say "Okay, Carmody, where did you put the bodies?" I can laugh about it now, but I sure wasn't laughing then.

I wanted Tyndale to take a look at the photos and tell me what he thought of them-whether or not they were authentic-but he just shooed me out with another reminder to "stick close," as he put it. It had started to rain and I couldn't get a cab and by the time I'd walked the seven blocks back to Zenith House I was soaked. I had also eaten half a roll of Tums.

Roger was in my office. I asked him if the distributors were gone, and he flapped a hand in their direction. "Sent one back to Queens and one back to Brooklyn," he said. "Inspired. They'll sell another fifty copies of Ants from h.e.l.l between them. Schmucks." He lit a cigarette. "What did the cops say?"

I told him what Tyndale had told me.

"Ominous," he said. "Very f.o.o.king ominous."

"They looked real to you, didn't they?"

He considered, then nodded. "Real as rain."

"Good."

"What do you mean, good? There's nothing good about any of this."

"I only meant-""Yeah, I know what you meant." He got up, shook the legs of his pants the way he always does, and told me to call if I heard from anybody. "And don't say anything to anyone else."

"Herb's looked in here a couple of times," I said. "I think he thinks you're going to fire me."

"The idea has some merit. If he asks you right out-"

"Lie."

"Right."

"Always a pleasure to lie to Herb Porter."He stopped again at the door, started to say something, and then Riddley, the mailroom kid, came by pushing a basket of rejected ma.n.u.scripts.

"You been in there most de mawnin, Mist' Adler," he said. "Is you gwine t'fire Mist' Kenton?"

"Get out of here, Riddley," Roger said, "and if you don't stop insulting your entire race with that disgusting Rastus accent I'll fire you."

"Ya.s.suh, Mist' Adler!" Riddley said, and got his mail basket rolling again. "I'se goan! I'se goan!"

Roger looked at me and rolled his eyes despairingly. "As soon as you hear," he repeated, and went out.

I heard from Chief Iverson early that afternoon. Their man had ascertained that Detweiller was at the House of Flowers, business as usual. He said that the House of Flowers is a neat long frame building on a street that's "going downhill" (Iverson's phrase). His man went in, got two red roses, and walked out again. Mrs. Tina Barfield, the proprietor of record according to the papers on file at City Hall, waited on him. The fellow who actually got the flowers, cut them, and wrapped them, was wearing a name tag with the word CARLOS on it. Iverson's man described him as about twenty-five, dark, not bad looking, but portly. The man said he seemed very intense; didn't smile much.

There's an exceptionally long greenhouse behind the shop. Iverson's man commented on it and Mrs. Barfield told him it was as deep as the block; she said they called it "the little jungle."

I asked Iverson if he'd gotten the wirephotos yet. He said he hadn't, but wanted to confirm for me that Detweiller was there. Just knowing he was brought me some relief-I don't mind telling you that, Ruth.

So here's Act III, Scene I, and the plot sickens, as us guys in the prosebiz like to say. I got a call from Sergeant Tyndale, at the 31st Precinct. He told me that Central Falls had gotten the pictures, that Iverson had taken one look, and had ordered Carlos Detweiller brought in for questioning. Tyndale wanted me down at the 31st right away to make a statement. I was to bring the Demon Infestations ma.n.u.script with me, and all my Detweiller correspondence. I told him I would be happy to come down to the 31st as soon as I talked to Iverson again; in fact, I'd be willing to catch The Pilgrim at Penn Station and train right up there to- "Please don't call anyone," Tyndale said, "and don't go anywhere- anywhere, Mr. Kenton-until you've beat your feet down here and make a statement."

I'd spent the day feeling upset and on edge. My nervous condition was getting worse rather than better, and I suppose I snapped at the guy. "You sound as though I'm the one under suspicion."

"No," he said. "No, Mr. Kenton." A pause. "Not as of now." Another pause. "But he did send you the pictures, didn't he?"

For a moment I was so flabbergasted I could only flap my mouth like a fish. Then I said, "But I explained that."

"Yes, you did. Now come down here and explain it for the record, please." Tyndale hung up, leaving me feeling both angry and sort of existential-but I'd be lying, Ruth, if I didn't tell you that mostly what I felt was scared-I'd gotten in far over my head, and it hadn't taken long at all.

I popped into Roger's office, told him what was going on as quickly and sanely as I could, and then headed for the elevator. Riddley came out of the mailroom wheeling his Dandux cart-empty, this time.

"Is you in trouble wid de law, Mist Kenton?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely as I went past him-I tell you, Ruth, it did nothing at all to improve my peace of mind.

"No!" I said, so loudly that two people going up the hall looked around at me.

"Cause if you is, my cousin Eddie is sho one fine lawyer. Ya.s.suh!"

"Riddley," I said, "where did you go to college?"

"Co'nell, Mist Kenton, and it sho was fine!" Riddley grinned, show i n g teeth as white as piano keys (and just as numerous, one is tempted to believe).

"If you went to Cornell," I said, "why in G.o.d's name do you talk that way?"

"What way is dat, Mist Kenton?"

"Never mind," I said, glancing at my watch. "It's always fine to have one of these philosophical discussions with you, Riddley, but I've got an appointment and I ought to run."

"Ya.s.suh!" He said, flashing that obscene grin again. "And if you want my cousin Eddie's phone numbah-"

But by then I had escaped into the hall. It's always a relief to get free of Riddley. I suppose it's terrible to say this, but I wish Roger would fire him- I look at that big piano-key grin and, G.o.d help me, I wonder if Riddley hasn't made a pact to drink white man's blood when the fire comes next time. Along with his cousin, Eddie, of course.

Well, forget all that-I've been tickling the typewriter keys for over an hour and a half, and this is starting to look like a novelette. I had better scamp through the rest. So...Act III, Scene II.

I arrived at the police station late and soaking wet all over again-no cabs and the rain had become a good steady downpour. Only a January rain in New York City can be that cold (California looks better to me every day, Ruth!).

Tyndale took a look at me, offered a thin smile with no noticeable humor in it, and said: "Central Falls just released your author. No cabs out there, huh? Never are when it rains."

"They let Detweiller go?" I asked incredulously. "And he's not our author. I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot-plague-pole."

"Well, whatever he is, the whole thing's nothing but a tempest in a teapot," he said, handing me what may have been the vilest cup of coffee I have ever drunk in my life.

He took me into a vacant office, which was something of a mercy-that sense that the others in the squadroom were sneaking peeks at the prematurely balding editor in the drippy tweeds was probably paranoid, but it was pretty strong just the same.

To make a long story even longer, about forty-five minutes after the wirephotos had arrived, and about fifteen minutes after Detweiller had arrived (not handcuffed, but flanked by two burly men in blue-suits), the plainclothesman who had been dispatched to the House of Flowers after my original call arrived. He had been on the other side of town all afternoon.

They had left Detweiller alone in a small interrogation room, Tyndale told me, to soften him up-to get him thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts. The plainclothesman who had verified the fact that Detweiller was indeed still working at the House of Flowers was looking at the "Sacrifice Photos" when Chief Iverson came out of his office and headed for the interrogation room where Detweiller was being kept.

"Jesus," the plainclothesman said to Iverson, "these look almost real, don't they?"

Iverson stopped. "Do you have any reason to believe they aren't?" he asked.

"Well, when I went into that flower-shop this morning to check on that guy Detweiller, this dude getting the informal heart-surgery was sitting off to one side behind the counter, playing solitaire and watching Ryan's Hope on TV."

"Are you sure of that?" Iverson demanded.

The plainclothesman tapped the first of the "Sacrifice Photos," where the face of the "victim" was clearly shown. "No mistake," he said. "This guy."

"Well why in G.o.d's name didn't you say he was there?" Iverson demanded, no doubt with visions of Detweiller bringing charges of false and malicious detainment beginning to dance dolefully in his head.

"Because no one asked me about this guy," the detective said, reasonably enough. "I was supposed to verify Detweiller, which I did. If somebody had asked me to verify this guy, I would have. No one did. See you." And he walked away, leaving Iverson holding the bag.