July 5 1998 Raccoon City.
Irene turned away from her haggard reflection and allowed it to travel the interrogation room's dingy confines. The other walls offered little to look at, but the one-way mirror, the room's only true feature, offered a view best left ignored.
Her eyes grazed along the industrial steel table, to the empty seat across from her, to the tape recorder and memo pad. They all held unpleasant implications, best keep moving.
They roved on, past the cold cup of coffee, the danish she had no intention of eating, to the icepack that was ace-bandaged to her arm. She could read "Gibson's Chiropractic" printed in block lettering across the clear plastic. She could see livid purple skin where bag and bandage did not cover.
She gazed at the ceiling's watermarked acoustic panels. On the far side of the room, one of the fluorescents hummed and sputtered as if it were a gas starved engine, or maybe a dying heart. The light would seem to catch for a half-minute, providing steady illumination, before once again faltering into spasms.
Irene cracked an odd smile. Flicker and buzz, she felt the same way, erratic, and blown-out.
Irene shook her head; the light metaphor didn't quite fit. As her eyes settled on the room's antique fuse panel, she was reminded of the breaker box in her Uncle's machinery shed: a device rewired and spliced and mouse bitten to the point where it was unable to carry a circuit for any length of time without popping and needing to be reset, only to pop once more. She gave herself an affirmative nod and ran a hand through her hair. That was how she felt: overburdened, too spent to be of use.
Eyes back to the inconsistent light, why couldn't Irons spend less on artwork and budget towards replacing some of the station's ballasts? She shrugged to herself. Maybe the grim setting helped the detectives sweat a perp: a sneak peek into the wonderful world of being remanded into federal custody.
Irene wished she could have chalked-up her agitation to residual nerves from her incident in the woods, but there was no sense lying to herself. From the moment Brennan led her into the room, she had been on edge. His instructions were no relief either. "Wait here. Irons wants to speak with you personally."
The recalled conversation sent fresh rill of perspiration down her back. Chief Irons, king of all RPD, was on his way to interrogate her. How was she going to explain what she was doing up there? What had happened, what she had seen.
She glanced back at her injured arm, recalled the image of the man's teeth, bared and hungry. She could see his face, a face she recognised.
-Victor Yendrowich, the Umbrella researcher. Or, parts of him-
Irene shuddered and wrinkled her nose. Even after showering and changing into a uniform, she could still smell the rotten stench of human decay: a pervasive stink, greasy, impossible to wash off. The man in the woods was wearing Yendrowich's dead skin as a mask. These victims were hunted down, torn apart and skinned. It was bona-fide serial killer behaviour: something copied out that nutbar, Ed Gein's playbook. The Arklay Forest had already been home to one serial killer, Clive Havel, the mad trapper, could this have been a copycat?
-No, Havel was a spree killer. This is different. This is worse-
The circuit breaker popped; Irene didn't bother resetting it.
She ran her hands along unsteady legs which burned with excess lactic acid. Her toes wiggled, they were sunburn red and just barely visible under heavy bandages; they felt boiled.
-I just might need a wheelchair; apparently running a half-marathon in cowboy boots was a bad idea, not that stopping was an option- She attempted a laugh; it ended up sounding more like a sob.
"Those dogs…" She trembled and turned away from the raccoon-eyed girl in the one-way mirror. "They, just, wouldn't quit." The last word came out as a hitching sigh.
She could still hear them howling after her, could feel her legs quake and threaten to give out. She recalled her overpowering surge of relief as, down the path, came the dull glow of headlights on blacktop.
She leaned back and let out another shuddering breath. Her truck was still out there, so was her gun, so were those dogs. The RPD was scrambled as soon as she staggered through the precinct's double doors. Some other cop was going to get killed because of her.
The circuit breaker popped.
Footsteps grabbed at her attention. She turned to the door, but they continued on; not the chief.
"You can wait here, Lindstrom. Chief Irons wants to take care of this personally."
It was about time. To think that it had taken so many deaths, plus her own brush with disaster, for Irons to pay attention to the carnage in his backyard.
-Get the STARS on the case, or the Feds, or the Army. It doesn't matter who. There's a psycho on the loose, and he has pets-
"He was wearing someone's skin," She stole another glance at her pale reflection, at the bluish-red bruising on her inner arm. "He…he bit me."
Cannibals in the Arklay Forest, how had Geezer Thomas, of all people, misread the evidence on so many bodies?
Another question formed in her mind.
-Why did Umbrella lie about Yendrowich's whereabouts? Why didn't anybody file a missing person's report on him?-
The circuit breaker popped.
B risk footsteps clicked. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a Chief of Police who seemed to have agreed to go into competition with her as to who could look more dishevelled.
Officer Lundstrom," He eyed her with the cautious care of a man facing a loose bull.
She gave a single nod. "Chief,"
Irons lumbered to the other side of the table. His forehead was greasy with sweat, and his moustache frayed at the ends like old rope. The chair screeched like a rake on concrete as he pulled it out and settled into it with a grunt.
"How are you?…" He gestured with one hand and swallowed. "physically, I mean. Your, um…injuries."
Irene shrugged, "My feet hurt, I'm okay."
His eyes, muddy brown with the yellow corneas of a man who enjoyed alcohol a bit too much, settled on her arm. "The…" He chewed his bottom lip. "...bite?"
Irene undid the metal clips and allowed the tensor to unfurl. She turned her wrist so he could see the swelling and discoloured half-circles.
Irons hissed in a breath; his hands were trembling. "Is the skin broken?"
She regarded the bite, poked at the black points where the man's teeth had ruptured blood vessels.
She shook her head. "I was wearing a thick jacket. Don't think he could get through."
"That's good," Irons gave a heavy nod; his hands steadied. "who knows what sort of bugs he had in his mouth."
"Never really thought about that." She went about re-dressing her arm. "He looked like he hadn't seen a dentist in a while."
Irons brayed the short humourless laugh common to most law-enforcement and pushed himself closer. He fumbled a cassette into the recorder and grabbed the memo pad.
"Allright," He leaned forward; Irene could count the burst capillaries on his nose. "I'm not going to worry about what you were doing up there right now. I want to know every last detail of the attack. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that even the smallest detail can be incredibly important."
"Of course," Irene said, and frowned slightly. She did not appreciate being treated like a civilian and felt slightly galled that Irons was going through so much procedural bullshit for a statement she felt could have easily been a made in the squad room.
Irons seemed to pick up on this, and raised a friendly hand. "I know I'm going overboard here, but I'd like to be as thorough as possible. Too much has already been overlooked on this file." He smiled; Irene recalled that most animals bared their teeth when they felt threatened. "Now, shall we get started?"
She nodded and felt a nervous flush warm her cheeks.
Irons pressed record on the cassette player and fished a gold pen from his inner pocket.
"This interview is to be tape recorded. I am Raccoon Police Department Chief of Police Brian Irons. The date is the fifth of July, nineteen ninety-eight, the time of interview …" He checked his watch. "Twelve twenty, am. This interview is being held at Raccoon Police Department Central Precinct. There are no parties present other than myself and the interviewee."
He cast his small eyes at her. Irene squirmed in her bandages.
"Does the interviewee confirm that there are no other parties present?"
Irene sighed. "Yes, I confirm that there are no other parties present."
"Please state your name, address and date of birth."
"Raccoon Police Department Officer Irene Lindstrom, badge number One-Six-One-Four." She shied away from Irons' frown and glanced at her clasped hands. "DOB October twenty-seventh, nineteen seventy-four, address 29 Rivercrest Road, Raccoon City."
Irons fidgeted with the memo pad and smoothed back an unruly rooster comb on top of his head. "In your own words, describe the events which had taken place the evening of July fourth, nineteen ninety-eight."
Irene sighed and ran hand through her hair. The scalp underneath was still tender, and she ended up with a handful of loose strands.
-He tried to bite me-
Swallowing heavily, she began her long and bizarre story, and hoped that the circuit breaker wouldn't pop.
"Well, I had abandoned my vehicle at the site of the Connor deaths at approximately nine PM, heading on foot down the mining road with the intent of reaching County Road 128..."
Irene took her time, choosing her words carefully, maintaining the precarious balance between the avoidance of implicating herself in any misconduct and providing Irons with as much truthful information as possible. It was a difficult task at first, but she had taken enough statements to know what a cop looked for in an interview, and putting herself in the investigator's shoes helped insulate her from the trauma. As she spoke, she became less the victim and more the investigator.
By the time she had gotten to her escape and subsequent rescue by young Susan Kelso of Latham, it was she who seemed the interviewer, and Irons the witness, as he appeared to be retreating into himself; a pale-faced and sweating man who looked like he had eaten spoiled meat.
"It's pretty far-fetched sounding, Huh? Especially the part with the dogs," Irene laughed a bit, her ribs hurt. "Never seen a sick dog so angry; they must have had mange, or rabies."
She shrugged. "Odd thing was they seemed trained to attack. They never went after the guy who grabbed me."
Chief Irons responded with the tired groan of a man who had spent a summer day stacking square-bales. He plopped the memo pad onto the table; the front sheet was a still as white as fresh snowfall. He glanced at his wristwatch.
"The time is now, one thirty-nine. I am concluding the interview with Irene Lindstrom."
He clicked stop on the recorder and began filling out the Master Recording Label.
'Sign and date here," He pushed the form over to her.
Irene scooped the pen into her hand, it was heavy and awkward, difficult to use with her injured arm. She gave an inward sigh, Irons had X'ed where she was supposed to sign.
She scratched a shaky "I. Lindstrom" and pushed it back. Irons quickly sealed the paperwork and cassette into an evidence bag and pushed himself to his feet.
"Am I done, Chief?"
His yellow-brown eyes fixed on her. A dewdrop of sweat fell from his nose, onto the memo pad.
'Not just yet, Officer." The gold pen disappeared into his jacket. "I need to make a few calls. We'll discuss this further when I return."
Irene nodded and cast a longing glance at the coffee. She hated cold coffee. "Do I wait here?"
"I'd appreciate that." He grabbed the evidence bag and hustled to the door. His hands shook the knob open, and once again, she was alone.
-Lucky he didn't cuff me too, I'm not sure what's worse. Being treated like a civvie, or a suspect.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The effort in forming a coherent story of the night's events had sapped the last of her energy reserves. She hurt all over, was tired beyond anything she had experienced, and Irons had more questions in store. She had no idea how much longer she could last.
Irene permitted her gaze to travel to the mirror. The wild-eyed bag-lady seemed less present. The reflected image was that of Officer Lindstrom, an Officer Lindstrom in need of a hairbrush and a night's sleep, but Officer Lindstrom nonetheless. She took comfort in that.
The door creaked open, and Joe Gutierrez poked his head in. Concern was written plain on his deceptively youthful face.
"Hey, Joe." Irene allowed a small smile.
"Hey, Lindstrom, you're alive."
"Sure am," Her grin widened as she saw the large coffee he held. "Hey, I'll trade you a danish for that coffee."
Joe returned her smile. "Deal," He closed the door behind him and plucked up the pastry. "How you doing?"
Irene grabbed the cup from Joe and took a heavy pull. It was black with one sugar; the man was a prince.
"I'm okay, I screwed my feet up pretty good. Arm hurts."
Joe craned his neck for a better view. "Yeah, bites are hell. I remember this one time, me and Vince Danielson just went ten-twenty-three on a domestic, and-"
"This crazy little bitch in nothing but a pair of sweatpants scoots across the floor and bites you just above the ankle, you couldn't play ball for a week."
Joe chuckled. "Heard that one already?"
"Once or twice."
"Running out of good material, I'd better start making stuff up." He poked at the cassette recorder. "Why are they taking your statement in here? There's no one in the other room."
"Your guess is as good as mine. How's things in the woods?"
Joe took a bite of danish.
"They sent most of Ward-two up there, and both K9s are en-route. Jordan Road is nothing but cherries and blueberries, real combat fashion. Just got off the Motorolla with Marv and Moose. They say it's spooky as Hell up there, nothing's moving. Don't doubt if the K9s'll freak out again."
He shook his head. "Something's fucked-up in that forest."
"Did they send the STARS?"
Joe ignored her question. He set down the doughnut and leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed.
"What the Hell were you looking for in those woods, Irene? You had no business being up there."
Her guilty face stared back from the one-way, and so she returned her gaze to the lame fluorescent. Was there even a point in lying to him?
"Why I was there?" She rolled up her cuff and flashed the stainless steel chain she wore on her wrist. It was the only jewellery she wore while on duty.
"My mom gave me this when I graduated Police Academy." She turned the pendant so Joe could read the inscription. "I took it off when we were examining the Connor girl, kept tearing the gloves." She shrugged and kept her eyes on the ceiling. "Must have fallen out of my pocket. I found it on the game trail."
Joe crossed his arms. "That so?"
She met his eyes. "Yeah, it is."
He nodded and finished off the danish with a single enormous bite. He got to his feet and started for the door. "I guess we'll need another center fielder for a while."
"For a while,"
"Take care, Lindstrom. Don't do anything else crazy."
Irene chuckled "I'll leave the crazy up to you from now on."
Joe smiled the closed-lip grin he reserved for unpleasant witnesses and was gone without another word.
Irene slouched in her chair and flipped the pendant over.
Officer Irene Lindstrom
July 7 1994
So proud, Mom.
Sighing, she rolled her cuff back down.
Ten minutes later, familiar footsteps clicked on the other side of the entrance, and soon Chief Irons' sweaty bulk was filling the doorframe.
"They found your gun and purse." He settled into the chair.
Irene nodded and felt her cheeks redden. "And the perp?"
Irons glanced at her. "No sign of him."
-What?-
"B-but he was dead, I'm sure of it. I mean, I-"
"Don't worry." He waved a hand. "I'm not disputing anything you've told me. He's just, not there anymore."
"But…who could have?" Her head was pounding again. "What are we going to do?"
He eyed her once more. One hand was sifting through the folds of his blazer.
"I'm calling all units back until first light. Too dangerous out there when it's this dark. Besides, the K9s are acting…unusual."
"What…why? I mean, there's crazies running around the woods. You've got to-"
Irons' yellow gaze and thunderous brow killed the words in her throat. Irene straightened.
"I have to what?"
Irene didn't answer.
"Do you smoke, Lundstrom?"
She shook her head.
He pulled out a thick cigar and clamped it between his teeth. "Mind if I?"
"No, of course not."
Irons smiled, flipped the triangular "No smoking" sign over, and sparked-up with a gold-plated Zippo. A moment of silence passed as he puffed furiously, looking like a sick engine on a cold day. Once the cigar was smouldering nicely, he dropped the hand and wiped his forehead. Smoke wafted out of his nostrils, from the corners of his mouth.
"Now, to answer your question, Officer," He smiled, but his eyes had the look of an animal being led to slaughter. "here, is what we will be doing."
Front page Raccoon Herald July 5 1998
Cider District celebrations a success
Alyssa Ashcroft
By all counts the relocation of Independence Day celebrations went off without a hitch, and Festival co-ordinator Deb Perrin claimed to be "extremely pleased" with community involvement and enthusiasm.
The evening's only complaints were regarding the Racoon Police Department's blockading of County Road 128 to Latham and subsequent traffic delays. Department spokesman Patrick Davies stated the blockade was "a precautionary measure" and "no cause for public alarm"
Page A3 Hillsboro Argus July 6 1998
Missing Hillsboro man discovered in Raccoon City
Katherine Falk
Authorities have identified the individual found alone and unresponsive on the shores of Victory Lake, the site of many recent violent slayings, as missing Hillsboro resident Jeremy Houseman.
Houseman, 31 was declared missing along with his wife Laura Houseman, 29, after failing to check in with family following a solo canoe trip along the isolated Skene River. The couple was last seen departing Cline Falls Campground on June 27.
Efforts are underway to locate Laura Houseman.
Editorial page Raccoon Herald July 7 1998
Raccoon City looking for its missing STARS
Allison Greaves
As the Raccoon Police Department once again urges public calm after the discovery of partial human remains on the banks of the Skene River outlet. This paper must question RPD senior officials' decision not to deploy the RPD's elite Special Tactics and Rescue Service, a paramilitary branch formed especially for such circumstances.
Despite earning recognition for their successful intervention in the sensational "Mad Trapper" killings two winters ago, neither STARS unit has yet to contribute in any significant measure to the current…
AN The Clive Havel "Mad Trapper" killings I referred to in this chapter are taken from the wonderful (and talented) Chaed's fic "Corpus Delicti" a premansion STARS fic so good I consider it canon. If you haven't read it yet (or any of her other work) go do that now.
Once again, a big high five to my reviewers, lurkers only get low fives.
Stay tuned!
-C