Psychic Detective 11 By Jake Preston
This is a work of erotic gay fiction, intended for readers who enjoy a murder mystery in which fully developed characters interact sexually and in other ways. Their sexual encounters are sometimes romantic, sometimes recreational, sometimes spiritual, and almost always described explicitly. My attention is equally divided between narrative, character development, and sex scenes. If you don't care for this combination, there are many other excellent "nifty" stories to choose from. And remember that while nifty stories are free, maintaining a website is not. Please think about donating at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Writing is usually a solitary avocation, but not necessarily so on nifty.org, where a longer story appears in installments. If my characters and my story grab your attention, you can always intervene with suggestions for improvements. All sincere comments will get a response!
Jake, at jemtling@gmail.com
Chapter 11 Lakota
Jack 'Red Crest' Jackson, age 27, was at the start of his third year as sheriff in Lakota-a county and Res with fewer than 10,000 people and more acreage than the state of Connecticut. When Göran Svenson, Anna Ravitch, and Red Hawk walked into his office, an eye-flash of recognition occurred between Jackson and Svenson. Red Hawk was gay, too, of course. Even straight people could see that, but straight-acting Svenson got all the points. Even so, Jackson distrusted instant gaydar.
"You must be the youngest sheriff in the country, Jack," Svenson said. "I mean that as a compliment. I've seen all the politics that goes on in the Sheriff's Office in Duluth. We've got a really good sheriff in St. Louis County, but a man's got to be a survivor to make it to sheriff and stay in office."
"My job is different from yours and Matthews's," Jack replied. "Mostly I keep the peace. My biggest problems are small-time drug dealers, teenagers stealing cars for joy-rides, drunks on the streets, and husbands who beat up their wives. I've never worked a major crime, but now it looks like I've got a multiple murder on my hands. It's a mystery. When I received your report about the crime scene on Five Spirits Island, it seemed similar to the one that my deputies found in the cliffs above Buffalo Run. I could see from your report that you made good progress with your crime scene. The professionalism in your report was obvious to me-it's detailed and systematic. I shared your report in a joint meeting of Town Council and the Lakota Tribal Council. They don't like outsiders coming in, but they realized that we had two choices. We could call in the FBI, or we could ask for help from another County Sheriff who wouldn't be motivated to get into our business. The Council agreed. That's why I called Sheriff Matthews. I asked him to send you here. About one thing, I must be candid: if the FBI takes over this case, they'll act like bulls in a china-shop and I my days as sheriff will be numbered."
"Don't say that, Jack," Svenson cautioned. "It's not good for business. You discovered clues at Buffalo Run that are parallel to Five Spirits Island, or the Island of Eight Eagles, as the Ojibwe call it. From these you concluded that Buffalo Run and Eight Eagles are resemblant forms. Resemblance is tricky. It's easy to explain contrasts and differences, but resemblance is hard. It could be coincidence, or random chance. It could be copy-cat borrowing. Or it could be that one suspect created both crime scenes. That's why you brought me here, because Eight Eagles is your crime scene, just as Buffalo Run is my crime scene. We're on the hunt for a serial killer, or rather, two serial killers, because we've got two guys working together. The leader is a psychopath. His partner is a sociopath. That's our story. Let's stick to it."
Jack took Svenson to High Ground Café, where they shared afternoon coffee and went over each other's reports and compared notes. They prepared a list of resemblances and differences in the crime scenes. When their professional work was done, Svenson told Jack about his childhood as a farm-boy in Ashawa, and his youthful exploits with 'friends of Jake Preston' at Wayward Bay and Crane Lake. He let it be known that he and his friends were gay. "Were you bullied in school?" Jackson asked. "No, I was a tough kid, and a pretty good hockey player. Some of my buddies were hockey players, too. I knew another boy who was bullied. My deepest regret about high school is that I never helped him. But me and my friends, we were immune from bullies. That's because we stuck together."
Svenson's honesty prompted Jack to return his candor. He gave Svenson a short version of his life story:
"When I was a boy, my folks sent me to boarding school here in Lakota. In those days, the school was run by white missionaries. They forbid us to 'talk Indian-jibber'. That's what they called the Lakota language, 'Indian-jibber', or 'Indian-talk'. But whenever I thought the teachers weren't looking, I spoke in Lakota with playmates. I was a rebel about this. At least once a week, one of the teachers took a switch to my ass and locked me in a closet for an hour or so. My 'Indian-jibber' got other kids into trouble, too. That made me unpopular with them. I got into schoolyard fights. Kids would inform on me to the teachers. Sometimes they tattled even when I wasn't speaking Lakota. But the schoolyard brawls made me tough, and I learned to cope with isolation."
Svenson nodded, knowingly. Even though Jackson was surrounded by friends and supporters, he lived without love: not even a casual partner in sex. That was isolation.
"That stood me in good stead in high school, which back then started in seventh grade," Jackson continued. Other boys called me 'faggot' and 'squaw'. I was small for my age-a tough runt, but still a runt. In seventh grade, sometimes the bullies would stuff me into a locker in the corridor. By ninth grade I had grown bigger, so I wouldn't fit in a locker, but the bullying continued. Whenever that happened, I spoke back to them in Lakota-a forgotten language to most of my bullies. The Lakota language was my refuge. My tormentors thought that I was a fag. They resented that I spoke Lakota. They were right on both counts.
"I was a good student, though. I loved literature, history, and science. One of my teachers got a college scholarship at Emory University, in Atlanta. It was her alma mater, and she knew I'd be welcome there because Emory is into cultural diversity. On the day after high school graduation, I left the Res, never to return, or so I thought then.
"For me, being a college student Emory was like living on a different planet. Other students thought it was cool that I came from South Dakota. Being an Indian was cooler. Being Lakota was the coolest. Being a serious student was cool, too. Being a nerd was cooler, and being a gay nerdy Lakota student from South Dakota was the coolest!
"During the Spring semester of my senior year, the Sheriff of Lakota-Henry Thompson-flew to Atlanta to visit me. He offered me a job as his Deputy Sheriff. I didn't see how a double major in Literature and Comparative Religion qualified me for law enforcement. 'Shucks, son, you'll be the first college-educated sheriff in the history of the county', he said. 'Besides, I've already enrolled you in Police Academy for the summer, at Eastern Kentucky University in Richmond. By the time you get back to South Dakota, you'll have a college degree and a Police Certificate.'
"'Spoken like a Lakota elder'-I laughed. Henry Thompson's a white man. Technically, the town of Lakota isn't on the Reservation. 'I think it's time for Lakota to have a Lakota for Sheriff', Thompson said. He swore me to secrecy about his plan. He wanted to retire in three years. He'd been looking for a Lakota man to replace him. When he realized that I was sticking it out at Emory, he chose me. He knew that if he approached me like an elder, I wouldn't refuse. To my mind, he really is a Lakota elder.
"So I took the summer course in Kentucky, and returned to Lakota as a new Deputy. That was six years ago, in 2008. Thompson was my mentor for three years, and we're still good friends, but my appointment as Sheriff was political, too. It turns out that Lakota Tribal Council was debating whether or not to appoint a separate sheriff for the Reservation-so there were to be two sheriffs, neither of whom would know much about the law or about crime investigation. The town would elect one of the old white boys, and Council would appoint a Lakota crony. Thompson shuttered at the thought. 'Every time something bad happens, ethnic tensions will flare up', he warned. He persuaded the town and the reservation to form a five-member Public Safety Commission-three Lakota elders and two town councilmen-with the sheriff as a sixth non-voting member. Three years ago, when Thompson retired, the Council promoted me as his successor."
"What prompted the Tribal Council to contemplate having a separate sheriff for the Reservation?" Svenson asked.
"Oil on the Reservation," Jackson replied. "They have money coming in. Thompson cut a deal with them. He said that the new Sheriff would need seven new deputies, including six with new office buildings and clerks on the Res. He recruited five Lakota boys, and two Lakota women, and sent them to the Police Academy in Kentucky for training. Their contracts require them to attend classes part-time at Lakota College, until such time as they earn bachelor's degrees. That's my crew: seven deputies. I'm like the hero with seven commandos!"
"What about your... social life here?"-Svenson asked the inevitable question.
Their eyes met. Jackson smiled. "What social life?" he asked. "When I first got settled here, I was Lakota's most eligible bachelor. Mothers found excuses to invite me to their homes for their daughter's eighteenth-birthday parties, for holidays, for Lakota celebrations. I never turn down an invitation. It's part of community policing. If the only knew how hopeless it was! They might have had better luck if they invited me to their sons' birthday parties. What can I say? I was raised in a school where they didn't teach a single thing about sex."
"I was raised in a school where they didn't teach a single thing about sex that was true," Svenson laughed. "I unlearned their falsehoods from friends, and by watching Dan Savage on youtube." Their eyes met. "What's on the agenda for us, then?" He asked.
"We'll go to Buffalo Run tomorrow," Jackson replied. "We can drive there, as far as Jimmy White Feather's ranch. From there it's about five miles on horseback. Are Mrs. Ravitch and Red Hawk able to ride?"
"You'd be surprised what Anna Ravitch can do," Svenson said. "As for Red Hawk, he grew up with horses on Crane Lake. When he was in college in Bemidji, he spent his summers on the rodeo circuit, competing in rough-rider competitions. He rides like a Comanche."
After dinner in the café with Red Hawk and Anna Ravitch, Svenson spent the evening in his room at the Lakota Hotel, re-reading Red Hawk's books and re-examining photographs of the Summer Solstice Powwows. He picked out three photos-from 2010 and 2011-that showed partial images of a tall white-haired man, whose face was obscured with sunglasses, in one case (2011) on a day darkened by rain clouds. In all three pictures, 'Albino Perp' was accompanied by a shorter man with dark hair. The Albino-Perp images seemed hopelessly obscured, but on one photo from 2010, his companion's face could be seen clearly. 'Blow up the picture and we'll have Killer Number Two', he thought to himself. Svenson was tempted to use his discovery as an excuse to visit Red Hawk's room, but decided against it. If he got entangled romantically with Red Hawk, it would blow his chances with Jackson, a man who-he knew-wouldn't want promiscuous sex.
Anyway, he wouldn't have gotten lucky. Red Hawk spent the evening drinking beer in a bar on the other end of Main Street. He wasn't cruising for sex. You don't hit on guys in a Midwestern or Western bar on Main Street. He just wanted to find out-as a scientific experiment-how a strange Indian man would be treated in a bar in a South Dakota town that was half-white, half-Lakota. He sat in a bar-stool with a notebook. It was about the same as Minnesota. As it was a weeknight, hardly anyone was there. Four white guys sat at a table on the other side of the bar. Three white guys came in alone. They didn't say a word to him, but then, they didn't speak to each other, either. One older Lakota man came in and joined him on a neighboring bar-stool. He lit tobacco in a pipe, which they shared as a makeshift calumet. The man told him Lakota stories while Red Hawk took notes. As a sociological experiment, going to the bar was useless, but the old Lakotan was an anthropological gold mine.
Next morning at High Ground Café, Svenson showed his pictures to Red Hawk, Anna Ravitch, and Jack Jackson. Mrs. Ravitch volunteered to get them enlarged, and even to paint a portrait of Killer Number Two. Red Hawk repeated some Lakotan tales that he heard in the bar. The villain in one of the stories was a mythical Angel of Death with ghastly white hair, who came to a village and demanded that the Lakota make human sacrifice to the Great Spirit. The elders, in council, decided that the Angel of Death was a false prophet, as their God was a Spirit of Life, not of Death. Every week after that, one of the villagers disappeared. The elders sent their strongest Warrior to the wilderness to seek the Angel of Death. One night he found him by his campfire on a cliff. He told him that the villagers agreed to make sacrifice, and that he be the victim, of the Angel of Death would attend the ceremony. And so he did. The Warrior prostrated himself. The villagers gave the Angel of Death the honor of lowering the tomahawk. When the Angel approached the Warrior, the Warrior jumped up, seized the tomahawk, and scalped the Angel of Death. No one ever found the missing villagers, but the power of Death was weakened.
"Well, as for that, mythology is the mass grave of dead gods," Jack said.
Mrs. Ravitch took pictures at Buffalo Run. It was a two-mile walkabout to get to the cliff above. Here, as at Eight Eagles, a long corrugated rod was involved in the murder of Victim Number One, but the killing was different. The victim had been suspended face-down between two rocks by the rod, tied to it at his wrists and ankles, and a fire was lit below him. "His torso was barbecued," Jack said. "The wolves and coyotes took chunks of him at night, and in daylight, the turkey-vultures ate what was left of him. I've sent hair samples to the crime lab in Sioux Falls. We're still waiting for DNA analysis, but when it comes, the only person I know to compare it with is Shaman Red Cloud. We're waiting for his DNA analysis, too."
"That won't be a match," Svenson said. "But it will match the DNA from Victim Number One at Eight Eagles. Your first victim was a Nez Persé from the Wallowa Mountains in Oregon. He was probably a shaman, too, or a tribal leader at least."
"How can you know that?" Jack asked.
Svenson ignored the question. "Red Hawk, you've got an assignment that's up your ally. We need to know all there is to know about this 'Angel of Death' folktale. We need to know its geographical distribution, how many storytellers tell it, what books it's printed in. The ending is similar to a tale about Herakles in Herodotus's Histories, in book 2, the one about Egypt. It also appears in Armenian epic, in an epic about twin heroes named Sanasar and Baltasar. The story as a whole comes close to one from medieval India, about a hero named Vikrama. He went to a place called Vampire City and put an end to human sacrifice by feigning the role of a sacrificial victim, and attacking his predators at the last moment. Obviously there's a Native American source. We've got to nail it down soon, for Mr. Albino Perp fancies himself the Angel of Death. He's on a mission to establish human sacrifice in the Indian nations. The notion is grandiose and grotesque, typical of psychotic thinking."
"How can you remember all these obscure allusions?" Jack asked.
"You're not the only guy here who majored in Literature," Svenson smiled. "Some people say that Literature has no real-world application, but Albino Perp gets his inspiration for torture from books. Only a reader of Literature would be able to see that."
Red Hawk passed the task to Dmitri, with instructions to look up Herotodus, the Armenian epic, the Sanskrit Vikrama-cycle, and all he could find in Indian folklore. It was a perfect assignment for one of his anthropology courses at Bemidji State, and he could recycle the material in his Honors Thesis.
After this dialogue, Svenson felt weak in the knees. Mrs. Ravitch sat him down in the shade of a rock and gave him water. Red Hawk pulled Jack Jackson aside and said: "Göran gets intense. He spaces out when he's... when insights come together in his mind."
"You mean he's a shaman?" Jack asked.
"The Ojibwe call him a shaman, but he denies it. His white friends call he a psychic. He denies that, too."
"You're a scientist, Red Hawk. What do you think?" Jack asked.
"I think that everything Göran says will make sense, once the facts are in, but it's hard to predict just how his sayings are true. Sometimes it's like trying to unravel oracles."
Jack and Red Hawk stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at Buffalo Run. "Try to imagine, Red Hawk, thousands of buffalo running through here. Now we count them by the dozens, if we see them at all. According to Lakota folklore, the buffalo went almost extinct because white men shot them for sport while they rode past them on trains. Do you see train tracks down there?"
"No."
"Neither do I. There's no Angel of Death, either, except in the mind of a psychotic killer," Jack said. They stood looking down at Buffalo Run for a long time.
"Göran fancies you, Jack," Red Hawk said. "Surely you know that."
Jack's eyes met Red Hawk's. "He said that?" he asked.
"He doesn't have to say it. I just know."
Göran recovered from his dizzy spell, and got back to business. He asked Jack about the other two victims. Their bodies were found below the feet of Victim One, positioned in mock doggie-style intercourse. They were bound together in that position with wires, which prevented the coyotes from tearing the bones apart. Cause of death: unknown; possibly strangulation.
"Victim Number One was staged with his head pointing north, toward the edge of the cliff," Göran said.
"Yes, that would be north," Jack agreed.
"Which was more important, I wonder, the cliff of death, or the direction north?" Göran wondered. It wasn't a question anyone could answer, but Göran had another one for Jack: "Were these bodies pointed toward the edge of the cliff, or away from it?"
"The feet were just below the feet of Victim One. The skulls pointed south," Jack said.
Göran walked due west, along the edge of the cliff. From a hundred yards' distance, he beckoned the others. Red Hawk and Jack collected scattered bone fragments. "If we're lucky, we'll find the skull at the bottom of the cliff," Göran said.
"My deputies walked along this ridge, but they missed this," Jack said.
"I wouldn't have noticed these remains either, but I was looking for them," Göran replied.
"Holy shit! We've got four bodies," Jack exclaimed.
"Five," Göran said. "Walk along the cliff east of the central crime scene, and you'll find the fifth victim. Lead the way, Jack. Let's see what you can do." It was just as Göran said. A hundred yards east, Jack spotted scattered bone-fragments.
"There's some sort of cosmic symbolism," Jack said. "Maybe we should check the terrain south of the central crime scene."
"Yes, by all means," Göran said. "I don't think we'll find anything, but it would be a mistake to not check." He was right. They didn't find anything. Jack thought they were done at the crime scene, but Göran said "No, we must go back to the center and think." He sat Indian- style with his back to the cliff, in silence. Jack and Red Hawk sat on either side of him. Mrs. Ravitch sketched the scene. He asked Jack what he saw.
"The four directions, symbolized by corpses," Jack said.
"Yes, that's good," Göran said. "Anything else?"
"Why is South represented by two victims, and why are they so close to Victim One, who represents North?" Jack asked. "It seems like an internal contradiction in the symbolism."
"That's because we've got two crime scenes, with two distinct meanings, one overlaid on the other," Göran said. "One of them is about brutal torture, concentrated on Victim One. The second is about sexual humiliation, concentrated on Victims Two and Three. It's two different minds at work, although the killers must have helped each other on this one. Killer Number Two did the others by himself. He doesn't share Killer One's interest in symbolism, but he enjoys killing young men. No doubt the symbolism of cosmic directions comes from Killer One, but Killer Two just wants to get on with the murders. This scene is almost identical to the one at Eight Eagles. Taking in consideration the rugged terrain, the victims were forced to walk up this cliff and wait for their turn to be murdered. That's what happened at Eight Eagles, too, except that the victims were brought to the island in a boat. We don't know who they were yet, but at we know how they died. It's two crime scenes in one. That's the most important conclusion."
"Other than finding two more bodies," Jack said.
"Well, as for that, I knew that before we got here," Göran said.
They spent the rest of the day below the cliff, photographing skulls and bones in situ and collecting them in plastic bags. Jack, Göran, Red Hawk, and Anna Ravitch returned to Lakota at dusk, a solemn foursome with skeletal remains in the trunk of their car.
During dinner at High Ground Café, Göran expressed misgivings about meeting with the Lakota Council on Public Safety. "As soon as word of this crime scene goes public, Lakota will be besieged with unwelcome visitors," he said. "I think our meeting should wait until after we've prepared a complete report, which will take a week or more. Maybe we could meet with the Tribal Council instead. That's a group that would know how to keep a secret."
"What should I tell the Council on Public Safety, then?" Jack wondered.
"You're a bright boy, Jack. Figure something out," Göran replied. "In the meantime, I want to visit the crime scene again, tomorrow. I need to be alone with the victims."
The next morning, Jack postponed the meeting with Public Safety. He needed to consult with Tribal Council instead, he said, about a matter that included digging up earth on sacred Lakota land. "We've got a complicated crime scene," he said, "and we need more time to prepare a complete report." But we wouldn't let Göran return to the crime scene alone. He insisted on going with him.
"I must warn you about something, Jack. It is my custom to visit a crime scene to mourn the victims," Göran said. "Sometimes they speak to me. Usually they don't."
"You believe in a spirit world, then," Jack said.
"Manitou is not displeased when we mourn the death of those who have died without justice or cause," Göran said.
Back at the crime scene, Göran sat with his back to the edge of the cliff, facing south. "There's a time to laugh, and a time to mourn. Now is a time to mourn," he said. He chanted an Ojibwe prayer that he had learned from Dark Eagle. Jack was surprised. He didn't need to understand Ojibwe to know what Göran was saying. Göran tore off his shirt and sat in the heat of the sun, chanting the prayer again while he ripped the shirt into shreds. "I mourn for five victims, and ten, and others that we have not found," he said to the sky. He wept. He bawled like a boy that had been beaten. It was infectious. Jack was a stoic sort of guy, but he couldn't hold back his tears. The thought of ten men being led to slaughter was too much to bear. Göran took a jackknife from his pocket and cut five incisions on the right of his chest, just above the nipple. He did the same on his left side. "Not enough blood, but it's the best I can do," Göran said.
Jack stripped off his shirt and offered his chest, but Göran said "No, Manitou is satisfied." Jack shredded his shirt. "Let me keep company with you," he said. Göran handed the jackknife to Jack, who cut five incisions in each side of his chest. Göran went into a trance. His body writhed, as if in an epileptic fit, and he dozed off to sleep. When he awoke in Jack's arms, he said, "We must go to the town of Chief Joseph, in Oregon."
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