The Demon Within Page 10

  Finn was beginning to breath hard as they reached the crest of a hill that was at least a half mile in length. Christ stopped and pointed over the concrete wall. “That’s Sunnyside Yard. I love looking at the trains moving around – it’s amazing.”

  Finn stared at the monstrous array of tracks and trains from Amtrak and the Long Island Railroad. “You could get lost down there, it’s so big,” he commented.

  Chris leaned his arms on the concrete wall and looked at Finn. “But you’re not here to talk to me about train yards or IAB, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, go ahead, young man. I’m all yours.”

  “I don’t know how much my dad told you,” Finn began, “but I’m now a private investigator and I’m doing some work on a murder case.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Chris said, “but homicide investigations are not my specialty.”

  “That’s not why my dad wanted me to talk to you. Do you remember the murders in Alley Pond Park a couple of years ago? The media called it the Demon Murders.”

  “Just what was in the newspapers and on TV,” Chris replied.

  “Well, I was hired by the mother of the kid convicted of the murders.”

  Chris attempted to finish Finn’s sentence. “And you want to know if demons could have possessed that kid.”

  “Something like that, I guess,” Finn shrugged.

  “Let me ask you something, Finn.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you play golf?”

  Finn nodded. “I play, but not very well.”

  “Like all of us,” Chris chuckled. “My point is – did you ever have that day where everything seemed to go right for you – you hit your drives solid right down the middle of the fairway, your irons were on the mark, and you did nothing more than a two-putt.”

  “Maybe once or twice,” Finn replied.

  “When you were having those exceptional rounds, did you ever make a hole in one?”

  “No,” Finn scoffed.

  “Why did you make a face?” Chris responded. “Don’t you think it’s possible to make a hole in one.”

  Finn shrugged. “Sure, it’s possible, I guess. But I never made one and I don’t have any expectation that I ever will.”

  “So,” Chris continued, “It is still possible for you to have a great round of golf without making a hole in one.”

  “Well, sure,” Finn admitted.

  Chris turned and gazed down toward and Amtrak train slowly snaking through the yard. Finn was also scanning the trains, but his mind was focused on Chris’s analogy. “I’m not sure I understand your point.”

  Chris turned back toward Finn. “My point is that you can have a good round of golf without making a hole in one.”

  “OK,” Finn was still searching for the meaning.

  “As a matter of fact,” Chris continued, “you will likely go through your entire life without ever making a hole in one.”

  “Agreed.”

  Chris placed his right hand on Finn’s shoulder. “But it doesn’t make your great round any less real.”

  Finn’s eyes were still displaying the blank stare indicative of lack of understanding as Chris continued. “Just like a hole in one is real, demons are real, but the overwhelming majority of cases are not really demonic possessions. The incident is very real to the subjects involved, but ultimately there are other explanation, mostly psychological.”

  “I think I understand your point,” Finn nodded. “You can shoot a really great round of golf, but you probably won’t make a hole in one during that great round, and you can have very convincing cases of demonic possession that are likely not going to end up being real – although demonic possession is real.”

  Chris slapped Finn lightly on his back. “You’re learning, Finn.”

  Chris began walking again above the train yard. “Let’s keep moving.”

  It took Finn a couple of long strides to get along side of Chris. “So, how did you get involved with this demon stuff?”

  “It’s called demonology,” Chris corrected.

  “Sorry, how did you become involved with demonology?”

  “I’m Catholic, but I’ve never been overly religious. In my senior year of college, I ended up three credits short for the graduation requirement, so I had to take one course over the summer. I was short a free elective so any course would fulfill the requirement. I saw there was a theology course called The Science of Paranormal Events, and I signed up.” Chris pointed left to indicate thy would turn left onto Skillman Avenue. “Professor Edward Warren taught the course. Professor Warren was also a paranormal investigator, and I found the topic so interesting that I jumped on the opportunity when the professor offered to let me go along with him on some of his cases.” Chris stopped and turned toward Finn. “Like I said before, most of these possession cases have scientific explanations.” He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’ve dealt with a lot of emotionally disturbed people and arrested some pretty bad hombres, but I have never, never in my life seen anything like a real possession. A murderer’s look is nothing like a person under possession. I’ve seen people exhibit unnatural strength, speak in different languages, and people having knowledge they would have no way of knowing. I’ve even seen people levitated.”

  “Are you still active in investigating these cases?”

  “Sure! For some reason people think a cop with a master’s degree in psychology actually knows something.” Chris paused to laugh at his own joke before continuing. “Professor Warren retired and one day he called me and explained that a friend of his who was a priest had called looking for advice. I met with this priest and his subject, and right out of the box I was faced with one of the more bizarre experiences in my career. This female’s behavior exceeded what I could explain with my knowledge. She knew how individuals she’d never known had died, including my mother and her fatal case of ovarian cancer. Six people later vouched to me that, during her exorcisms, they heard her speaking multiple languages, including Latin, completely unfamiliar to her outside of her trances. This was not psychosis; it was what I can only describe as paranormal ability. I concluded that she was possessed. The priest who had asked for my opinion of this bizarre case was the most experienced exorcist in the country at the time, an erudite and sensible man. I had told him that, even as a practicing Catholic, I wasn’t likely to go in for a lot of hocus-pocus. He said that unless Professor Warren had told us that you were not easily fooled, we would hardly have wanted you to assist us.”

  “That’s amazing,” Finn exclaimed.

  Chris continued, “So began an unlikely partnership. For the past two-and-a-half decades and over several hundred consultations, I’ve helped clergy from multiple denominations and faiths to filter episodes of mental illness — which represent the overwhelming majority of cases — from, literally, the devil’s work. It’s an unlikely role for a cop with some education in psychology, but I don’t see these two aspects of my career in conflict. The same habits that shape what I do as a cop — open-mindedness, respect for evidence and compassion for suffering people — led me to aid in the work of discerning attacks by what I believe are evil spirits and, just as critically, differentiating these extremely rare events from medical conditions. Most of the people I evaluate in this role suffer from the more prosaic problems of a medical disorder. Anyone even faintly familiar with mental illnesses knows that individuals who think they are being attacked by malign spirits are generally experiencing nothing of the sort. Practitioners see psychotic patients all the time who claim to see or hear demons; histrionic or highly suggestible individuals, such as those suffering from dissociative identity syndromes; and patients with personality disorders who are prone to misinterpret destructive feelings, in what exorcists sometimes call a ‘pseudo-possession,’ via the defense mechanism of an externalizing projection. But what am I supposed to make of patients who unexpectedly start speaking perfect Latin?
>
  Finn was becoming excited. “So, it’s possible that Chris Mills was telling the truth about demons being in the woods that night?”

  “Just slow down,” Chris cautioned. There’s no way I can give an opinion without knowing the intimate details of the case. And if you are able to access the details of the investigation, you’ll probably find that those bases have been covered.”

  Finn was looking for a ray of hope. “But it is possible…..”

  Chris cut him off. “Look, I read the story. That kid said he was hiding behind some trees when demons flew in and butchered his friends, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Let me be clear on this point,” Chris exclaimed. “Demonic incidents do not manifest in the demon taking a physical action. The demon does not show up in the woods carrying a butcher knife to cut throats. That’s why the phenomenon is called a possession. The demon possesses the subject and causes the subject to take the action.”

  “So, you’re saying……”

  Chris again cut Finn off. “That’s right, no matter how you slice it, it was likely your kid’s hand that did the slashing with that knife. And the fact that he’s in a hospital for the criminally insane speaks volumes.”

  “About what?” Finn asked.

  “Let’s face it, Finn. No jury is going to find a defendant not guilty and actually let him walk because he committed murder while possessed. That should be the case but it’s just not going to happen. The best that can happen is what occurred here. They found your boy not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  “Yeah, but he still says he didn’t do it.”

  Chris held up both hands. “And he probably truly believes he didn’t do it. I’m not telling you not to keep poking around, that’s what you’ve been hired to do. I just want you to understand the reality of the situation.”

  Finn sighed. “Thanks, I understand.”

  Chris continued. “The specific details of this case, however, was not the main reason the Chief wanted me to talk to you. He was fearful about you getting mixed up in these cults performing satanic rituals and conjuring demons.”

  Finn rolled his eyes. “Is that why he really wanted me to talk to you?”

  “Hey,” Chris snapped. “He’s right. You don’t want to play games with this dark world. Where have you been poking around?”

  “I visited a Theistic Church of Satan run by Aamon Lasalle.”

  “Oh boy!” Chris blurted, “Aamon Lasalle is a real piece of work.”

  “You know him?” Finn asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes! He’s bad news.”

  “How so?”

  “Like I said before,” Chris began, “Episodes of mental illness make up the vast majority of cases, but for the cases I believe are authentic, the subject has always provided some opening for the satanic forces.”

  “What types of openings?”

  “Most of the time it’s something as innocuous as dabbling in the occult—tarot cards, Ouija boards, Santeria, palmistry, astrology, séances, or attending the rituals of Aamon Lasalle.”

  “What do you know about Aamon Lasalle?”

  “In two of the cases I characterized as being real possessions, the subjects had dealings with Lasalle.” Chris tilted his head slightly. “How did you get mixed up with him?”

  “Chris Mills mother found a business card for the Church of Satan in their home. She thought there might be some connection between the church and the murders.”

  Chris seemed confused. “But the Cchurch of Satan is not Aamon Lasalle. Those guys are basically harmless. They’re like some hybrid 21st century hippie group.”

  “I know now,” Finn agreed. “Aamon Lasalle’s group rented space from the Church of Satan and took over the space later in the evening.”

  “How did you get in there?” Chris asked. “They don’t let people walk in off the street, no less a private investigator.”

  “My friend met a girl online who took him to the place.”

  Chris shook his head and bit his lip. “That’s how he does it. He uses a beautiful girl to lure a subject into his lair.”

  Finn was beginning to feel a chill in his bones. “Am I in some type of danger?”

  Chris faced Finn directly and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “Listen to me carefully Finn. Don’t ever go to see Lasalle again. And tell that friend of yours to forget about that girl.”

  Finn tried to force a smile. “I have to say, Chris, this is becoming a little creepy and your beginning to scare me a bit.”

  “You should be scared,” Chris cautioned. “I’ve seen lives ruined by people playing around with dark characters like Aamon Lasalle. Trust me! Break off all contact with him and warn your friend to do the same.”

  When they reached the entrance to 31-26 Chris extended his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you Finn. Please give my regards to the Chief.”

  “Thanks for your help, Chris.” Finn instinctively began to pull out of the handshake, but Chris maintained his grip.

  Chris leaned forward and whispered, “If you ever need my help, call me immediately – don’t wait!”

  When Finn reached the Queens Plaza subway entrance he stopped at the top of the stairs to collect his thoughts. He was as anxious and shaken as when he had left the company of Aamon Lasalle.

  Chapter 8: The Case Folder

  May 15th

  Finn squeezed into the only available booth. This Burger King was packed with two types of customers. On one side of the fast food restaurant were elderly singles and couples enjoying a cheap lunch, and on the other side were young mothers gossiping in small groups while their young kids ran wild inside the large colorful playset.

  Finn was early for his appointment. So early that he had the opportunity to multitask. “Hi, Nancy, it’s Finn Delaney. I just wanted to touch base with you.”

  “Oh, hi Finn.”

  Finn noted how chipper Nancy sounded, as if his call may well be the highlight of her day. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop, Nancy. I went to that church the other day.”

  “Oh, you did?” Nancy exclaimed. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Aside from the fact that it was probably the most bizarre and creepy experience I have ever had – not too much.”

  Finn could detect the disappointment in Nancy’s voice. “Well, thanks for trying. What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m meeting with one of the detectives who worked on the case,” Finn explained.

  “Oh, really.” Nancy sounded encouraged. “When is that meeting?”

  “In a few minutes. I’m waiting for him now.”

  “That’s great. Keep me posted, Finn.”

  “I will.” Finn hesitated briefly before continuing. “But don’t get your hopes up, Nancy.”

  “I won’t Finn. I’m thankful for your efforts.”

  The onsite clientele made it easy to identify Paul Taggart. Finn noticed him through the window, lumbering down Northern Boulevard, coming from the direction of the 111th Precinct. Finn immediately tagged Detective Taggart with a one-word description – rumpled. Whereas Chris Moritz looked like he was born in a suit, Paul Taggart looked like he would be foreign to any clothing beyond t-shirts, jeans, or shorts. It was probably distasteful for Paul to get into the wrinkled white dress shirt and equally wrinkled blue print tie. Finn mused that there was likely so much effort required to close the shirt over his ample belly, that Paul had no time to brush his hair or shave.

  Being a true detective, Paul Taggart had no trouble identifying Finn. “Finn Delaney?” he said without a handshake. He was too busy trying to wedge his belly into the booth.

  “It’s good of you to help me, Detective Taggart.”

  “Hey.” Paul held up his hand. “It’s no big deal. I’d do anything for the Chief. Your dad’s a good guy. About fifteen years ago I was a cop in the seven – five.” Paul used the NYPD jargon for the 75th Precinct. “Your dad was the commanding officer when some cops got jammed up big time skimming m
oney from drug dealers. I never got involved with that shit, but I knew it was going on and was too afraid of being labelled a rat to say anything. When the ax finally fell on these assholes, Internal Affairs tried to drag me down with them, but your dad stepped in and went to bat for me. He saved my job.” Paul removed a thick folder from an attaché case he had on the floor next to him and plopped the folder loudly on the table. “That’s why I’d do anything for the Chief, including this.”

  Finn stared at the folder while Paul continued. “This is why we’re not meeting inside the precinct. This is a copy of the entire case folder for the murders. I couldn’t have you walking past the desk officer with this file.”

  Finn shook his head. “Wow. All I can say is thanks.”

  “No problem,” Paul responded. “But I don’t think you’re gonna find any revelations in here that will help you. Rusty McGowan was one of the laziest detectives the NYPD has ever had, but I think he got this one right. Unless you believe the kid’s story about demons flying into those woods and killing his friends, then that kid did it.” Paul reached over and placed his hand on Finn’s forearm. “Don’t get me wrong. I think that kid really believes he didn’t do it, but let’s face it – the kid’s as looney as the day is long. Under the circumstances, he received the best possible outcome – the booby hatch.” Paul laughed at his own joke and pointed at the file. “Everything’s in there – the fives, the autopsy reports, crime scene photos – everything. Once you go through the file and absorb all this shit, gimme a call if you need any further help.” Paul smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Now, let’s get us a couple of Woppers.”

  While standing on line Finn felt satisfied for a peculiar reason. When Paul was mentioning the contents inside the folder he said all the fives were there. Finn knew that fives were the NYPD slang used for DD-5, which is the form detectives use to write an investigative report. He didn’t have to ask what a five was like any other outsider, and that made him feel good.

  Finn’s eyes opened, his eyelashes faintly batting against his lids when he blinked. He laid on the couch, debating whether or not he should get up. His muscles felt weak, just like his energy. Finn let out an exasperated sigh, groaning as he rolled off the sepia-colored sofa. What time was it? How long had he been asleep? Did he have clothes on? He only wanted a quick nap, but the twilight outside the living room window served as evidence that he had been asleep for several hours.