style="font-size:15px;"> For a moment, he thought that the man was an actor, out to entertain Baltimore visitors at the burial ground.
Then the man disappeared, as if he’d faded into the stone itself.
And Griffin could only presume that he had just seen the real Edgar Allan Poe.
* * *
The news was out; it was everywhere.
Baltimore had lost another great writer, and how oddly, how eerily! He had died in a wine cellar—at a restaurant called the Black Bird, a restaurant that entirely honored the great writer Edgar Allan Poe.
Boston claimed Poe for its own—and had just added a life-size statue of him with a raven on Boylston Street. But in life, Poe hadn’t much loved the city of his birth. To be fair, he had lived and worked more in Virginia and Maryland. It seemed, however, that just as “Washington slept here” was a common refrain, Poe was also coveted. And it was only right. New York City had quite a claim on the man, too—in the Village, and up in the Bronx, where he had last lived, and where his mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, had been waiting for him to come retrieve her.
Right now, Baltimore had renewed their claim on the man—and was musing over what facts were known about his death—and how they compared with the death of Franklin Verne.
Griffin and Vickie had come to the police station to meet up with Carl Morris, having given up the illusion that they were on any kind of a vacation or even off for the weekend.
Maybe they had been on the job from the moment the dream had first plagued her that morning, Vickie thought. And, if not then, they had become completely involved once Jackson had called, or even as soon as Monica Verne had reached out to Adam.
Monica’s resolve and passion couldn’t be ignored. Vickie just wished that she hadn’t brought that passion to the media so quickly.
Monica Verne was offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who could lead her to the true cause of her husband’s death.
“Great, just great!” Griffin muttered. “Now we’ll get calls from every demented soul in the city.”
“Well, maybe someone will come forward with good information,” Vickie told him.
They were standing with Morris and a group of officers in the center of the work floor of the station; one of the officers had brought up the live footage on the large screen that hung from the room’s ceiling, available anytime there was some type of video footage that should be witnessed by all.
Monica must have called the local news station just minutes after Griffin and Vickie had left her home; any self-respecting journalist would have hurried to her with all possible speed.
Phones were always ringing, lighting up, at the police station. It almost appeared as if an alien ship sat above them, there was such a display of sound and light as the show aired.
Morris looked at Vickie, shaking his head sadly. “We can hope, but...for the most part? This kind of thing takes up hours of work, and yields little. But yes, we can hope.”
“Well, Monica is convinced her husband was murdered,” Vickie said.
“And she’s probably right,” Griffin murmured.
“Sorry!” Carl Morris called, his voice deep, rich, loud—and extending to the different officers and detectives in the room. “Answer all calls—do your best to sort the wheat from the chaff.”
“You’re going to love this one, Detective!” an officer called out, holding up one of the police station’s yellow crime-tip forms. “The Martians are here. They learned how to beam people places by watching Star Trek reruns for hours and hours. They killed him because they had to suck out his brain.”
Morris waved a hand in the air. There wasn’t much laughter. There were far more sighs.
Morris motioned to Vickie and Griffin. They followed him into his office.
There was a monitor screen at the side of his desk. Morris picked up a remote control and hit it. “Maybe you can see something I missed. I’ve gone over the digital video or whatever the hell it is from the front-door cameras a zillion times.”
Nothing happened on the screen. Morris swore softly. “Hang on,” he told them. “I have to go find a kid.”
The kid—Officer Benedict, who appeared to be about twenty-five—hurried in after Morris stood at the door and yelled out.
“Here, sir!” Benedict said to Morris, glancing at Griffin and Vickie with a grimace. “This, sir, turns it on. Then just hit this arrow, and it will play. The arrow is Play. But the device must be powered on.”
“I got it this time, I got it!” Morris said. “Hey, these things are new. We just got them in a week or so ago. Thanks, Benedict.”
“Yes, sir,” Benedict said.
“Stay, will you? These special agents might want the footage slowed down.”
There was only one real agent there at the moment—Griffin. But he didn’t say anything and Vickie kept quiet as well.
“We have footage from the opening at eleven o’clock all the way through the night,” Benedict explained. “So, it would take hours to watch it all.”
“Go ahead, start at the beginning,” Griffin told him. “I’ll have you speed it up—but please, Detective Morris, Officer Benedict, please let us know if you see someone coming or going that we should know about.”
“Of course,” Morris told them.
They began to watch the footage. They saw Gary Frampton, the owner, opening the door and looking out on the day, then closing it again. His daughter, Alice, arrived. A small cluster of men and women who’d been identified as kitchen staff showed up. Then later, Lacey Shaw, the Poe lover/gift shop manager, and then their waiter from the night before, whose full name was Jon Skye. More staff ambled on in. Then came the customers.
“There! Stop it. Back up a bit!” Morris told Benedict.
The young officer did as he was told. Morris leaned in to the screen, pointing at people as he said, “There. Naturally there is a major Poe literary society here, a national Poe society and others. Among them is one actually called the Blackbird Society, and they’re dedicated to all things Poe. Franklin Verne belonged nominally to a number of societies, and among them was the Blackbird Society. That woman there, Liza Harcourt, is the president. The man at her side is Alistair Malcolm, vice president of the society, and with them is...” He paused, staring at the screen.
“That’s Brent Whaley,” Office Benedict said. “Another writer. He’s probably best known in science fiction circles, but he loves horror and Poe. Oh, and he belongs to several societies, the Poe one here, and also an H. P. Lovecraft one up somewhere in the northeast, probably Rhode Island, where Lovecraft was from and where he’s buried.”
They all looked curiously at Officer Benedict.
“You have great information,” Griffin told him.
Benedict flushed and shrugged. “My parents are kind
