It took me a while to find a usable photo of Richard Chizmar. There are plenty out there to choose from, but almost all of them show the man wearing a hat, and it’s usually a baseball cap, and more often than not the bill casts a shadow that renders everything above the mouth essentially invisible. While that might resonate nicely with this particular book, suggesting that Richard is very much At Home in the Dark, I’d rather provide y’all with a clear view of the fellow.
Still, it’s useful to see him as a man who wears many hats. Besides writing a full complement of novels and short stories and screenplays, Richard is the editor and publisher of Cemetery Dance, the longest-running magazine in the field of horror fiction; he also founded and runs Cemetery Dance Publications, an esteemed small press publisher of deluxe limited editions and anthologies.
I’m glad he found time to write Whistling in the Dark. As you’ll see, it’s centered on a police investigation…but it’s more about the cops than the case. Richard has dedicated the story to the late Ed Gorman, and it strikes me as appropriate; the tone and theme of the story, and the interplay of the cops themselves, recall the thoughtful crime fiction of the Sage of Cedar Rapids.
#
Whistling in the Dark by Richard Chizmar
“What’s up with you?”
Frank Logan, bald head, double-chin, wrinkled suit, looked over at me from the passenger seat of our unmarked sedan. “What do you mean?”
“You were just whistling. You’re almost acting like you’re…happy.”
“I wasn’t whistling.”
“You were whistling, Frank.”
“You don’t think I would know if I was whistling?”
“That’s precisely my point. You’ve been acting strange all week.”
“And you’re acting precisely like an asshole.”
“You’re a child.”
“Maybe.” He stared out the car window. “But I wasn’t whistling.”
#
A few more miles of dark highway and I spotted a cluster of patrol cars parked on the grassy shoulder up ahead, both State and County boys, their lights flashing, casting kaleidoscope shadows on the trees and cracked asphalt.
I parked at the end of the line and we walked thirty or so yards to the scene, nodding at the usual cast of uniforms standing around and pretending to be busy.
Trooper Michael Hughes saw us coming and stepped away from the fresh-faced officer he had been lecturing.
“Ben. Frank. Glad they called you guys.”
Frank grunted. “Another thirty minutes and we’d have been home in bed.” Now that was the Frank Logan I was used to all these years.
“What do you got?” I asked.
Hughes flipped open his notepad, gestured for us to follow, and started walking. “Adolescent female. Caucasian. No ID. Multiple stab wounds in torso and shoulder. Looks like she’s been there awhile.”
“Who found the body?”
“Two mowers working a road crew. They’re both still here waiting to talk to you.”
“M.E.?” Frank asked.
“Got here ten minutes before you did.”
A pair of spotlights had been set up near the treeline and a tarp stretched out between two patrol cars to block dust from the highway. A commercial riding lawn mower was parked off to the side.
Hughes stopped walking and stepped aside so we could get a better look. The body was tucked under some brush, most of the girl’s bare legs hidden beneath the thorny branches. She was wearing tan shorts and a yellow t-shirt. Her hair was long and tangled and brown. Animals had been at her face.
“Evening, gents,” Harry Marshall said without looking up at us. He was kneeling next to the body, carefully examining the young girl’s fingers.
Marshall had been Baltimore County Medical Examiner for as long as I had been on the job. He wore thin wire glasses, had a full head of wavy grey hair, and was in remarkably good shape for a man in his sixties. The women in the Eastern Precinct called him the Silver Fox behind his back.
“Heard you bowled a two-twenty last week,” Frank said.
Harry looked up and smiled. “Two-twenty-six.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Just my grandson and his friend. But I took a photo of my score up on the monitor. It was a legit two-twenty-six.”
“And I’m the tooth fairy,” Frank said under his breath.
“What was that?” Harry asked.
“You get an age on her yet?” I said.
“I’d say nine, maybe ten years old.”
“What else?”
“I counted six stab wounds—neat, the weapon was very sharp—but I haven’t moved the body yet. There might be more.”
“Defensive?”
He nodded. “Both hands and arms. She definitely put up a fight.”
“How long you think she’s been out here?”
Harry studied the body. “Week. Maybe longer.”
“What do you think did that to her face?” Frank asked.
“Could have been anything really. Deer. Raccoons. Groundhogs.”
I stared at the smiley-face on the front of her yellow t-shirt. “Sexual?”
“I won’t know for sure until I get her back to the office…” He leaned closer and reached inside the girl’s mouth with two gloved fingers. “…but I would answer no as of right now. Doesn’t have the look.”
“Any idea what—”
“Well, now, this is interesting,” Harry interrupted.
What is?” Frank asked, stepping closer.
Harry looked up. “Someone cut out her tongue.”
#
A few minutes later, I left Frank at Harry Marshall’s side and followed Trooper Hughes back to the shoulder of the highway where he introduced me to the road crew. “This is Detective Richards. He has some questions for you.” And then Hughes was gone, melting back into the crime scene.
The two men—Ronald Alvarez and Louis Vargas—were both in their late twenties. Faces deeply tan and creased from the sun, arms muscular and smeared with dirt. They were the kind of men who were used to hard work and long hours. Probably without a word of complaint. Right now, they looked nervous.
“This won’t take long,” I said, pulling out my notepad and a pen…
WHISTLING IN THE DARK by Richard Chizmar is one of 17 outstanding stories in At Home in the Dark. NB: Ebook and paperback editions are on sale now for immediate delivery. DON’T try to order the hardcover, as it’s sold out at the publisher, and while Amazon is still taking orders they’ll be unable to deliver.
