21X: THE ZOMBIE CHRONICLES
If it hadn’t been for the flashing lights from all of the emergency vehicles, Griffin would have thought it was the epitome of a humble country community neighborhood. It was typically gloomy for a late northern Michigan autumn and the skies had been falsely threatening either rain or snow since Tuesday. And here it was Friday. In most lines of work, the busiest part of the work week was inching to a close as festivities were about to commence. But for police officers, firemen, EMT’s, hospital workers and the such, the real drudgery was just beginning. Even for Griffin.
Although Anthony Griffin was no member of these unionized professions, his livelihood was also affected from time to time as a high-priced investigative consultant for authority figures like mayors, congressmen, chiefs of police, the military, and other official government bigwigs. This morning he was called upon by Colin Haggerty, the state assigned big cheese for the FBI. It was a rare thing to be requested (coerced actually) to provide some insight and creative scenarios for the bureau. Then again, this was how Griff found his niche: by unconventional thinking and problem solving, which came in handy in cases such as these where said entities knew nothing more than what they were taught and trained by agents before them.
Crooked River, Michigan was a minor mention on the map Griff had purchased because it hadn’t come up on his car’s GPS device. But he was able to find out as they had traveled through it that it was a laid back farming town with the usual offerings to society. Crops of vegetables and fruit were abundant when in season, and to pass the rest of the year were a variety of non-franchise establishments that advertised home-cooked meals and a large array of alcohol to the locals, who apparently favored plaid in the form of flannel shirts as the preferred color of choice. Ball caps were also customary in this neck of the woods where most announced sworn allegiances to colleges in the state. The John Deere logo came in at a close second. Hunting, fishing, boating and winter activities filled any gaps year round. Other than that there was nothing more to find in the locale other than several underestimated mountains and an overpopulation of trees.
As Griff and his assistant Todd Manton eased the Park Avenue closer they surveyed the crime scene. State police had taped off the house and addressed curiosity seekers where presumably the latest victim or victims waited patiently to be taken to the morgue. Apparently the town had no police force as the rest of the official looking vehicles obviously belonged to the characteristically dressed FBI. For a moment Griff wondered why the FBI touted their agents as people who could blend in with a crowd, and yet, dress them in suits which made them stand out. Anyway, the major players were onsite and that was all that mattered at the moment.
"This is close enough," Griff pointed out to Manton who then stopped the car. Getting out, the two casually advanced towards a small group of suits chattering quietly, taking in the surroundings. Everything seemed normal except for the heightened feeling that something very, very disturbing awaited them inside the house.
"Whoa. Wait a minute," a state trooper warned. "Nobody is allowed into this area. Please return—"
A familiar face approached from behind the trooper and put a hand on his shoulder. "They’re okay. They’re with me." And then to Griff he said, "Come on."
The face, which belonged to Special Agent Pozakowinski - or Pozak to his acquaintances, was a respectable field agent with sentences rarely containing more than six words at a time. Griff had worked with him about two years ago in the Detroit area where a schizophrenic pizza deliverer was plotting to pick off the local baseball team, player by player in order of their jersey numbers because of their losing season. It ended with just two close calls, but also gave Griff a lot of free game tickets, stadium dogs, and autographs. He had almost hated to see the case come to an end.
Unlike Pozak the other two were dressed more casually in jeans and button up shirts. Griff’s head was covered by a Detroit Tiger ball cap he had acquired from the aforementioned case. Also unlike the G man and his cookie cutter counterparts, Griff and Manton were more fluid in their demeanor rather than going about things like programmed robots micromanaging the evidence technicians who were diligently gathering crucial data for analysis.
After Griff and Manton limbo’d under the crime scene tape and reached a safe distance beyond the earshot of civilians and the press, they began discussing the crime.
"Okay," Griff began. "What’s the big deal that caused your fearless leader to have two of his finest - and largest - pull me out of bed at four in the morning?"
"Haggerty did that?" Pozak pondered aloud more than asked. "Not sure."
"Not sure?" Manton did ask.
Thoughtfully rubbing an imaginary beard on his chin, Pozak offered a guess. "Taking too long probably. N clues. No witnesses. No motive. No nothing."
Griff furrowed his eyebrows and scrutinized the man. "No clues? None at all? There has to be something." Perhaps involuntarily he looked around at the ground around him to find something, anything, literally a thread of evidence of some sort that might lead them to at least what the perp was wearing. A bizarre thought occurred to Griff that if a swatch of clothing was found it would most likely be plaid and therefore eliminating only five or ten percent of the community as being a suspect.
"Maybe you two will just have to see inside the house for yourselves first."
"Let’s go," Manton urged. "That’s why we’re here."
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