The Partridge

Blood painted the pure white snow an eerie shade of crimson. Agonizing screams replaced joyful carols on the air that December, in the quaint New England town.

Authorities remain vigilant as the investigation continues into a homicide at a local college today near the small town of Mystic. Police arrived on the scene sometime early this morning. Around 4:00am…

“Hey, turn that up.” Tristan looks up from his stack of reports and swivels his chair toward the TV in the corner of the dingy office.

“Why? You know someone in Mystic, McClellan?” Officer Braun toggles the volume button, raising the news anchor’s voice slightly.

“I did…but it was a long time ago.”

“Broke your heart, did she?” Braun scoffs. “Dames, am I right?”

Tristan shakes his head slightly; disheveled brown hair falls over his green eyes as he stares at the glowing screen. “Nah, nothing like that…just…” His thought trails off as his focus intensifies.

The marching band had been practicing for the Homecoming game set to be this Friday night. What a tragedy. Tom is live at the scene. Tom.

Yes Nancy, I’m here speaking with one of the officers who was first to arrive this morning. Officer Williams, anything you can tell us?

Our hearts go out to the victims’ families. I guarantee we’re doing everything in our power to track down the culprit.

Do you believe this was a random act?

The officer pauses. Unfortunately, I cannot comment on that at this time until we have substantial evidence, however, it would not be unfair to speculate that this could have been calculated. Given this, the mayor has issued a city-wide curfew. No one is allowed outside after 8:00pm until further notice.

Tristan leans back in his chair and places his arms behind his head. He knits his brows as he wracks his brain, (why does this seem familiar?)

“McClellan, let’s get a drink.” Officer Braun claps Tristan on the shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll finish up here then meet you at Chester’s.”

“I’ll save our usual table.” Braun waves over his shoulder as he leaves.

Tristan straightens the reports he had been working on and stacks them neatly in his inbox. Something catches his eye, a letter hidden beneath the pile of papers. “What’s this?” He picks it up and turns it over in his hand. A wax seal remains unbroken. “This symbol…a pear?” He closes his eyes, rummaging through the files in his mind, searching through the dusty drawers, long since closed. Suddenly a hazy memory comes into view and he shoots from his chair; eyes quickly falling to the calendar sitting on his desk, before swiftly pulling on his coat.

Tristan sprints to the pub to discuss his revelation with Officer Braun. The middle-aged man waves him over to an open booth with a warm smile, but it quickly fades as he witnesses the seriousness etched into Tristan’s youthful features. “McClellan? Did something happen?”

Tristan slides in across from Officer Braun and hands him the letter. He gasps for air as he gathers his thoughts. “He’s back.”

“Who’s back?” Officer Braun studies the letter that has just been shoved into his hand. “What is this?”

“Read it.”

Officer Braun lifts a silvering eyebrow and does as the young detective commands. He studies the contents of the letter, mulling over every line carefully then looks up at Tristan with a puzzled look. “This is nonsense McClellan. It sounds like the rantings of a lunatic to me. Where did you find this?”

“It was on my desk, under my stack of reports. I hadn’t seen it this morning. Sir, there is a code here. I’ve seen it before.” He snatches the letter from Braun’s fingers and points to one line in particular. “The Mystics say that on Christmas day, joy and laughter abound. The Partridge cries as it takes to the skies with wings broken, bloodied, and battered. A lone pair on a tree, hang so delicately, destined to fall and be shattered-”

“As I said, utter nonsense.” Officer Braun interrupts.

“No Sir, please hear me out. Those students that were murdered near Mystic were targeted. I believe what that detective said this morning was true. It was not some random occurrence. It was calculated and this letter is a warning that more are to come; culminating on Christmas day.”

Braun’s hazel grey eyes widen. “How can you be certain? What do you know? Speak McClellan!” He pounds his fist on the table.

“Do you remember when you asked me about Mystic?”

“Yes, and? Make your point.”

“It’s my hometown Sir and this is not the first time something like this has happened there. The locals named him The Partridge.”

Braun releases a loud chuckle. “The Partridge? What a terrible name for a criminal.”

“Sir, please, that isn’t the point here. This could be a copycat, but it’s all too similar. I need to go back to Mystic. I need to-” He bites his lip.

Braun sighs. “You youngsters are so headstrong. Fine. There hasn’t been much going on in the precinct anyway. You have my permission to help with the investigation in Mystic.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“McClellan…”

“Yes Captain?”

“Catch that bastard.”

Seriousness once again takes hold of Tristan’s face. “I will, Sir.”

Another string of murders has occurred in Mystic, Connecticut this week. Sources say that the entire ballet troupe, who had been practicing for the Christmas Eve Spectacular event, as well as the Maiden sisters working at the local dairy have all been struck down in a gruesome act of brutality. Authorities have agreed that given these new occurrences, all Christmas celebrations will be canceled and the curfew will be extended until further notice.

Tristan angrily shuts off the radio as he furiously drives toward the coastal town of Mystic. “Why now? It’s been 20 years. Why start all of this again?”

A crowd is gathered in the town square as Tristan pulls his black Altima into a parking lot nearby. “What’s going on?” He throws open his door and rushes over to the throng of people, eyes widening in horror at the animal carcasses that litter the street. The corpses of white swans, Canadian geese, chickens, and doves resemble a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

“Stay back everyone. We are quarantining the area!” A local police officer shouts over a loudspeaker to the unruly crowd as Tristan attempts to push his way through.

“Sir, no one is allowed past the barricade.” The man holds his hand out in front of Tristan, trying to block his path.

“I’m with the state police.” Tristan holds out his badge. “Detective Tristan McClellan. Now tell me what’s going on here?”

“Someone dumped these birds here overnight. We don’t know who or why.” He covers his nose with his sleeve, shielding his nostrils from the foul odor.

Tristan recognizes the man from the news story from earlier in the week. “Was anything left behind? A note?”

“Oh yeah, there was something odd. One moment.” Officer Williams walks over to his car to grab a piece of evidence that was left at the scene. He hands a small piece of paper to Tristan. “This mean anything to you?”

Tristan studies the scrap, his gaze focuses on the pear shaped symbol. (So, it was him. Dammit. We’re running out of time.) “Thank you, officer. Continue to mark off the area and keep everyone inside. I have a feeling this isn’t over.” Tristan runs back to his car leaving the officer dumbfounded.

“Only two left; five rings and…the pear tree.” Tristan slams the breaks, his tires screech on the slick country road. “The pear tree. Could it still be there?” He turns the car in the opposite direction and speeds toward his old house.

Tristan is met with yet another grizzly site when he arrives. Bile rises in his throat as he stares at five bodies hanging limply from the pear tree behind his old family home, each strung up with a golden rope. “No! Damn this bastard!” He punches the steering wheel then hangs his head releasing a self-deprecating sigh. “I was too late again.” He pulls out his phone to call the local authorities. Suddenly a fist punches through the driver side window. Glass shatters sending shards in every direction. Scarlet stained fingers clutch at Tristan’s throat.

“So…you finally found me.” A raspy voice hisses. “I did hope you would read my letter and follow the clues. You’re so perceptive Tristan. Ever since we were kids…you just loved puzzles. Well, what do you think?” He motions to the tree. “I do so love Christmas time and what better way to celebrate than to paint the town red?”

Tristan strains at the man’s grip, his sight skewed by the blood dripping into his eyes. He winces as he blinks and gasps for air then manages to wheeze out. “Samuel…?” The man releases him and Tristan inhales deeply, exhaling with punctuated coughs as he rubs the bruises lingering on his neck.

"Did you miss me?" he smirks.

“How did you get out of the hospital?”

The man cocks his head. “A story for another day perhaps. But for now, shall we admire my handy work? C’mon you know the song. Sing it with me.”

Tristan glares into his dull amber eyes. “Samuel, stop this. Enough. I’m taking you back to the hospital.” His attempt to open the car door fails as Samuel pulls out a gun. “Ah ah little brother. Don’t make any sudden movements. Now sing.”

Tristan holds up his hands, his eyes dart to the side catching a glimpse of his phone. (Yes, the call went through. I just have to stall for time.) He slowly begins the song. “On the first day of Christmas…” his voice breaks from a tremor and he clears his throat. “...my true love gave to me…” he inhales through his nose to calm himself before continuing. Samuel chimes in and they complete the phrase in unison, “...a partridge in a pear tree.”

“Oh yes, Tristan! You remember, don’t you? How happy we were as kids, especially during Christmas. Except…” he darkens. “The year you stopped believing in Santa Claus, oh, it was such a sad day! Mother and Father didn’t seem to mind. Just part of growing up, they said. Christmas was never the same after that.”

“So, you killed our parents and those other people 20 years ago, because you were upset that I stopped believing? Samuel, none of this makes sense!” Tristan shifts under the weight of the gun pressed to his forehead.

“Hey, I said no sudden movements little brother.” Samuel coos. “We’re all that’s left after all. Besides, I didn’t kill them.” He whirls around, holding his hands out to the sky. “I liberated them from their disbelief!”

“I don’t think their families would agree.” The sound of sirens abruptly interrupts their conversation and Tristan lunges toward Samuel. A shot rings out through the frigid air, and blood paints the freshly fallen snow.

*****

“Apparently he called himself The Partridge. Enjoyed killin’ in the fashion of that 12 Days of Christmas song. Sick freak.” Officer Riley relays the report to Captain Braun back at headquarters.

“And how is Tristan doing?”

“He’s resting up in the hospital. The bullet just grazed his shoulder. He should make a full recovery.”

“And his brother…?”

“Back in police custody. He’s been put in solitary and will be well guarded for the rest of his days.”

Captain Braun places his hands on his hips and looks over his shoulder, focusing on the calendar sitting on Tristan’s desk. “Thank you for the report, Riley. You may go. Enjoy Christmas Eve with your family.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Riley salutes then walks away, leaving Braun to his thoughts. He picks up the desk calendar and frowns at the picture of the two boys laughing as they play on an old tire swing that hangs from a snow-covered pear tree.