The Tree

The city had been deluged with heavy rains for 48 hours. Drainage systems had faltered due to the sheer volume of water and blockages caused by an accumulation of rubbish. Roadways had flooded, causing sidewalks to be overrun with water, and vehicles sent waves of dirty water over helpless pedestrians as they scurried for shelter.

Central Park North had not escaped the downpour. On one side, the greenery of the park was sagging under the weight of water; on the other, flooded drains belched dirty water across the roadway.

The call came at 11:50 p.m. Detectives Anthony Moretti and Maria Gomez were following up on a radio car response to a 911 call at a residence on Central Park North. Uniform had requested back up; the reason hadn’t been spelt out.

Moretti and Gomez could see the two radio cars blocking part of the street.

Maria parked the unmarked behind an ambulance whose attendants had perched themselves under the open back using it as a canopy. Apart from the ambulance and two patrol cars the street was strangely deserted, and quiet.

Moretti, struggling with an umbrella trudged through running water flooding across the street, Gomez, pulling the hood of her long dark hair, followed.

The address was a 19th-century building of five stories with an impressive facade; an arched stone stairway led to an equally impressive double-door entrance of polished timber and brass. Imposing Gargoyles peered down through the rain as though keeping watch over their domain.

‘Jesus,’ Gomez commented, looking up as she shivered, there was a darkness about the building that she felt to her bones, ‘I’m not inside and already this place gives me the creeps.’ Moretti shrugged, continuing up the steps.

The hallway was in darkness. Flashing lights of the radio cars parked in the wet dark street, throwing beams of red and white across the dimly lit hallway giving it an eerie feeling.

Treading carefully, the detectives moved slowly down the high-ceiling wood wood-panelled hallway, its walls covered in displays of grotesque masks and drawings depicting satanic scenes of torture and rituals. Gomez, feeling uneasy, unzipped her jacket, feeling for the grip of her 9mm service pistol.

Moretti pointed, ‘look,’ the beam of his flashlight catching on smears of red, ‘that’s blood,’ pointing the beam to one wall, saw more blood.

At the end of the long hallway was a large modern kitchen.

Crime scene techs dressed head to toe in white were meticulously studying, documenting, and photographing the space. In the centre, a large marble-topped bench, covered in blood. There was more blood on the walls and floors. Blood everywhere. On the floor, inside a circled chalk mark, a lone shoe.

A uniformed officer stood by a large sliding glass door, leading to the rear of the property, which was slightly ajar and smeared with blood.

Moretti glanced up at the sergeant, who was one of the first to respond to the 911 call.

‘Okay, sergeant, what have we got?

‘We got the call at 11:07, a next-door neighbour, a Miss Osborne, made the call, says she heard loud music and drumming, around 11, then screaming. We got her at 11:15, place appeared in darkness, we knocked, couldn’t raise anybody. I called the precinct, and the Captain permitted us to force an entry pursuant to exigent circumstances, and she called CSU. What we found is pretty much what you see now. There are no obvious signs of a break-in. Obviously, something happened, but what?

‘Jesus,’ Moretti commented, bending down, studying a trail of blood that seemed to lead to the rear door, ‘what’s this? He inquired, pointing, ‘Looks like oil or something mixed in with the blood. I don’t get it, all this blood and crap, and you’re telling us there’s no body, or weapon, just a shoe, what the hell is going on here?

The sergeant continued … ‘a preliminary search of the house and rear yard produced nothing.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if in disbelief, ‘I’ve got more uniforms searching the area, so far, zilch.’

‘Music? Maria asked quizzically. These walls gotta be two feet thick, and she hears music?

The sergeant pointed to the rear of the kitchen. A large sliding glass door, slightly ajar, led to a rear yard. ‘The neighbour said the man liked to play his music loud and she could hear it from her kitchen.’ Maria nodded. ‘That means the door must have been open.’

‘What do we know of the occupants? Moretti asked.

The sergeant flipped open his notepad… ‘according to the neighbour, he’s Raymond O’Conner, widower, retired jeweller, that’s all she knew, looks like he lives alone, no sign of another person. We’re chasing next of kin.’

‘Anything taken? Moretti inquired, I mean, anything that was obvious, like valuables?

‘No,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I’ve personally inspected every room, nothing disturbed. The bed was made, not slept in. The top three floors are vacant, fifteen rooms in all, only six used. There’s food in the refrigerator, the only obvious thing was an upturned wine bottle and a smashed glass, maybe a struggle? He shrugged his shoulders again, ‘weird.’

Moretti looked baffled, ‘then why, or more importantly, how?

The detectives moved to the sliding glass door. Using gloved hands, Maria slowly slid the door completely open. There was a burst of cold air. The rain had stopped.

In front of them, what was once a garden was now completely overgrown. Out of control shrubs and towering trees woven together like they were one, filled the space. A tall stone wall surrounds the place, giving it privacy and creating an unnerving feeling.

Across a side wall, one huge tree towered above all the others, its presence looming menacingly over the rear yard. What looked like external roots pushed across what remained of a broken path and climbed up the outer wall of the house.

‘What the hell is that? Moretti asked, pointing to the tree, its trunk was covered in a thick growth of what looked to him like long fingers, reaching up into the tree's canopy. In the moonlight, the twisted shape in front of him appeared lifelike, as if it was watching him, making him feel uneasy.

‘That,’ Marie explained, looking incredulous, ‘is a strangler fig, and, what the hell is it doing growing in New York? She peered closer at the base, ‘Jesus Tony,’ she exclaimed, stepping back and pointing. The base of the tree had a large split in it, shaped like a mouth, that ran beneath the ground. An object lay by the base of the tree, covered in red mud.

‘That’s blood, Moretti commented, looking closer, and what looks like slime.’ He peered again into the darkness, moving his torchlight around.

‘Mother of god, he exclaimed, is that a shoe?

Moretti and Gomez looked at each other; both were lost for words.