Howard Marley's Tiki

Fayette: On October 1, I was visiting the town of Putnam on a photo shoot, merely taking a small break from my recent explorations of the mysteries of Nanson. I found Putnam to be a relaxed burg, with a surprisingly modern feel for what is a relatively small Iowa town.

     That afternoon I had taken my camera to Penfold Road to take pictures of the old covered bridge standing above a pretty, unnamed stream. I had been shooting about a half hour when I heard a voice behind me.

     "Miss?" a female voice trembled. I turned to see a young woman, perhaps no more than twenty years old, dressed in a gray sweater and blue jeans, shivering even though the weather was unseasonably warm. "Miss," she continued, "are you from the magazine? The one about ghosts and stuff?" I was stunned. I had no idea how this girl could have known I'd be here. I said yes, that I was indeed from Third Eye Over Iowa, but that I wasn't in Putnam on business.

     "I gotta talk to you," she said, eyes red-rimmed from tears and stress. "There's some weird stuff happening here, and the police aren't doing anything about it."

     "What exactly is happening?" I asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

     "People are disappearing---all the time now." Her story didn't sound like it had anything to do with the supernatural so far, but I decided to humor her for her sake. I told her to meet me at the coffee shop in the middle of town in an hour and she could tell me everything then. She agreed and headed back down the road.

     An hour later we were sitting in a diner in downtown Putnam. The young woman had introduced herself to me as Leah Olmstead. I told her to tell me her story, even though my field of expertise is phenomenology, not missing persons.

     "Well, four people have disappeared in Putnam over the past couple of months," she began. "They were all women, and all between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. The last to disappear was my best friend, Tammy Keiper. She was only twenty-one." Leah was close to tears again, so I knew I had to keep her talking.

     "When did Tammy disappear, Leah?" I asked.

     "Three days ago. The last time I saw her was that afternoon."

     "Do you have any idea where she might have gone that night?"

     "I don't know," Leah answered, calming down a bit. "She sometimes goes to play pool at the bars."

     "Which bars?"

     "Henry's or The Hog's Head or Collin's, usually."

     I then asked her if she knew anything about the other three missing persons, whether any of the cases had anything in common. She said she wasn't sure, and that she didn't know any of the other women. I spoke with Leah a little more and got a physical description of Tammy Keiper before I left.

     The Putnam Library supplied me with newspaper articles on the disappearances. Susan Palmonetti, Roberta Hack, Lili Flanders and Tammy Keiper. No witnesses had come forward to state that they had seen any of the women any more recently than an hour before they disappeared. None of the women knew each other, and it seemed that their social circles were all quite different. I began to go through the dailies to try to find any other bit of evidence, something that might stand out independently of the articles on the disappearances. Then I found it: September 25, 1997---a photo on page 4 of a crowded barroom scene. The caption read, "Tavern renovates and captures flair of the 30's and 40's---Owner Steve Collins hopes to attract tourist dollars." There, sitting at a table with another woman, was Tammy Keiper. The other woman had long, straight dark hair and a round face. I figured if I could find her, she might tell me something about Tammy's disappearance.

     That night I visited Collin's. The bar was busy, especially for a place that doesn't serve food. The newspaper was right; the lighting, hanging plants, big band music---it all brought back the feel of the 1930's and 40's. I scanned the room for the dark-haired woman in the picture, but couldn't find her. I ordered a Glen Fiddich and decided to wait.

     About an hour later, around ten, the young dark-haired woman walked in alone and sat at the end of the bar. I waited for her to order a drink, then moved to sit next to her. I introduced myself and explained that I was a reporter.

     "Are you Irish?" she reacted to my accent, barely looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

     "Scottish," I answered. "I just want to ask you some questions about the disappearance of Tammy Keiper."

     The young woman looked around the bar, her eyes scanning for something. Then she turned to look me straight in the eyes. "Okay," she said, "My name's Laura Steele and once in a while I'd play pool with Tammy. The night Tammy vanished---well, I've got a pretty good idea where she went but, Miss, I gotta tell you, if you go there you better be prepared."

     "What are you talking about? Why didn't you tell the police this?" I asked, incredulous.

     She shook her head. "No, the police can't do anything. Not against evil. Not against magic."

     Now she had me interested Laura scanned the room again and then stopped. She made a motion with her eyes to one corner of the room. "See that guy in the powder blue suit?"

     I saw him. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his late twenties, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a martini. This guy did not belong in small town Iowa. I asked Laura what his story was.

     "Name's Howard Marley. He just moved here a couple of years ago. I admit that he seems like kind of a poser, but he thinks he's God's gift to women."

     "So what does he have to do with Tammy?"

     "I think he took her. Look, I didn't see him do it, but I've been to Howard's house, and I tell you, there is evil there. I went home with him about a month ago, and he showed me this god awful carved face-statue that he was real proud of. Told me it came from Hawaii and supposedly brought good luck. Well anyway, he was pretty drunk that night and fell asleep before I did. And the longer I was there the more nervous I got. I kept getting the image of that statue in my head, and I began to feel afraid. Terrible visions kept coming, visions of blood, and worse. I left in the middle of the night and haven't spoken to Howard since. And I don't want to."

     Laura's story didn't completely convince me but, with every rumor there may be a shred of truth. I decided to speak with Howard Marley myself. I joined him at his table, and found him literate, educated, and quite witty. It's really no wonder the women fell for him. Eventually, we got on the topic of his statue. I explained that I was a reporter for a regional magazine and that I would like to see such a specimen if I could. He explained that it was a Tiki, a carved face of wood, popular as ornamentation amongst the Pacific Islanders. Further, he said that some Tikis brought good luck, and that the one that he had in his house was just such a Tiki. He had gotten it in Hawaii from his ex-wife just before their decision to separate some few years back. Howard invited me back to his house to see the statue. I don't remember how, exactly (Scotch will do that to you), but I agreed.

     We walked to his house on Fiori Street, as neither of us were in a state to drive. His house was nice and well-kept. But inside, the living room looked like the ultimate bachelor-pad: Fifties-style chaise lounges, shag carpeting, and a big potted palm. He put on a Martin Denny record and went into the bedroom to change. Then I saw the statue on a low pedestal. It was a squat figure about 18 inches tall, carved out of a light wood, and had a grotesque, sinister leering alien face. That was the last thing I remember seeing before I fell asleep on a chaise lounge.

     I awoke bewildered at where I was, and what was going on. The flickering of candle light lit the darkened room. Somebody chanted in a strange language---it was Howard Marley.

     I had been stripped to my underwear and was lying on the living room floor on my side with my wrists tied to my ankles while a strip of fabric filled my mouth. I could see Marley, kneeling shirtless in front on the Tiki statue, swaying and murmuring amongst the candles. Several sizes of knives, a belt and a hammer lay at his side on the floor.

     Furiously I worked to free myself from my bonds. At last Marley stood, still facing the Tiki, holding the belt in his hands. He turned to face me, and I saw in his glazed eyes an inhuman communion as he chanted those weird syllables.

     Suddenly, I somehow freed my ankles, and I lashed out with my legs. I caught Marley unawares, and he toppled like a felled tree, his head smacking onto the coffee table. He was out; unconscious. Wrists still tied, I moved over to use one of Marley's knives to release me from the last of my bonds.

     I picked up the statue and felt the pure hatred, the pure evil pouring out of the Tiki. Repulsed, I threw it at a wall, vainly hoping it would to shatter, but the wood was thick and strong. I knew Marley's knives would have no effect either, so I'd have to get something stronger. I found my pants and hastily pulled them on then ran outside to the garage. The side door was locked, but gave to my shoulder. I flicked on the light and saw what I wanted: a wood axe. Then I smelled rot and blood. Then I saw the stiff and pale hand sticking out from under a tarp on the floor. Dizzy, I bolted out of the garage and into the living room. I swung the ax at the Tiki and as the blade bit into the wood, it almost seemed that steam or smoke poured out of the gash. Maybe it was just a trick of the candlelight, maybe not. At any rate, the Tiki soon was nothing more than splinters.

     Fifteen minutes later, the police responded to my emergency call and Marley was hauled out on a stretcher. I was hauled into the police station for questioning. Though there is no doubt that Howard Marley is responsible for the deaths of four Putnam women, it is likely that he will plead insanity. Marley contends he has no recollection of the murders he committed, supposedly while under the Tiki's influence. As for the statue's remains, they've been sent to the University of Emmetsburg, where the archaeology and art departments are squabbling over who gets to examine the pieces first.