Notes On How To Make a Wing Man
It was strange how quickly two strangers could fall into such relaxed, comfortable conversation. Then again, it was a strange setting and the rules of normalcy showed no signs of applying here. Perhaps this was normal in life when people weren’t trying so hard to fit the norm.
"Were you ever a bouncer?" Tom asked. It was an obvious question but one he couldn’t help but ask. When someone is built like a brick wall you can’t help but want the comfort of knowing that they’re using the talent. Cartoonish images of a giant, lumbering form tucked behind a tiny desk in a tiny cubicle depressed Tom and he wanted verification that Jim lived elsewhere in life.
"Maybe in a past life," Jim answered with what might have been a grin.
Tom looked at him for a second, trying to gauge if he was joking. "Oh.. really?”
"Nah, that stuff's crazy," Jim laughed. He was the kind of guy who talked in short words. Words that had been clipped of extra syllables. Not because he was stupid and didn't know they were supposed to be longer, but more because he knew he could get the point across without them. Or at least that's how it seemed.
Tom smiled at him, relieved.
“Then again, crazy fits right in here,” Jim said with a hand to the side of his mouth. Just then, as if to illustrate the point, one of the patients- the one Jim had called ‘Ben’ when he’d handed him his fruit cup- let out a large yelp and jumped up from his chair as if it’d bit him. He then turned to it and began kicking it repeatedly whilst yelling at it in the same nonsensical language Tom had heard him use earlier.
Without a prompt, Jim pointed to the old man in front of the tv with the drool on his check saying, "That Teigs, he's been messed up ever since Vietnam."
"Then he shouldn't he be in a VA hospital?" Tom asked.
"Ah, nah- he wasn't no soldier- he was a conscientious objector," Jim answered, as if that was a perfectly good reason to be screwed in the head.
"That Cheryl,” Jim said, waving a hand towards the woman by the window. “She don't say much. Or anything, really. Just sits there all day, staring out that window."
"Why? Or is that a stupid question?"
"Thinks she's a bird, flying around out there."
Tom looked at her there, her head tilted slightly upward as if trying to get the best view of the sky. It made sense.
"So, got any advice?"Tom asked, ignoring the interruption.
"Yeah, keep to yourself, don't talk too loud and get as much sleep as you can,” Jim rattled off the list as if it were the standard orientation speech he’d prepared earlier. “Oh! And don't eat the broccoli."
"Why?" Tom asked, generally interested in this new advice.
"Why do you think everyone around is here so wonked out?" Jim asked him, eying the inhabitants of the room like they were prisoners in some POW camp.
Tom followed his companion’s eyes around the room, surveying the patients. The outburst from Ben had subsided and he’d returned to sidling along the corridor at a snail’s pace, his lopsided hospital gown hanging almost to his ankles on one side. Tom looked with suspicion now at the drool coming from the corners of lips, the glazed expression on so many frozen faces.
“But… isn’t that just the psych meds?”
“Some of it,” Jim said, still looking out at the patients with a hardened expression as if regretting not being to change what he saw. “But if anyone ever asks you, I didn’t say nothing, ok?” he jumped, looking at Tom with an imploring bend of his lower lip.
“Uh, yeah- sure.” Tom said. He looked at Jim with a new emotion now- curiosity. He was obviously more than just a friendly orderly. He found himself going through the normal mental process of judging- trying to concluded whether or not working in a nut house had, by proxy, made him nuts. But there was something in his face that made him stop. Logical conclusions seemed like something that just weren’t a good idea in a place like this. Besides, who was he to judge?
“So, how, uh… how do I get out of this place?” Tom asked, not wanting to pursue the touchy subject of broccoli any further.
“You gotta convince them you’re not nuts,” Jim said, brushing a piece of lint from his pants.
“How?”
“Talk to the doctor, tell him you did whatever you did cause of something other than being crazy.”
“Uh, huh,” Tom said, letting his voice carry the doubt that it was all that simple. “And when do I get to see the doctor?”
“When’d you get in here?”
“Yester-“ Tom stopped himself. He went over his internal clock and tried to categorize the stops in his journey- the ambulance, the hospital, the cops, this room. As hard as he tried to benchmark his progress based on the few moments that stuck out with clarity he couldn’t formulate a time and date. It all bled together as if he’d been on a bender and blacked out huge amounts of time. “I… I don’t know,” he finally concluded.
“Broccoli,” Jim said, giving him a heavy pat on the back as he stood up from his chair. Then without another word he walked off without so much as a backward glance.
Showing posts with label Serials. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Serials. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N' Jim (V)
The Tall, Dark Stranger
The sound of large, heavy doors being unlocked distracted him from his maze of disjointed thoughts and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Through the split doors came a metal cart filled with small, paper cups. The shadows of different colors behind the folded paper made him think they were pills but then he caught the scent of fruit. Fruit cart. The very thought unsettled him further. Then he looked up to see the person pushing the cart and his breath actually caught in his throat.
He was an imposing, giant redwood of a man with skin almost the same color as the giant Oregonian trees. His biceps swelled so large and supported such huge shoulders that his head seemed to be hiding between the two giant stumps of muscles. He looked like the kind-of guy who could pin his entire body down with one arm while yawning and flipping through channels on tv as if bored. It made perfect sense for him to be an orderly. Or a bouncer.
“Fruit time, everybody!” he called out to the room joyfully. “Time for some sweet, tasty fruit,” he sang, more to himself than to anyone else. He wheeled the cart to the corner first, handed the fruit cup to the man who had been yelling in another language. The man stopped his rant instantly and took the cup happily, as if the angry man who’d been yelling was instantly gone, replaced by a 12 year-old happy to have his snack. “There ya go, Ben- I knew you’d feel better once ya got your snack.”
He wheeled the cart over to the crew by the tv and began dispensing cups. “Sally, eat some fruit- gotta get some meat on these ol’ bones,” he said, handing the cup to the frail girl rocking in her seat. She released her grip on her knees and took it from him without looking up to acknowledge him in any way, but stopped rocking just a little and spooned out a large chunk of some soggy, orange mass. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.
“Come on Al, fruit time,” he called to the drooling man. He reached down and took the man’s hand and folded it around the cup. He didn’t respond in any way, his remained on it side, drool coming out like a slowly growing mold.
“Jerry, can’t we don nothing ‘bout this?” he said, straightening up and looking over to the other orderly who’d follow’d him in.
“Wish we could man, but Doc Brown put him on the dose for a reason. It is not for anyone else to question.” Came the answer from a tall, thin man who’d been on the outskirts of the room watching.
The redwood man sighed and the sound of the air coming out his lungs sounded like a strong breeze- the kind that could break off a tree branch during a storm. “Alright, then- can we at least get her upright then,” he said, bending to the double over figure.
The man he’d spoken to earlier, Jerry was the name he’d responded to, came over and knelt before the double frame, trying to see the eyes that must have been looking at the underside of the chair. “Mrs. Corning? Jim has brought you some fruit. You want to have some fruit?” he asked. A small, muffled came from the figure and Jerry reached around them carefully to help them straighten up.
As he straightened her it became apparent that she was, in fact, a woman. And in addition to weighing no more than 80 or so pond she also looked like she was on the later side of 70, perhaps even older. The man straightened her back in the chair with the delicacy of a cook placing the final flourish on a temperamental soufflé, careful not to disturb her in any way. It was no wonder the giant didn’t want to touch her, he’d probably snap her in half is he used any more than a finger worth of pressure.
“Thanks, Jerry,” the giant said as he placed the fruit cup on the arm rest of the chair the woman now sat back in.
“Just doin’ my job,” jerry said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Oh my goodness, what have we have here?” he boomed jollily as he beheld the newcomer. “What your name, champ?”
He had to think about it for a second before he could answer and that bothered him. “Tom- uh, to-“ he choked on the word as if something were stuck in his throat and coughed to get it out. He hadn’t remembered when his mouth had turned to sand paper.
“Tom- ‘sok. It’ll wear off in a day or two, no worries,” the giant said, wheeling the cart toward him. “Here, have some fruit- it’ll help.”
Tom waved the cup offered away and continued to choke on his own saliva. The coughing worsened and he actually had to straighten his back to keep his lungs filling up with air to continue the coughing fit. A small plastic cup grippe by a giant hand appeared in front of hi and Tom grabbed it without even looked up. He started the down the water like a dying man in a desert.
“Woah, woah- slow down there or you’ll choke even worse,” he said. Tom forced himself to slow and lengthen the next gulp. “There ya go- that’s better. Now sip that slowly and you should feel better.”
“What- was that?” Tom managed to sputter, still trying to get his chest back in order. He tried to clear his throat and struggled.
“Keep sipping. Don’t worry about it- we all come out looking worse for the wear our first day here,” he said, grabbing a chair near him and turning it to Tom. “They give everybody something when they first come in- whether they need it or not. All the heavy duty ones’ll give that mouth rot.”
Tom swallowed gingerly and then looked at the man sitting next to him. “Mouth ‘rot’ you said? What is that?”
“What you got- the dryness and stuff,” he said.
“Oh. Never heard that term before,” Tom said.
“That’s cause I think I made it up- no doctor’d call it that.”
“Oh,” Tom said weakly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll pass. Anyways- Tom. I’m Jim,” he said offered his baseball glove-sized hand to him.
“Hey, Jim,” Tom said, shaking. “I’d say it’s nice to meet but given the circumstances it would seem insincere.”
The sound of large, heavy doors being unlocked distracted him from his maze of disjointed thoughts and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Through the split doors came a metal cart filled with small, paper cups. The shadows of different colors behind the folded paper made him think they were pills but then he caught the scent of fruit. Fruit cart. The very thought unsettled him further. Then he looked up to see the person pushing the cart and his breath actually caught in his throat.
He was an imposing, giant redwood of a man with skin almost the same color as the giant Oregonian trees. His biceps swelled so large and supported such huge shoulders that his head seemed to be hiding between the two giant stumps of muscles. He looked like the kind-of guy who could pin his entire body down with one arm while yawning and flipping through channels on tv as if bored. It made perfect sense for him to be an orderly. Or a bouncer.
“Fruit time, everybody!” he called out to the room joyfully. “Time for some sweet, tasty fruit,” he sang, more to himself than to anyone else. He wheeled the cart to the corner first, handed the fruit cup to the man who had been yelling in another language. The man stopped his rant instantly and took the cup happily, as if the angry man who’d been yelling was instantly gone, replaced by a 12 year-old happy to have his snack. “There ya go, Ben- I knew you’d feel better once ya got your snack.”
He wheeled the cart over to the crew by the tv and began dispensing cups. “Sally, eat some fruit- gotta get some meat on these ol’ bones,” he said, handing the cup to the frail girl rocking in her seat. She released her grip on her knees and took it from him without looking up to acknowledge him in any way, but stopped rocking just a little and spooned out a large chunk of some soggy, orange mass. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.
“Come on Al, fruit time,” he called to the drooling man. He reached down and took the man’s hand and folded it around the cup. He didn’t respond in any way, his remained on it side, drool coming out like a slowly growing mold.
“Jerry, can’t we don nothing ‘bout this?” he said, straightening up and looking over to the other orderly who’d follow’d him in.
“Wish we could man, but Doc Brown put him on the dose for a reason. It is not for anyone else to question.” Came the answer from a tall, thin man who’d been on the outskirts of the room watching.
The redwood man sighed and the sound of the air coming out his lungs sounded like a strong breeze- the kind that could break off a tree branch during a storm. “Alright, then- can we at least get her upright then,” he said, bending to the double over figure.
The man he’d spoken to earlier, Jerry was the name he’d responded to, came over and knelt before the double frame, trying to see the eyes that must have been looking at the underside of the chair. “Mrs. Corning? Jim has brought you some fruit. You want to have some fruit?” he asked. A small, muffled came from the figure and Jerry reached around them carefully to help them straighten up.
As he straightened her it became apparent that she was, in fact, a woman. And in addition to weighing no more than 80 or so pond she also looked like she was on the later side of 70, perhaps even older. The man straightened her back in the chair with the delicacy of a cook placing the final flourish on a temperamental soufflé, careful not to disturb her in any way. It was no wonder the giant didn’t want to touch her, he’d probably snap her in half is he used any more than a finger worth of pressure.
“Thanks, Jerry,” the giant said as he placed the fruit cup on the arm rest of the chair the woman now sat back in.
“Just doin’ my job,” jerry said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Oh my goodness, what have we have here?” he boomed jollily as he beheld the newcomer. “What your name, champ?”
He had to think about it for a second before he could answer and that bothered him. “Tom- uh, to-“ he choked on the word as if something were stuck in his throat and coughed to get it out. He hadn’t remembered when his mouth had turned to sand paper.
“Tom- ‘sok. It’ll wear off in a day or two, no worries,” the giant said, wheeling the cart toward him. “Here, have some fruit- it’ll help.”
Tom waved the cup offered away and continued to choke on his own saliva. The coughing worsened and he actually had to straighten his back to keep his lungs filling up with air to continue the coughing fit. A small plastic cup grippe by a giant hand appeared in front of hi and Tom grabbed it without even looked up. He started the down the water like a dying man in a desert.
“Woah, woah- slow down there or you’ll choke even worse,” he said. Tom forced himself to slow and lengthen the next gulp. “There ya go- that’s better. Now sip that slowly and you should feel better.”
“What- was that?” Tom managed to sputter, still trying to get his chest back in order. He tried to clear his throat and struggled.
“Keep sipping. Don’t worry about it- we all come out looking worse for the wear our first day here,” he said, grabbing a chair near him and turning it to Tom. “They give everybody something when they first come in- whether they need it or not. All the heavy duty ones’ll give that mouth rot.”
Tom swallowed gingerly and then looked at the man sitting next to him. “Mouth ‘rot’ you said? What is that?”
“What you got- the dryness and stuff,” he said.
“Oh. Never heard that term before,” Tom said.
“That’s cause I think I made it up- no doctor’d call it that.”
“Oh,” Tom said weakly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll pass. Anyways- Tom. I’m Jim,” he said offered his baseball glove-sized hand to him.
“Hey, Jim,” Tom said, shaking. “I’d say it’s nice to meet but given the circumstances it would seem insincere.”
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N' Jim (IV)
Sunbeams and Psychotics
He sat in the main ‘livingroom’ surveying the scene. Lacking the hallmark card childhood that you see in so many different commercials he wasn’t used to a homey, comfortable “living area” but even to him this seemed like a stretch.
Cold linoleum floors that reflected the light pouring in through the screened windows, cheap vinyl seats scattered throughout the room, a single clock high up on the wall ticking away the day. If felt like the sort of place you’d go to die- empty, sterile, lifeless.
The inhabitants of the place did nothing to boost his confidence. There was a small, bearded man in the corner yelling loudly and animatedly in a language he couldn’t make out. Every now an again he’d bang his hand on the arms rest of his chair as if to illustrate his point, whatever it might be.
There was a small assortments of outcasts gathered around the television set- a large, monstrous box that looked like it would’ve been the latest technology in home theater viewing back in 1967. All of them were in some stage of comatose excitement.
There was an old man that looked like he hadn’t been bathed or shaven in longer than could be easily deduced sat staring in the general direction of the TV with drool warming his lip and cheek. There was a young woman with her hospital gown draping open in the back, revealing her bare buttocks resting on the chair as she help her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth gently. He couldn’t quite make it out over the sound of the television but she might have been humming to herself. And then there was the slight frame bent over onto itself. He couldn’t figure out from the back if it were a man a woman, how old they were or what other distinguishing characteristic they might have. All of his attention was trapped on the giant bulge of spine popping out of the person’s back, curled over like the remnants of a demolished building. The skin stretched as if the person it belonged to hadn’t eaten food since the last presidential election and he felt himself cringe internally at the thought of how bad the food here must be if they were that diminished.
Of all the inhabitants in the room- those shuffling back and forth in hospital slippers, those yelling or mumbling to themselves (or to people only they could see and hear) and the candy box assortment of half conscious ghosts there was one person who attracted his attention more than any of them. Her platinum blond hair seemed to glow like a white halo around her head, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window in front of her. Her arms showed the scars of a from of self injury he wasn’t familiar with- the cabs might’ve been from an instrument or her finger nails, there was no easy way of telling. She sat as still as a statue, her head tilted upward towards the sky, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
He didn’t know why she attracted his attention so much, she didn’t seem any more in touch than anyone else in the room. But there was something about the way she sat, gaze transfixed and unmoving, that interested him. She didn’t ignore the disturbances of the room like her more comatose brethren, something about her made it seem like she heard it and just chose to ignore it. And her stance wasn’t the relaxed calm of a person too drugged up to experience regular muscle movement- it was the calm, reclined position of someone in a genuine state of relaxation. And perhaps that was what was so odd about her- that she couldn’t be detached in that… normal of a way. It made him wonder what she was looking at.
He observed all of this from the back and sat, wondering what would happen next. It had seemed to him lately that he’d become a second class passenger in own life, watching his life fly by without any control of where it would go next. And although he didn’t know who was in charge, he knew that they had absolutely no interest in making his journey anymore pleasant for him. He should’ve been upset about that, on some level. But he wasn’t. He was only vaguely irked as if it didn’t really matter all that much.
And that reaction, or lack thereof, more than anything else he’d gone through lately made him think that maybe he wasn’t as out of place here as he’d like to think.
He sat in the main ‘livingroom’ surveying the scene. Lacking the hallmark card childhood that you see in so many different commercials he wasn’t used to a homey, comfortable “living area” but even to him this seemed like a stretch.
Cold linoleum floors that reflected the light pouring in through the screened windows, cheap vinyl seats scattered throughout the room, a single clock high up on the wall ticking away the day. If felt like the sort of place you’d go to die- empty, sterile, lifeless.
The inhabitants of the place did nothing to boost his confidence. There was a small, bearded man in the corner yelling loudly and animatedly in a language he couldn’t make out. Every now an again he’d bang his hand on the arms rest of his chair as if to illustrate his point, whatever it might be.
There was a small assortments of outcasts gathered around the television set- a large, monstrous box that looked like it would’ve been the latest technology in home theater viewing back in 1967. All of them were in some stage of comatose excitement.
There was an old man that looked like he hadn’t been bathed or shaven in longer than could be easily deduced sat staring in the general direction of the TV with drool warming his lip and cheek. There was a young woman with her hospital gown draping open in the back, revealing her bare buttocks resting on the chair as she help her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth gently. He couldn’t quite make it out over the sound of the television but she might have been humming to herself. And then there was the slight frame bent over onto itself. He couldn’t figure out from the back if it were a man a woman, how old they were or what other distinguishing characteristic they might have. All of his attention was trapped on the giant bulge of spine popping out of the person’s back, curled over like the remnants of a demolished building. The skin stretched as if the person it belonged to hadn’t eaten food since the last presidential election and he felt himself cringe internally at the thought of how bad the food here must be if they were that diminished.
Of all the inhabitants in the room- those shuffling back and forth in hospital slippers, those yelling or mumbling to themselves (or to people only they could see and hear) and the candy box assortment of half conscious ghosts there was one person who attracted his attention more than any of them. Her platinum blond hair seemed to glow like a white halo around her head, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window in front of her. Her arms showed the scars of a from of self injury he wasn’t familiar with- the cabs might’ve been from an instrument or her finger nails, there was no easy way of telling. She sat as still as a statue, her head tilted upward towards the sky, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
He didn’t know why she attracted his attention so much, she didn’t seem any more in touch than anyone else in the room. But there was something about the way she sat, gaze transfixed and unmoving, that interested him. She didn’t ignore the disturbances of the room like her more comatose brethren, something about her made it seem like she heard it and just chose to ignore it. And her stance wasn’t the relaxed calm of a person too drugged up to experience regular muscle movement- it was the calm, reclined position of someone in a genuine state of relaxation. And perhaps that was what was so odd about her- that she couldn’t be detached in that… normal of a way. It made him wonder what she was looking at.
He observed all of this from the back and sat, wondering what would happen next. It had seemed to him lately that he’d become a second class passenger in own life, watching his life fly by without any control of where it would go next. And although he didn’t know who was in charge, he knew that they had absolutely no interest in making his journey anymore pleasant for him. He should’ve been upset about that, on some level. But he wasn’t. He was only vaguely irked as if it didn’t really matter all that much.
And that reaction, or lack thereof, more than anything else he’d gone through lately made him think that maybe he wasn’t as out of place here as he’d like to think.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (III)
In Transition
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (II)
After the Fall
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (I)
Prelude to a Fall
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Conditioned- A Story In Five Parts- Part Five
Day Three hundred and Nine
I walk into my office. A bald girl is sitting in the waiting room. She has no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair left on her head. She ate it all. I know because when she first started coming here she still had hair. I talked to her in the past, tried to make some progress. She screamed at me until she was horse and then kept screaming. I walk past her now, don’t even nod.
In my small, windowless office I throw my stuff down on the desk. I don’t turn on my computer, I don’t answer the phone. Someone walks into my office. It’s the bald girl, her large gut hanging over the belt of her stained trousers. She asks me to call her sister. Her sister’s dead. I know this because it’s the same delusion she’s had since the beginning. I tell her I can’t call her sister, say I’ll talk to her later.
She starts crying. I say “calm down” quietly, cause I know she won’t. The sobs become elongated, exaggerated, child-like. I don’t even hear them anymore. I say it again, “calm down, please- we can’t call your sister, you know that.” She starts screaming at me. “I want to call my sister!” I tell her we can’t, again.
She bangs her fist on my desk, screaming that she wants to call her sister. I stand up, grab my coat and my bag, walk past her. I leave my dim, windowless office. I leave the crowded waiting room where the drunk man is snoring, the teenaged mom is beating her child, the receptionist sits oblivious to it all.
I walk out my office.
I walk into my office. A bald girl is sitting in the waiting room. She has no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair left on her head. She ate it all. I know because when she first started coming here she still had hair. I talked to her in the past, tried to make some progress. She screamed at me until she was horse and then kept screaming. I walk past her now, don’t even nod.
In my small, windowless office I throw my stuff down on the desk. I don’t turn on my computer, I don’t answer the phone. Someone walks into my office. It’s the bald girl, her large gut hanging over the belt of her stained trousers. She asks me to call her sister. Her sister’s dead. I know this because it’s the same delusion she’s had since the beginning. I tell her I can’t call her sister, say I’ll talk to her later.
She starts crying. I say “calm down” quietly, cause I know she won’t. The sobs become elongated, exaggerated, child-like. I don’t even hear them anymore. I say it again, “calm down, please- we can’t call your sister, you know that.” She starts screaming at me. “I want to call my sister!” I tell her we can’t, again.
She bangs her fist on my desk, screaming that she wants to call her sister. I stand up, grab my coat and my bag, walk past her. I leave my dim, windowless office. I leave the crowded waiting room where the drunk man is snoring, the teenaged mom is beating her child, the receptionist sits oblivious to it all.
I walk out my office.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Conditioned- A Story in Five Parts- Part Four
Day Two hundred and eighty one
I walk into my office. The waiting room is empty. It would seem strange if I weren’t too tired to really notice. Inside my small, windowless office I throw my stuff down on the desk. The chair creaks as I sit down. I look at my computer, beckoning me to turn it on, start sorting through e-mails. The phone blinks at me letting me know I have messages. My cell vibrates in my bag. I just sit and look at the walls.
It seems somehow like they’re getting darker. Can’t really tell- the florescent lights tend to mess up your vision in the corners. What I wouldn’t give for a window or something. Something to remind of the real world that’s still out there. I haven’t seen much of it lately.
Something’s off. I don’t what it is. But I’ve got an uneasy feeling, like I’m waiting for something. Like a bomb’s gonna go off and I should tense myself in preparation.
Then the crying starts and I know what I’ve been waiting for. I’m used to the sound by now, it doesn’t jar me or even surprise me. But I shut the door anyway because it’s annoying. I sit back down at my desk, recommence staring at the wall. The phone starts ringing. I ignore it.
I walk into my office. The waiting room is empty. It would seem strange if I weren’t too tired to really notice. Inside my small, windowless office I throw my stuff down on the desk. The chair creaks as I sit down. I look at my computer, beckoning me to turn it on, start sorting through e-mails. The phone blinks at me letting me know I have messages. My cell vibrates in my bag. I just sit and look at the walls.
It seems somehow like they’re getting darker. Can’t really tell- the florescent lights tend to mess up your vision in the corners. What I wouldn’t give for a window or something. Something to remind of the real world that’s still out there. I haven’t seen much of it lately.
Something’s off. I don’t what it is. But I’ve got an uneasy feeling, like I’m waiting for something. Like a bomb’s gonna go off and I should tense myself in preparation.
Then the crying starts and I know what I’ve been waiting for. I’m used to the sound by now, it doesn’t jar me or even surprise me. But I shut the door anyway because it’s annoying. I sit back down at my desk, recommence staring at the wall. The phone starts ringing. I ignore it.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Conditioned- A Story in Five Parts- Part Three
Day One hundred and twenty-seven
I walk into my office. There is teenage girl sitting in the waiting room. She’s got a stroller with a young infant in it. She’s violently shoving a baby spoon into the infant’s mouth. The infant is screaming, crying. His eyes are red, his face blotchy and bloated. The teenage girl starts screaming at him to eat his food, curses at him. Part of me want to say something, do something. But instead I just keep walking, making my way to my office. I hear her smack the kid behind me, the sound echoes a little. I stop for a second, then keep walking.
In my office the phone is ringing. I don’t answer it. I just got in, I need two seconds to- my cell starts vibrating. I want to ignore it, but I answer. There’s an emergency at one of the houses. I drop everything, run back out to my car.
As I pass by the teenage mom and her toddler I see the teenaged girl is crying now, too. Crying louder than her kid as she keeps jamming the spoon into his mouth. The food is all over the kid’s shirt, spilling onto the floor. I run past them.
I walk into my office. There is teenage girl sitting in the waiting room. She’s got a stroller with a young infant in it. She’s violently shoving a baby spoon into the infant’s mouth. The infant is screaming, crying. His eyes are red, his face blotchy and bloated. The teenage girl starts screaming at him to eat his food, curses at him. Part of me want to say something, do something. But instead I just keep walking, making my way to my office. I hear her smack the kid behind me, the sound echoes a little. I stop for a second, then keep walking.
In my office the phone is ringing. I don’t answer it. I just got in, I need two seconds to- my cell starts vibrating. I want to ignore it, but I answer. There’s an emergency at one of the houses. I drop everything, run back out to my car.
As I pass by the teenage mom and her toddler I see the teenaged girl is crying now, too. Crying louder than her kid as she keeps jamming the spoon into his mouth. The food is all over the kid’s shirt, spilling onto the floor. I run past them.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Conditioned- A Story in Five Parts- Part Two
Day Sixty Three
I walk into my office. There is man asleep in the waiting room. He looks like he’s homeless- unshaven, unwashed, clothes torn and dirty. He snores loudly. I know he’s not homeless, he’s my ten o’clock- here early. I walk past him, put my stuff down on my desk. There’s a thousand e-mails, as always. I check the voicemail first- someone died last night. I’m in shock, I don’t know what my next step is.
I feel like I should cry, or be upset or something. But my head jumps to the job- what paperwork needs to be filled out, what reports need to be filed, who needs to be notified first. I don’t even think of the family or friends that might be flipping out over it, though that’ll inevitably be more paperwork.
Someone starts crying out in the lobby. Loud, exaggerated sobs. It still jars me, a little. But I’m getting used to it. I walk to the door of my small, windowless office and look out. Someone is sitting with her, trying to calm her down. I close the door so I can get my work done.
I walk into my office. There is man asleep in the waiting room. He looks like he’s homeless- unshaven, unwashed, clothes torn and dirty. He snores loudly. I know he’s not homeless, he’s my ten o’clock- here early. I walk past him, put my stuff down on my desk. There’s a thousand e-mails, as always. I check the voicemail first- someone died last night. I’m in shock, I don’t know what my next step is.
I feel like I should cry, or be upset or something. But my head jumps to the job- what paperwork needs to be filled out, what reports need to be filed, who needs to be notified first. I don’t even think of the family or friends that might be flipping out over it, though that’ll inevitably be more paperwork.
Someone starts crying out in the lobby. Loud, exaggerated sobs. It still jars me, a little. But I’m getting used to it. I walk to the door of my small, windowless office and look out. Someone is sitting with her, trying to calm her down. I close the door so I can get my work done.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Conditioned- A Story in Five Parts- Part One
Day One
I walk into my office. Or the building where I’m told my office is located. I expect my new boss to greet me there. They’re not there. I ask for them at the front desk, am told to wait, take a seat with the others. The guy on my left has some sort-of skin condition. I don’t know what it is, just that it makes all the skin on his face and scalp flake off in large, powdery white chunks. I half-wonder if I can catch it by sitting there. I hope not.
My boss arrives, apologizes for being late. Walks me back to my office. I say back because there is technically a short hallway leading there but the whole building is basically one large mass, and the waiting area sits right in the middle. There’s a copy machine next to the door, we have to push through some people to get in. Inside there are three desks haphazardly arraigned, one computer sitting on a wobbly desktop- the kind of thing you’d buy at Staples for thirty bucks and have to kick yourself when it broke cause you should’ve known better. My desk is shoved up against the back wall. I take a seat, am told to start by seeing if I can log onto the system. I can.
My boss says ‘great’ and tells me to just start there, that he’ll run back to his office and start e-mailing me everything. He reminds me that it’ll take a little time to get acclimated, tells me not to get overwhelmed, says to be patient. He leaves, frazzled by his phone which hasn’t stopped ringing for the two minutes he’s been here with me. I wonder if I’m gonna get any training, hope I will.
Someone in the waiting room starts crying. Then screaming and cursing while she cries. I hear a high-pitched soft-spoken voice trying to console the crying woman. She cries louder. I wonder what I should do- should I try to talk her down? Her screams make my gut clench, my adrenaline pump. What’s it called? Fight or flight? I should know that. Her crying gets louder and continues. I go out to see if I can help.
I walk into my office. Or the building where I’m told my office is located. I expect my new boss to greet me there. They’re not there. I ask for them at the front desk, am told to wait, take a seat with the others. The guy on my left has some sort-of skin condition. I don’t know what it is, just that it makes all the skin on his face and scalp flake off in large, powdery white chunks. I half-wonder if I can catch it by sitting there. I hope not.
My boss arrives, apologizes for being late. Walks me back to my office. I say back because there is technically a short hallway leading there but the whole building is basically one large mass, and the waiting area sits right in the middle. There’s a copy machine next to the door, we have to push through some people to get in. Inside there are three desks haphazardly arraigned, one computer sitting on a wobbly desktop- the kind of thing you’d buy at Staples for thirty bucks and have to kick yourself when it broke cause you should’ve known better. My desk is shoved up against the back wall. I take a seat, am told to start by seeing if I can log onto the system. I can.
My boss says ‘great’ and tells me to just start there, that he’ll run back to his office and start e-mailing me everything. He reminds me that it’ll take a little time to get acclimated, tells me not to get overwhelmed, says to be patient. He leaves, frazzled by his phone which hasn’t stopped ringing for the two minutes he’s been here with me. I wonder if I’m gonna get any training, hope I will.
Someone in the waiting room starts crying. Then screaming and cursing while she cries. I hear a high-pitched soft-spoken voice trying to console the crying woman. She cries louder. I wonder what I should do- should I try to talk her down? Her screams make my gut clench, my adrenaline pump. What’s it called? Fight or flight? I should know that. Her crying gets louder and continues. I go out to see if I can help.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Soiled- Part 3
Tuesday Morning
Macney stared at the photograph. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. She had the stance of a model- one hand on her hip, arched back, chin up, stern look on her face. But there something about her that let you know she wasn’t a full-blown professional. It wasn’t just the body. The pink, health skin and muscular legs shoulders certainly didn’t fit. Real models had drawn, almost grayish skin and the skeletal structure of a holocaust victim. But that wasn’t it.
It was her face. She had a slight smile- just a little curls of the lips. It wasn’t much, but it gave her away. Real models had the blank stare of true detachment. But this girl still enjoyed it. If he forced himself he could almost imagine a little girl excited to play dress up- they way she’d been once upon a time.
“Vain much?” a uniformed officer snickered as he walked by.
Macney wasn’t sure of his name, he was knew. He thought it might be Johnson, though. Without taking his eyes off the well- framed photo he asked the guy, “What?”
“You know- an entire wall of photos of yourself. A little overboard, don’t you think?”
“You ever play sports as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever win any trophies?”
“Sure,” the uniform said, looking at him in confusion.
“Well, these are hers ,” Macney said, and with that he turned and walked out of the room. He passed by a couple guys in lab coats with goggles and large kits. One seemed to do doing a sweep for fingerprints, but the other was putting vials into his bag. That alone let him know that what waited for him in the next room was bad. He braced himself and walked into the bedroom, ready to behold whatever was waiting for him.
The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a giant cocoon made of mud, lying in the middle of the bed. Underneath the thick blackish-brown substance he saw a texture that let him know there was something else underneath. He couldn’t tell what it was, just that was smoother than skin. The shape and size lead him to assume that the body was hidden somewhere within that, but that was only logic. There was no making out skin color or even how the body’d been arraigned just from seeing this.
“What am I looking at?” he asked the room in general.
“Well, without running back to test this material out we can’t know for sure, but it’s some kind of feces,” came a voice from behind him. He wanted to turn to look towards that voice, engage it in conversation. But suddenly knowing what he was looking at made it that much more horrible, and that much more impossible to look away. It wasn’t mud- it was shit. Enough shit to cover the entire body. How the hell they’d manage that?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say it didn’t all come out of one person,” he said.
“Nope, didn’t come out of any person, actually. We’re pretty sure it’s dog shit,” said the voice, coming around to stand next to him. From his peripheral vision he could make out Rogers, his favorite tech. Rogers had grey hair on his temples and a permanent squint in his eyes that let you know he was a veteran to the field. You don’t look that worn until you’ve seen your fair share of seriously messed up scenes. And Rogers, at least from what Macney knew of him, had seen the bottom of the barrel. Macney reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove, snapped it on to his hand.
“Am I gonna contaminate anything?” he asked.
“Nope, we were waitin’ for you. Figured we’d unwrap her together,” Rogers said, nodding to the photographer in the corner to approach the body so he could snap away as they started to unwrap the form. Macney reached a hand out, tentatively, as if afraid to disturb it. He felt the mass through his glove and the first thing that hit him was how hard the feces was. It wasn’t until that second that he’d noticed how frigid it was in the room. The AC must have been cranked up as high as it would go.
“It’s hard,” Macney said, and he picked off a small chunk. It broke off easily, like stale fudge, and he dropped it into the plastic bag Rogers was holding open for him. He picked off another chunk and held it up for closer inspection. He could see the tell-tale dog fur, but nothing else distinguishable.
“I suppose it’s not hard to find a whole lot of dog crap lying around in a city this big, huh?” Macney asked, more to himself than to anyone else. Rogers said nothing, he was used to Macney’s process and the questions he posed to no on in particular. He was used to the debriefing they did afterwards, after the tests were run and the time of death determined. He stood with his bags and vials ready to collect the evidence, and his mouth shut.
Macney waved for Rogers to find an opening and start the peel-back process. Rogers and his aid started to break off large chunks of the mess, collecting it in hazmat bags and taking samples every layer or so. Rogers suspected they wouldn’t learn anything useful from the material, but he took a large sample anyway. He’d always bragged that no one would ever accuse him of not being thorough.
As they reached the material underneath Macney understood why it had looked smoother than skin. It was- it was plastic. The entire body had been encased in a large plastic bag. Macney knew this was significant and started jotting down notes, already forming hypotheses about the killer’s psyche, or character as he called it. Rogers and his aid waited. Macney looked up with a sigh and nodded. Rogers started cutting back the plastic.
Immediately the smell of bleach filled Rogers nostrils, so strong that he actually had to turn his head for a moment.
“What it is?” Macney asked, inching forward cautiously. He caught the scent and waited for it to clear, then he stepped over to the side to lean over. With the plastic cleared away he could make out the girl’s face. She looked almost as she had in the picture outside, save that her eyes were open and her lips parted in what he would have described as a gasp, if she wasn’t dead.
“I don’t get it,” came a voice to Macney’s left. He looked up and saw the photographer paused with his camera down. “Why go to all the trouble to wash the body in bleach, bag it, and then cover it in crap?”
“He wanted to protect her,” Macney said, looking down at the girl’s face again.
“Then why cover her in shit?” he asked again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be photographing this?” Macney said without looking up again. The photographer coughed a tiny bit and started snapping away again with a fervor.
Macney pulled the plastic down and looked at the neck. There were deep bruises on each side indicating significant pressure. Macney placed his gloved hand over the bruises to check the shape. He started jotting notes in his pad again, then stood up straight and started pacing. Rogers perked up, noting the detective’s usual brainstorming ritual and waited for the real questioning to begin.
“How’d we find her?” he asked without looking up from his feet.
“Her aunt,” Rogers answered. “She was supposed to go shopping with the vic on Sunday. After she didn’t hear back from her for a couple of days she came up to chec on her.”
“No, sign of struggle,” Macney said, again more to himself than anyone else. “Our perp must’ve been waiting for her in here. How was the apartment when the aunt came?”
“Quiet, locked up- no signs of forced entry. The aunt got the super to open it up. I think one of your uniforms is interviewing them,” Rogers said, peering over his should to see if could catch a glimpse of the young female he’d seen interviewing the aunt when he walked in.
“Gonna have to get them both down to the station,” Macney said, jotting another note down in his pad. He stepped close to the body again, took a closer look at the neck. Rogers made to start cutting the remainder of the plastic and Macney nodded at him. Rogers cut and pull with the trepidation of someone walking through a field of landmines, afraid to disturb anything he hadn’t seen yet. As he peeled down the rest of the plastic the rest of her body came into view. It was the same basic shape Macney’d seen standing in the frame- muscular shoulders, lean stomach and torso, narrow hips attached to legs that were way too muscular for a model. She’d have lost the definition if she’d continued in the business, he knew.
“He wanted to preserve her,” Macney muttered.
“Then why not use formaldehyde? Why bleach, it distorts the natural skin color,” Rogers observed.
Macney scribbled in his pad, then resumed his pacing. “Ok, so there’s no struggle- he either had to be in here waiting for her or the vic knew him.” He took a step towards the door and yelled to no one in particular- “We got any leads on boyfriends, fashion designers, crazy relatives or stalkers this girl had?” No one answered as he made his way back to the body. He didn’t expect them to, he expected them to start making phone calls and tracking people down.
“No sign of trauma on the head,” Rogers observed. “And the bruises are pretty isolated- he must have had a good hold on her neck before she started struggling.”
“Then it must have been someone she knew,” Macney said. “Anything goin’ on down there,” he asked pointing to the groin area.
“No, not recently. If this girl was having sex it wasn’t anytime near when she got killed. Until we take a look at the internals that’s all I can tell ya. I’ll also do the full gauntlet tox screen, see if she was drugged,” Rogers said, looking over the body and making notes on his metal clip board.
“We see anything at all similar to this before?” Macney asked.
“Not one of my cases, and you know I’ve seen almost all of ‘em,” Rogers answered. “You might wanna consult FBI, though- this is pretty damned meticulous to be an isolated event.”
“Could it be his first kill?” Macney asked, half-hoping the answer would be no and he wouldn’t have to look for more of these popping up around the city.
“Doubt it. There’s too much reparation- the bag, the feces, the chemicals, all of it. There was a lot of planning involved in this, not a crime of passion,” Rogers said, looking at different areas of the body and making notes on his chart.
“That means it’s probably not a boyfriend or stalker, huh?” Macney asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not unless this girl was into seriously creepy guys with OCD,” Rogers said without looking up.
“So no fingerprints, no bodily fluids, shit random dogs- not a single thing we can use?” Macney asked, irritation rising in his voice.
“I gotta do a lot more back at the lab and see what the bleach washed off, but I’m guessing by the look of her that the guy never even touched her. Gloved hands, might’ve even been wearing an infection suit….” Rogers continued his check list.
Macney looked back out into the hallway and sighed, having daydream nightmares of what a clusterfuck the FBI would make out of his case if they got called in. Didn’t matter how much work he did if the feds came in, he’d never see it again. “Please find me something, Rog,” he said without looking back at his friend.
“If there’s something to find, you know I’ll find it,” he said.
Macney nodded and left the room without looking back.
Macney stared at the photograph. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. She had the stance of a model- one hand on her hip, arched back, chin up, stern look on her face. But there something about her that let you know she wasn’t a full-blown professional. It wasn’t just the body. The pink, health skin and muscular legs shoulders certainly didn’t fit. Real models had drawn, almost grayish skin and the skeletal structure of a holocaust victim. But that wasn’t it.
It was her face. She had a slight smile- just a little curls of the lips. It wasn’t much, but it gave her away. Real models had the blank stare of true detachment. But this girl still enjoyed it. If he forced himself he could almost imagine a little girl excited to play dress up- they way she’d been once upon a time.
“Vain much?” a uniformed officer snickered as he walked by.
Macney wasn’t sure of his name, he was knew. He thought it might be Johnson, though. Without taking his eyes off the well- framed photo he asked the guy, “What?”
“You know- an entire wall of photos of yourself. A little overboard, don’t you think?”
“You ever play sports as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever win any trophies?”
“Sure,” the uniform said, looking at him in confusion.
“Well, these are hers ,” Macney said, and with that he turned and walked out of the room. He passed by a couple guys in lab coats with goggles and large kits. One seemed to do doing a sweep for fingerprints, but the other was putting vials into his bag. That alone let him know that what waited for him in the next room was bad. He braced himself and walked into the bedroom, ready to behold whatever was waiting for him.
The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a giant cocoon made of mud, lying in the middle of the bed. Underneath the thick blackish-brown substance he saw a texture that let him know there was something else underneath. He couldn’t tell what it was, just that was smoother than skin. The shape and size lead him to assume that the body was hidden somewhere within that, but that was only logic. There was no making out skin color or even how the body’d been arraigned just from seeing this.
“What am I looking at?” he asked the room in general.
“Well, without running back to test this material out we can’t know for sure, but it’s some kind of feces,” came a voice from behind him. He wanted to turn to look towards that voice, engage it in conversation. But suddenly knowing what he was looking at made it that much more horrible, and that much more impossible to look away. It wasn’t mud- it was shit. Enough shit to cover the entire body. How the hell they’d manage that?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say it didn’t all come out of one person,” he said.
“Nope, didn’t come out of any person, actually. We’re pretty sure it’s dog shit,” said the voice, coming around to stand next to him. From his peripheral vision he could make out Rogers, his favorite tech. Rogers had grey hair on his temples and a permanent squint in his eyes that let you know he was a veteran to the field. You don’t look that worn until you’ve seen your fair share of seriously messed up scenes. And Rogers, at least from what Macney knew of him, had seen the bottom of the barrel. Macney reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove, snapped it on to his hand.
“Am I gonna contaminate anything?” he asked.
“Nope, we were waitin’ for you. Figured we’d unwrap her together,” Rogers said, nodding to the photographer in the corner to approach the body so he could snap away as they started to unwrap the form. Macney reached a hand out, tentatively, as if afraid to disturb it. He felt the mass through his glove and the first thing that hit him was how hard the feces was. It wasn’t until that second that he’d noticed how frigid it was in the room. The AC must have been cranked up as high as it would go.
“It’s hard,” Macney said, and he picked off a small chunk. It broke off easily, like stale fudge, and he dropped it into the plastic bag Rogers was holding open for him. He picked off another chunk and held it up for closer inspection. He could see the tell-tale dog fur, but nothing else distinguishable.
“I suppose it’s not hard to find a whole lot of dog crap lying around in a city this big, huh?” Macney asked, more to himself than to anyone else. Rogers said nothing, he was used to Macney’s process and the questions he posed to no on in particular. He was used to the debriefing they did afterwards, after the tests were run and the time of death determined. He stood with his bags and vials ready to collect the evidence, and his mouth shut.
Macney waved for Rogers to find an opening and start the peel-back process. Rogers and his aid started to break off large chunks of the mess, collecting it in hazmat bags and taking samples every layer or so. Rogers suspected they wouldn’t learn anything useful from the material, but he took a large sample anyway. He’d always bragged that no one would ever accuse him of not being thorough.
As they reached the material underneath Macney understood why it had looked smoother than skin. It was- it was plastic. The entire body had been encased in a large plastic bag. Macney knew this was significant and started jotting down notes, already forming hypotheses about the killer’s psyche, or character as he called it. Rogers and his aid waited. Macney looked up with a sigh and nodded. Rogers started cutting back the plastic.
Immediately the smell of bleach filled Rogers nostrils, so strong that he actually had to turn his head for a moment.
“What it is?” Macney asked, inching forward cautiously. He caught the scent and waited for it to clear, then he stepped over to the side to lean over. With the plastic cleared away he could make out the girl’s face. She looked almost as she had in the picture outside, save that her eyes were open and her lips parted in what he would have described as a gasp, if she wasn’t dead.
“I don’t get it,” came a voice to Macney’s left. He looked up and saw the photographer paused with his camera down. “Why go to all the trouble to wash the body in bleach, bag it, and then cover it in crap?”
“He wanted to protect her,” Macney said, looking down at the girl’s face again.
“Then why cover her in shit?” he asked again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be photographing this?” Macney said without looking up again. The photographer coughed a tiny bit and started snapping away again with a fervor.
Macney pulled the plastic down and looked at the neck. There were deep bruises on each side indicating significant pressure. Macney placed his gloved hand over the bruises to check the shape. He started jotting notes in his pad again, then stood up straight and started pacing. Rogers perked up, noting the detective’s usual brainstorming ritual and waited for the real questioning to begin.
“How’d we find her?” he asked without looking up from his feet.
“Her aunt,” Rogers answered. “She was supposed to go shopping with the vic on Sunday. After she didn’t hear back from her for a couple of days she came up to chec on her.”
“No, sign of struggle,” Macney said, again more to himself than anyone else. “Our perp must’ve been waiting for her in here. How was the apartment when the aunt came?”
“Quiet, locked up- no signs of forced entry. The aunt got the super to open it up. I think one of your uniforms is interviewing them,” Rogers said, peering over his should to see if could catch a glimpse of the young female he’d seen interviewing the aunt when he walked in.
“Gonna have to get them both down to the station,” Macney said, jotting another note down in his pad. He stepped close to the body again, took a closer look at the neck. Rogers made to start cutting the remainder of the plastic and Macney nodded at him. Rogers cut and pull with the trepidation of someone walking through a field of landmines, afraid to disturb anything he hadn’t seen yet. As he peeled down the rest of the plastic the rest of her body came into view. It was the same basic shape Macney’d seen standing in the frame- muscular shoulders, lean stomach and torso, narrow hips attached to legs that were way too muscular for a model. She’d have lost the definition if she’d continued in the business, he knew.
“He wanted to preserve her,” Macney muttered.
“Then why not use formaldehyde? Why bleach, it distorts the natural skin color,” Rogers observed.
Macney scribbled in his pad, then resumed his pacing. “Ok, so there’s no struggle- he either had to be in here waiting for her or the vic knew him.” He took a step towards the door and yelled to no one in particular- “We got any leads on boyfriends, fashion designers, crazy relatives or stalkers this girl had?” No one answered as he made his way back to the body. He didn’t expect them to, he expected them to start making phone calls and tracking people down.
“No sign of trauma on the head,” Rogers observed. “And the bruises are pretty isolated- he must have had a good hold on her neck before she started struggling.”
“Then it must have been someone she knew,” Macney said. “Anything goin’ on down there,” he asked pointing to the groin area.
“No, not recently. If this girl was having sex it wasn’t anytime near when she got killed. Until we take a look at the internals that’s all I can tell ya. I’ll also do the full gauntlet tox screen, see if she was drugged,” Rogers said, looking over the body and making notes on his metal clip board.
“We see anything at all similar to this before?” Macney asked.
“Not one of my cases, and you know I’ve seen almost all of ‘em,” Rogers answered. “You might wanna consult FBI, though- this is pretty damned meticulous to be an isolated event.”
“Could it be his first kill?” Macney asked, half-hoping the answer would be no and he wouldn’t have to look for more of these popping up around the city.
“Doubt it. There’s too much reparation- the bag, the feces, the chemicals, all of it. There was a lot of planning involved in this, not a crime of passion,” Rogers said, looking at different areas of the body and making notes on his chart.
“That means it’s probably not a boyfriend or stalker, huh?” Macney asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not unless this girl was into seriously creepy guys with OCD,” Rogers said without looking up.
“So no fingerprints, no bodily fluids, shit random dogs- not a single thing we can use?” Macney asked, irritation rising in his voice.
“I gotta do a lot more back at the lab and see what the bleach washed off, but I’m guessing by the look of her that the guy never even touched her. Gloved hands, might’ve even been wearing an infection suit….” Rogers continued his check list.
Macney looked back out into the hallway and sighed, having daydream nightmares of what a clusterfuck the FBI would make out of his case if they got called in. Didn’t matter how much work he did if the feds came in, he’d never see it again. “Please find me something, Rog,” he said without looking back at his friend.
“If there’s something to find, you know I’ll find it,” he said.
Macney nodded and left the room without looking back.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Soiled- Part 2
Friday Night
He’d laid out the room the way he knew she would like it- her pictures covered the wall behind him. Her favorite blanket cradled her still form and saved her from the cold hardwood floor beneath. He’d lit the incense she had out and the sweet smell of vanilla filled the room. And laid out around her were her favorite flowers- lilacs. Laying there with the flowers haloing her softly curling amber hair he felt like he could weep- she was already an angel.
He stole himself for the task in front of him now, clenching his stomach as he straddled her. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be timid- she deserved better than that. No, he would hold her tight, he would leave her no doubt as to where she was headed, he would give her the farewell she deserved.
This was not the cruel, thoughtless dismissal of a gun shot where the departing leave without even seeing who pulled the trigger. This was an act of love. In some ways he loved her more than anyone in her life ever had or ever could because he took this task upon himself with honor and respect. No one else in her life loved her enough to save her from the misery awaiting her on her path. He tightened his knees on her hips and gently wrapped his hands around her throat, waiting for her to awaken.
At first she didn’t respond, didn’t move. So he began to squeeze. Just a tiny bit of pressure, securing his grip. It had taken practice to get used to holding so tight with gloves on but he’d perfected the art over time. Her skin was too perfect, he couldn’t risk contaminating it. As he began to squeeze he felt her pulse in her throat and saw her eyes quiver. A burst of excitement shot through him as her eyes shot open and focused on him in horror. She opened her mouth to scream and he watched in eager anticipation as he squeezed the noise down her throat.
She bucked beneath him trying to kick and reached up toward his face with hands made into claws. But his arms were too long and his grip to tight for her to reach and his weight on her thighs made it impossible to kick. But she bucked with a strength that far exceeded what he would have expected for someone of her slim build.
He stared into her eyes, at the light that still shined there. He knew he wasn’t too late, he knew she was still there. The little girl smiling in the earlier pictures still lurked inside of her and he looked at her through those wide, horrified eyes.
He tried to imagine where she could have gotten the strength she now displayed in those bucking hips. Had she played a sport when she was younger, before the evil of the materialistic world had kidnapped her into the lifestyle he was now snuffing out? Maybe little league, he thought. But no, she was too feminine for something so rough.
He looked down at her slim frame, her arms waving wildly before him, the line of her neck. Swimming? Ah yes, he thought. She must have been a swimmer. He imagined her thin body gliding through the water, her strong legs kicking off the wall and propelling her forward with ease, her arms stroking strongly. He connected with the imagine in his mind so strongly that he almost forgot she was dry, her arms pounding on his chest and the strength in her legs buoying his imagination.
But then her arms flailed less wildly and her hips started a more involuntary spasm as if she were losing control. He focused on that dimming light in her eyes and spoke softly to her.
“Ssshhhh- don’t fight it. It’ll all be over soon. All of this will be over and you’ll finally be able to rest, secure that your serenity remains intact,” he cooed. Her eyes widened for a second and a renewed force began hitting his chest. He knew he would have bruises and he would savor them for as long as his body showed the mark.
“Ssshhh, just let go, my angel. I’ve got you. You can let go now.”
Her arms fell lower and stilled as his steel grip remained and the strength in her legs gave out. He inhaled sharply and her body began to let out its last spasms, its last signs of strength.
“That’s it, that’s it- just let go. Let yourself fall and know that you will land safely…” He leaned over to stare into her eyes as the light began to fade. Her body stilled and he felt the heartbeat under his grip fade until he no longer feel it. And he watched as the spark in her- the life that had been everything she ever was and everything she ever could be, faded and went out. “I love you, my angel. Sleep now.” And with that he let go.
Her now lifeless eyes stared up at him, still wide, still dark. But now the light was gone and with her perfect features she looked more like a doll than a human being. He reached out a hand and closed her eyes. And he smiled as the tears of relief started to run down his face.
He’d laid out the room the way he knew she would like it- her pictures covered the wall behind him. Her favorite blanket cradled her still form and saved her from the cold hardwood floor beneath. He’d lit the incense she had out and the sweet smell of vanilla filled the room. And laid out around her were her favorite flowers- lilacs. Laying there with the flowers haloing her softly curling amber hair he felt like he could weep- she was already an angel.
He stole himself for the task in front of him now, clenching his stomach as he straddled her. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be timid- she deserved better than that. No, he would hold her tight, he would leave her no doubt as to where she was headed, he would give her the farewell she deserved.
This was not the cruel, thoughtless dismissal of a gun shot where the departing leave without even seeing who pulled the trigger. This was an act of love. In some ways he loved her more than anyone in her life ever had or ever could because he took this task upon himself with honor and respect. No one else in her life loved her enough to save her from the misery awaiting her on her path. He tightened his knees on her hips and gently wrapped his hands around her throat, waiting for her to awaken.
At first she didn’t respond, didn’t move. So he began to squeeze. Just a tiny bit of pressure, securing his grip. It had taken practice to get used to holding so tight with gloves on but he’d perfected the art over time. Her skin was too perfect, he couldn’t risk contaminating it. As he began to squeeze he felt her pulse in her throat and saw her eyes quiver. A burst of excitement shot through him as her eyes shot open and focused on him in horror. She opened her mouth to scream and he watched in eager anticipation as he squeezed the noise down her throat.
She bucked beneath him trying to kick and reached up toward his face with hands made into claws. But his arms were too long and his grip to tight for her to reach and his weight on her thighs made it impossible to kick. But she bucked with a strength that far exceeded what he would have expected for someone of her slim build.
He stared into her eyes, at the light that still shined there. He knew he wasn’t too late, he knew she was still there. The little girl smiling in the earlier pictures still lurked inside of her and he looked at her through those wide, horrified eyes.
He tried to imagine where she could have gotten the strength she now displayed in those bucking hips. Had she played a sport when she was younger, before the evil of the materialistic world had kidnapped her into the lifestyle he was now snuffing out? Maybe little league, he thought. But no, she was too feminine for something so rough.
He looked down at her slim frame, her arms waving wildly before him, the line of her neck. Swimming? Ah yes, he thought. She must have been a swimmer. He imagined her thin body gliding through the water, her strong legs kicking off the wall and propelling her forward with ease, her arms stroking strongly. He connected with the imagine in his mind so strongly that he almost forgot she was dry, her arms pounding on his chest and the strength in her legs buoying his imagination.
But then her arms flailed less wildly and her hips started a more involuntary spasm as if she were losing control. He focused on that dimming light in her eyes and spoke softly to her.
“Ssshhhh- don’t fight it. It’ll all be over soon. All of this will be over and you’ll finally be able to rest, secure that your serenity remains intact,” he cooed. Her eyes widened for a second and a renewed force began hitting his chest. He knew he would have bruises and he would savor them for as long as his body showed the mark.
“Ssshhh, just let go, my angel. I’ve got you. You can let go now.”
Her arms fell lower and stilled as his steel grip remained and the strength in her legs gave out. He inhaled sharply and her body began to let out its last spasms, its last signs of strength.
“That’s it, that’s it- just let go. Let yourself fall and know that you will land safely…” He leaned over to stare into her eyes as the light began to fade. Her body stilled and he felt the heartbeat under his grip fade until he no longer feel it. And he watched as the spark in her- the life that had been everything she ever was and everything she ever could be, faded and went out. “I love you, my angel. Sleep now.” And with that he let go.
Her now lifeless eyes stared up at him, still wide, still dark. But now the light was gone and with her perfect features she looked more like a doll than a human being. He reached out a hand and closed her eyes. And he smiled as the tears of relief started to run down his face.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Soiled
Friday Evening
It was 6pm and she was right on time. He’d tracked the trains she took often enough to time her arrival home to the minute. He watched her lock the door behind her and sigh. She seemed tired. More than the general end of the week tired that most people get. No, she seemed drained. Maybe it was already starting to get to her.
He held his breath as he watched her throw her keys down on the hall table and reach up to pull out the barrette holding up her hair. It fell in long, curly waves splashing down over her ears and landing with a small bounce on her shoulders. She reached up and tossed it, working out the firmness of the hair style. She did so with such carelessness, as if she didn’t know how exquisite the mane was.
A tear came to his eye as he watched her in the hall mirror. He couldn’t help it, she was breath taking. For just a second he allowed himself to take her in, all of her. No one in her life could appreciate her as much as he did in this moment. No one could know how perfect she was- otherwise why would let her age and decay? It was a heartless facade and he couldn’t stand it. He watched as she tensed her back and readied himself.
She reached down to undue the clasp on her mary jane high heels and he was behind her before she could hear his foot step. He clasped the cloth over her mouth and nose and held her to his body tightly, turning her so that her legs kicked forward into the hallway rather than hitting the table. He couldn’t risk her bruising. She let out a few high pitched whimpers and futilely grabbed at his arms but collapsed before she could exert any real strength. He knelt down and slid her body down to the floor, cradling her in his arms like you would a lover.
It had taken him some time, like all worthwhile things do, to develop the ritual. He took great pains to make each individual death its own unique masterpiece. These were not the murders of callous, hardened criminals. These were the sweet whispers of love laid upon the ear of those on their death beds. There would be no violence, no gore, no cruel dismissal. No, she would know that she was loved.
He laid her down on the floor of her living room, making sure that if she looked up at him she would see her wall of fame in the background. He perused the wall as he laid her out and felt a sharp, almost nauseating pain in his stomach. There before his eyes he could see the process. The smaller pictures, from she was younger, displayed a bright-eyed happy girl. One who was thrilled to be praised and didn’t know of the danger surrounding her. As the quality of the pictures increased he watched the bright look in her eyes fade. Her smile grew less and less as she became taller. The flash of the camera washed out the imperfections of her youth.
He imagined the vultures standing behind the camera lenses, proudly turning her into a product to be consumed. He felt the same rage he always felt as he watched young girls being turned into marketable enterprises and he clenched his fists.
The central picture was large and professionally framed with thick, heavy wood and an ebony finish. It held a tall, stately figure. One who showed all the early signs of the transformation. The smile was still there, but barely. Just a slight curl of the lips displaying an emotion she couldn’t hide. The body was trim, sleek, perfect. She did not yet have the drawn look of a starved model. The skin was too pink and healthy to be that of a real model, but it had lost the glow it displayed in earlier pictures.
But most heartbreaking were her eyes. Blue diamonds that once sparkled with a joy and hunger for life now dimly reflected the light from the camera. He looked down at the still form of the floor and wondered if he was too late to her save her. He said a prayer to himself and swallowed the sob that threatened. No, he would not to be too late. He would bring her back from the precipice and deliver her into the glory of heaven. He would not be too late.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Cyndi's Call- Part Two
Sykes was careful not to make any eye contact with Brown during the relatively long drive over to Miranda Winn’s house. He scanned the road ahead, fiddled with the radio, tapped his finger on the steering wheel and otherwise occupied himself. He stumbled upon the oldies station which happened to be playing some old school stadium rock from a weird band called Queen he’d seen a frightening picture of once and turned up the volume so he could hear the sound better. A slow but triumphant sounding chorus of “We are the Champions” streamed through the speakers and he smiled to himself, wondering how such cheesy music could have been outdated. Brown leaned over and violently switched the sound off. Sykes frowned to himself but kept staring straight ahead rather than risk a reaction. He knew Brown better than he thought he did and he certainly didn’t want his partner taking out his frustration from his interaction with the captain on him.
Brown leafed through the file trying to force himself to pick up the details about the case. 8:57am on Tuesday September 22nd the call had come in. The report indicated that the women on the other end sounded panicked, scared and otherwise emotional in ways Brown and many others didn’t expect from machines. She gave the details of Ms. Winn’s schedule, the last time she was seen, her normal whereabouts on a Monday night and the logical reasons as to why something was wrong. The woman hadn’t come home for her normal workout that evening which was scheduled every night at 9pm. They were supposed to do Yoga, Cyndi had informed the officer. Mondays were stressful for Miranda and she would never miss her cool down time.
It didn’t matter that it took a full 72 hours before someone could be considered missing. It didn’t matter that human beings were not as perfectly on schedule as machines. All that mattered in Cyndi’s electronic cortex was the intent- it reasoned that an emotionally needed exercise would not be missed unless something was wrong. He couldn’t help but react at the audacity of the machine, assuming it knew better. Every artificial intelligence system he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering seemed to work like that. Their reasoning systems were more advanced, their logical analysis more careful, their assessment more correct than stupid human detectives. Of course they were all polite, of course they were all careful not to sound too condescending by voice modulation or some other artificial change. Didn’t matter. They thought they were better and that’s why Brown hated them.
This Cyndi had called every morning thereafter at the same time. When no patrol was sent out the calls went higher up. First to the captain, then the commissioner, one even made it to the chief’s desk. Didn’t matter that none of those contact codes were listed for public use. Didn’t matter that the standard 72 hours hadn’t passed yet. This machine assumed it knew better and it knew how to irritate the channels to get a response. When a call came to the media and the A.I. bleeding hearts outlets the shit hit the fan. No wonder the captain was so pissed.
He turned the page to read more about Cyndi. The c170-c was one of the “new age” electronic software systems. Like the personal assistants and housekeepers and other systems that people left in charge of their businesses, homes, health and other vital things that no machine should be left in charge of, this system was hooked into the Lynxus system. Lynxus was an ever expanding system integrating every piece of knowledge from every international operational system and “improving itself” daily. As such, the c170-c would never need to replaced, updated, or re-programmed. It would learn the personal patterns of the owner and train itself to become more efficient, effective and challenging. It would push the person exercising to reach the best of their abilities at any given time and integrate the latest health news into the tips and tools it taught it’s owner. Or so the brochure claimed.
Despite the fancy sounding resume, Brown wasn’t impressed. To him it was just another machine that thought it was smarter, better, than humans. It couldn’t understand the human mindset because it was superior to it. At least that’s what he believed and no one was going to tell him different. He shielded his close mindedness the way most people shield their kids from dirty movies and violent media. And there was no way that another overzealous exercise coach was going to change that.
Sykes pulled into the freeway of a nice single family home with a yard way too big for a one single woman. Brown knew the woman had to be rich to afford this level of software but even with that in mind he was impressed by the sheer size of space and the scope of the landscaping. It must take an entire crew a full weekend to keep this place up, he surmised. Sykes whistled his same thoughts in an exaggerated cat call.
“Lets do the nasty,” Brown said as he unbuckled his seat belt and pushed the passenger’s side door open.
Brown leafed through the file trying to force himself to pick up the details about the case. 8:57am on Tuesday September 22nd the call had come in. The report indicated that the women on the other end sounded panicked, scared and otherwise emotional in ways Brown and many others didn’t expect from machines. She gave the details of Ms. Winn’s schedule, the last time she was seen, her normal whereabouts on a Monday night and the logical reasons as to why something was wrong. The woman hadn’t come home for her normal workout that evening which was scheduled every night at 9pm. They were supposed to do Yoga, Cyndi had informed the officer. Mondays were stressful for Miranda and she would never miss her cool down time.
It didn’t matter that it took a full 72 hours before someone could be considered missing. It didn’t matter that human beings were not as perfectly on schedule as machines. All that mattered in Cyndi’s electronic cortex was the intent- it reasoned that an emotionally needed exercise would not be missed unless something was wrong. He couldn’t help but react at the audacity of the machine, assuming it knew better. Every artificial intelligence system he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering seemed to work like that. Their reasoning systems were more advanced, their logical analysis more careful, their assessment more correct than stupid human detectives. Of course they were all polite, of course they were all careful not to sound too condescending by voice modulation or some other artificial change. Didn’t matter. They thought they were better and that’s why Brown hated them.
This Cyndi had called every morning thereafter at the same time. When no patrol was sent out the calls went higher up. First to the captain, then the commissioner, one even made it to the chief’s desk. Didn’t matter that none of those contact codes were listed for public use. Didn’t matter that the standard 72 hours hadn’t passed yet. This machine assumed it knew better and it knew how to irritate the channels to get a response. When a call came to the media and the A.I. bleeding hearts outlets the shit hit the fan. No wonder the captain was so pissed.
He turned the page to read more about Cyndi. The c170-c was one of the “new age” electronic software systems. Like the personal assistants and housekeepers and other systems that people left in charge of their businesses, homes, health and other vital things that no machine should be left in charge of, this system was hooked into the Lynxus system. Lynxus was an ever expanding system integrating every piece of knowledge from every international operational system and “improving itself” daily. As such, the c170-c would never need to replaced, updated, or re-programmed. It would learn the personal patterns of the owner and train itself to become more efficient, effective and challenging. It would push the person exercising to reach the best of their abilities at any given time and integrate the latest health news into the tips and tools it taught it’s owner. Or so the brochure claimed.
Despite the fancy sounding resume, Brown wasn’t impressed. To him it was just another machine that thought it was smarter, better, than humans. It couldn’t understand the human mindset because it was superior to it. At least that’s what he believed and no one was going to tell him different. He shielded his close mindedness the way most people shield their kids from dirty movies and violent media. And there was no way that another overzealous exercise coach was going to change that.
Sykes pulled into the freeway of a nice single family home with a yard way too big for a one single woman. Brown knew the woman had to be rich to afford this level of software but even with that in mind he was impressed by the sheer size of space and the scope of the landscaping. It must take an entire crew a full weekend to keep this place up, he surmised. Sykes whistled his same thoughts in an exaggerated cat call.
“Lets do the nasty,” Brown said as he unbuckled his seat belt and pushed the passenger’s side door open.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Cindi's Call- Part One
Ladies and gentleman! Without further ado, I present to you my very first serial!
“So what’ve we got here?” Brown asked, reaching for the folder.
“Missing person with a twist,” Sykes replied.
“Let me guess, she was just seen by several people the day before her disappearance.”
“Nope, do you want to keep guessing or do you want me to tell you?”
“Just tell me, I’m too tired to do the guessing game tonight.”
“Her personal trainer reported it.”
“So, where’s the twist?”
“Look at the name of the personal trainer.”
Brown opened the folder and looked over the report. The call had come from a c-170c version holographic in-home personal trainer calling itself “Cindi”. Brown laughed to himself. It was exactly what he needed, another computer assuming it knew protocol better than he did. He was so not in the mood for this tonight.
“Baker pass this down to you?”
“Nope, came straight from the captain,” Sykes replied with an irritating smile.
“The captain? Why would he care? Where is he?” Brown peered around his filling cabinet (electronic filing system my ass, he thought) to see the captain inside his office with the door closed. Looking through the window he could see that he didn’t have anyone in there and decided to chance it.
“I’m gonna ask him,” he said, pushing up from his desk.
“Ok, your funeral,” Sykes warned.
“You just don’t have my skills of persuasion,” Brown said with as much cockiness as he could manage without laughing. Sykes raised an eyebrow at him as he walked away to what he could only assume would be a much-deserved chewing out.
It was the sixth case like this they’d received in two months and it seemed like the frequency was increasing. The last time they’d managed to get off the case by procrastinating their closure of one involving real people but Brown knew that kind of shit wouldn’t fly more than once. He didn’t think he’d have to be brainstorming all these new and ingenious ways to get the cases shifted to other people but the skill was becoming a necessity. Tonight he planned to employ his laid-back “buddies” approach with the captain. It could be a risky move depending on how bad things had gone downtown but he was banking on the captain’s new girlfriend he’d seen stop by for lunch to keep him in a good mood.
Brown knocked on the door quietly but insistently. No answer. He peered through the window and smiled at the captain who ignored him. He knocked again. The captain looked up from what appeared to be a non-interstation report and looked at him with an irritated expression. Brown smiled, waved and motioned that he come inside. The captain seemed to deflate as he sighed and waved him in.
“What do you want?” he said with the same irritation Brown had seen on his face.
“Nothing, nothing- just wondering why we’re wasting time on a paranoid android,” he said in his best good ‘ol boy voice.
“Which reason do you want? The fact that in order to maintain good public relations and try to maintain our budget we have to be seen as respecting all lifestyles including those with are not biologically alive? Or the fact that the alternative intelligence society is on our ass for ignoring the last call from an artificial intelligence housecleaner that turned out to be a real lead?” The volume of his voice was growing slowly but noticeably and Brown was quickly realizing how huge of a mistake he’d made by coming in here.
“Captain, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“
“Or hey, here’s a good one,” he cut him off angrily. “How about the fact that since several members of this department including yourself are already under scrutiny from the commissioner due to suspected discrimination on casing we can’t afford to pass up a single lead; especially one coming from a detective who has conveniently been detained on other cases and been unable to follow up on leads from A.I.’s in the past?”
“Captain, I assure you I-“
“Do you really want to interrupt me right now? Really?” He squinted at him. Brown looked down to try to avoid eye contact and noticed the papers the captain’d been reading. Divorce papers. Fuck. He promptly shut his mouth, set his jaw tight and stood there.
“That’s what I thought. Well to make sure that you leave here with a perfectly clear understanding of your assignment since that is obviously so important to you I have one final reason.” He paused, waiting for Brown to interrupt again. Brown looked him straight in the eye, pushed back his shoulders, and said nothing.
“I’m your boss and if I give you an order, you follow it. Got it?”
Brown nodded at him with his jaw set in a firm but submissive line and waited for a sign that he could leave.
“Any other questions that just can’t wait?”
Brown shook his head, just once. He couldn’t be seen as angry at the reprimand, sympathetic for his personal life or anything else even remotely emotional if he wanted to get out of here alive. So he strove for unreadability. Not that he expected to fool him, but he had to at least make the effort. The captain looked him over thoroughly and waited for him to make a sign that he was pissed, or defiant, or anything else. But he was working really hard to keep it all under the surface and he decided to reward him by excusing him.
“Go do your job,” he dismissed him with a firm wave of his hand. Brown didn’t quite bolt but made his way out of the office in as quick a professional walk as he could manage and quietly closed the door behind him. He made his way back to his desk, slapped the folder down on the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, shoving his hand into the sleeve violently.
“Let’s go, Sykes.”
“That good, huh?” he smirked.
“Don’t,” he said with as much rage as he could put into one syllable. The smile vanished from Sykes' face instantly and he grabbed his jacket to follow his partner out of the station.
“So what’ve we got here?” Brown asked, reaching for the folder.
“Missing person with a twist,” Sykes replied.
“Let me guess, she was just seen by several people the day before her disappearance.”
“Nope, do you want to keep guessing or do you want me to tell you?”
“Just tell me, I’m too tired to do the guessing game tonight.”
“Her personal trainer reported it.”
“So, where’s the twist?”
“Look at the name of the personal trainer.”
Brown opened the folder and looked over the report. The call had come from a c-170c version holographic in-home personal trainer calling itself “Cindi”. Brown laughed to himself. It was exactly what he needed, another computer assuming it knew protocol better than he did. He was so not in the mood for this tonight.
“Baker pass this down to you?”
“Nope, came straight from the captain,” Sykes replied with an irritating smile.
“The captain? Why would he care? Where is he?” Brown peered around his filling cabinet (electronic filing system my ass, he thought) to see the captain inside his office with the door closed. Looking through the window he could see that he didn’t have anyone in there and decided to chance it.
“I’m gonna ask him,” he said, pushing up from his desk.
“Ok, your funeral,” Sykes warned.
“You just don’t have my skills of persuasion,” Brown said with as much cockiness as he could manage without laughing. Sykes raised an eyebrow at him as he walked away to what he could only assume would be a much-deserved chewing out.
It was the sixth case like this they’d received in two months and it seemed like the frequency was increasing. The last time they’d managed to get off the case by procrastinating their closure of one involving real people but Brown knew that kind of shit wouldn’t fly more than once. He didn’t think he’d have to be brainstorming all these new and ingenious ways to get the cases shifted to other people but the skill was becoming a necessity. Tonight he planned to employ his laid-back “buddies” approach with the captain. It could be a risky move depending on how bad things had gone downtown but he was banking on the captain’s new girlfriend he’d seen stop by for lunch to keep him in a good mood.
Brown knocked on the door quietly but insistently. No answer. He peered through the window and smiled at the captain who ignored him. He knocked again. The captain looked up from what appeared to be a non-interstation report and looked at him with an irritated expression. Brown smiled, waved and motioned that he come inside. The captain seemed to deflate as he sighed and waved him in.
“What do you want?” he said with the same irritation Brown had seen on his face.
“Nothing, nothing- just wondering why we’re wasting time on a paranoid android,” he said in his best good ‘ol boy voice.
“Which reason do you want? The fact that in order to maintain good public relations and try to maintain our budget we have to be seen as respecting all lifestyles including those with are not biologically alive? Or the fact that the alternative intelligence society is on our ass for ignoring the last call from an artificial intelligence housecleaner that turned out to be a real lead?” The volume of his voice was growing slowly but noticeably and Brown was quickly realizing how huge of a mistake he’d made by coming in here.
“Captain, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“
“Or hey, here’s a good one,” he cut him off angrily. “How about the fact that since several members of this department including yourself are already under scrutiny from the commissioner due to suspected discrimination on casing we can’t afford to pass up a single lead; especially one coming from a detective who has conveniently been detained on other cases and been unable to follow up on leads from A.I.’s in the past?”
“Captain, I assure you I-“
“Do you really want to interrupt me right now? Really?” He squinted at him. Brown looked down to try to avoid eye contact and noticed the papers the captain’d been reading. Divorce papers. Fuck. He promptly shut his mouth, set his jaw tight and stood there.
“That’s what I thought. Well to make sure that you leave here with a perfectly clear understanding of your assignment since that is obviously so important to you I have one final reason.” He paused, waiting for Brown to interrupt again. Brown looked him straight in the eye, pushed back his shoulders, and said nothing.
“I’m your boss and if I give you an order, you follow it. Got it?”
Brown nodded at him with his jaw set in a firm but submissive line and waited for a sign that he could leave.
“Any other questions that just can’t wait?”
Brown shook his head, just once. He couldn’t be seen as angry at the reprimand, sympathetic for his personal life or anything else even remotely emotional if he wanted to get out of here alive. So he strove for unreadability. Not that he expected to fool him, but he had to at least make the effort. The captain looked him over thoroughly and waited for him to make a sign that he was pissed, or defiant, or anything else. But he was working really hard to keep it all under the surface and he decided to reward him by excusing him.
“Go do your job,” he dismissed him with a firm wave of his hand. Brown didn’t quite bolt but made his way out of the office in as quick a professional walk as he could manage and quietly closed the door behind him. He made his way back to his desk, slapped the folder down on the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, shoving his hand into the sleeve violently.
“Let’s go, Sykes.”
“That good, huh?” he smirked.
“Don’t,” he said with as much rage as he could put into one syllable. The smile vanished from Sykes' face instantly and he grabbed his jacket to follow his partner out of the station.
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