Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

by William Bebb

  But I like to examine a murder from multiple angles to get a full picture of how things happened. Take for example, your manager's murder this evening.”

  “I don't understand what you're getting at, detective. Is there a point? You have the murderer. You even have an eyewitness who caught him for you,” the owner pointed out while shaking her head.

  “My nephew helped with the renovations, ma'am. And though it's probably not very professional for him to have told me something important, I knew this case would be a snap to solve once you got here.” The detective paused to take a few more puffs on the cigar while staring over at the chef. LeBeouf averted his eyes and edged slowly toward a pair of crossed antique swords hanging on the wall.

  “Mr. LeBeouf, I believe you murdered the manager a few hours ago... and please stop moving toward those weapons hanging on the wall. Officer Daniel Corneaux would probably prefer not to shoot you, but I believe he would if you did something else stupid tonight.

  The department makes officers, like Danny, fill out more paperwork than you can imagine when shots are fired, isn't that so?”

  “Uh, yes sir,” Corneaux answered while placing his hand on the holstered gun at his side.

  “This is insane. You have no proof. Just a bunch of conjecture. If you arrest me, I'll sue!” The chef sputtered angrily as he backed away from the swords.

  “You're not under arrest... yet. You're merely under suspicion for the time being,” the detective said with a sly grin.

  “Do you have any proof, Detective Falkner?” The owner asked as she swiveled her chair and scooted a few feet away from the chef.

  “Oh, no ma'am. I have a very strong suspicion, but I believe it's you that have the proof.”

  “This is madness. Am I under arrest or not?” The chef demanded while crossing his arms across his chest.

  “Sir, I already told you that you are not under arrest yet,” Falkner said with a hint of irritation in his voice for the first time that evening. He stared at the chef for a moment longer then turned to smile at the lady behind the desk and cleared his throat. “Ma'am, I think you should be quite proud to be the owner of such a fine restaurant. It is probably one of the best in the French Quarter, at least that's my opinion.

  Ramone's serves only the freshest seafood, the choicest cuts of beef, including that Kobe kind that I'd probably have to take out a loan to get, and all kinds of other rather expensive food.”

  “I refuse to serve anything but the very best,” Miss Cavanaugh said as her face blushed slightly with pride for her restaurant.

  “Yes ma'am. But, with such fine rather expensive foods you and your manager hired the company that my nephew works at to install some special equipment to help deter pilferage.”

  A look of dawning comprehension appeared on her face as she said, “The hidden security camera?”

  “Yes ma'am,” the detective said while smiling over at the pale white face of the chef. “Personally, I sometimes think cameras take all the challenge out of being a detective, but they can be very helpful as well. At least they certainly tend to speed things along.

  That's why I had someone fetch you down here. If you'd please run back the footage from around half past ten that was recorded from the camera covering the walk in cooler, I believe we can wrap things up in very short order.”

  Miss Cavanaugh turned to the computer and typed in her password.

  As she brought up the video program and continued typing, the chef glared at the detective with pure hatred. “That's why you had me sit around all night in the kitchen and asked me all those idiotic questions. You didn't care anything about my clothing, footwear, or any of the other dumb stuff you rambled on about. You just wanted to keep me here until Miss Cavanaugh arrived to retrieve the footage.”

  “Well, ,sir, that's not exactly true. For instance, I really do plan on going by that restaurant supply store and see if they have some more comfortable shoes in my size; preferably in brown. Thank you again for the tip.”

  The chef heard Miss Cavanaugh gasp and looked over at the computer monitor just in time to see himself on the screen plunging the knife through the manager's neck.

  She paused the image but Falkner didn't even turn to take a look. He already knew what he'd see. The police officer stepped forward and didn't wait to be told what to do before spinning the still stunned chef around so that he was facing the wall and slapped handcuffs around his wrists.

  When Officer Daniel Corneaux finished explaining to the chef his Miranda rights, the detective said, “I've always wanted to say something, but never had a Danny for an arresting officer before. Book him, Dano.”

  The officer, chef, and Miss Cavanaugh all wore the same blank somewhat confused expressions as they looked at Detective Falkner.

  “Aw geez, none of you folks ever watched Hawaii five-o on television? I guess my wife's right, maybe I am getting too old for this kind of work.”

  *****

  (Almost eighteen months later)

  “And how did that make you feel?” The middle aged man, with several days worth of stubble covering his face, dressed in a rumpled and somewhat dirty looking lab coat, asked before yawning so widely that his jaw popped audibly.

  Maurice LeBeouf looked over at the doctor’s somewhat long tufts of frizzy reddish colored hair sticking out of his head and chuckled quietly before saying, “You'll laugh, doctor, but the honest to God truth is I actually felt better. I know it's insane but once the detective actually accused me, even before he rolled the video on the computer that showed me killing the manager, my headache was almost completely gone.”

  Dr. Hagan nodded before yawning again and saying, “Actually, I do believe it. I've studied quite a bit of psychology and what you say meshes nicely with many studies of various mental abnormalities. Most prisoners won't ever admit it, but deep inside many are actually relieved when they're finally caught. The stress of living with the constant fear of discovery builds up over time. The fear grows gradually and studies have shown it's this fear that feeds many mental illnesses and usually causes an ever greater sense of dread, except for those individuals with no sense of empathy or compunction when it comes to crime.”

  The ex chef appeared doubtful.

  Hagan smiled and reached for his cup of coffee. He sniffed the contents and looked displeased by the aroma. Setting the cup back down on his desk, between himself and LeBeouf, he stretched out with both arms over his head for a few moments before saying, “I know it may seem unlikely that most men here at Bayonne felt relief when they were caught, but I believe it's true.

  Think about it for a minute. Your typical somewhat normal person, mentally speaking, is under quite a bit of stress when they go about doing something sneaky; such as a man who cheats on his wife with a prostitute. Now, multiply that stress or fear of discovery several times over and that's how many criminals feel right up until the moment they're caught. Of course, at that point the stress doesn't go away but it changes.

  The stress caused by policemen, judges, juries, and the possibility of prison all combine to generate a new type of fear, however the constant fear of discovery vanishes when criminals are finally caught.

  I've spoken to many convicts that told me they had stopped answering the phone, were terrified whenever someone knocked on their front door, and suffered nightmares about getting caught that were so frequent and powerful that they grew to have horrible cases of insomnia.”

  “What about me?” LeBeouf asked, then clarified his question as Dr Hagan seemed confused. “I didn't have any anxiety like you just described. I was a little nervous with the detective always asking stupid questions but didn't have any problems. All I wanted was to get away.”

  “I might be wrong, but I believe whatever stress and underlying mental problems you had, coupled with that tumor the doctors later removed from your brain, led to your killing the manager temporarily disappeared as you and your psychiatrists said during your trial.

  Some people, heck most
of them, blow off steam everyday without murdering someone; via exercise, gardening, yelling, smashing things, sedatives, etcetera. You weren't upset about murdering the manager and fearing getting caught that evening because it was too soon. But if you'd somehow gotten away with it, eventually, I'm certain you'd have been constantly worried that someday you'd be accused and proven guilty.

  Out of curiosity, What became of Paco, the man you tried to frame for the murder?”

  “I saw him a few times at my trial. He didn't seem particularly sorry to see me well on my way to prison. A couple of times when he caught me looking at him, he actually thumbed his nose at me and smiled.”

  “So, you had no idea there were cameras in the restaurant?” Dr Hagan asked before standing up slowly and crossing the infirmary to get another cup of coffee.

  “Oh, sure, I knew there were cameras covering various parts of the building. But those were all easily visible devices that only a blind man could miss. The only hidden camera in the whole restaurant covered the walk-in cooler to catch employees who might try to steal. Apparently, the detective's nephew was the one who had installed it and mentioned it to him.”

  “But, now you actually have a chance of being freed if the psychiatric review board agrees with your doctors that what happened was due to a temporary psychotic break coupled with the tumor. I actually spoke to Warden Massengail briefly this afternoon and he said once the rioting calms down and the bureaucrats in Baton Rouge return to work, you could be out of here in less than a month.”

  LeBeouf nodded but had a doubtful look on his face which slowly morphed into anger. “I just hope I never meet that little detective again. He was so… so… annoying and… so damn good at his job.”

  “Well, as long as you continue with your medication regimen and keep having regular visits with your psychiatrist, I truly doubt you’d ever be a danger to anyone ever again. Thus, the odds of him investigating you again seem very slim indeed,” Hagan said while glancing nervously down the hallway that lead to the maximum security ward, where the most dangerous and deviant convicts were housed.

  “Speaking of medications, did any more sedatives get delivered today? The freaks down the hall seem very boisterous.”

  “I asked the warden about that earlier as well. He told me the governor had already sent word that things should be better around here by noon tomorrow. I assume that means National Guard troops with supplies will be coming; although, Massengail actually seemed oddly secretive... almost guarded about everything when we spoke over the phone. But, trust me, I have no plans of opening their cells. Don't worry about that.

  As to your question, I've run out of all the most powerful stuff. They've been taking something almost like a generic Valium, which is more of a sedative than anything else, but it's better than nothing,” Dr Hagan said, lifting up a clipboard and looking worriedly at the long list of psychotics caged down the hall.

  “Want to play some chess?”

  “Why don’t you go microwave us a couple of frozen dinners while I go do my inspections of the ward? After we eat then I shall once more attempt to kick your ass at chess.”

  LeBeouf sighed and nodded before he turned and grumbled his way into the kitchenette, “From head chef at Ramones, in the heart of New Orleans, to heating up trays of frozen vomit not so cleverly disguised as food; yes, I’ve come a very long way indeed.”

  Dr. Hagan's footsteps echoed through the deserted infirmary's hallways. Up until about a week earlier there were always at least two orderlies and a nurse serving on every shift and the lack of bustling activity seemed very relaxing.

  Maybe they should keep the prisoners on lock down year round, he thought with a smile. Of course, if they did that the ACLU or some other group of liberal nut-cakes would file lawsuits accusing the prison authorities of being cruel.

  IDIOTS!

  In a typical week we probably have a few dozen prisoners brought in here with broken arms, fingers, and even the occasional stab wounds, but do the well meaning nut-cakes care?

  Hell no!

  Does it matter that this is the longest period Bayonne has gone without a fight between the races?

  Again, hell no.

  Dr. Hagan stopped walking and took a deep breath before entering the computer code that would open the heavy metallic sliding door that lead to the psychiatric ward. He leaned his mostly bald head against the cool metal and tried to think of something nice.

  It was not an easy thing to do.

  God, I need some sleep, he thought while trying to envision bright beautiful sweetly fragrant flowers in a garden. The images that flashed through his mind started out alright, but quickly became fractured and grew oddly warped. The roses were black and smelled of feces. The daffodils stretched up high and instead of having bright colors they loomed over with a bruised purple and mottled dark sickly green and stunk of mildew, mold, and rotting fish at low tide.

  Snoring himself awake, Dr. Hagan jerked and barely caught himself before collapsing to the floor.

  He slapped his face somewhat roughly a few times and came close to giving up on the idea of doing the psychiatric ward inspection altogether. It was his sense of duty that ultimately won out, though, as he entered the security code and the door slid open.

  The hallway smelled more foul than ever before and dozens of globs and blobs of excrement were laid out on the tiled floor like a minefield.

  Hagan sighed inwardly as he stepped carefully into the corridor, so as not to tread in something rather decidedly unpleasant. The first few cells contained men who had I. Q.s so low that, technically speaking, they should be in a facility for the permanently and irreversibly insane. After noting that they were still alive he quickly moved on.

  Mr. Jacobie was sitting cross legged in the middle of his cell. His thin, usually wispy, gray hair looked as if he'd used water to smooth it down over his head.

  Dr. Hagan paused and smiled at the old man.

  It looked like Jacobie's eyes were closed but somehow the old man seemed to know the doctor was standing just beyond the bars. He spoke in a slow soft voice. “Beware, doctor, something bad is coming. I can feel it.”

  The doctor shuddered and then reminded himself, He's just a crazy old man, and continued on with his inspection. The rest of the hallway was clear of excrement and as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Dr. Hagan owed this fact to the man inside the last cell; Ezekiel Thorne aka Twisto the Clown.

  Hagan always walked well away from the bars of the cells, but paused to confirm each of the inhabitants were indeed still alive. There were giggles and excited whispers coming from some cells. The doctor continued down the hallway without comment.

  When Hagan reached the end of hallway, Ezekiel was standing at his cell door wearing a lopsided grin. “Hiya, doc, want to hear a joke?”

  “No, thank you,” Hagan said, without looking up and finished making his notes.

  “You look more tired than a two dollar whore during fleet week. Why don't you stretch out on my bunk and take a nap? I'll make sure no one bothers you,” the smiling man said as the doctor turned and started away.

  Halfway down the hallway the overhead public address speakers broadcast a snippet of static before a prerecorded message announced, “Attention! Attention! All personnel report to fire fighting stations immediately!” The message repeated as the overhead fire suppression sprinklers began spraying down the hallway and every cell door slid open.

  FUCK! Was Dr. Hagan's only frantic thought as he started sprinting toward the big solid metallic door that had also slid open. His exhaustion was a thing of the past as his feet seemed to grow wings.

  There was a confused excited cacophony of words coming out of the open cells, but the only voice he heard clearly was Ezekiel's, shouting, “Don't run! You'll only die tired!” followed by maniacal laughter that erupted from most of the open cells. (Some of the patients didn’t understand what Ezekiel had said and that’s why everyone didn’t laugh)

  Dr. H
agan swerved past Mr. Jacobie. Next to Maurice LeBeouf, he was the only patient he even came close to trusting. Jacobie was a prisoner who often attacked fellow inmates utilizing his ‘special Ninja skills.’ He has sworn several times these skills were learned while serving in Japan's Intelligence Service, and later as a member of Michael Jackson’s security entourage until he was arrested and sentenced to Bayonne for murdering a prostitute in Baton Rouge.

  Standing at five foot tall, weighing just over a hundred pounds, and being almost sixty years old, Mr. Jacobie was locked up for his own protection after repeatedly attacking his fellow convicts and being beaten almost to death on no less than twenty occasions over the last ten years.

  After Hagan ran by, Mr. Jacobie turned to face the gang of psychotics charging toward him. He squatted slightly with his bony legs spread wide and both hands held open in the classic Judo chop position.

  He was promptly trampled and left dazed and more than usually confused as the others continued the chase.

  With only a dozen feet to the heavy door left to go, Hagan couldn’t believe that he would actually manage to escape. He could see the red panic button on the wall beyond the door and knew all he’d have to do is hit it to shut the security door. Almost there! Oh God, I’m going to make it!

  And if he hadn’t stepped on one of the wet slippery piles of excrement that had been thrown on the floor he most likely would have too. Waving his arms frantically in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his balance while sliding across the tiles, as the fire sprinklers continued to spray water down, he realized with great sadness that his chances of living to see another day were a dishearteningly miniscule thing.

  Ramone's, oh how I miss you, LeBeouf thought while pulling the foul smelling dinners out of the microwave oven. His thoughts were interrupted as the message of fire was played from the ceiling mounted speakers, followed by an alarm sounding and water spraying down from the sprinklers. “Oh, this can't be anything good,” he said before running into the hallway.