Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Yeah,” Thinnes said.

  Bendix hawked and spat into the moving carpet of maggots, well away from the human remains. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “Gathering evidence.”

  “Of what?” Thinnes shrugged. “You even got a crime here? All I see is a dead guy. City’s full of ’em. ME’s up to his asshole in dead bodies. So what?”

  “He died under suspicious circumstances. I gotta do a death investigation. You gotta collect evidence.”

  “Fuck you! I’m filing a grievance!” Bendix shoved the stogie in his mouth and stalked out.

  That left the technician who was carrying the camera with a clear view of the scene. He swallowed and asked Thinnes, “What do I do?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the maggots.

  “Get as many pictures as you can stomach. Documentation.”

  “Do I hafta…go in?”

  “No, but try to get good shots. This has to be seen to be believed.”

  There wasn’t much useful evidence—a few fingerprints on the cooler door and a cigarette pack on the floor next to it. When the tech had lifted the prints and bagged the package, and had run off two rolls of film, they went back out to wait for the meat wagon.

  The afternoon had slipped below the tops of the buildings across the street, though the resulting shade didn’t offer much relief. Bendix was sitting sideways in his open car, watching the smoke rise from his cigar. The beat copper had been joined by his partner—a young, male Hispanic—and a civilian, a tall, old man, bowlegged with arthritis, with a beer gut like nine-months-pregnant. He was dressed for the occasion—T-shirt, cutoffs, and work boots with his socks rolled down over the tops. He hadn’t bathed or shaved in too long, and he had no teeth. The coppers introduced him as the neighbor who’d made the complaint to 911 about the smell. Mr. A1 Linsky. Linsky was toting a tube dispenser of four-ounce paper cups and a fifth of Jim Beam. “Figured you guys could use a little splash of some-thin’ to settle your stomachs.”

  He sloshed the whiskey into a cup and offered it to the Irish copper, who looked as if he desperately wanted it. He looked at Thinnes, who shrugged, then at Bendix.

  Bendix gave Thinnes a long, appraising look, then walked over and took the whiskey and slugged down. He nodded at the old man, crumpled the cup, and walked back to throw it behind the seat of his car. The other three men looked at Thinnes, who shrugged, and the old man gave a cup to each, and to Thinnes.

  As he took it, Thinnes noticed Linsky had the fire department logo tattooed on the inside of his forearm. Thinnes waited until the old man had filled the cups and poured one for himself before saying, “Cheers.” He downed the whiskey as fast as Bendix had and watched the others do the same. The old man offered them all seconds—all declined—before refilling his own. Thinnes collected the empties, nested them, then crushed them, stomping on the debris, before throwing it in the box behind the car seat. The technician put his gear in his own van and took off. The beat cops got in their car and started the engine. Thinnes pointed to his Caprice and asked Linsky if he’d like to talk in the AC. “I need to hear your story.”

  “Just as soon stay out here,” the old man said. “Not much of a story.” He sat down on the curb in front of the car, with his back to the alley and its barrier tape. He refilled his cup and put the bottle against the curb. In spite of his arthritis, he managed to bring his knees up almost to his chest and rest his elbows on them. All the better to bend the elbow, Thinnes guessed. He parked his own tail against the front of his car.

  “Not much of a story,” the old man repeated when they were settled. “Widow owns that.” Without looking, he hitched his thumb over his shoulder toward the crime scene. “Been tryna sell it eight or nine years now. Someone’s been takin’ down the signs; lettin’ the air outta people’s tire’s when they come lookin’; an’ like that.” Again without looking, he swung his thumb over his shoulder to point, this time from north to south, at the buildings flanking the alley. “Probably one of these bastards hopin’ to get their hands on it cheap when the old lady croaks. Anyway, when I smelled it—I live downwind, in case they didn’t tell you—I figured maybe some animal wandered in there and died. Never figured it for anything like this…” Again he indicated the alley with his thumb. “The door wasn’t locked, so I went in and looked…” He shrugged.

  “Was somebody using the cooler?”

  “Seems so. Wasn’t s’posed to be.”

  “So who’d use it without permission?”

  Linsky took a sip of his booze and thought about it. “Bout anybody from the neighborhood might know it was empty. The stiff, maybe?”

  The squad roll driver had come equipped—high-topped rubber boots and long-sleeved gloves. He and his partner had bagging stiffs down to a science: lay the bag out next to the remains, roll the body in, zip. In the case of maggot man, they grabbed him by the pants and pulled him out of the cooler first. They ignored the maggots.

  “We love Levis,” the driver said. “We could do commercials.”

  “Yeah,” his partner said, “You wouldn’t believe how often a stiff’s clothes’ll come apart before we get it loaded. Not Levis.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Thinnes said, “If I ever plan to get murdered. As long as you’re at it, mind checking for an ID?”

  Oster was still in the squad room when Thinnes got back. “Thinnes,” he said, “Bendix is beefin’ you. For harassment. What the hell d’you do to him?”

  “You know how he’s always bragging that he’s seen everything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now he has.”

  “What?”

  “You had to be there.”

  “Glad I wasn’t. You stink.” Before Thinnes could be hurt, he added, “I’m not kiddin’. Go take a shower.”

  Thirty-One

  Thursday night Caleb had dinner with friends at the Palmer House. It had been nearly a year since he’d been there, and the oppressive heat made him reluctant to hurry out when his friends called it a night. He told them he’d have a nightcap in the hotel bar and take a cab home.

  Forty-five minutes later, he noticed a man across the room who seemed to be alone and who’d had too much to drink. Caleb watched him for a full minute before he realized that he knew him. It took another thirty seconds to place him. Martin Morgan. With recognition came disappointment, disappointment that Morgan failed to measure up to Caleb’s standards of appropriate behavior, as well as that he, Caleb, had so misjudged him.

  Caleb was ordinarily repulsed by drunks, but the doctor’s state of inebriation was in such contrast to the controlled individual Caleb had met previously, that the psychiatrist was fascinated. And Morgan wasn’t sloppy or maudlin, only ineffably sad. As the physician tried to cross the room without staggering, Caleb wondered whether he was a controlled binger or in some state of crisis. It was in case the latter situation obtained—and out of long professional habit—that Caleb walked over to where Morgan had stopped to steady himself against the back of an unoccupied chair. Caleb beat the bouncer by two steps.

  The muscular black man was dressed in a blazer with the hotel’s logo. He carried a discreet radio. “You know this gentleman, Sir?”

  Caleb nodded.

  Apparently ignoring their exchange, Morgan seemed to be trying to place Caleb. He swayed on his feet. “Do you know me?”

  Caleb said, “Martin,” as if they were old friends. No use compromising the man’s reputation by title-dropping. “You seem a bit under the weather. Perhaps you should sit down and let me call you a cab.”

  The bouncer seemed relieved.

  Morgan considered Caleb’s suggestion a long time before he said, “Yes.” His whole body swayed as he looked for somewhere to sit.

  Caleb pointed toward a vacant chair near the door to the men’s room, then took Morgan’s arm. “I’ll take care of him,” he told the bouncer.

  The man’s “thanks” sounded sincere.

  Caleb seated his charge.

&nb
sp; Martin announced, “I’m drunk.”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment Morgan stared at him, then said, “I’m sorry.” And after a pause, “I don’t remember you.”

  “Jack Caleb. We met last March.” Martin still seemed at a loss. “At your office?”

  “Oh, Lord! A patient. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Remembering the family portrait, Caleb wondered what sort of woman Morgan’s wife was and decided he could find out. “May I offer you a ride, Doctor?”

  “A ride? Where?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Kenilworth.”

  Small world. Caleb pushed the rush of associations out of mind and said, “Let me take you home.”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head and looked at Caleb as if expecting Caleb to provide clarification. When none was forthcoming, he added, “Go home.”

  “Why can’t you go home?”

  “You can never go home.”

  An echo of the Moody Blues’ melody came to mind like déjà vu. What else did he and Morgan have in common? He waited.

  Morgan put a hand, fingers splayed, over his face and sobbed. “My wife threw me out.”

  “Ah.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Caleb pulled him to his feet and hurried him to the men’s room. After they’d flushed the remains of his dinner, Caleb helped him clean himself up. “Come on,” he said, finally. “You sit down while I call a cab.”

  Twenty minutes later he steered his charge to the registration desk of the North Loop Hotel. The clerk on duty—a Ms. Lennox, by her badge—was a café au lait black woman with almond-shaped, obsidian eyes that gave her an exotic appearance.

  Morgan folded his arms on the counter and rested his head on them.

  Caleb caught a glimpse of disgust from Ms. Lennox, then the display of her public service smile. “My associate needs a room.”

  “Does he have a reservation?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. With all the visitors in town for Taste…” Taste of Chicago, the city’s annual food fest…

  Caleb handed her his business card and watched her attitude adjust for the better. He often put guests and visiting colleagues up at the hotel and even more frequently patronized its restaurant.

  She obviously recognized the name. “…Lucky to have a room available. Single or double?”

  “A single will be fine,” he said. “No bar.”

  She nodded and checked her available rooms. “I have one near the elevator?”

  A toss-up. Noisy, but nearby. In any case, if Morgan’s sleep was disturbed, it was no more than he deserved. “That’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll need a major credit card…”

  Caleb turned to Morgan, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot and sagging floorward like a child falling asleep on his feet. “Martin?”

  Morgan didn’t answer.

  Caleb patted him down like a cop looking for weapons. He located a wallet in an inside jacket pocket and extracted it, then extracted a Visa Gold card. “Will this do?”

  Ms. Lennox didn’t seem to find the procedure unusual. She nodded and ran the card through her machine, which in no time produced a receipt with a signature line. She handed the paper and a pen to Caleb.

  Caleb said, “I need a signature, Doctor.” He put the pen in Morgan’s hand and the paper under it.

  Morgan produced a scribble on the paper, a reasonable facsimile of the scribble on the back of the credit card. For the first time in his life, Caleb could see some use for the system of internship and residency that produced men who could sign their names when they were too drunk or drugged or psychotic from sleep deprivation to know what they were doing. He gave the receipt back to Ms. Lennox. “He’ll need valet service for his suit. I’ll bring it down.” She nodded, then typed information on her terminal. “And a wake-up call at eight. Breakfast…” She looked up. Caleb added, “Eggs—over easy, whole wheat toast, tomato juice, coffee. A Tribune. Oh, and an emergency kit.”

  “What size?”

  Caleb looked at Morgan, who was close to his own size, and guessed. Ms. Lennox disappeared through a door behind her post, returning shortly with a small, glitzy shopping bag that she put on the counter. Inside, he knew there’d be pajamas and a terry cloth robe, toothbrush and toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, razor, trial-size shaving cream, and an assortment of trial-size after shaves.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “How long will Mr. Morgan be staying?”

  “One night. Or, he’ll let you know in the morning.”

  Caleb had to half carry Morgan up to the room. In the elevator, he dropped the bag on the floor and propped Morgan against a front corner holding him there with one hand while he pushed the button with the other. He wished he’d waited for a bell hop.

  I need to get a life, he thought, as the door opened on the seventh floor. He shook Morgan awake and maneuvered him toward the room, leaving the bag in the hall. Morgan’s eyes were open, but Caleb was sure nothing was making an impression. Playing the hero was getting to be a neurotic habit, Caleb reflected. He needed an appraisal of his own mental faculties. However, as he thought about it, his physician wouldn’t have referred him to a man whose professional and moral credentials were less than impeccable. So Morgan must have redeeming qualities. Caleb leaned him against the wall while he unlocked the door. Morgan closed his eyes.

  “Martin, wake up.”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “I know. Come in and you can go right to sleep.”

  Morgan swayed forward, nearly falling on his face. Caleb caught him, turned him around, and pushed him into the room. As soon as Caleb let go, Morgan sank onto the bed, closing his eyes and curling into the fetal position. Caleb retrieved the bag from the hall and closed the door. He checked Morgan’s pulse and pupillary response, then took the pajamas and robe from the bag, laying the latter across the room’s only chair and the former on the bed. Dressing and undressing helpless adults was a task for which his years as a hospice volunteer had prepared him. He removed Morgan’s shoes, socks, and suit jacket, then everything else—down to his wedding ring. He emptied the pockets onto the dresser top. He couldn’t help noticing that Morgan had a beautiful body, well formed and well developed. He looked like a runner—long muscular legs and narrow hips. His genitals were well proportioned; he’d been circumcised. His abdomen was flat, and he had a sprinkling of auburn hair running up his midline and across his chest.

  Though he was a licensed physician, Caleb usually confined his examinations to mental states and motives, referring his patients to their own physicians or to hospitals, HMOs, or clinics for physicals. He blushed and hurried to cover Morgan with the pajamas.

  Through it all, Morgan slept like an exhausted child, and only the alcohol vapor he exhaled suggested he was other than an innocent.

  Caleb rolled him to one side of the bed, pulled back the covers, then rolled him over on his side in the center. After covering him, he took the emergency kit into the bathroom and emptied the rest of its contents onto the vanity. He checked his new patient a final time, gathered up his clothing, and left him to sleep it off.

  Down at the desk, Caleb handed Morgan’s clothes to Ms. Lennox. “Do you still have my card?”

  She put it on the counter in front of him.

  Caleb turned it over and wrote on it. “This is my home phone number. Call me if you have any problems.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  As he passed from the air-conditioned lobby into the sweltering summer night, Caleb considered the story of the Good Samaritan and its modern corollary: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

  Thirty-Two

  You’ll have to speak up.” Irene Sleighton’s voice was muffled as it came through the door.

  Caleb said, “Excuse me,” to the woman sitting opposite, and crossed his office to see what was going on in the reception room.

  Two
small boys—seemingly identical, about four years of age—were circling the room with plastic aircraft, bombarding each other with imaginary but very noisy artillery fire. Irene was on the phone and—by the look of her—nearly at her wit’s end. A man stood facing her, ignoring the chaos, with his back to Caleb. Even from behind his body language signaled plainly that he was not involved with the children.

  Caleb clapped his hands together twice. The boys froze and turned to face him. Irene put a hand over the receiver and said, “I’m sorry Doctor.” Caleb was dimly aware of the man turning his way.

  “Where’s their mother?”

  “With Doctor Fenwick.” Fenwick was Caleb’s partner; his office across the waiting room from Caleb’s.

  Caleb said, “I see.” He squatted down to make himself less frightening and fixed the nearest child with a serious expression. “What’s your name?”

  The boy looked terrified. “Bobby.”

  Irene returned to her phone conversation.

  Caleb pivoted without rising and looked at the other child. “And your name?”

  Tears filled his eyes; he curled his right index finger and put it in his mouth. Caleb waited. Bobby said, “Sean.”

  “Well, Bobby, you and Sean need to play more quietly.” Neither responded. Caleb said, “Do you like stories?”

  Sean opened his mouth, then shut it. Bobby nodded.

  “If you pick out a story…” Caleb pointed to a neat stack of children’s books on the table near the fish tank. “…Mrs. Sleighton will read it to you when she gets off the phone.”

  After a fractional delay, during which presumably they considered this proposition, both boys dropped their toys and charged toward the books.

  “Stop!” They froze again. Caleb stood up to ease the strain on his legs. “You need to walk.”

  They started off again, more sedately. They selected books with a minimum of shoving and hurried to show him what they’d chosen. “Read mine,” Bobby insisted. “No, mine!”

  Caleb glanced at the clock above Irene’s station. It was going to be a very long hour. “Mrs. Sleighton will read them both if you’re very quiet.”