Then came the best part, the rinse. As the soap washed away, the old Alan slowly returned, clean and pink, broken from the chrysalis, showing shyly like a fawn. This would get him through the day at least, it would get him home at least, to a real shower.
He eyed the loathsome shirt where it hung. It eyed him back. It was clammy to the touch, limp and taboo, like some scab blasted band-aid found floating in the public shower. He put it on. Yes, a good sob was definitely in order.
Alan exited the bathroom. He was feeling somewhat better, hypnotized as he was by the new smell of himself, the fresh one, the light perfumes.
He came into the office and collapsed into his chair. His reprieve, however, didn't last. There was a mess here, on his desk -- a vexing pile of rectangular notes, stacked as if some enormous paper condor had shat there. Just inches from his face, practically confronting him. It was as if...it was as if the horror of the squatter building had somehow proceeded him, had somehow managed to infect all of his protected spaces and sanctuaries.
Womack returned with the first aid-kit. "Alan, buddy, what happened?"
Alan snatched the box from Womack and opened it.
"I've been trying to get you on the radio," said Womack.
Alan tossed aside the gauze, the bandages, the tape, then found the iodine, oh sweet iodine, and began dousing the cut on his arm, laying it in heavy. Under the withering effect of chemicals, the gash looked more or less harmless. Was there iodine for the eyes? Iodine for the memories? He needed to cleanse those too, the dirt had gone deeper than just the surface.
The arm at least, it appeared he'd survived that. The problem though was Alan's hurting ribs. And his shoulder. Also his neck. Other parts too. It was all interconnected really, they weren't separate hurts, more like a single large one, a whole peninsula of pain running down the left side of his body.
They had done this to him, those parasites: Joe and his fucking pals.
"You need to follow up on something," said Alan, tersely. "A building south of the bridge. It's the tallest thing there, with a gate. You'll know it when you see it. I want you to go there and wait. See who comes around." He had to remind himself to stay calm. To relax. He was safe now. Even if his desk...if his desk was...it was best not to think about it. Relax.
"Something with the case?"
"Anyone turns up, you bring them in."
"Yeah?"
"Listen to me. What I'm about to tell you, it's just talk. Words. We are two colleagues having a conversation. And it would be foolish for you to think I was implying anything specific. Or giving you an order. Words, Womack. That is all that's coming out of my mouth. And words don't hurt people, correct?"
"Well. I... No? No. ...Or if it's yes, just say, because-- Just, whatever you want, Alan, whatever you want."
"I'm saying that if you found these guys, it would be terrible if they resisted. If that happened, they could end up in some pain. In many ways, I think that would be very fair. A certain balance would be restored, by resisting."
"Sometimes, that's the best part," said Womack, rather wistfully. For a moment he seemed taken with a past memory, a well-delivered black eye, or economically snapped arm.
Alan continued. "In our line of work, it's up to us to judge whether or not someone is resisting. And on the assignment I just gave you, at the building, no one would question your judgment if such a situation arose..."
Finally, recognition bloomed. "Ah," said Womack. He winked, his eye folding home like a catcher's mitt. "Say no more."
Alan didn't respond. His eyes, inevitably, kept returning to his desk -- usually so tranquil, now ruthlessly abused. And why today, of all days?
"Because lots of guys resist," said Womack. "That's just the way it goes."
"Yes. Two guys in particular," said Alan. "One guy, he's wearing a white cap, has a beard. Be careful -- he's loose with a knife. Some kind of ringleader. The other one's older, musician-looking, my height, soiled. You see them, you call me immediately. ...And Joe. Joe too."
"Joe?"
"If he shows. Swear to God. If he shows..."
"The second I know, you'll know."
Alan nodded.
"Hey, so also," said Womack, "been needing to tell you, Vincent's gonna get in touch soon. He's over at the morgue -- they're slicing and dicing as we speak."
"Good. And what about our Rose?"
"Threw her in the hospital. Turns out she actually was sick pretty bad."
"Any connections on her name? Address? History?"
"Haven't had time. All morning Bleecker's been riding me like some plebe. Orders, errands, this, that -- the guy just doesn't stop."
"I'll take over from here, then. You get on that thing, like I said."
"Amen to that." That wink again. "I ain't resisted a guy in a while."
Alan watched him leave. He was uncomfortably aware that his peninsula of pain was taking on more territory, including an outlying island near his buttock. And further under, beneath the tectonic plates, there was a deeper suffering, like he'd hyper extended something, a spleen maybe.
Alone, Alan could now begin to consider and organize all of the problems currently arrayed against him. They were as follows: 1) The murder. It was the underline, the context for everything else, its rushing pulse. 2) Joe. Always Joe. 3) Vagrants. In their various roles as suspects and savages and aggressors. 4) His body. The peninsula, the outlying Balkans, and the overall interruption of the current program, as in The Clean Show, followed by The Neat and Fresh Hour. 5) His desk. Yes, his fucking desk. A problem that shouldn't even be.
"This should be clean," said Alan, aloud, to himself.
When it came to his workspace Alan favored a simple amphitheater-style approach. The trays, binders, the typewriter, the photo of Susan and Eugene in the backyard (a sort of ballet pose with Susan holding their son high in the air, as if handing him off to a rescue copter) -- were positioned around the edges. Closer in was the phone, phone numbers, pens, and paper. That left center stage, a modest desk calendar purposely kept free of appointments since they unbalanced the white clarity of daily squares. And right now, taking up four weeks worth of Tuesday's through Saturday's were these official looking, annoying bits of paper.
There was a familiar urge within Alan, a soul's desire to delete these scraps of paper. It was the same urge that arose whenever Alan was accosted with Susan's leftovers...or skinned bodies or roving bands of squatters or filth in general. A message taped to Alan's phone read: "I have an engagement. Handle these." Signed, Bob Bleecker. Alan pulled a note from the pile. They were all phone messages, some from the higher ups, some from the papers, the TV. Marked 'urgent,' marked 'priority,' marked 'important.'
Oh, these problems and their itinerant, nagging sub-problems. The longer they went unaddressed, the bigger a problem they were as a whole (this warranted a whole new entry, #6 -- the problem of all the problems). They were suffocating him, besetting him on all unhappy sides like little mash faced Lilliputians. What he needed was to take decisive action. And he needed to start where it would do the most good.
The messages could wait. Relax. He pried Kozar's home number from the rolodex and dialed. He hoped the man hadn't up and wandered into the great beyond by now. Kozar picked up after the third ring.
"Alan," he chuckled. "You know I'm going on vacation, right? Marjorie is putting air in the tires as we speak. She's lubed the bearings, Alan." On the phone Kozar always sounded exactly how he looked, the image in your mind fitting absolutely with the image he presented in person -- hammy, fair, and coolly Protestant.
"I know, sorry," said Alan. "I'll be brief. If it helps, this is partly personal. And business. Half and half."
"...Business. Alan, my enthusiasm for this conversation is rapidly declining."
"Then I'll get to it. To the point. See, we were wondering, the woman we had here earlier. Any chance you looked at her?"
"Absolutely, not. I was not then and am not now going to lift a goddamn finger on th
is case as long as those--"
"Lieutenant, Lieutenant. I hear you. Just that, the reason I ask is that she might have something to do with Joe."
"Oh, who'd he piss of now?"
"Did he ever mention the name Rose?"
There was silence. The longer it went, the more acutely Alan listened, parsing the background hum for hints and meanings. He felt alert, attuned to the moves of the universe. Eventually Kozar cleared his throat and exhaled, "I haven't heard that name in a lot of years."
Alan sat up. "We, we think she might be involved in this."
"…Ah, it was her you say? She's involved?"
"We need a definite ID. And Joe is, he's in the field. If you could drop by the station--"
"Out of the question," said Kozar, gruffly. "I swear to God, I hope Bleecker chokes on this thing. And I'm sorry Alan, but that's the way it is."
"Then at least give me a last name or a description..."
"Where'd you say Joe was?"
"He's on his way, but the urgency of this-- That's why I'm calling you. It's...this thing is hinging, Lieutenant. We're on the verge. Without action, well... We need action, sir, that's what I'm trying to say. It's a crucial time." He lied, carefully, "It was Joe who suggested we talk."
It got quiet again on Kozar's end. "I guess if it's that way," he sighed, adding, "well, its Lombardi."
"Excuse me?"
"Her last name. Lombardi. Rose Lombardi."
Alan squinted. "As in..."
"As in husband and wife. I mean, they've been separated. But I don't even know for sure if that's who you've got. And really, you'll have to get this from Joe."
Gasp. Joe was married to a...to a vagrant?
"You know, Alan, you're actually a bit like Joe, in a way. Like when he was younger. I had always hoped-- Oh. Oh, excuse me, Alan... Marjorie is honking the horn, Alan... I don't like to make her mad, not when we're going to be in the car. It's a very small, very enclosed space, that car."
"Wait, Lieutenant. I need to know more."
"Is everything okay there, Alan? Is there anything I need to be concerned with? Joe, he's handling this?"
"Oh. Yes, yes sir. I mean--"
"Then goodbye."
"Sir, if you could just hold for one second--" A button on Alan's phone was blinking for an incoming call. It could be Womack. It could be Vincent. It could be Bob.
He quickly switched to the other line. "Who's this?"
"Vincent."
"I'm calling you back." Alan switched lines again. "Kozar, I'm sorry... Hello?" The line was dead, just a panting dial tone. He tried again. Nothing. Well, then that would have to be enough. Rose Lombardi it was. Even for Joe, to bring the wilderness into your life? To lay down with it? How unclean.
But more importantly, Alan now possessed Joe's secret. Finally, knowledge. Answers. Power. And, oh wow. Frankly, it was rejuvenating.
His problems, they were still there, but the air had changed -- it felt ripe with fortune, like anything Alan wanted, he would get. Surely it was no coincidence that Vincent had called at this exact moment. Surely, all the facts would soon be his.
Alan dialed the morgue. "Tell me what I want to hear."
"Ah, they just got finished. There's some things that, I mean, some points of interest..." Vincent sounded a little too meek, a bit too lost out there in all those miles of telephone cable.
"Okay. But skip the small talk," said Alan.
"Well then, all in all we've got around 40 stab wounds -- it's hard to be exact, they got lost in all the mush. Mostly around the neck and torso, defensive hits on the arms and hands. The wounds are actually paired -- suggesting a two pronged weapon."
Alan breathed deep. The data, the information, it swept him skyward in winged arms, quenching his thirst, his hunger, healing him, showering him in pure, flawless light... Male. 5-foot-9. 44 years of age. Approximately 170 pounds when in possession of previous skin and organs, or as Vincent called them, "incidentals." Teeth intact. Dragged by the foot across open ground, some dirt and grass discovered on the body. Timewise this came after being skinned...Vincent, after much vacillating, used the word "stripped."
"About the skin," said Alan. "Was the victim still alive when it was removed?"
"He was already dead from the stabbing. But the surprise here is that, well, there's no sign that a knife or, or anything cut away the, well the hide. Which is unexpected. Instead, we got, uh, what we've got are. These...teeth marks."
"Excuse me?"
"Teeth," said Vincent, airlessly.
To himself, Alan admitted a certain technical appreciation -- incorporating devourment into the overall formula would make for a clever challenge.
"In a million years I couldn't make this up," said Vincent.
"Give me details," said Alan. "What and how."
"Well, the Doc says that the damage is, it's more of a scraping, rather than, like a tearing. So the skin was...I mean, this blows my mind. Who's gonna eat a body?"
"Vincent. VINCENT. Listen to me. I can hear it in your voice. An unattractive doubt. A fear. And quite frankly, it's unprofessional. X's and O's is all this is. A plus B equals C. Facts and factors."
"But I--"
Why was it so hard for people to understand? Why was Alan the only who got it? "Names, dates, numbers!" he snapped. "X, Y, Z! If you're going to talk about scraping, then give me scraping and save the rest for your fucking diary."
Vincent apologized. Alan briefly wondered if Vincent actually did keep a diary, and what that would be like. Probably semi-literate, the dulled observations of a tough. Although that was probably more Womack's style. So no, maybe Vincent didn't keep a diary. But he'd definitely do something just as pathetic. Like go to church.
"Okay," said Vincent after a few heavy breaths, some kind of Lamaze. "You-you're right, Alan. So, then...it was the doctors opinion that the, the skin, and specifically only the skin, was, you know, got at from under the edges, ah, kind of peeled and, I guess, sucked away. So, it could also be that the substance, the fluid we found on the body is possibly, ah, well, you know, saliva."
Alan's first thought: dogs. He pictured beasts covered in mud and feces, bald in patches, bitter tramps beaten wild. Then another picture -- top floor. Those derelicts locked up there, depraved and filthy, gathered around a bathtub with a body in it, taking one bite at a time, pulling the skin away like pizza cheese. And Rose making off into the night...
"What kind of bite marks are we talking about?" asked Alan. "Animal or otherwise?"
"Well, seeing as the abrasions, are uh, total, everywhere. You think it was some kind of, a goddamn shark, I mean what else has--"
"Vincent. I'm low on fuse here."
"Okay, okay, that's... A dentist's gonna let us know. It could be either. Some sort of, a really big animal, or, well many, many humans, chewers..."
"Fine, fine," said Alan. "Now listen to me, Vincent. I want you to join Womack at the canal, and I want you to bring a couple of guys. And you tell Womack..." Again an image: those squatters -- hungry faces, bloody fingers, yards of skin. Joe had known something was going on there...maybe his so-called wife had told him. So then Joe went and stumbled into that building, like he stumbled into everything, and got overtaken by a bunch of fucking pagans. The scenario seemed reasonable to Alan. But he needed some of those squatters to be sure.
"Vince, you tell Womack that building is top priority. I want you guys to put out the word -- any creep that comes within a thousand yards of that place, they're shackled, you hear me?"
Now Alan felt right. Oh yeah, this was more like it. Data was his weapon. Knowledge was his napalm. Unaware he was even doing it, Alan picked up a phone message: Wants tlk 2 U. From a precinct across town.
Alan needed a shower. He needed an aspirin. He needed to be on the streets, using what he'd learned. Because he needed some goddamn subtraction. He needed deletion. He needed his desk to be clean like he always has it and everybody should fucking know this because it so obviously shouldn't be
fucked with.
Fine. He'd answer one message, allow himself that luxury at least, and then he'd see about everything else.
Alan called the number on the slip. "Who is this!" he barked. "Why are you calling!" He continued to speaking strictly in single units -- yes, no, dunno, goodbye. Automatically, he called another number. Who, what, why, next, erase, erase, ERASE. And once he started on the messages, there was no stopping, no way. It felt too good. And after what he'd been through, he needed this, just, he needed to let himself have this, please. He'd delete every message. Yes. He'd delete the crap on his desk. Yes. He'd delete everything, wouldn't he? YES. Fucking erase them all, dismantle them. Joe and his wilderness bride. All the skin eaters. All the filth that was always pressing in on him, just beyond his shields and barriers. And anything and anyone else. Just get in his way, just do it, please, just get in his way. He'd do it to them all, to everything, erase, erase, ERASE, until all that was left was perfect and pristine.
>> CHAPTER TEN <<
Dinner.
The hour was near. Paul didn't need a clock; by now he was ingrained with nocturnal rhythms, with tidal pull. Ever since the visitor's first meal his days were little more than prologue to the sun's daily failure, its million-story plunge to the sea, to that instant when all control was relinquished to night. Every day Paul waited for the sun to die another death. Every day Paul waited for a chance to feed.
But Paul still lay on the floor, still too weak, his heart trying dizzily to keep its pace. He had been this way since morning, weaving in and out of consciousness. But Paul, well, he'd never missed a dinner. He refused to miss one now.
He knew it wouldn't be easy to match his previous dish -- that meal had been incomparable, a soaring high. And to disappoint his friend tonight with middling meats, why that would be devastating. It was at times like these that Paul truly suffered.
He scolded himself. If only he had felt better, if only he had invited the policeman inside. Like the other night. Like the other man…
*
Dinner.
The Canal Page 10
