by JJ Lamb
“Hey, that bunch has seen a lot worse. They’ll buzz about it for a while until the next oddball thing comes along. You’ll be old news by this afternoon.”
“I was awful.”
“Was this about Eddie St. George? He’s the only guy other than my fiancé I’ve gone out with in a long time.”
“Yes, Eddie.”
Gina touched her shoulder. “Hey, we had a quick, friendly drink. He wasn’t interested in anything else, and neither was I. And I certainly didn’t know he was your boyfriend.”
“He’s not. At least if he is, he doesn’t know anything about it.”
Gina chuckled. “You got to admit it’s really funny. I mean, two grown women fighting about boyfriends. Acting like a couple of silly teenagers.”
Megan Ann tried to smile. “We’re going out tonight, Eddie and me. But it’s not like we’re serious about one another. But I’m hoping.”
“Well, let’s forget about this. It was a drink. Nothing else. Honest!”
“Still, I behaved badly.”
“Not important. Let it go.”
“I know you’ll say I’m a fool, but I think about Eddie a lot.”
The music was beginning to soothe her. She took in a long breath and let it out slowly.
“Eddie looks so much like my husband Aaron that they could have been brothers. Every time I see him, my heart races. I can barely speak. It’s like seeing Aaron across the room.”
“Your husband? I didn’t know you were married.”
“Not too many people do.”
“I can relate to that,” Gina said.
“Aaron died two years ago, along with my two-year-old son.”
“Oh, my God!” Gina put a hand across her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was horrible. I keep seeing my little boy in Aaron’s arms, the two of them igniting, dying in a flash of flames.”
“Megan Ann–“
“I was at the movies with a friend. Neither Aaron nor I would allow baby sitters to stay with Timmy. We worried something might happen and we wouldn’t be there.” Megan Ann looked at Gina. “So ironic.”
“Trying to second-guess yourself is way too difficult. It raises so many questions … questions that most likely can never be answered.”
“I would have gladly changed places with either one of them.” Tears slid down her cheeks, dripped onto her scrubs. “And the worst of it, no one was ever able explain what happened.”
“They don’t know what started the fire?”
Megan Ann hunched over. “They had theories about the furnace, maybe a gas leak. But no one could say for sure.”
Her insides were churning. She dug her nails into her arm until the tracks of old scratches were deep ruts of burgundy.
Gina took her hand. “It must have been terrible.”
“Without them, I’d rather be dead.”
Gina wrapped an arm around Megan Ann and said, “I’m glad you’re not.”
They sat in silence for a long moment before Megan Ann spoke: “If the tables were turned, I wouldn’t be as nice to you.”
“Oh, yes, you would,” Gina said.
Maybe it was the kind words. Maybe it was just telling someone about her family and her loss, what she lived with every moment of every waking day. Whatever, she did feel better. Still, she burst into tears again.
“There’s this … this huge hole inside of me and … and nothing ever seems to fill it.”
Gina drew a tissue from her pocket, pressed it into Megan Ann’s hand.
“It’ll get better in time, Megan Ann. You have to stay strong and believe that.”
Chapter 25
Eddie St. George was exhausted. He trudged across the room, walked out of his clothes, left them strewn behind on the floor, and collapsed onto the bed. All he wanted was the oblivion of sleep. Instead, his mind spun in a whirlpool of activity.
Mother’s face flashed into his mind, swept along through the years by ancient memories.
No matter how many times Father said that his Mother hated him, that she ran away with another man because she didn’t want to take care of him, Eddie secretly thought of her as beautiful and kind. He remembered how she would sing to him even when she was in bed with her bruised, raccoon-like eyes. And she would hold him close despite her body being a mass of purple blotches.
“Mother fell down the steps,” Father said each time.
Eddie had tried to hold on to Mother’s music, the repertoire of popular songs that she sang to him over and over before she went away. But each passing year slowly deadened those memories. Pop music was no longer a part of his life. And when he danced, he was virtually unaware of the melodies, following only the beat, his involvement only to interest a woman, make her more compliant, easier to take to Father.
A sudden thought of Megan Ann Hendricks displaced the memory of Mother. He knew he shouldn’t have agreed to see her even though he was drawn to her. He didn’t want to risk being attracted to her, tried to shake off his vision of her.
She was just a tiny redhead. A nurse, like all the rest.
His breath filtered through prickles of needles that stabbed his chest; loud wheezes echoed off the walls of his apartment. He clutched the bed sheets, yanked until the wrinkled cotton was wet from his sweaty palms.
More. More. More!
The memory of Father’s voice sliced through his brain like an electric knife.
He jumped out of bed, stepped in front of the mirror that filled the expanse of one whole wall. He watched his muscles pull, squeeze his ribs with every struggling breath until he was close to suffocating, was forced to reach for the inhaler on the dresser. He sucked in four long pulls of the medication, ignoring the directions on the container.
His heart raced, a rush coursed through him, followed by a creeping numbness that tugged at his lips. Soon the wheezing dissipated; he closed his eyes and rode with a momentary medication high.
The phone buzzed, shattering the moment like a popped balloon. He got up, stood in place, shaking as he listened to it ring.
Again, he wondered what would happen if he wouldn’t do what Father ordered?
Wouldn’t?
Hadn’t Father taught him the consequences of not doing what he was told? Wasn’t his back, his entire hide, criss-crossed with scars that deformed him with that knowledge?
He’d tried once to escape when he was in junior high, tried to run away. Found a hideaway in an old deserted film studio. Among the mold and dampness and rot, he’d found a traveling trunk, used it to store food and money that he stole from Father a dollar at a time. The day he was going to run away, Father found him. The cruel, harsh words still echoed in his brain: “Did you really think you could escape from me. Did you really think you could get away from your father, you little shit?”
Yes, he remembered everything.
The phone stopped ringing. The silence left the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears.
He paced the room, then frantically began lifting the weights he used to sculpt his body. The movements made him sweat, helped ease the painful memories.
The phone rang again, jarring him back.
He let out a small grunt of defeat, picked up the receiver, and held it far enough away to diminish the voice at the other end.
“Yes, Father. Yes, I understand,” Eddie said. “I’m sorry. You need to rest. Remember what the doctor said.”
Trickles of perspiration dribbled down the length of his rib cage. Every part of him was soon dripping wet. He watched the sweat splatter onto the bamboo floor.
“Yes. Yes. I will.” He ground the heel of his hand into his chest, the tightening was beginning again. He nodded like a ten-year-old.
“Yes, I will,” he repeated, his chest heaving in pain. “I promise.”
He hung up. He dug into, tore at his scars; his legs collapsed beneath him, allowing his body to crumble to the floor. His breath whistled in short raspy jolts; without warning he vomited on the floor. Only by graspi
ng a fist full of hair and yanking hard was able to stop retching.
He pounded the silent phone. “God damn it … hurry up and die … need to be rid of you. Die, you miserable bastard. Die!”
Chapter 26
Pepper Yee looked across her desk at Walter Cooke, pointed her pen at him and said, “I need to hear more about Milton Hiller and his connection with Charlie Auston and his funeral home.”
“I knew it was a mistake to call you. Must have been out of my mind.” Cooke shifted in his chair, his balding head reflecting the overhead light. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Tell me again,” she said.
Cooke raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighed, and said, “Like I told you the other night. I’m leaving Auston’s Funeral Home after preparing a few donated cadavers for him.” He tapped a long, delicate finger on her desk. “Legitimate, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Detective.”
“Whatever. Just get on with it.”
“So, I’m on my way to the parking lot and I pass this guy going in the opposite direction. Then I say to myself, ‘Hey, I know that guy.’ I stop, turn around, and see him going into the alley behind Auston’s place. There’s a street light and I get a pretty good look at him – Milty Hiller.” Cooke shrugs as if to end the tale.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Weren’t you just a little bit curious as to what Hiller was doing there?”
“Curious can get you dead, Detective. Milty Hiller is not a nice man.” He put a palm to his forehead. “What an idiot! I should never have called you.”
“But you did turn around and go look, didn’t you, Walter?”
Another glance at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah. Like I said before, just as I got back to the alley, Milty was going into the funeral home. That’s it. End of story.”
Yee scribbled a few words into her notebook, leaned back in her chair, and tried to intimidate Cooke with her eyes. He didn’t so much as blink.
“And you called me, because?” she finally said.
“Look, Charlie Auston isn’t one my favorite people, but I never suspected him of doing business with Milty Hiller. If he is, then that whole thing is screwed for me.”
“My sources tell me that the clandestine sale of body parts is a very lucrative business. Is that right?”
“So I hear,” Cooke said.
“Maybe … just maybe … it puts a few extra bucks into your pocket now and then, right?”
“No! No way! I don’t get involved in that sh—, in that kind of thing, Detective. Never!”
“Good! If you’re not into that kind of thing, you should be that much more willing to help me catch Milty Hiller. And maybe some of the people he’s been dealing with.”
“Detective Yee, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Yes you can, Walter, because I don’t think you want me looking too closely into your supposedly legitimate business, right?”
“Not supposedly, Detective. My business is on the up and up. I’ve never knowingly crossed the line.”
“Okay. Let’s leave it at that.”
Cooke tried to find help on the ceiling again, then slumped in his chair and looked across at Yee. “Whaddya want, from me, Detective?”
“Do you have an upcoming job at Auston’s Funeral Home sometime soon?”
“I never know. He calls me when he’s going to need me.”
“Good!”
“Why ‘good?’ Like, you expect me to do what?”
“To tell me the day and time you’re scheduled to be there, then give me a call as soon as you leave. We’ll take it from there.”
“I won’t have to stick around?”
“No, Walter, you won’t have to stick around. Now get the hell out of here and keep your nose clean. And you better keep your mouth shut.”
* * *
Yee sat with her feet defiantly planted on the corner of her desk, glowering again at the morning memo passed down through the chain-of-command that had burned itself in her brain.
NO MORE FEET ON DESKS.
Merry Christmas!
Thanks for the sentiments.
She lost interest, kept her shoes on the desk anyway and drifted off into a daydream, thinking about nothing in particular. Mainly, she was still avoiding the piles of unfinished paperwork sprawled in front of her.
A two-bell buzz. The distraction repeated itself. She moved only her eyes, burned holes through the plastic facing that covered the four extension line indicators on her desk phone.
Transfixed, she tried to wish away the flash-flash on Extension 101.
Then 102 began to buzz-buzz, flash-flash, followed by 103 and 104.
Every goddam line! Why me? Where the hell is everybody?
She shifted her gaze from the phone to the wall clock and its herky-jerky minute hand: 4:50.
Then silence. When she looked back at the phone, all the calls had been answered.
Fucking miracle! Just like that!
Not an hour into her shift and everything was again quiet. Maybe too quiet. It gave her the creeps.
She slid her feet off the desk, sat up straight.
4:51 Click 4:52.
Not long before Gina Mazzio would be getting off work.
Damn! Why can’t I get that Ridgewood nurse off my mind?
She revisited the primary question: Did she believe Mazzio’s story about the phone calls?
Yee didn’t like ifs and maybes; she liked the safety of absolutes, hard evidence. Mazzio’s story didn’t fit into that scenario, yet there was no reason to doubt the tale she’d spun.
She thought back to the last time she’d stuck her neck out without hard facts. Her spine tingled with the memory: Verbally assaulted one of the other detectives when his wife confided – at a police barbeque no less – that she was being beaten by the lug. She’d stood up for the woman, who in the end, backed down, refused to testify – claimed Pepper Yee was drunk.
She defiantly clunked her heels back up on the desk one at a time. Yeah, she was the one who was hung out to dry, took a licking from her fellow palookas. Her compatriots shunned her like she was an Amish fornicator. Not only that, she’d lost a grade in rank. That really fried her.
No fooling around with second-hand evidence after that. She was only going with the sure bet if she was the one having to put a reputation on the line.
Yee looked at the clock again.
4:55.
What about the women Mazzio claimed might have been murdered by some maniac who called her on the telephone?
Back to the top of the list of her questions: where the hell were the bodies?
Most of her cases began with a corpse. And that’s the way she liked it. Corpses were the real thing, the kind of stuff that made her sit up and take notice. A loose stiff was usually a murdered stiff. One plus one equaled two – a dead body equaled a perp.
She looked at her aching feet, frowned at the scuff-marked shoes and their three-inch heels.
Who the hell can work trying to walk on these stilts?
Well she did – she was too damn short. Usually wore heels around the station so her “buddies” wouldn’t ride her for being a peanut. Out in the field, she didn’t give a rat’s ass – she would slip into sneakers, sometimes even boots to get the job done. Right now she was in her hurtin’ heels.
Should have become a nurse, like Mazzio. Nice soft shoes all the time.
Mazzio!
Why does that chick and her weird story keep coming back to bug me? I should be concentrating on Milty Hiller and his ghoulish operation. Like where are all the extra bodies he sells coming from?
True, Shelly Wilton and Arina Diaz were missing. The nurse was right about that. And her boss backed her up.
She searched among the loose papers on her desk and found her notebook, opened it to a fresh page. She picked up a pencil and began to draw boxes—small ones, big ones, square ones, rectangular ones.
Mindless doodling always organized her thinking.
After filling an entire page with geometric shapes, stick figures, and abstract flowers, she finally tore out the useless page, tossed it into the wastebasket and started from the beginning again.
1 – Serial killer?
2 – Telephone nut?
3 – Random disappearances?
4 – Coincidences?
Gina Mazzio, RN
A - Advice nurse at Ridgewood General Hospital
B. - Co-worker with Shelly Wilton.
C. - Knew Arina Diaz.
D. - Contact with killer? (Telephone)
E. - Stressed personal life.
F. - Believable?
Alan Vasquez, Ridgewood Administrator
A. Uncle of Arina Diaz.
B. Acting for the family.
C. Pressing for action.
That filled one page and she was back to the little boxes before writing again.
Telephone Creep
A. - .Only contact, Gina Mazzio
B. - Does he exist?
C. - Cuts? Slices?
D. - Breather. Wheezes. Deliberate? Physical?
E. - What kind of nut is he? Nurses?
F. - Female symbols?
G. - Where does he stash the stiffs?
H. - Where does he stash the stiffs?
Yee was getting a headache.
And still nothing to go on other than the word of one nurse at Ridgewood General.
She shouldn’t even be involved in this. Mazzio wanted to talk to Mulzini, only Mulzini was on vacation.
“Damn him and his lousy vacation! Damn him for leaving me here to get stuck with Gina Mazzio and her damn suspicions!”
Chapter 27
Gina entered the Labor & Delivery Unit through the waiting room where three men were hanging out, two of them pacing back and forth, bisecting the area as though they were involved in a strange ancient ritual. The third sat casually reading a magazine, or pretending to.
She was a little surprised – most men stayed with their women in the labor rooms, and there was no end to her speculation as to why these three weren’t inside.
