Bottom Feeder

by Matt Cole

  “Sit, sit,” he said pleasantly, indicating two molded plastic chairs across his desk. They sat; he cleared away a stack of papers, used fast food wrappers, and files from the desk to the floor so he could see them.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Arlene said, “I’m Arlene Balleza and this is—”

  “Oh, I know who you are. Deena, right? Deena Hopping, soon to be ex-wife of Joseph Hopping, the once thought of ‘golden boy’ of Strafford, due mostly to the fact that he had good looks, charm and his parents’ money. I believe that you are originally from nearby Chesapeake. And of course you are Arlene Balleza, formerly Arlene Glatt, of the local Glatt family whose ancestor Malachi Glatt was killed during one of the many Indian—excuse me—Native American wars in the area and whose bones, if any are left, are washed by the waters of the Shoemaker River or Chesapeake Bay. I believe the Glatt family is as old as Strafford and once owned half the town. You know, Mrs. Balleza, it is rather funny how you are in real estate since your ancestors or family did at one point own the town.

  “And I’m Owen Sheehan, of the Ohio Sheehans, Bowling Green area, who came to Virginia some eight years ago to attend Virginia Tech and to ultimately end up here as Morgue Assistant.” He settled back in the chair.

  “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, what can I do for you? If you’re here to bitch about the smell, my smoking inside the building or something of that nature, let me warn you that currently I’m the only one here. Besides it wouldn’t do you any good and I’m the wrong one to talk to anyway.”

  “Oh, well, you sure do like to talk and seem to know an awful lot about the both of us,” Arlene noted, afraid she’d offended him somehow. “You see, I believe you have the wrong impression of our intentions here.”

  “Oh, how is that?” he asked.

  Deena spoke up. “I wanted to know if it was at all possible for us to learn about the victims of the fire at the house I am renting.”

  “The Leopold family, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  His expression darkened.

  “Is that a problem?” Deena asked.

  “Well, technically I’m not supposed to reveal the records to anyone but family. However, the files are part of the public record. And seeing that the only known family member left of the Leopold’s is Mike, or as he is known around town, ‘Crazy Mike Leopold’.”

  “So does that mean…”

  “Yes, I will tell you what was found when the bodies were brought in here.”

  “But…” Deena said cautiously, expecting something more.

  “But nothing, I’m happy to help,” Owen said. He proceeded to tell us about that day, the very day that the Leopold family’s bodies were brought into the morgue: “The news reached us late that morning, and not in an official capacity; you see I’m also the local undertaker. The fire itself might have gone unreported by the town people, who generally managed to ignore that house and its inhabitants, but two children had died along with their parents and must be buried, and eventually some practical person sent for the undertaker.

  “The coroner himself was spending some time off with his family, and the job fell to me, his lowly assistant. I chose this field because it paid well and was one of the few fields left where those I worked with did little to annoy me, other than smelling so wonderful. I hate burn victims though, I mean what else can you really do with two burned children to make them presentable for a wake but keep the lid on the box?

  “It was there that I had some argument with the local doctor who did the medical examinations for the county, who also had planned a quiet day at home, and another argument with the photographer from the local newspaper, who would take official as well as news pictures. They acted as though the whole thing was my fault.”

  Arlene and Deena exchanged looks. It was Deena who spoke up. “Your fault? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not finished. Sorry if I’m a bit long winded, but most of those I talk to listen very well and that tends to make me talk perhaps more than I should. So to continue…that is if you want to know more.”

  Arlene and Deena each nodded for Owen Sheehan, morgue assistant and undertaker, to continue.

  Owen placed his feet on the desk before him and unbuttoned his lab coat. “There was nothing to indicate that it had been more than a shocking accident, and my job brought me enough of those. But it was a fine, clear, crisp day for a drive into the city, and a way of dodging paper work. These things might have been enough to balance a slow day at the office at the end of the ride, but there were other reasons for me to make the trip that day. I had made a resolution earlier that year to abstain from strong drink for thirty days, you know to prove to myself and everyone that I could stop drinking if I wanted to, and it seemed to me that every time I turned around, someone shoved a hot toddy at me. It was making me irritable.”

  “I’m lost, what does your drinking problem have to do with the fire?” Deena asked rather harshly. She felt as if Owen was wasting her and Arlene’s time.

  “I don’t have a problem,” snapped Owen Sheehan. “As I was saying…”

  It was Arlene now who looked concerned and a little more than perturbed over Mr. Sheehan’s delays. “Wait a minute, Owen Sheehan, you said you came to Strafford eight years ago, right?”

  Owen nodded.

  “But you forgot to mention that you used to visit Strafford regularly and lived next door to the Leopold’s for some time,” Arlene replied.

  “But I thought the house was owned by Frank Marsden,” said Deena.

  “He does. The house has been in the Marsden family for years but they have never really lived in it,” Arlene answered.

  “Getting back to the fire,” Owen Sheehan said. “The fire was a hell of a thing to happen, especially to a nice young couple like the Leopold’s. Hardworking and sober and honest, both of them,” he continued. “And this is what they got for it—doesn’t seem right, some way. They had come to some of the community’s functions and I’d met them on several other occasions around town. They were very nice to me and to everyone. The fire apparently started around dawn or thereabouts. The Leopolds had planned to leave their three children with the Kesters, their neighbors, but never had the chance, as their vacation plans went up in flames, so to speak.”

  No one laughed or made any remark to that comment, though Arlene provided a scornful look to Mr. Sheehan, and he moved on with his account.

  “Life’s sure rough, sometimes,” Sheehan said.

  “It sure is,” Deena agreed. “How old were the two children who perished?”

  “Ten and eight. Pretty fine boys, too. Full of the old vinegar and—oh, hell!”

  “Uh-huh. Anything to show how the fire started?”

  “I expect you don’t know the ruckus this fire created for the town,” Sheehan said. “You see the only surviving member, Mike Leopold, who was sixteen at the time, was believed to be the culprit behind the fire. The whole town swore that he was in some way responsible for the fire.”

  “Why? Did he have a penchant for getting in trouble?” Deena asked.

  “No, it was nothing like that. But several of the neighbors reported the glare of the fire and they also saw a man sneaking around just after the fire was first spotted.”

  Looking belligerently past Owen Sheehan to Deena Hopping, Arlene said, “No one for certain could say that it was Mike Leopold. You can’t beat him with that.”

  “Did I say a word against Mike Leopold?” asked Owen Sheehan.

  “The fire,” Deena growled. “We can gossip about Mike Leopold some other time.”

  “I wasn’t gossiping,” said Sheehan, hurt. “I’m telling you about the fire, ain’t I?”

  “Continue, please,” Deena said.

  “Other neighbors had seen the red glare and hurried to help. There were no fire engines real close at that time, and fire was a common enemy for much of the older wooden homes. Let it be known we have since been granted a new fire station and ev
en two McDonalds in this small town,” Sheehan said, noting the last statement with some sense of achievement.

  “It’s a regular metropolis,” mumbled Deena.

  “To make a long story short,” Arlene interrupted. “The consensus was that the fire had been set!”

  “Set, as in arson?” Deena asked. “And everyone assumed since Mike Leopold was not home at the time that he must have set it.”

  “Precisely,” Owen Sheehan answered.

  “But was there any proof?” asked Deena.

  “Well, no. Like Arlene said, there’s always been the speculation and there has always been some people who think it was no accident. Take the fire marshal from Harrisburg—who claims there were some strange footprints in the yard when the house burned.”

  Arlene grunted. “I heard the prints could have been from anyone, even those who had come to help put out the fire. So it’s just talk, and nothing more in my opinion.”

  “Uh-huh,” Owen Sheehan agreed absently. “Then why wasn’t Mike home that night?”

  “He’s always been a tad odd,” Arlene said. “You know, I don’t think I ever heard Mike Leopold’s reason for not being home that night.”

  “Well, look at the time,” Deena announced. “I really must be going. Thank you so much for all of the information, Mr. Sheehan. I hope we haven’t put you in a position to get you into any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Owen Sheehan responded. “I didn’t tell you anything that most of the town didn’t already know anyway.”

  “Well then,” Deena said and was beginning to prepare to leave when Arlene gave Owen Sheehan a strange look. “What is it, Arlene?”

  Arlene placed her purse in her lap and scooted her chair closer to Owen Sheehan’s desk. “Owen, what can you tell us that the town doesn’t know?”

  Owen Sheehan smiled a wicked smile. “Now that is a real good question. You see, not only were the bodies of the Leopold family badly burned, but they were also covered in some sort of tar-like substance.”

  “I’m sorry, what tar-like substance? Did you test it?” Deena asked, retaking her seat.

  “Of course,” Owen said, almost offended. “It was nothing that any of the state’s crime lab’s people could identify.”

  “Weird,” Arlene said.

  “Yes, weird indeed,” Owen replied. “You see, each of the four family members were completely coated in the stuff. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in my time working with stiffs.”

  Arlene wrinkled her nose at the derogatory reference to the dead. Deena placed her hand on Arlene’s knee to steady her friend.

  “Sorry,” Owen offered. “I forget that I have become a little jaded over the years of working with the dead. I did not mean to offend anyone.”

  “It is fine,” Deena said. “So if you had to guess about what the substance could have been, what would you say?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Owen Sheehan shot back. “If they cannot identify it in the state lab, then I haven’t got a clue either. But there is more…”

  “Yes,” both Arlene and Deena said in unison.

  “Though it was practically impossible to prove,” Owen Sheehan said, noticing that he had his two audience members on the edge of their seats, paused for effect, “that the family was dead or near death before the fire.”

  “So someone had killed them before setting fire to the house?” Deena asked.

  “That is what I think,” Owen Sheehan replied. “But again, it could never be proved.”

  “Well, again, thank you for the information, Mr. Sheehan,” Deena said, standing to leave. “You have been very helpful.”

  “No problem,” Owen responded. “Hit me up anytime you need help. I’m always available.”

  Chapter 5

  Frank Marsden got his Christmas present early.

  He was cruising the north side in his pewter-over-white Toyota Camry one afternoon, two weeks before Christmas, when he spotted a saucy-looking young woman bopping down McKee Avenue. It was a pert twenty-year-old named Jennifer Raymond, who was sashaying along in jeans and a pink-thigh-length down jacket. Raymond had dropped out of high school in the tenth grade because she was pregnant. She later had a child, and currently the two of them were living at home with Jennifer’s mother. They subsided on welfare payments.

  Marsden let the Toyota drift to a stop beside Raymond, rolled down the window and asked her a question: “You want to see my peter?”

  Raymond was offended. “I’m no prostitute,” she said angrily.

  Marsden apologized and asked if she wanted a ride.

  “No,” she said, still angry. “I’m only going to my girlfriend’s house.”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “Why don’t you get in and I’ll take you there. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Jennifer looked at the handsome car. She took another look at the driver, who had changed his tune now that she had told him she wasn’t a hooker. He didn’t look mean. There’s no danger in accepting a ride, she thought.

  Marsden took her to her friend’s and said he’d wait for her. Jennifer went in, retrieved a pair of gloves she had forgotten on an earlier visit, and glanced out the window. Marsden and his Toyota were waiting at the curb.

  “Look at that car,” she bragged to her friend.

  Jennifer was back in a flash.

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” Marsden suggested.

  “All right,” Jennifer Raymond agreed.

  Marsden favored Wendy’s and Jack-in-the-Box, but apparently was anxious to impress this new woman, a dark-skinned, fresh-looking teenager with a bright smile and an adventurous spirit. He took her to a Steak-N-Shake.

  While she was devouring a cheeseburger and fries, Marsden asked her if she would go with him the next day to Philadelphia.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said.

  “We can fix that,” Marsden said, reaching into a stuffed wallet and extracting a fifty dollar bill.

  She looked at it suspiciously.

  “It’s for some new clothes,” explained Marsden. “When you finish eating we’ll go over to Wal-Mart and you can use this to buy whatever you want.”

  She bought two pairs of jeans and two tops. Then Frank Marsden asked her if he could put them on her.

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  Marsden took Jennifer to South Douty Street, gave her a wine cooler, and told her to make herself comfortable. While she pulled at the drink he popped a copy of “Lady in the Water” into the DVD player.

  The drink did it for Jennifer Raymond. At the restaurant she had taken an allergy pill, and it was just starting to kick in. With the wine cooler, she got so drowsy she couldn’t hold her head up. In a matter of minutes she was sound asleep, sprawled in front of the DVD player.

  When she awoke sometime later, she discovered Frank Marsden had undressed her. She was completely nude. Marsden carried her over the mattress in the corner of the basement, put her on the mattress and then had sex with her.

  Jennifer got up and reached for her clothes. “Will you please take me to my girlfriend’s house now?” she asked.

  In reply, Frank Marsden wrapped an arm around her throat and squeezed. Jennifer began seeing stars.

  “Wait a minute,” she cried. “Wait a minute. Quit choking me and I’ll do whatever you want.” He clapped a pair of cuffs on her wrists and pushed her down to the floor.

  When she attempted to look up at him, he kicked her or slapped her. It was during this that Jennifer Raymond saw the other women in the basement. She also saw an empty room littered with white plastic bags.

  “What’s in those, body parts?” she asked shrilly.

  “Of course not!” Marsden snapped.

  “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not going to kill you. Trust me. I’m not going to kill you.”

  Marsden pointed to the board covering the pit in which Rosemary Spiner and Angela Quirino were cowering.


  “I’m going to introduce you to my two friends down here,” he said.

  “They’re dead down there, aren’t they?” Raymond screamed. “You’re going to kill us all!”

  “Stop saying that,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  He moved over to where the two half-naked women were chained. As Jennifer watched in total amazement, the women followed his directions quietly despite one of them being completely covered in a sickening slime. They were also nude from the waist down.

  “I’m Rachel,” said the slimmer, light-colored one, though it was hard to tell because she was covered with an oily substance.

  “I’m Angie,” said the other, who seemed a little dim.

  Marsden stood by beaming. Like a happy host, he produced a package of sliced ham and some white bread and started to make sandwiches. On the contrary, before anyone could eat, there was a ritual that had to be completed.

  Turning to Jennifer, Marsden gave her a quiet command, intent on establishing his authority. “Suck my cock,” he said.

  She did.

  “Who’s the boss?” Marsden asked.

  “You are,” she replied.

  He looked at her again. “Did I tell you to stop?”

  She complied.

  “Suck it, damn it!”

  She did as she was ordered.

  Then he forced her to have intercourse with him. After that they ate their sandwiches and Marsden left Jennifer Raymond alone with Angela Quirino and Rosemary Spiner.

  * * * *

  The morning after their trip to the local morgue Deena came down for breakfast and found Arlene waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, thank heavens. I thought something was horribly wrong so I let myself in.”

  Deena followed her to the kitchen. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Deena—”

  “Yes.”

  Arlene looked at Deena. “Can’t you smell it?”

  “Smell what?” Deena sniffed, but aside from a variety of candles and incense odors, Deena could smell nothing unusual.