by Edward Lee
Rollin walked to the end of the narthex of the church; he opened the massive front doors and peeked out. The annex house stood bright in sunlight, its windows shining. How many times had he peeped in those windows? Two well-dressed men laughed as they came down the steps—a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man, and the other goateed, with longer hair—and got into an expensive sports car. I wonder which one was Paul Nasher? As the car drove away, a stunning woman with shoulder-length and almost-black hair waved good-bye from the annex house’s threshold. A friend of Cristina’s, I guess …For a fraction of a second the woman made eye contact with Rollin. Damn! He smiled feebly, stepped back, and closed the door.
He hadn’t seen Cristina since her masturbatory bout last night in the studio. Rollin decided he’d keep the expensive room at the Ketchum for a few more nights. Surveillance was important but so far it had yielded little.
Echoes of footsteps clattered as he walked back down the darkened nave. He crossed himself at the altar, though his mind wasn’t particularly close to God at the time. The homeless woman with the glasses, he reflected. He knew that he’d seen her in the house, and if she’d found a way in, so must have the others. But how? he wondered. How are they getting in? And from where? These were the questions that vexed him.
Perhaps today he’d stroll the streets and keep an eye out. But his stomach ached with the next thought: the certainty that he’d have to find a way to enter the house and find out how they were getting in.
Even if it means breaking into the place myself …
(II)
Vernon felt dissolute, actually wobbly as he came down the steps of police headquarters on Madison. The yelling still echoed in his ears. Behind him he frowned at the infamous One Police Plaza as it loomed in its grandiosity, while the actual HQ building he’d just left looked more like him: old and weathered. Slouch picked him up in the unmarked in the small half-court out front.
“I probably won’t be able to sit down,” Vernon said when he opened the door.
“What?”
“The commissioner just gnawed my ass so hard, I don’t think I have one anymore.”
Slouch laughed. “He was probably on the rag. I heard he gets that way. But it couldn’t have been that bad.”
Vernon slid in and sighed. “I thought he was gonna have a stroke he was yelling so loud. There were veins sticking out at his temples. All I know is I’ve got a sergeant in good standing killing herself twenty feet from my office and a suspect in custody dead by impalement—a homeless woman—two days after another homeless woman was found dead by impalement. And I’ve got evidence of a third person in the room at the same time but when the PC asks me who the third person was, I don’t have an answer. ‘What are your leads?’ he asks, and the only thing I can say is a quartet of still more homeless women who stole some Christmas tree stands and whittling knives from a fuckin’ hardware store. I’ve never felt so inept in my life. I’m supposed to be on the ball but right now I’m under it. I wouldn’t blame him if he transferred me to the impound lot.”
“Come on.” Slouch tried to sound positive. He whipped into traffic, passed Foley Square, and turned up Centre Street. “It’s a fucked-up case. Everybody gets ’em.”
“A fucked-up case?” Vernon grimaced like someone with gas. “The PC calls it an ‘unacceptable deficiency of protocol and professional foresight.’ All I know is we have to find those other girls on the video or I might as well turn in my papers.”
“Can’t help you now, How,” Slouch said. “I’ve got court.” He pulled into the criminal court complex. “You wanna take the car?”
“No. Drop me. I’ll take the subway back to the precinct.”
Vernon got out and allowed the walk to Varick Street to clear his head. He walked as if with blinders, distraction leaving him scarcely aware of where he was. He took the One Line and got out at the Lincoln Center stop. When he ascended up from the platform, a row of homeless sat against the first building, some squawking crazily, others just sitting there with halos of flies circling their heads. One of them, a woman, looked up with eyes whose whites had turned to the color of cigarette ash. “Can you spare a couple bucks, Officer?” she asked.
Vernon pretended not to hear, and high-stepped away. I must be wearing a sign. Brazen graffiti besmirched the polished stone below a bank’s front windows. One scrawl read Z-MEN RULE but was X’d out, while another read BUY ROCK FROM THE KINGS. Hang them all, Vernon thought bitterly, but then he chuckled. Or better yet, impale them. No one would sell drugs if we impaled the dealers in public. His distraction focused down without conscious effort as he neared 69th and Columbus but when he spied the hot dog vendor, his awareness engaged. He was scanning alleys and passersby. Where are they? he thought. He took out copies of the prints, studying them as he walked. The most prominent of the three remaining thieves was the girl with glasses. Even in the grainy print, they looked like pink horn rims, like a child might wear. Probably found them in the garbage and they worked. He could tell the woman was missing teeth, for she was grinning in the freeze-frame, boxes of several unassembled Christmas tree stands under her arm. The nuttiest case of my career …
An upcoming throng nearly overwhelmed him; it made Vernon realize he no longer functioned at the same rapid pace as most New Yorkers. He waited for the moving crowd to divide around him, then found himself standing in front of the vendor. Today he wore a New York Giants hat and a Jets jersey. “Hot dog, Officer?” he asked, cigar stub jittering. “On the house.”
Vernon wilted. Made again. “How did you know?”
The stocky vendor laughed. “I saw you yesterday busting that bum-chick, you and your buddy who needs a haircut.”
Bum-chick, Vernon thought. I guess that’s what we reduce them to. “I’ll take a dog, thanks. With kraut, please. Oh, but first—” He thrust forward the hard copies. “You’ve seen these women around?”
The vendor barely looked at the pictures. “Yeah, yeah, your guys have already shown those to me. I see ’em every now and then, every other day, maybe.” But the man’s amusement was plain. “With all the crime in this city? Why waste time with a few bum-chicks?”
“They impaled a woman on a wooden pole,” Vernon said automatically, then regretted it.
The man laughed. “Jesus! Can’t have that!”
Probably thinks I’m bullshitting…and I wish I was. “You seen any of these girls today?”
“Naw, don’t think so. But you know, I see a lot of people. During a rush I ain’t gonna notice.”
“Sure.” Vernon gave him his card. “Next time you see them, call that cell number. I’ll give you a hundred bucks right out of my wallet.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
The vendor eyed the card, nodding. “Awright.”
Vernon took the piled-high hot dog wrapped in foil. “Thanks.”
“That’s Sabrett’s. I ain’t like some of these other guys who say they’re Sabrett’s but they ain’t.”
“I believe it.” Vernon pointed to the card. “Call that number. I’m serious about the hundred.”
“You must want these bum-chicks bad.”
Vernon stared as if at a bombed building. “More than anything you can imagine,” he said and walked away.
The first bite told him the hot dog was not Sabrett’s. Tastes more like one of those generic chicken dogs. But he wasn’t about to complain. Suddenly a figure startled him, a raddled woman who smelled bad.
“Hey, mister. If you don’t eat all of that, can I have the rest?”
Vernon’s eyes locked. Not one of mine, he knew instantly. The woman stood short and squat, oddly wearing a wool scarf. Rotten tennis shoes were wrapped up in sheets. A baggy pea-green shirt looked streaked with old vomit. He thought of showing her the pictures but, If she knows them, she might tip them off. For some reason, being so close to the woman made him nervous. He gave her the rest of the hot dog and a five-dollar bill, then strode off.
The street was s
o crowded he had to walk along the buildings to stay out of the way. He wasn’t quite sure what snagged his attention, though, when he stopped in front of one store. SPIKE’S COMIC EMPORIUM, the glass read. Then he stared at the glass and caught the small colorful mini-poster behind it. IN STOCK! CADAVERETTES! Vernon stooped, squinted. It was a promotional poster, showing several cute but morbid figurines all in a row. Then, Cadaverettes, he remembered. The word had been imprinted on the bottom of the doll they’d found in Virginia Fleming’s pocket…
He flinched at the bell that clanged when he pushed through the front door. Shelves of comics occupied the front, while toys and shirts were in back. “Where are these Cadaverette things?” he asked the man at the checkout who looked to be Vernon’s age but had spiked blond hair and a leather vest.
“Aisle Four,” he said without even looking at Vernon. “The new shipment just came in, and we also got a few Plastic Surgery Botchies back.”
Vernon felt duped. He shouldered through high, labyrinthine aisles, sniffling at the store’s mustiness. Rows and rows of action figures, dolls, and figurines—some quite elaborate—clogged the shelves. He dragged his vision along. “Gurl-Goyles, Fantasmic Fishies, Living Dead Dolls, Verotik World,” he recited. Then, “Ah. Here they are.”
Boxes five inches high and three thick sat on end, each with cellophane windows displaying dolls that smiled in spite of grievous wounds. CADAVERETTE #2, read one box, Y-SECTIONED WANDA, and inside stood a cutesy figurine of a grinning nude girl whose pallid thorax was marked by stout black stitches—presumably surgical staples—in the fashion of the autopsist’s Y-incision. Vernon couldn’t guess what market appeal might exist for such novelties; some of the dolls were actually scary, but all at least unsettling in their amalgamation of grotesqueness and whimsy. A row of larger boxes contained four figures in each: Headless Helen, Hypothermia Harriet, Gutshot Glenn, and Floater Frank. That’s the one Virginia Fleming had, Vernon recognized of Gutshot Glenn. The very idea puzzled him. I guess I’m just an out-of-it old fuck, he thought. Somebody MUST be buying these things—there’re shelves and shelves of them …Another section with a similar style boasted PLASTIC SURGERY BOTCHIES. More of the same but a different theme. Tummy-Tucked Tina sported a horrendously mishandled abdominal augmentation; the lower half of Botox Bonnie’s face was all inflated lips. Jeeeeeesus, Vernon thought. Then: Why am I looking at this stuff? It was only coincidence that one such figurine was found in a decedent’s pocket.
“You must be into the Nichols stuff,” said the spiked proprietor. He flapped Vernon a large, shiny card.
“Nichols?”
The clerk seemed half-offended that Vernon had questioned the name. “Cristina Nichols. Right now she’s the hottest name in novelty figurines, created the Cadaverettes that you asked about.” He gestured to the card. “We’ll be getting the first four figures in her Evil Church line in a few days, but if you want any, you better preorder. They’re almost gone.”
Vernon didn’t know what the hell this guy was talking about. He looked at the card…
Suddenly his blood felt like ice water.
It had to be coincidence. Of course. Nevertheless, the first thing he noticed on the card were wavy black, green, and red lines, ribbonlike, floating behind four figurines of a similar style as the Cadaverettes he’d just been appraising. CRISTINA NICHOLS PRESENTS: EVIL CHURCH CREEPIES! read the top of the glossy card. Four grotesque dolls were shown, all portraying some sort of Gothic church motif.
The first figure was a nun.
Vernon had to drag his sentience back, while still eyeing the nun and the wavy lines. “This some kind of promotional thing?”
“Right,” said Spiked Hair. “It’s Nichols’s brand-new line, and it’s making serious waves. If you want any of the first run, like I said, you better preorder.” Then the guy went back to the register.
Coincidence, yes, but almost too uncanny. Black, green, and red, Vernon thought in a drone, just like the markers at the crime scenes …
And a nun.
THE NOXIOUS NUN! read the title beneath the figure. She grinned with whory red lips, brandishing fangs, as she seemingly held a bowl of blood. The front of the bowl sported three spots to denote jewels: one black, one green, one red.
What am I thinking? he wondered. He couldn’t imagine. On the back was distributor information and shipping dates, plus a tiny picture and biographical data about this person named Cristina Nichols. There was also some manufacturer information and a website.
Vernon walked in a daze to the register. The clerk looked suspicious. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t really look like someone who’s into novelty figurines. You look more like a cop.”
I do mind you saying so, Sawhead. “Uh, they’re for my…niece.” Vernon had no idea why he was doing what he was about to do. “I’d like to preorder,” he said.
“Smart move. But you have to pay in advance. They’re $12.95 each, or all four for forty.”
For fuckin’ dolls! Vernon gave him his credit card. “Just the nun, please. This promo thing, though. It says that Cristina Nichols lives in Connecticut. Any idea what town?” But why on earth would he even ask? What purpose could there be in contacting her? “My niece…collects autographs of her favorite…doll designers.”
The clerk didn’t bat an eye at the howling lie. “Actually, that bio’s dated. She recently moved to New York.”
“Not Manhattan,” Vernon could only assume.
“The distro rep came in here the other day and believe it or not Nichols lives right around here someplace. Just a few blocks. I’m trying to get her in here for a signing but I guess she’s kind of reclusive. We’ll see. Just check the window every week for an announcement.” The clerk gave Vernon his credit card back. “We’ll call you when the order’s in. What’s your number?”
Vernon gave him a precinct card and smiled. “Thanks very much. My…niece will be delighted.”
The clerk arched his brow at the card. “Sure.”
Vernon walked out, befuddled. I just spent thirteen bucks for a nun doll and I don’t know why. The coincidence? The black, green, and red lines? And Scab mentioned a nun, he knew. And on the night of the chapel vandalism…a nun was seen with several homeless women …
Vernon walked all the way back to the precinct house, thinking that it might be a good idea to turn in his retirement papers.
(III)
Rollin stared listlessly into the infinity-shaped field of his binoculars. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, not just from the technical fact of what he was doing, but also what he sat in the midst of. Behind closed doors, he thought. For the price, these motel rooms should be better soundproofed; the adult-video convention was in full swing now, and evidently some of the participants took many respites in their own rooms. Rollin could hear wanton moans, climactic shrieks, and bedsprings creaking for the entire time he was there.
By now, eyestrain was getting the best of him. He kept the glasses trained on Cristina Nichols’s studio window, not sure what he was hoping to see. She simply sat at her desk, tapping on her computer or turning on her stool to sketch something. Rollin only wished his vantage point was better angled; he couldn’t see at least half of the studio. Once every so often, he raised the glasses to the windows of the upper two floors but discerned only bare walls and unmoving shadows.
No interlopers.
But they’d have to be crazy to sneak into the house in broad daylight while the woman was home, he reasoned, then caught himself in the gaff. Have to be crazy?
They probably ARE crazy …
He sat there until his voyeurism became paralyzing. The day was dimming, and so was his energy. He began to nod off but snapped awake when movement hailed him. Two women were shuffling down the alley.
Is it them?
He couldn’t be sure.
Enough for today. Maybe he would see something tomorrow. Or the day after that, or the day after that …Frustrated and still partially ashamed, h
e closed the drapes and left the hotel room.
Grins floating above fleshy cleavage and plenteous bosoms mocked his Roman collar when he exited the lobby. Seven P.M., he saw on his watch. Maybe…Paul Nasher’s home from work now …
He walked straight down Dessorio and moments later was knocking on the opulent front doors of the annex house.
“Oh, hi, Father,” Cristina cheerily greeted when the door opened to a gap.
“Hi, Ms. Nichols. Hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, “and if not, I thought I’d take you up on your offer for a cup of coffee. I’d love to meet your fiancé.”
“He’s working late to night, but come on in anyway.” Her hand took his arm and showed him into the living room. “I was just about to make some anyway. I hope you like Costa Rican. It’s the best. We get it at Barney’s.”
Rollin felt stifled once inside. “Uh, yes, please. Costa Rican will do quite nicely,” But Rollin mostly drank whatever he could afford on his stipend. It was the sight of the room that waylaid him; the binoculars hadn’t done the place justice. Italian marble, velour wallpaper, custom-made furnishings. “It’s amazing what you’ve done here,” he finally said.
“Oh, yeah. Paul went all-out fixing the place up.”
The priest chuckled. “Quite a bit different from what it used to be when I was the charge of this house.”
Cristina smiled, her blonde hair slightly mussed. “I would imagine, but I guess as a priest you might not approve of what we’ve done here. The house must strike you as the peak of materialistic sin.”
“There are far worse sins,” he assured.
“Good. Come and see the kitchen,” she invited.
Rollin followed, eyes wandering to every corner. The kitchen was more of the same, the best of everything. The aroma of coffee almost intoxicated him; Rollin felt desensitized to everything else. Even Cristina’s honest prettiness, made more provocative by tight jeans and an obvious bralessness beneath her blouse, assured him that at least lust was one sin he would not have to account for today. The woman simply seemed perfect in her genuineness. She tinkered at the coffeemaker while engaging in small talk, regretting that Paul wasn’t home yet. She handed him a cup. “I never did quite understand how the house came to be sold,” she said.
