Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “Be reasonable, Mrs. Guilford. We were both from Pittsburgh. I grew up in a hill town on the north side called Tarentum. She was from across the river in New Kensington.”

  He ended the sentence as though the story was finished, but Kathryn’s insistent gaze told him she was not yet satisfied. He took a deep breath and continued.

  “Where I grew up you went to high school, you got a job, you got married, you had babies—not always in that order.”

  “But you decided you wanted something more.”

  “No. She did.”

  He took a roll and tore it in half and reached for a pat of butter. Kathryn felt suddenly ashamed. It had never occurred to her that the Bug Man could at one time have been just a human being. This man who caused her so much frustration and embarrassment could have been—could still be—hurt by someone else. She wondered what the woman looked like, what qualities she possessed that actually caused him to love—maybe for the one and only time. She watched him as he ate, head down, his huge spectacles hanging from his ears like a pair of glass scales weighing in the balance everything that passed before them. She wondered how long he had worn those glasses and how much pain they had caused him.

  “Plus twenty diopter,” he said without looking up.

  Kathryn started. “What?”

  “Plus twenty diopter. You were looking at my glasses.”

  Kathryn opened her mouth to deny it but quickly realized how silly and unconvincing the words would sound. Nick was right—she was a very bad liar.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” he said. “There comes a time in every relationship when I know they’re looking at my glasses. It was just your time.”

  “What does ‘plus twenty diopter’ mean?”

  “I’m hyperopic. I’m farsighted. I see things better at a distance—not good, just better. ‘Plus twenty’ means that up close I’m blind as an earthworm.”

  Kathryn wondered what the world looked like through those massive lenses. She wished she could try them on, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. How do you ask a blind man if you can try out his cane?

  “You may,” he said, and carefully removed the spectacles from his head.

  Kathryn started again. “I hope you use these psychic powers wisely.”

  “I’m not psychic. I just know your species.”

  As he held out the spectacles, she saw his face for the first time whole and complete. She had imagined that his real eyes would be tiny, molelike dots; in fact, they were larger than normal and very dark. They were beautiful eyes, really, and it seemed very sad that such eyes could only be viewed in a mirror dimly.

  “How do I look?” She smiled.

  “I have no idea. Go across the street and let’s have a look at you.”

  Kathryn’s mouth dropped open. Looking through the bulky lenses was like staring into a cloud through wax paper. She raised her right hand and flexed her fingers; she saw a pink feather boa curl across her field of vision, undulate at one end, and then disappear. She looked at Nick; she saw nothing but amorphous blobs where features should be, as though a painter had roughed in areas of color where a final portrait would follow. It was a world without particulars of any kind, and Kathryn felt her own eyes darting back and forth just as Nick’s did, searching through the mists like a rock climber groping for a solid grip.

  She handed the glasses back, placing them carefully in Nick’s open hands. “How long have you worn these?”

  “Forever. When I was in first grade my teacher thought I was an idiot. Numbers, letters, they were all just blurs to me. I thought that’s just the way the world looked. Then one day my mother took me to an optometrist. When I walked out I was wearing these, and for the first time in my life I saw details. I looked down at the ground and saw an ant mound.” He shook his head. “I must have sat there for an hour. Then my mother thought I was an idiot.”

  “And you’ve been staring at ant mounds ever since.”

  “My folks both worked for Allegheny Ludlum Steel. Pittsburgh was a steel town when they were growing up, and they always figured their boy would grow up to work at the plant just like they did—just like everyone in Tarentum did. But then the Japanese started dumping cheap steel in the ’60s, and the mills all started to close down. No one knew if Pittsburgh would even survive. That’s when my folks decided they’d better save up and send their baby boy to college.”

  “And you decided to study entomology. What did they think of that?”

  “They didn’t even know what it was,” he shrugged. “So I graduated with a B.S., and the only job I could get was driving a pickup truck with a big cockroach on top. That’s when I decided to go to graduate school. My folks were thrilled. The only thing they heard is that their son was going to be a doctor. So I finally came home—Doctor Polchak—and all the relatives start dropping by. My Aunt Edna said her hip was bothering her. What should she do? I told her, come back and see me when you’re dead.”

  Kathryn laughed out loud—a genuine belly laugh. It was the first time she had made that sound around Nick, and she stopped a little short. But she couldn’t help herself. Images of a grade-school Bug Man and exterminator trucks and an ailing Aunt Edna were more than she could contain.

  At that moment three men in civilian clothes passed by on their way to the buffet line.

  “Excuse me,” Nick said. “It’s been fun, but I’m late for work.”

  He stood up from the table and stretched, rotating left and right from the waist to display his T-shirt to the widest possible audience. He walked slowly around the entire restaurant, occasionally bumping into a chair and stopping to excuse himself. He finally arrived at the buffet line, picked up a plate, and nodded a greeting to the enlisted man across from him. A few minutes later he returned to the table with one small plate of food.

  “It looks like the Gulf War Syndrome has affected your appetite,” Kathryn said.

  “I plan to go back several times.”

  “Why?”

  “To show off this T-shirt. Somewhere in this hotel there may be a man who knew Jim McAllister—or knew someone who did. We have exactly one night to find him.”

  It was just after midnight when Sheriff Peter St. Clair stepped through the screen door into the darkened lab. The bright light glowing from the office beyond cast streaks of blue fire across the faces and edges of glass throughout the room, but still left the inhabitants of each terrarium a dark mystery. The sheriff walked slowly down the aisle, stopping to peer uselessly into each shadowy case. He tapped on the face of one and heard a quick skittering sound. He ran his fingernails across the screen wire atop another and a menacing hiss shot back.

  What in the …

  He avoided the rest of the cases and made his way to the office door, stopping for a moment to observe the excited little man with the cell phone pressed against his ear. The sheriff rapped sharply on the window.

  Teddy looked startled; then his face erupted into a broad smile. He folded the cell phone and set it on the counter.

  “Thank you for hurrying,” he spluttered, shaking the sheriff’s hand and pulling him into the room. “I’m sorry to call you so late. I hope I didn’t catch you at an inopportune moment.”

  “What have you got back there, some kind of snake?” The sheriff nodded back toward the darkness.

  “Ah! You must have disturbed our giant hissing cockroaches—they let out a loud hiss when they sense danger. Impressive, aren’t they?”

  “Impressive,” the sheriff muttered.

  Teddy stopped abruptly. “You didn’t reach into any of the cases, did you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Thank heavens,” Teddy whistled. “That could be serious—quite serious indeed.”

  “So”—the sheriff glanced around disdainfully at the incredible disarray of paper and equipment—“what’s this big news?”

  Teddy grinned from ear to ear and held up one finger, then turned to the Biotronette environmental unit and removed a single plas
tic container. He held it with both hands as one might hold a bulging water balloon.

  “The big news,” Teddy beamed, “is this!”

  The sheriff bent down and peered into the container. Inside was a single black fly clinging to the plastic wall, motionless except for the sporadic fanning of its tiny wings.

  “It emerged less than fifteen minutes ago. We expected it to be a Calliphora vomitoria or a sarcophagid—perhaps even a stray Muscidae—but I’m fairly certain that it’s a Chrysomya megacephala, a species not indigenous to the Carolina piedmont at all.”

  “Whoa!” The sheriff interrupted with a wave of his hands. “Slow down! What are you talking about? Is all the excitement over one lousy fly?”

  Teddy turned and set the container carefully on the worktable, then took a few moments to calm himself and collect his thoughts.

  “When Mr. McAllister died, certain species of flies deposited eggs on his body. We call these necrophilous flies—flies whose larvae feed on the tissues of decaying animals. Now certain flies are indigenous to certain areas,” he said slowly and precisely. “That means if an animal dies in one area, its body will be infested by one species of fly; but if it dies in another area, it may be a different species of fly entirely. Dr. Polchak collected specimens from all of the observable wounds on Mr. McAllister’s body, and we have been rearing them here in our environmental chamber, waiting for them to mature so that we could accurately identify each species. Over the last several days each specimen has reached eclosion—the moment when the adult fly emerges from its puparium—and each has turned out to be precisely the species one would expect in this area. That is,” he said with a grin and a nod toward the worktable, “all except that one. That specimen emerged just a few hours ago, and I am quite certain that it is a Chrysomya megacephala—a species not found anywhere in North Carolina.”

  “Where does that one come from?” the sheriff asked.

  “From a place with warmer winters. This species is found only in Florida and southern Georgia.”

  The sheriff said nothing.

  “That means,” Teddy continued, “that Dr. Polchak was correct in his suspicions about the unusual lividity of the left leg. The body must have been deposited here—but death actually occurred somewhere in Florida or southern Georgia. And if the body was transported”—his eyes widened—“then in all likelihood you have a murder on your hands.”

  The sheriff turned away and began to slowly pace around the office. He stopped and stood motionless, staring at the floor. He took a few steps more and put his hands on his hips, staring at the bare wall ahead of him. After a few moments he turned back to Teddy again.

  “You’re saying that Jim’s death was not a suicide at all. You’re saying he was murdered—in another state—and his body was only dumped here.”

  “Precisely!” Teddy said with obvious satisfaction.

  “But the coroner’s report—”

  “The coroner’s report indicated that it was an apparent suicide, and so no autopsy was ordered to verify the cause of death. But now that we have contravening evidence, we have every reason to obtain an order of exhumation to examine the body in detail. Further forensic study may provide any number of clues to the manner of death—and perhaps even to the killer.”

  The sheriff nodded slowly. “We got to be careful here—this could rock a lot of boats. You’re sure you can prove all this?”

  “Oh yes,” Teddy assured him. “Forensic entomological evidence is considered quite reliable by our courts, and species identification is my specialty.”

  The sheriff turned away again. “Does the doc know yet?”

  “I haven’t been able to reach him,” Teddy said. “They’re up in Washington, you know, but they never checked into the hotel where they made reservations. I asked the front desk to check under other names, and I asked them to check with their other hotels in the area, but no luck. That’s why I called you, Sheriff. You must have some connections, some way of tracking him down.”

  “What about his cell phone?”

  “I just tried it—no answer. Maybe his phone is off, or maybe he’s outside of a digital area. I was just about to leave him a voice mail when you came in.”

  The sheriff stepped to the worktable and gently lifted the plastic container. “This is the one? The only one?”

  Teddy nodded. “We must be very careful. Its wings will be dry soon, and it will be capable of flight. In the morning I’ll kill it and prepare it for positive identification.”

  “Identification? I thought you said you already knew.”

  “I do; I mean, there are ways I can already tell—but legally it’s not considered a positive identification until certain procedures are followed.”

  The sheriff carefully set the container down again. “Then let’s wait till morning to fill in the doc. No sense getting his hopes up if this whole thing turns out to be smoke. They oughtta be back first thing, and you’ll know for sure by then.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Teddy offered. “Any way I can help?”

  “There is something you can do. You can go home and get some rest. I need you alert. Come tomorrow, I have a feeling it’s all gonna hit the fan.”

  You must be Nick,” a tired voice said. “I’m Vincent—Vincent Arranzio.”

  Nick looked up from his lukewarm tea to see a tall, gaunt figure wearing an open fatigue jacket over a sagging gray T-shirt. His clothing seemed loose and ill fitted, as though he had lost a considerable amount of weight. Nick extended his hand and then motioned for the man to sit down opposite him. The man slid into the booth and sat quietly, moving only occasionally to scratch at both arms.

  “I wish I could offer you something”—Nick gestured to his tea—“but the place closed down a long time ago.”

  The man shrugged. “Looks like you don’t sleep any better than I do.”

  Nick glanced at his watch—2:45 a.m. “I appreciate you meeting me here. I know it’s a bit late.”

  “It was either this or stare at the ceiling for another couple of hours.” The man leaned forward. “How did you say you got my name?”

  “From a marine I met in the lobby a couple of hours ago. He was with the 4th Marine Expeditionary Brigade in the Gulf. Said he knew you from a group you were in together a couple of years ago. He said we might have a friend in common—Jim McAllister.”

  The man nodded. “How is Jim?”

  Nick paused. “He’s dead, Mr. Arranzio.”

  The man slumped back against the booth. “How?”

  “I was hoping you could help me find out.”

  The man glanced at Nick’s 82d Airborne T-shirt again, then glared at him suspiciously.

  “You were never in the Airborne,” he said, nodding at Nick’s enormous spectacles. “Not with those. Now what’s this all about?”

  “Mr. Arranzio, I am a forensic entomologist—a kind of investigator—and I am helping a very dear friend of Mr. McAllister look into the circumstances surrounding his death.”

  “How did he die?”

  “According to the coroner’s report, he shot himself in the right temple with his own service sidearm. Do you believe that?”

  “What do you mean do I believe it? If that’s what happened, I believe it.”

  Nick looked at him. “I understand you knew Mr. McAllister quite well.”

  “We were in a couple of groups here together. He was with the 82d Airborne—I was with the 101st. The 82d attacked on foot with the French at Al Salman—we went in by air in Apaches on their right flank. You could say we had a lot to talk about.”

  “Mr. Arranzio, do you believe Jim McAllister was capable of taking his own life?”

  The man paused and scratched at both arms again. “How much do you know about Gulf War Syndrome?”

  “A little. In the Gulf our forces were subjected to a series of potentially toxic substances—petroleum smoke, depleted uranium, nerve agents—no one knows what long-range effects those substances might have,
especially in combination.”

  The man leaned toward Nick.

  “Want to hear an interesting fact? Since the Gulf War ended, about three-quarters of 1 percent of all Gulf War veterans have died. If you compare that to all the troops who didn’t deploy to the Gulf, it’s less. The vets are doing better than everyone else! We’re not dying from Gulf War Syndrome—we’re just going nuts.” He stopped scratching at his arm and pulled up his sleeve. “Look. I’ve got a rash that never goes away. Why? I get headaches, night sweats, swollen glands. From what? I forget things—and I don’t know whether I was gassed by the Iraqis or I’m just getting old. It can get you down, Nick—it got Jimmy down—and believe me, it gets pretty dark always looking up from the bottom of the well.”

  “Mr. Arranzio, did you ever talk with Mr. McAllister about his experiences in the Gulf? I don’t mean actions and troop movements—I mean the way things affected him.”

  “That was a big part of the group. Some people think the Gulf was a cakewalk just because our side didn’t suffer many casualties. I saw men starved, fried, shot to pieces, and blown all over the countryside. It was no picnic.”

  “Did Mr. McAllister ever single out any special event—anything that seemed to cause him special anguish or remorse?”

  The man dropped his head and began to rub his temples in slow circles as if he were trying to coax an elusive thought up to the surface of his mind.

  “Sometimes the group would swap stories about what we saw. One guy kept talking about Khafji. The Iraqi tanks rolled in with their turrets backward like they were going to surrender—we lost twelve marines that day. Another fella lost a buddy to friendly fire. Remember the Apache that fired a Hellfire at one of our own trucks? Another guy kept talking about Highway 8, where we trapped the Iraqis retreating from Kuwait and it turned into a shooting gallery. They called it the Highway of Death.”

  “And Jim?”

  “Jim had a few stories, too, but he kept coming back to this one. There was this guy—what was his name? Something happened with this one fella. His name was … Man, I’ve got holes in my head like a Swiss cheese.”