The Dorchester Five

by Peter Manus

  “So?” I have tucked his money into my purse and tossed it aside.

  Slowly, he loosens his tie, although once he starts he begins to get a sense of what it will be like to have me servicing him in this gritty little oasis under the stars, and he finds himself accelerating. I approach and run my hands down his body. He glances down at the polished rises of his sculpted chest, his rock-hard waistline. He can see why I push my hands against him, understands why I am short of breath. Or so he imagines. I smile as he draws me in. When he presses a hand to my hair and moves to kiss me, however, I twist my head hard.

  “Don’t…waste our time,” I say in a tone he cannot quite read.

  He looks into my eyes for a long moment, almost recognizing me. My hair is a wig; that is clear. I back away, seeing his expression. A name comes into his mind, then flees just as quickly. It is this mercurial name—N…something—that will make everything clear.

  “Come.” I back into a shadowed corner of the terrace and lean against the brick half-wall, spreading my arms. “Like so,” I instruct. “Then I will give you the thrill of your life.”

  He approaches. “I’m kind of seasoned for a first-time thrill, you know,” he says.

  “Ah, but this one will end all thrills,” I say assuredly. “I promise.”

  He snorts, amused. “Spread my arms?” he says. His mood for sex is draining; he has actually begun to worry about some docs he needs to review for a Monday noon drop-dead on a merger. He leans back as I urge, against the cement railing, gripping it with his hands on the outside. He feels the grit of the pebbly stone, tiny fragments of it coming detached, sticking to his hands. “Like so?” he says. “And now you blow me to the moon, so to speak.”

  “Lean well back,” I say. I stroke his torso, coaxing him to hoist his shoulders squarely over the top of the rail. “Relax the spine and let your head roll,” I coo. “Breathe in the night air.” I undo his trousers and lower them, along with his shorts, to beyond his knees. His veins pulse—oh, he is into it. My fingernails leave his buttocks and travel down until I am gently clutching each of his calves. He can feel my lips, my breath, as I hover.

  He snaps a finger. “Do it, damn it,” he mutters.

  “Yes,” I agree. “C’est le temps.”

  I stand, clutching his legs, hoisting them up and then shoving his knees toward his face. For a moment, he is simply annoyed that I have exposed his anus—if that is my so-called thrill, it ends now. His exasperation lasts only seconds, for, as I continue to shove, it dawns on him that he is in danger of spilling over the rail in a backwards somersault. He has no thought at the moment about whether I intend this; he knows only that he must stop his current momentum. In fairness to him, he fights me less than he might, as he does not readily abandon his natural chivalry. He worries about hurting me, that is, and so he aims his efforts at the wall.

  I shove harder, gasps of effort escaping me, and this is when it sinks in for Elliot that I am, in fact, trying to topple him to his death. The realization renews his focus as he clutches at the edge and then, by sheer luck, manages to catch my skull between his calves. His pants, still tangled round his ankles, make it impossible for me to break free. Gritting his teeth and hissing with effort, he tries to sit up, using me, his would-be killer, as the ballast that will tip his weight back to the safe side of the rail. His vision blurs from his effort, but he can see my face, distorted, clutched by his legs—his shrunken penis quivers between us as we lock eyes, each as determined as the other. The wig tumbles to one side as I twist my head, trying desperately to push his legs up and off me. He sees without really seeing my real hair; it is short, streaked, white-blonde. This means nothing to him, but at that moment a name flashes through his mind—Nightingale—and he knows that this is the key to my identity.

  He is gaining, his strength superior, as I begin experiencing a pulsing in my ears that drowns out the world. I am passing out; his squeezing shins have cut off my oxygen. The realization that I have lost seizes my heart, and I deliver a final feeble shove even as I collapse to the deck. For a long moment I completely lose the world around me.

  I open my eyes. I am alone, naked, dirty and bruised, lying twisted under the night sky. I remember, then, and jerk myself back defensively, but there is no half-mad Elliot there to yank me to my feet, bellowing the fear and fury out of himself as he beats me senseless for my attempt at murdering him. Elliot is nowhere. And, yes, I have the vague sensation of having heard someone running, just as I was coming to—I recall something odd about the footfall, a vaguely metallic clang—but it fades even as I hear it in my mind. I blink around at the empty terrace, not comprehending why he would run. I am near hysterics with disappointment. My first kill, a tragic screwup! Putain! Elliot will get the police, or worse, alert the others. I am over, a failure before I even got started.

  But then, as I raise myself to my knees, I hear a swallowed gasp, like a child trying to stifle the giggles. I pull myself to my feet but see nothing. Panting, I peer over the railing wall. And there is Elliot. He is heels over head, literally, and gripping mightily, palms upward, fingers digging frantically into the underside of the wall’s stone rim. I cannot see his face and likewise he cannot see me because the material of his undershorts spreads taut across his eyes like a blindfold. They are a beautiful shade of crimson and remain stretched between his calves although apparently his trousers have freed themselves and blown off to their own fate. No, I do not see Elliot’s face—I see only his taut buttocks, his straining arms, and his powerful fingers, trembling, holding on for one last moment.

  I will never know whether, if I had had time, I would have attempted to save him or instead would have remained loyal to my cause. I prefer to think I would have “stuck to script,” as we say, but who can know? As it is, he utters one piteous sob as he realizes that he must drop. Instinctively, I reach out and fourrage in his mind as he goes. And this is what I hear.

  Falling, Elliot is not frightened—it is more adrenalin than fear that courses through him as his mind, realizing that this is the end, flares wide so as to expose to Elliot the entirety of his life, the homely, vital memories that exist just past the edges of consciousness. For these last moments his inner voice, along with his conscious thoughts, his sensory responses—all the layers shrill out in a cacophonous blast that is nevertheless strangely comprehensible. And so, although his entire descent takes less than fifteen seconds, this is ample time for Elliot to experience several vivid thoughts.

  His first, which he dismisses as nonsensical, is that he had been right after all to have hesitated before dropping his trousers on that terrace because now here he is, living out the fool's nightmare of being pantless in public. Of course, it will be apparent to all that he was maneuvered into this condition with the promise of sex. In any event, he is confident that others will readily recognize him as a normal, red-blooded male in a predicament and not a pervert.

  His second thought, a quick follow-up, is that his concern over what strangers will make of his nakedness tacitly accepts that the public will soon become aware of this episode, meaning that he is about to become a gruesome item for the headlines. Will the news titillate? He smothers the idea that he might be jeered. That is something Elliot simply will not accept.

  His third thought as he hurtles through the sky, is about me. It occurs to him that he never did fully recognize me, although when my wig came dislodged he did place me, all in an incoherent flash, as somehow associated with the Dorchester Five. This, of course, indicates that I was not a passing psychotic out to lure any victim up to the roof, but that instead I was someone out for revenge against the key lawyer in a case that had impacted her personally. This idea gives him some slight comfort—an event like this, being tumbled off a roof by some sexed-up lunatic bitch, at least ought to be personal. Nobody wants to be a random victim.

  And finally comes Elliot Becker’s last coherent thought before impact—it is that he must tuck his body into a ball so as to protect his fac
e. Broken bones, even a broken spine, is one thing, but a smashed face is not something any human being should live with. The idea of going through life with everyone avoiding looking at his face because it is too hideous to bear, the idea of living the rest of his life without ever meeting eyes with another human being, this would be true isolation, and the thought chills Elliot profoundly. And in this moment he realizes that he does, in fact, need to connect with others. He is not the ice-to-the-bone attorney he has always aspired to be. This realization means the world to him, although he never would have guessed as much, having consistently insisted, even to himself, that he needs no one and is proud of his cold independent character. It is a vast relief to know that it has all been a charade.

  At this point Elliot is within twenty yards of the pavement, and his mind speeds up, registering only a skittering series of images, too quick to even be in color, like the old-fashioned photo kaleidoscope one might crank at a fair.

  He sees his mother, holding him by the hair and slapping him across the face repeatedly for something as minor as leaving the cap off the toothpaste in their one bedroom tenement, her rough hands wet from mucking around in cabbage.

  He sees his father’s expression of anger and shame, the time he soiled himself when Elliot was visiting him in the hospice and the nurses had been too callous to wait until Elliot had departed, or perhaps they got a wicked pleasure out of exposing their wards’ bodily frailties.

  He sees silly Penny Dupris, sticking out her rolled tongue in mock playfulness, her eyes revealing her dismay at his having blown her off in favor of a more mature woman.

  He sees his ex, sitting on the bed, her long hair witchlike, her look defiant, although he had suspected that this was bravado, as she tells him that she had never once reached orgasm in the six years they have been partners.

  He sees a man, practically a child, but with a hideous face, his livid flesh layered and sewn like patches of pelt, some of them repulsively shiny as if without collagen, other bits purply-red with blood. The man is in a wheelchair. His eyes roll without seeing, or perhaps seeing quite well—who can tell? Another face skitters through Elliot’s memory—and in that tiniest spark of time, for that atom of a moment, Elliot figures out who I am. Puzzle solved!

  Elliot Becker hits the sidewalk, then, and is fortunate enough to die instantly.

  I dress myself. I exit. I have had my first.

  Très sincèrement,

  Nightingale

  TWO

  Marina Papanikitas’s Personal Journal

  Yo, Zoey,

  5:57 a.m., and I am wired. First jumper tonight, and I’m thinking it may have shown. I do manage to clench the sphincter, and that’s what truly counts for purposes of maintaining self-respect around the precinct. Been a long time, actually, since the last time I had to focus on keeping the thighs dry and the knees from going jackhammer on me. Caught me by surprise—like, woah, I still have remnants of human responses to blood and gore. Who’d a thunk?

  Even now, I shut my eyes, I see it. The corpse forms a kind of rumpled mound, spine snapped at the neck, knees crushed underneath, one arm off at an angle, splintered somewhere just south of the shoulder. He’s partly dressed in your typical business attire, although somehow he managed to lose both trousers and shorts during his fall. Just not the guy’s night. The naked rump is the highest point of his body—looms over the bloody parts of him, all lit up from the tripod UVs, its crest double-humped like some effed-up valentine. The drizzle gathers in his crack. Testes hang like a sack of moldy cotton. Death’s got no dignity.

  Harry is somewhere behind me with the morgue guys. I catch a snatch of some story about a broad and a jackhammer. For a moment I’m bloody irritated at all the sexism I have to put up with. Then I remember that I’m the one who told Harry that joke, and the resentment gives way to a flicker of pride when they laugh loud. So I’m a little confused in my feminism—that news, Zoey?

  The dead man’s face is in profile against the sidewalk, eyes half-closed, mouth ripped at the corner, giving the false impression that he’s got a sly smile going as he prepares to hit on me with some quip about the view up his ass. His nose sits flat against the cement, almost looks like the other half of his face is underneath the sidewalk, mirroring the part I’m looking at. That effect is offset by the spray of brains, fully intact teeth, and powdered skull that splays out around his half-face. Blood splatter reminds me of one of those jagged-edged comic book splats. “BAMF!” the caption would read. Did I ever tell you how as a kid I used to sneak into Nikos’s comic stash? Always thought the Riddler presented the most intriguing psychosis—all that yearning to give himself away in cryptic scribbles. Guess the freak in me kind of felt for him.

  I play my stinger’s spot outward from the human remains. The blood is darker further from his head where it thins against the swirled sidewalk cement. Close to his head it’s bright and pockmarked from the rain that’s just starting to patter. Disturbs me the way fresh-spilt blood is so bright. I notice an eyeball, dented flat on one side, glued to the sidewalk. Some squiggly muscles cling to it. The other eye, the one still in its socket, gazes at the back end of its mate.

  “So what do you know, Pop?” Harry greets me. Harry’s always happy.

  “Nice ass,” I manage.

  Snort from Harry. “Grab a handful. No one’s lookin.’”

  “Don’t do man ass,” I deadpan. “Thought you’d picked up on that.”

  “Ass is ass, Pop.” Merry as a lark.

  Harry’s holding two coffees. “One of those mine?” I glance at him surreptitiously as he passes it, looking for some sign that he’s struggling to keep dinner down. Nothing. Somehow his ability to handle the sight of a middle-aged man smashed on the pavement like so much pumpkin gets my own stomach where it needs to be.

  But good for H.P. Always strikes me as funny the way other guys in the department refer to him as “Handsome Harry,” because frankly he’s not that good looking by my way of thinking. Guess guys tend to admire the brick house physique, thick neck, blunt head with the hair clipped so close it’s like his whole skull’s got a three-day stubble going on. Still recall the first time I laid eyes on him, my first thought is that the man is a walking, talking penis. Not in a bad way—just, you know, like a fact. Can’t believe I’m only just getting around to telling you this, Zoey—guess you’re right on about the “hole in our relationship” that this journal is supposed to patch. Anyway, girl, the Human Penis is who Harry’s been ever since, just between me and me. Handy that his last name is Penders, allowing me to call him “H.P.” without explaining. So Marina the Dyke gets her break into homicide, and they partner her up with the Human Penis. Yep, like you always say, Zoey, it’s the little ironies that make life worth living. Old H.P. gets points, though, for those eyes—cold and blue as a winter sky.

  “Sorry it took me,” I say, sipping. “Forgot to avoid the construction on 93.”

  “Road work, night like this. Gotta feel for those guys.”

  “Yeah. Lucky for us we went in for this cushy gig.”

  I like the sting that the hot coffee gives my upper lip. Scalding or not, I can taste the cream and double sugar. H.P. knows what keeps his Pop chugging, that’s for sure.

  “So where’d our friend here come from?” I let my gaze move up the hotel. Around the first and second stories, the mortar is laid on in that purposely sloppy way so it gobs out from between the bricks like frosting. Second floor is capped with some fancy stone trim; above that the brickwork goes standard. Windowsills look like limestone. Probably a wonder of structural engineering in its day. Now it’s a tourist charmer. Room rates undoubtedly dizzying.

  I’m watching the drizzle falling at me, taking the glittering waves of it unblinking in my face, when suddenly I have one of my so-called psychic moments—plain as day I “see” this body dropping from the sky, a woman with cropped skunk-striped hair, red-violet dress in maybe velvet with a short skirt, matching gloves up her arms, stockings heavily
patterned. Something flutters behind her, maybe a fringed wrap. She just falls, moving neither arms nor legs, like a bird that’s been shot. She’s alive, though—she stares ahead, calm, detached…gothic. I blink, and she disappears.

  “Roof terrace.”

  I begin to see Harry as I come back to reality. He’s scratching his neck. “What did you say?” I’m numb around my eyes—that’s where the “vishies” always get me. I’m glad Harry isn’t looking, although he turns his head even as I think that.

  “That’s where he took his fall,” he says plainly. “Roof terrace off some party room.”

  I pull myself back to the moment. “Party get out of control?”

  “No party. Deserted except for a couple of cocktail glasses.”

  “Prints?”

  “Lipstick, too. Deep purple.”

  “And we know that was the spot how?”

  “Guy’s suit jacket, draped over a chair. Wallet intact, in his breast pocket.”

  “So we got an ID.”

  “We do. Elliot Becker, Esquire. Forty-nine years of age. Mass driver. Boston Athletic Club. Platinum Am Ex. Couple hundred in mixed bills. Couple of condoms.”

  I let my gaze begin the climb again, up to the hotel windows. “Optimist.”

  “Prepared,” Harry concedes.

  “What happened to his pants?”

  “Tore off him during the fall. Someone found them hooked on a fire escape. Boxer shorts were up the alley a ways.”

  “Flashy undies?”

  Harry snorts. “Red silk. Smooth fellow all around, I’m thinking.”

  I give the corpse a final glance. “Not so much, this end.”

  We ride up the freight elevator. Walls are draped in movers’ quilts. “They doing a reno?” I ask while waiting for my handheld to kick in with a search result.

  “Wedding,” Harry says. “This weekend, or should I say tomorrow night at this point. Two hundred fifty guests on the thirty-second floor.”