The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller

by Vincent Zandri

  “They find out you’re as conservative as Nixon,” I say, “you’d shatter their dream of a socialist state worker paradise.”

  “Gospel. Better that I keep up the image . . . at your expense.” Then, “So, who that on the phone? New girlfriend?”

  “My mother.” I shake my head.

  “When the last time you see that poor woman?”

  “She doesn’t know what day it is, much less the year.”

  “You go see her. She been through hell with the murder of your father. She maybe lost her mind to that horrible Alzheimer’s, but she still know her son.”

  Henry is right. I don’t see my mother enough, and I beat myself up for it day by day. She lives up the road in the Anne Lee Home for the elderly and infirmed on what’s left of Dad’s pension. His parting gift to her before he was killed by a knife attack in a home invasion that also came close to taking her life when she nearly bled out. Nowadays, she spends her days in bed or walking aimlessly up and down the corridors in her pajamas asking the staff to pack her bags or make a cigarette run for her. I make a promise to myself to visit her tonight. But then, it’s a promise I don’t always keep.

  “Okay, Henry,” I go on, “so, why am I here enjoying this fine conversation on a hungover Monday morning?”

  She puts on her reading glasses, peels a yellow Post-a-Note off her desktop.

  “Some guy here needs to see you. A Detective from the Albany Police Department. Tall drink of water by the name of Miller.” She grins. “Not bad looking.”

  A start in my heart.

  “What the hell’s he want from me? I do something wrong? Or, more wrong than usual?”

  “Darned if I know,” she says. “Says he needs to see you and needs to see you today. Now. Pronto Tonto.”

  “You mean he’s here? Like Elvis-in-the-building kinda here?”

  Rolling those big eyes in their sockets. “How is it you used to be a cop? You can’t even follow the tip of your own nose, much less a hint. Of course, he’s here.”

  I go to get up. “Should I see him outside?”

  “No, I’ve already invited him to meet us in my office. He’s on his way up.”

  “Oh, come on, you didn’t do that out of convenience. You did that cause you’re nosy.”

  Her grin evolves into a smile. “Me? Nosy? Never. But as the captain of my ship, I gotta keep a keen eye on my merchandise. You know what I mean.”

  A knock on the door. Henry stands.

  “Well, Detective Miller, I presume,” she says, straightening out her shirt. “Won’t you please come in.” Suddenly, she’s Miss-Nice-Gal.

  I turn, eye the detective for the first time.

  “You Steve Jobz?” he asks.

  “That’s my given name,” I say.

  “Funny,” he says, looking me up and down. “Not what I expected.”

  “I get that a lot,” I confess. “The real name I believe is Jobzcynski. But they shortened it by two-thirds when my grandparents went through Ellis.”

  “Polish,” he says. “You can always change it back.”

  “Red tape,” I say.

  “Tough name to be born with,” the detective intuits.

  “Not if you’re the real Steve Jobs with an S,” I say.

  “Good point,” he replies. “But now that we have that out of the way, I’m here to tell you you’ve been on my radar for a while.”

  “That a good thing, or a bad thing?” I ask.

  “Depends on how you look at it, Jobz,” he says.

  He steps into my boss’s office while I feel my insides go south.

  “Mind if I close the door, Henrietta?” the cop inquiries.

  “Not at all, Detective Miller,” she says, bright eyed and cheery. “Shall I stay in the room? Or would you rather I leave?”

  Miller shakes his head, purses his lips.

  “I don’t mind if you don’t mind, Mr. Jobz,” he says.

  Like Henry said, Miller is a tall drink of water. She must have gotten a look at him already via the CSC security feed on her laptop. He’s at least six feet tall and thin if not wiry. He must be a jogger. A marathoner even, even at his age which must be about sixty or so. Maybe older. His hair is white and brush cut short, his face clean shaven, jaws concave and tight, eyes blue, his light blue suit looks tailored. Clint Eastwood, as an older, more mature Dirty Harry.

  He sits himself down beside me.

  “I don’t mind if Henry stays,” I say, knowing that her sticking around beats my having to recount every word of what is said between us later on at the bar.

  “You were a cop once,” Miller says after a beat.

  “Down in Poughkeepsie,” I say. “Only two years on the force. That was a long time ago.”

  “Care to recount what happened?” Miller presses. “You don’t mind my pressing the issue, that is.”

  “I’m sure you already know what happened, Detective. If you been watching me and all.”

  He presses his lips together.

  “Enlighten me, Mr. Jobz. It always helps to get both sides of the story.” He grins. “You know, like that corny Phil Collins song.”

  My eyes shift to Henry. She’s peering at me wide eyed, her chin resting on her cradled hands.

  “You taking notes, Henry?” I say.

  “No need to,” she spouts.

  Eyes shift back to Miller.

  “I shot a young man during a convenience store robbery,” I admit after a long exhale. “Said young man had a gun to the owner’s head. The hammer was cocked, his finger trembling on the trigger. I demanded he stand down. But he shot me a glance, told me to you-know-what myself . . . like that’s even a physical possibility. That’s when he began to squeeze the trigger, Detective.”

  “You actually saw him squeezing the trigger?” Miller poses.

  “Okay, I felt like he was squeezing the trigger. Okay?” Rolling my eyes. “We really gotta re-litigate this case here and now?”

  “Jobz is a little hungover,” Henry chimes in with a wink of her right eye. “Bear with him, Detective.”

  I shoot her an eyes-at-half-mast glance that screams, Traitor!

  “So, you shot him,” Miller goes on.

  “Yes, I shot him to save the owner’s life. It was purely a business decision. But a tough business decision. The perp turned out to be a seventeen-year-old black youth from the projects down by the river. The whole town nearly strung me up. Prosecutor wanted to bring me up on charges, but they cut me a deal allowing me to resign instead with no pension. Fellow cops shunned me after that. Not even the chief supported me. It became a political circus. After that, I got by on part time gigs. Landscaping, stuff like that. Then I landed this job.” Nodding in Henry’s direction. “How’s that for a guy blessed with the name Steve Jobz?”

  “Sounds like you got a raw deal,” Miller surmises.

  “I’ll second that,” Henry says. “Goddamned shit sandwich, if you’ll pardon my French, Detective.”

  “Tough decision for a cop to make,” Miller adds. “Cop business or no business. The toughest of decisions. You made the right call in my book.”

  His words come as a relief. At the same time, I’m mulling over the name Miller, especially Miller with a Detective placed in front of it. Maybe it’s a case of déjà vu all over again, but I feel like I’ve heard of him before. Or maybe even met him. But where and when? Then again, I guess the name Miller is as common as Smith and not nearly as funny sounding as Jobz.

  “So, why do you need to see me, Detective Miller?” I ask. “My ex-wife looking for more alimony? Cause that’s supposed to be over.”

  He raises his hands, crosses them like a football referee indicating a missed field goal.

  “Nothing like that,” he says. “But what I do have is a case that refuses to get solved, and I was hoping you might be able to help me and the APD out. That is, your boss here, Henrietta—”

  “Call me Henry, handsome,” she jumps in, her eyes have gone from bright to starlit.
/>   Me, rolling my eyes again.

  Miller cracks a hint of a smile.

  He says, “So long as Henry doesn’t mind you taking a bit of leave from your current position and duties.”

  “This is New York State,” Henry says. “We got a million and one employees who can do his job for him. Half the people here read their Kindles all day anyway.”

  “What is it you have in mind, Detective Miller?” I ask.

  He crosses his legs.

  “Have you heard of the Mortician Murders by any chance?”

  My pulse picks up just enough for me to feel the difference.

  “Guy, or girl maybe, who kills people by injecting embalming fluid into their veins. Yeah, I think you’d have to live under a rock not to know about it.”

  My mind immediately fills with a headline. The one I read just this morning at the Dunkin Donuts kiosk in the building food court. Embalmed Woman Discovered by Jogger in Washington Park. Or something to that effect. A few weeks before that, Embalmed Woman Discovered in Car. Another few weeks before that, Woman Found Dead in Schoolyard. Sources Say She Was Embalmed.

  Okay, so I might not have the headlines entirely accurate, but the messages are the same. Some sick son of a bitch has been kidnapping young to middle-age women seemingly off the street and, according to the experts anyway, strapping them down and embalming them alive. Human beings are sick. So much so that sometimes I feel like the earth could use a really good enema.

  Miller goes on, “Then you also know that the APD is having a little trouble establishing a credible line on the guy.”

  “How do you know it’s a guy? Maybe he’s L . . . B . . . T—?”

  “L-G-B-T,” Henry chimes in. “God, you do live under a rock, Jobz.” Then, clearing her throat, putting her happy face back on. “Pardon the interruption, Detective.”

  Miller’s face turns a light shade of red.

  “Excellent, Mr. Jobz,” he says. “We don’t know it’s a man in any official capacity. Perp leaves nothing behind but the body. Not even trace prints. He’s . . . excuse me . . . it’s been very careful that way, thus far.”

  “Then why call it a he at all?” Henry presses.

  Miller faces her.

  “I consult with profilers. FBI has been assisting in a limited capacity, and they believe we’re looking at a disgruntled employee of a funeral parlor who’s recently been jilted by a woman who somewhat matches the description of the three women who have already been murdered. That, in my mind anyway, makes the suspect a man.”

  “Why a disgruntled employee of a funeral home?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” Miller says turning back to me.

  “Why not an owner of a funeral home that’s gone belly up maybe? Or why not a school teacher for that matter? The profile is pretty narrow considering you guys don’t have a clue.”

  Miller clears the frog from his throat. I’m wondering if it’s a fake frog cleared just for effect, or a real one cleared out of necessity.

  He says, “Profilers base their assumptions on the evidence at hand, even if said evidence is circumstantial. Perhaps you recall that from your brief police experience.”

  “Not really, but it sounds right. But I’m guessing the keyword here—and the reason for my sitting in Henry’s office with you right now—is unemployed.”

  “That’s right,” Miller says. “See you’re a cop at heart, after all, Mr. Jobz.”

  Henry sits back hard in her chair.

  “You be wanting to get at our database, Detective Miller?”

  He tosses her a glance.

  “Here’s what I’m looking for, Henry. I’d like Mr. Jobz here to examine the database. With our help, we’ll pick out a few select candidates who might fit the bill as someone who displays a propensity for killing women by injecting them with embalming fluid while still alive. We’ll then run background checks and see where that gets us.”

  “Seems to me you should have done that a long time ago,” Henry suggests.

  “We’ve done the best we could with state data bases accessed by our personnel, but never from the point of view from an actual insurance fraud investigative POV.”

  “We can head to my cubicle if you want,” I say.

  “No,” Miller says, standing. “What I want is for you to conduct your search with me, in my office. That way we can work together and in private.”

  Henry stands.

  “I can provide you with a private room inside the building, no problem,” she offers.

  “I’m sorry,” Miller says, shaking his head. “But this investigation really needs to be conducted outside Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency headquarters, if you don’t mind.”

  Henry and I lock eyes.

  “I guess I don’t mind,” she says. “Jobz can access the data base from anywhere at any time on his laptop. This isn’t exactly the CIA. We’re not as concerned with data breaches the way we probably should be. Which means, all he needs to do is type in the right access code and password and he’s in. Easy peasy.”

  “So, what do you say, Mr. Jobz?” Miller asks.

  “You can call me, Steve,” I say, standing. “Or just plain, Jobz. Everyone else does. Just don’t call me Steve Jobz.”

  “But that’s your name,” Miller says.

  “It gets under his thin skin,” Henry says. “Jobz is the sensitive type. Ain’t you, Jobz?”

  She laughs. Miller starts to chuckle along with her, but then quickly catches himself.

  “Laugh it up, everyone,” I say. “And yeah, I’ll take the gig. Anything to get me out of this morgue of an office building.”

  “Good metaphor,” Miller says. “You’re pretty smart, Mr. Jobz.”

  “Gee, thanks, Detective. Must be the name, after all.”

  “I’ll wait for you here while you gather your stuff.”

  I head out of the office and back to my four-by-four hell on earth. A man is leaning over the far wall of the cubicle, his arms spread out on the top rail, his chin casually resting on his hands.

  “What’s going on in there, Jobzy, dude?” the big man says. “You in trouble?”

  I unplug my laptop, close the lid.

  “What makes you think I’m in trouble, Herman?” I say, wrapping up the electrical cord, stuffing it into my black nylon computer bag.

  “You’ve been talking to a cop, dude. I can sniff one out a mile away.”

  Herman is tall and a bit on the soft side now that he’s reached full-on middle age. He was once the heir to a small food distribution agency, but it’s since gone bankrupt. Like me, he found employment doing odd jobs for a while until he nailed a spot at the UIF through a political connection. Word is that he had so much money at one time, he was a New York Football Giants season ticket holder.

  I stuff the computer into the bag, zip it up, shove the strap over my shoulder.

  “Your nose knows, Herman,” I say. “Nice work. I’ll be seeing you.”

  I go to leave, but he reaches out, grabs hold of my arm. Turning, I look up into his face. It’s a long, pockmarked face, and his egg head is somewhat covered with greasy, orange-tinged hair that’s rapidly receding and obviously died with Grecian Formula or something cheaper. He’s got a mustache that hasn’t fully grown in, even after trying to grow it for thirty years. Square wire-rim glasses. Only reason I describe him is because he fits the basic paradigm of a thousand other middle age white bread state workers. And it’s not entirely his fault.

  “Got something to show you, man,” he says, magically producing his iPhone with his free hand.

  “Herman, man, now? Here?”

  “Come on, just take a second, Jobzy.”

  Herman’s one of those guys that, once he’s got his claws buried into your skin and flesh, he’s not about to let go unless you relent. So, I relent, knowing whatever he’s got to show me is so foul and filthy it truly will only take a few seconds.

  He about-faces his smartphone’s digital screen so I can see it. He’s obviously clicked on t
he photo gallery app because even though it takes me a second or two, I begin to make out a head. A human head. And covering that human head is long, frizzy blonde hair, making that human head a female human head. And positioned directly beneath the frizzy blonde-haired female human head is a human lap. The human lap belongs to a second person. That second person is a grown man who owns a pair of bare, white, hairy legs, and even though by the grace of God I can’t see it, Herman’s manhood.

  “Whaddaya think, Jobzy? Looked her up on Ashley Madison last night when I was at Lanie’s Bar. She did me right in the backseat of my ride, man.”

  “Herm,” I say, “you’re married.”

  “A mere legality, my diminutive friend. I haven’t had sex with my wife in ten years. She’s a beached whale. But this girl . . . this girl I met last night, dudddddddde. She’s a primo piece of ass. Pri . . . Mo. And she’s Irish. I just love accents, Jobzy. Accents are like Cialis, baby.”

  Someone shushes us. Or, shushes Herman. It’s Lu. Lu Chin.

  “Quiet, I’m working here,” the bald, short round, forty-something man says.

  “Give me a break, Lu,” Herman scolds. “Go back to your Minesweeper or whatever video game you’re playing.”

  Herman flips to the next picture, and this time I can plainly make out his purple-veined manhood, and I feel my stomach turn.

  “Okay, Herman,” I say, stepping away. “Thanks for the show. But I gotta go.” Before I get sick, I want to add.

  “You should try it, Jobzy,” he says. “Ashley Madison dot com, I mean. You don’t get laid enough, man. Do you some good to water the hog now and then.”

  “I’m happy with my love life,” I say, exiting the cubicle. It’s a lie, of course, but what the hell else am I gonna say? And who refers to a penis as a hog in this day and age?

  “If my name were Steve Jobs,” he says, “I’d be getting laid all the time.”

  “Looks like you’re doing okay with plain old Herman.”

  “Thanks, Jobzy,” he says. “Drink later?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “Save me a seat at the bar.”