Her only regret was that he’d interrupted their fucking for his big revelation, that she’d killed him before she’d had a chance to climax.
Now she’d have to go home and finish herself off.
WHIRLING MACHINE MAN
BY AARON J. FRENCH
The Jeffrey Hogan case had been all over the local news, with various stories being run on a poor kid who had come stumbling out of the woods, white-haired and drooling, with a great deal of his teeth missing and his tongue cut out ...
That was the most horrifying part of the whole thing—at least in my opinion—the bloody, gaping hole in the center of his face. I had the unfortunate pleasure of viewing it in the medical photos in his case file.
His parents found the eleven-year-old boy sitting in a puddle of his own excrement on the kitchen floor. Jeffrey was wide awake, staring into midair—a condition he maintained thereafter, even once they got him to St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital. Even now up in the Serene Hills mental facility, where, presumably, he’ll be spending the remainder of his days.
I want to tell you also that the Hogan case ended my P.I. career, failure though it might’ve been, and to this day I hold a position at the Department of Motor Vehicles, sitting on my ass issuing license plates and I.D. cards. Not the most exciting work, but digging in the Hogan case produced a desperate need in me to feel safe.
That’s what my DMV job is: safe.
Way I saw it, if I didn’t procure some safety—and fast—I was liable to end up in Serene Hills right along with Jeffrey. Because there will always be that empty space where my right arm used to be ... antagonizing me with its absence. Simple things like riding a bicycle—unless I decide to get fitted for the prosthetic, and them things ain’t cheap—will forever remain unavailable to me. That’s something I have to live with. But allow me to fill in some of the details so you can have a better understanding.
I don’t recall the exact day Maria Hogan came into my office, but I do know it was some time after the hubbub surrounding her son had died down. The county gazettes had pumped several weeks’ worth of sensationalism onto their front pages at her son’s expense, but had since returned to running their usual drivel. I had pretty much forgotten about it, and so when the tired-looking blonde with large breasts and larger hips appeared opposite my desk, it took me by surprise.
I recognized her from the news reports, but now she just looked terrible. I said, “Please, have a seat,” and signaled to the vacant leather chair; nodding, she installed herself accordingly.
“My name is—”
“I know who you are.”
She blinked. “You know what happened to my son?”
“I do.”
“You know where he is?”
I presumed she meant Serene Hills, so I nodded. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hogan?”
She was quiet a moment. Then: “I want you to find who did this to Jeffrey.”
“Ma’am, the police are doing their best—”
“No, they’re not.” There was a flicker of ferocity in her eyes that I found briefly attractive. “Jeffrey can’t speak and he won’t write, and the cops must’ve combed through the woods behind our house two dozen times, and nobody knows a single thing, and I know—I just know—that it’s gonna fall off their radar soon. They’re gonna box up my baby’s case file and go about their business.”
She ended with a burst of emotion, and I sat there feeling awkward while she wept in her hands. I lit a cigarette and Maria Hogan raised her face to glare at me, but I didn’t care: I needed the nicotine.
“Mrs. Hogan,” I began, “I understand all of your concerns, but I’m just not sure what I can do about it. From what I’ve heard there are absolutely no leads, no motive, no evidence, and no blood in the forest. They’ve got nothing, which means I’ll get nothing. I’m sorry, but it is what it is.”
She arched her eyebrows. “I thought you ran a business here?”
“I do, it’s just—” I blew smoke out my nose. The truth was that I was scared. And not just scared: horrified. I couldn’t imagine the kind of person who could remove an eleven-year-old kid’s tongue and teeth, and didn’t want to, either.
Sensing my distress, she said, “I’ll let you in on a secret.”
“I think you’d better go to the police if you have new information.” Watching my own ass was something I excelled at, thankfully.
But she tossed her head. “Nope, they won’t listen, not to this. I can only tell someone who has an open mind.” She glanced at the nameplate on my desk.
“Morgan Summers, and call me Morgan,” I said. “I suspect I have an open mind, but—”
“The person who did this to Jeffrey lives in a cabin in the Mintano Wilderness behind our house.”
My eyes widened. “You told that to the cops?”
“No ... it’s not really there—not physically.”
“What?”
She sighed, struggling with the words. “I’ve never actually seen it. Only Jeffrey saw it. He saw it a few times. He said a mad scientist lived there.”
I chuckled. “Yes, I did hear something in the news about your son having strange episodes in the woods.”
“I told them that. And you know what, my word returned to me void. That’s why I didn’t tell the police about the cabin.”
She reached in her flower-patterned handbag and withdrew a small manila envelope, the kind of thing in which you might receive a piece of jewelry in the mail. She placed it on the desk and slid it over to me. Stamping out my cigarette, I picked it up and opened the flap.
“I found that lying on the back porch when I went outside this morning.”
I frowned at her. “Does your husband know you’re here?”
She didn’t answer. I knew it was probably evidence that I was potentially contaminating, but I was too intrigued now not to proceed.
The first object I pulled out was a small gold, old-style key; the second, a folded sheet of paper; the third, a small hunk of metal that I thought was just metal, until I realized there were several human teeth wedged into it.
“Jesus!” I shrieked, dropping the object. “Are those ...”
“Yes. They’re Jeffrey’s.” She picked up the sheet of paper and unfolded it. “This’s a letter intended for him.” She read:
To the one speaking for the dead:
I realize you experienced great pain and suffering during your transformation. But still I do not understand your departure from the lab. I warned you that crossing over would be ... uncomfortable. Of course there was physical pain. Illusory though it may have been, I know it seems very real in the moment. But it is for the good of science. We’re pioneering a new frontier. I’m enclosing a key, so that you might return to the lab at your leisure, as well as a portion of the prototype in hopes that looking upon it might entice you back.
Yours,
The Amputator
Maria Hogan put down the paper, looked at me. I wasn’t sure if she was giving me shock, disbelief, or just plain rage. “Well?” she said.
“Totally nuts. I think you need to pack up your stuff and take it over to—”
“No ... No! You’re not getting it.” She slammed her palm down on the desk. “Even if they did hear me out, they wouldn’t believe any of it, which means they won’t look in the right places, which means nothing will happen. Which means this bastard”—she waved the paper—”goes free.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” I said. “All I know is that several human teeth wedged into a metal harness are lying on my desk. I have half a mind to call the police myself. The D.A. is a close friend of mine, and so are a number of boys on the force.”
She sat back, her eyes going cool as she reached into her bag a second time. “Guess I should make this more worth your while, huh?” She dug out her checkbook and pen, leaning on my desk to write, glancing at my nameplate again. She tore off the check.
I took one look and had to light another cigarette. “That’s a lot of zero
s,” I said. “You have this kind of money?”
“My husband does.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“What does that matter? He’s sunk so far into his morbid funk after what happened to our son that I’m not sure he’ll pull out of it. Besides, he knows about the hidden cabin. Jeffrey told us both.”
I smoked and sighed and felt like something like a rusty railroad spike was being dug into my side. My salary at the time was measly to say the least, and I’d even had to let my secretary go in order to maintain the business. I desperately needed money.
I thought: What’s the worst that can happen? I take the key and rummage around in the Mintano Wilderness, find nothing and come back empty-handed, then tell her I told you so, take the money, and run off to Cancun. Piece of cake.
But, of course, there was the whole conscience thing, not to mention the possibility, be it slight, that she was telling the truth—in which case I could find myself face to face with some psychotic criminal. But even that had its egoistical perks. And it wouldn’t be the first time I had squared off against something violent. I’d been in the private investigator business for over eight years, and had seen my share of fights.
I took a long, deep drag on the cigarette and sat back in my chair. “I’ll take your case, Mrs. Hogan, but on one condition.”
She brightened. “What?”
I flipped the check with my index finger. “I’ll be cashing this before I get started, which is not my usual policy, but what you’re asking for is dangerous, could even get me into trouble with the City if they found out I’m withholding evidence on an open case. That means I’ll have to use some of this money to pay off cops and detectives in order to get my hands on the file. Understand?”
She nodded, smiling. She seemed extraordinarily relieved, and I even noticed a portion of her weariness evaporating. “Do what you need to do,” she said. “And thank you, Morgan.”
“You can thank me once we get through this without landing our balls in the grinder.”
She made a face, and I nearly burst out laughing. Leaning farther back, I kicked my boots up on the desk, closed my eyes and smoked, and said in my best Perry Masonesque voice, “Now, Mrs. Hogan, tell me everything you know about the incident involving your son.”
I waited in the rain at 10 and 63, secreting myself under the awning of an Italian bistro. My long coat was drenched, but I kept wrapping it tighter, hoping to preclude the chill. The cars on 63 moved spectrally through the mist, flinging water from their tires, their headlights looking like passing souls.
When Detective Browning pulled alongside the curb in his sharp blue Pontiac with the white roof, windshield wipers flapping, I pushed through the rain and slipped in the passenger door.
“Summers,” he said.
“Howdy, Robert.” I took this opportunity of dryness to light a cigarette. Smoke filled the cab, but I knew Rob didn’t care—he customarily chuffed cigars in the damn thing.
“I’m going ‘round the block,” he commented.
“Why?”
He said nothing, but piloted the Pontiac into the storm of souls. He was a larger man, nearly twice my size, with rubbery skin and a face like a grizzly bear. His meaty forearms, poking out the sleeves of his coat, bristled with black hairs, and his muscles tightened as he manipulated the wheel.
I had expected him to hand over the file, for me to pay, and then to be on our ways. It was how things had worked in the past. But now he was weaving through city blocks sluiced with rain, and there was something tense about him.
I chose not to speak until we reached our final destination: a nondescript alley behind this Chinese restaurant I’d been meaning to try. I thought of having lunch there and taking a cab back to my car.
“What’s with the secrecy?” I asked. Rain drummed on the roof of the car. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
He shifted his bulky weight and the Pontiac squeaked on its axles. His weary brown eyes observed me. “This one’s different, Summers,” he said. “Not to say it’s high priority, but just that it’s ... different. Which is strange because nobody even died. Yeah, some eleven-year-old kid got assaulted, but last week we found a teenage girl in the dumpster with a hot curling iron shoved up her—and you don’t hear diddly about that.”
I grimaced. “Jesus.”
He waited, took a deep breath, and then continued: “Yeah. Well, this Hogan case’s got some weird vibes about it. Everyone down at the station is going bonkers. But there ain’t a thing to go off of, so they’re all staying away from it. Not to mention the Jeffrey kid is completely nuts now, and his folks are right up there with him. Plus the media’s been all over it, don’t ask me why. There are even rumors of one of those Unsolved Mysteries shows running a spot on it. Christ, and because of this brouhaha, the chief and other detectives, not including myself, are hell bent on getting it solved, or at least putting it down to rest. Yet they won’t touch it! I think they just wanna believe the Hogan kid sheared his own tongue with a pair of scissors and knocked his teeth out with a rock. Meh. Who knows what really happened.”
He was silent. The back door of the Chinese restaurant opened and a thin Asian man dressed in white, carrying a trash bag, moved past the Pontiac. He glanced at us, knit his brows, then continued walking.
Rob grunted, withdrew a sealed manila folder from his coat. He smiled, showing coffee-stained teeth. “Thanks for letting me bitch.”
I took the folder. “Don’t mention it. And thank you.” I handed him the envelope containing his payment.
He nodded, disappeared it into his coat, but he still seemed worried.
“Listen,” I said. “The worst that can happen is we get caught, at which point I’ll contact the Chief Deputy District Attorney myself and get things straightened out. Howels and I go way back, so don’t fret. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
This placated him. He smiled and nodded again. “Want a lift back?”
“Nah, I’ve been wanting to try this place.” I hooked a finger toward the restaurant and got the passenger door open. The sound of rain emerged like a roaring beast. I flicked the last of my smoke into its gullet.
As I closed the door, he said, “Hey, Summers?”
I peeked my head back into the cab.
“Take care on this one. Something different about it. Got some bad vibes. I’d hate for either of us to get in trouble.”
I nodded, thanked him again, closed the door, and watched him coast away. Then I went into the restaurant and ordered egg foo yung.
Later, back at my apartment, I uncorked a bottle of merlot and sat at my kitchen table under the harsh glare of the fluorescents and sipped, smoked, read. Inside the case file there were several stacks of photographs, the police reports, medical reports, some statements given by neighbors and the boy’s parents.
I read through everything, fueled by the wine and the increasing darkness outside the window. The medical reports I found significantly disturbing. The doctors were baffled as to how Jeffrey Hogan’s teeth and tongue had been removed, with not a single tear appearing in the flesh or gums of his mouth. There were no signs of trauma, which there would’ve been if the tongue had been yanked out. It had been removed cleanly, as if by a master surgeon.
The photos mostly showed long swaths of empty wilderness and rows of standing pines. One showed the disgusting puddle of excrement in which the boy had been found. Various photos documented the extent of his wounds, some grisly close-up shots of the severed tongue and the vacant teeth.
Finally—having pushed through innumerable chills and waves of unease—I got around to the statements given by the parents. Maria Hogan seemed the most adamant on the subject. Her statements made up seventy-five percent of the report. She went into explicit detail about several previous incidents in which Jeffrey had had unusual experiences in the woods.
The officer conducting the interview had jotted in his notes that Mrs. Hogan “appeared slightly unnerved, and alth
ough her story seemed fabricated, there was an aspect of sincerity about her. She believed she was telling the truth.”
The first time Jeffrey claimed to hear sounds and see lights coming from the Mintano Wilderness was a year or two before the incident. According to Mrs. Hogan, he had been in the backyard playing in the grass for most of the evening while she had been washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen. At one point, she glanced out the window and didn’t see him, but figured he was merely playing around the side of the house.
Later, he came in the back door looking pale and shivering with fright. When asked about it, he claimed he had followed some “whirling machine man” into the woods, where he saw a ghost weaving in and out of the branches.
Maria, disturbed, put her son to bed, thinking he was coming down with something. Over the next year, however, Jeffrey claimed again to have contact with a “whirling machine man” and to have seen more spirits or ghosts in the trees. Maria grew unsettled, but when he came with his story a third time, she started to think it was merely his imagination, that he was playing a child’s game.
The boy’s father, Henry Hogan, when told of Jeffrey’s claims, dismissed them as mere imaginings and told his wife not to worry about it. His statement in the report consisted of two meager paragraphs in which he stuck to his belief that the boy had imagined it. He felt, begrudgingly, that Jeffrey had somehow done it to himself—though why and for what purpose, he had no idea.
In the final incident leading up to the terrible night when Jeffrey lost his tongue and teeth, as reported by Maria Hogan, Jeffrey didn’t show up for dinner. Maria was alone in the house; her husband had been working late at the office. Placing Henry’s plate in the oven to keep warm, she stuck her head out the window and hollered for Jeffrey. When he didn’t come, she put on her coat and went outside.
Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad! Page 13
