Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  The three followed Sulkin into a darkened room. Several gurneys holding covered bodies appeared near a window. A severely damaged corpse lay on an operating table in the center of the room. A series of metal-clad storage compartments lined the back wall. Formaldehyde mixed with indescribable odors filled the air.

  “Oh, God, what happened?” Kottle said, holding her mouth. She peered at the chewed up remains on the operating table. The torso lay separated from its arms and legs. The head completely mashed, eyes popped out of their sockets.

  “Damnedest thing. The man worked in his yard stuffing tree branches into a truck-sized woodchipper. His wife watched him through the kitchen window and everything was fine. She looked away for several minutes, then glanced back and watched helplessly as her husband was sucked into the machine. She ran outside to help, but it was too late. Here’s the bizarre part. She encountered a deer standing next to the machine, peering into the intake shoot. It turned and snorted toward her; nodded its head, then ran off. She freaked, called the police and ended up in the hospital with a heart attack.”

  “Can you describe the deer? Was it a limping doe, by chance?” Porter asked, taking notes.

  “Hah, I see where you’re going. It’d be a heck of a coincidence,” Sanguini said.

  “I don’t know; it’s not in the report. So what’s this all about?” Sulkin asked, appearing interested, but hurried.

  Sanguini described the recent run-in with the doe and child.

  “Amazing. Makes you wonder if the deer are finally getting smart enough to fight back. Who knows, maybe their DNA is evolving after hundreds of years of being slaughtered. I’ll try to find more about the deer, but I don’t think the man’s wife is going to talk for a long time. Let’s look at Lickshill. State Police say it’s foul play, probably murder one, but you folks think a buck gored him?”

  “We’re not ruling it out,” Porter said.

  “Typical reporter; anything’s possible,” Sulkin said, leading the group to a body storage unit.

  ~ ~ ~

  He pulled the sliding metal platform forward revealing a loaded body bag and gently yanked on a zipper exposing a corpse. “Hmm, I thought I put his arms down.”

  “Excuse me?” Kottle said, staring at the blue-faced cadaver. His mouth and cheeks appeared twisted in pain. His arms positioned behind his head. Eyes closed.

  “Nothing important. Julia, my assistant, must have placed his arms by his head this morning. I left them by his side. Obviously, he didn’t do it.”

  Sanguini stepped up to the right side of the body with Sulkin. Kottle and Porter stepped up to the left. Sulkin held back the zippered flaps exposing Lickshill’s bare chest and eight bright-red perforations.

  “Whoa, why are they so red? I’d think the holes would be blue like the rest of the body?” Sanguini remarked.

  “Yeah, damnedest thing. Apparently, an infection is eating away at the skin keeping it alive. Once he gets embalmed it should stop.”

  “Get him off me! Get him off me!” Kottle shouted and screamed.

  Lickshill’s left hand grasped onto Kottle’s right arm for several seconds, then let go and flapped down onto his chest.

  “Eeeha, Jesus, is he alive?” Porter flinched.

  Kottle jerked backward, looking terrified as she examined her arm.

  “Bloody hell,” Sulkin said, reaching over the body to inspect Lickshill’s arm and hand. “You’ve witnessed a strong muscular reflex, but…ah, nothing to worry about. You okay? Please tell me you’re okay.” He waited for Kottle to answer.

  “I...I think so. God, my heart’s pounding like crazy.”

  “Maybe this infection is also keeping a portion of his brain alive,” Sanguini mused.

  “You mean the walking-dead syndrome?” Sulkin said.

  “He’s becoming a Zombie?” Porter asked.

  “Not quite, folks, don’t go overboard with this. It’s just a reflex reaction. I think I’m going to do an exploratory on his brain, though. You might want to look at this. Who or what killed this poor schmuck really had it in for him big time.” Sulkin lowered the zippered flap further, exposing Lickshill’s groin area.

  “Ooh...God, gross. Who would do such a thing?” Kottle stepped back, but kept her eyes fixed.

  Sulkin revealed two enlarged red testicles nestled below a bird’s nest of pubic hair, but missing a penis.

  “It’s got teeth marks around what’s left. Not human, though. An animal, maybe a deer. Damnedest thing. My guess is he was relieving himself at the time he was killed, laid on the ground exposed, and some animal came and...you can imagine the rest.”

  “This is too much for my Christian mind. Oh no...you’re not...you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Kottle said, watching Porter draw a body with a deer standing over it in this notebook.

  “Did cross my mind. Maybe we need to take a look in the doe’s stomach in the woods,” Porter said.

  “You’re sick.” Kottle shook her head and winced.

  “What do you folks have in mind?” Sulkin queried, not sure what was discussed. “You think some deer took its revenge on Lickshill? Highly unlikely. Deer do not like the human smell and will avoid humans without question. Of course, any animal when cornered or threatened with no egress will defend itself, which I think is what the doe you saw earlier was trying to do, nothing more.”

  “Gotchya. Thanks, Mr. Sulkhill, I think we’ve seen enough,” Porter said, looking up from his notes.

  “It’s Sulkin: S-u-l-k-i-n.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Porter said, writing the name in his notebook.

  “If you have any other questions let me know. My apologies for not having more information about Lickshill.”

  Sulkin escorted the three reporters to the back door and waved them out.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Thanks for all of your help, Bob. We’re going to head back tonight. I want to write this up for the morning edition if possible,” Porter said, shaking Sanguini’s hand by the hallway door to his office. “How are you going to handle this for your newspaper? I guess we should align our facts.”

  “I originally thought we had a front page story, but I’m having second thoughts about sensationalizing this. Stick with the basic facts. I’m going to handle Lickshill’s death as a possible accident, but not rule out violence. The child and the doe is a tough one. I’m leaning towards calling it a lost child story in relation to Lickshill’s accident, and leaving the doe out of it. As for the guy being sucked into the chipper, I’d say it’s a clear accident. And the guy’s wife saying a deer witnessed the incident, no one will believe it or care.”

  “Wow, you’re leaving out the best parts of the story. Why play it down, this is great stuff,” Kottle said.

  “I think Pillbock will agree with me. You have two major problems to deal with. If you sensationalize the idea that deer are getting possible revenge and display human characteristics, then your story will spark interest among the new age and religious community, and you’ll get a firestorm of unwanted attention from them. If you sensationalize these as negative hunting incidents, then you’ll get the NRA riled up.”

  “I think we’ve just wasted the day. We should just take what you write and print it.”

  “Don’t be discouraged. Pillbock sent you up here for a reason: Uncover the underlying thesis or baseline truth of the events, and see if you can solve some greater mystery. Truth, not conjecture sells the story.”

  “I’m looking and learning, but I still don’t get it,” Kottle said.

  “Solve the mystery. Look for clues throughout history relating to these incidents. Have there been similar deer-related occurrences like this? Investigate seemingly disparate stories in other local newspapers having the same general theme. Then put it all together and solve an unsolved ambiguity. People will read it and think they’ve uncovered the truth for all ages. You know, expose the conspiracy, and get to the truth. The truth will always matter and make you into notable reporters.”r />
  “Do you get it? Disparate stories that are related; isn’t that an oxymoron?” Kottle asked Porter, as he jotted more notes into his notebook.

  “I’m hoping a revelation of inspiration will hit me soon,” he said, smiling.

  “Ask questions, gather facts, check the facts, build relationships, get scientific support for your suppositions and write the story. It’ll all make sense as your journey continues to discover more details in the next two or three weeks.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sanguini escorted the two young reporters to the front door, giving them his last bit of advice.

  “Remember, look and learn. Or another way to say it: look to learn and learn to look.”

  Porter gave thumbs up. Kottle held up her left hand, wiggling her ring finger.

  Chapter 9

  I’m hungry, so damn hungry, Montagno thought, becoming motionless. Is something moving up there? A small fawn and doe stood beside him, ears up. The fawn, distracted by a bug crawling beneath it, leaned forward to investigate. Don’t move, don’t move. Montagno cocked his head slightly sideways, looking up into the oak tree next to him. Another one; they’re everywhere today. Run, get away. I don’t like the scent. I will kill you like the other. He turned to the fawn and doe, letting out a slight clicking sound. Run straight away, now! I will run behind the tree and wait for it to come down. Then I will kill it. The doe jumped forward, the fawn followed.

  Whoosh. Thump.

  Ugh, I’m hit. Feel weak. Cannot stand. Falling.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ahh, shit!” Montagno yelled, wrestling with the bed covers. He heaved them back and rolled out of bed, smacking his head on the floor.

  “George...George, you okay? My God, you scared the life out of me,” Montagno’s wife, Sissy, said. She sat up, looking around the darkened room. “Where the hell did you go? Another bad dream? You had better stop taking those pills. They’re definitely not doing you any good.”

  Montagno’s right hand reached up grabbing onto the bottom bed sheet. He pulled himself up and sat on the bed, getting his bearings.

  “Fuck. It’s the same dream over and over. I’m in the woods walking around with a fawn and doe and some bow hunter shoots me in the neck. I swear, it’s like I’m a deer…I even feel like a deer.”

  “How would you know what a deer feels like? Deer can’t think like humans. It’s probably a stupid reaction to your experience with the buck at Hermanski’s house. You guys think you’re such big shots. Boy, that deer sure is getting back at you.”

  “I told you; we didn’t kill it. We found it dead, lying by a tree with a bow hunter perch attached. Damn it, I can’t sleep. I’m all stuffed up. I think I’m going to go over the accounts receivable for Monday. Hermanski’s on my butt to get it done before we create budgets for next year.

  ~ ~ ~

  What the hell, these numbers don’t add up, Montagno thought. He sat by the desk in the soft leather chair in this study, leaning forward and struggling to make sense of numbers lined up in the printed ledger spreadsheet. Ever since taking his CPA exam ten years ago, he felt locked into accounting. He hoped that becoming a partner in Hermanski’s company would change that, but no such luck.

  There it is.

  He pushed back from the desk for a moment, then looked at the spreadsheet again. He had mentally added three columns of numbers in less than five seconds.

  Shit. I adjusted these numbers last week--not good.

  He flipped through several more pages of the ledger. Each time, verifying that the number on the bottom matched the sum of the columns on the page.

  What in hell is going on? Whoa, hold on.

  The room started spinning. Faster, faster, then stopped abruptly.

  Montagno slumped back into his leather desk chair and passed out.

  Chapter 10

  Kottle leaned on Porter, legs entwined, both undressed in bed as Porter, stomach down and propped up by his elbows, continued typing.

  “Not much of a story. Certainly not front page news,” she said, reading the words on the laptop computer screen.

  “I think Sanguini’s right. I’m only presenting the bare facts for now and will take time to get the real story.”

  “If Pillbock lets you.” Kottle pressed her chest against Porter’s back waiting for a reaction.

  “Just one more click and I’ll have it sent for his approval. There, it’s finished.” Porter closed the laptop and flipped over to receive Kottle’s embrace.

  ~ ~ ~

  Porter’s cellphone began playing reggae music.

  “Pillbock,” he said, struggling to reach over to the nightstand.

  “Not now. I’m just getting into it,” Kottle said, shifting from her straddled position.

  “Yes, Chief,” Porter said into the phone. “Okay, I’ll make the changes and send it right back. Yup, saw the article. Why’d you send Louis to cover it? Oh…I just...well, I thought we had the exclusive. Okay, we’ll head over there in the morning. Katie, ah...she’s in the motel room next door. Want to talk to her?” Kottle held her finger to her lips, stepped to the motel door, opened and shut it. “Ah, she just came through the door...here.” Porter smirked and handed the phone to Kottle.

  “Hello, Mr. Pillbock. What’s up? I...yes, I’ll do better, bye,” she said, and threw the cellphone onto the bed, bouncing it onto the floor. “God, he’s such an ass.”

  “No, don’t do that. No wonder my phone never works. What’d he say to you?”

  “Apparently, Sanguini told him about my being a little repulsed in the morgue. Doesn’t show the strength he’s looking for. He called me ‘girl’ again.”

  “He’s just trying to drive that little girl out of you, like he’s trying to drive that little boy out of me. He told me to make some minor changes, and he wants us to go to Port Huron for the rest of the story. He talked to Sanguini after we left.” Porter put his arms over her shoulders and touched her breasts.

  “What do you mean, little boy? Umm, let’s get back into bed,” Kottle responded and pulled Porter onto the bed on top of her.

  He stared into her face for a moment.

  “He’s got Dingman researching deer stories, too. He thinks the competition will drive out the best story between us. You know, Dingman has a couple of years on us. All look-and-learn bullshit.”

  “I don’t like it. We need to check out by eleven. I’m going to set the alarm for eight. Maybe we can beat Dingman to the punch.” Kottle pushed Porter away briefly and set the alarm.

  “Okay, where were we?” Porter said, maneuvering her on top again.

  Chapter 11

  Clouds rushed over Saginaw Bay revealing patches of blue. A brisk nor’easter-like wind blew off Lake Huron. Kottle adjusted her coat over a smart-looking gray-wool skirt and black blouse as she exited the car. Porter flapped the lapels on his blue pinstriped suit as shelter from the cold as they both proceeded up the cement walkway to the Port Huron Hospital.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You can tell another cold Michigan winter is coming,” she said, as they approached the front reception desk.

  “May I help you?” a nurse said, walking up to them.

  “We’re from the Detroit Times. Our editor, Cory Pillbock, should have called and notified you,” Porter explained.

  “I don’t know, we usually don’t allow reporters here unless they’re accompanied by the police. Who are you here to see?”

  “Harry Lopez.”

  The nurse walked over to several other nurses sitting behind a reception desk and relayed the request.

  “Are you from Newsday?” one of them asked.

  “No, we’re from the Detroit Times,” Porter said, holding up a card from his wallet.

  “Newsday? Looks like the national press are sniffing this out, too,” Kottle whispered.

  “Yeah, my thought as well,” Porter whispered back.

  “We’ve already had the Detroit Times in here earlier this morning. A guy by the name of Louis Dingman,” another
nurse said.

  “Yes, we know, but apparently Mr. Lopez was sleeping at the time, and he didn’t get much information,” Porter said. “We are here to follow up and find the underlying cause of what’s ailing Mr. Lopez. Maybe we can shed some light on what’s causing his illness, as we are tracking down all the events leading up to this.”

  “Dingman?” Kottle whispered. “I feel betrayed.”

  “Yeah, makes me feel like a fool too,” Porter whispered back.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get that last comment,” the nurse said.

  “We were just remarking about how nice the Thanksgiving decorations looked,” Porter said, pointing to a giant turkey obviously crayoned by grade-school students.

  “My five-year-old did that in preschool,” a smiling nurse at the desk responded.

  “Okay, okay, follow me. I hope Mr. Lopez is up to this. What we won’t do for public relations,” the first nurse said, shaking her head while walking through the corridor.

  Porter and Kottle followed.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mr. Lopez, are you able to take visitors?” the nurse said, as the three walked into a single-bed room.

  A bronze-skinned smile formed on Lopez’ face. He sat up in bed, covered by a thin white blanket, sipping orange juice. A woman sat on a chair next to the bed, combing his slick black hair. She handed him a pair of glasses.

  “Sure...I love company,” Lopez said, his eyes appearing overly large through thick lenses.

  “Thank you, nurse,” Porter said, waving her away. “Mr. Lopez, I’m Jeb Porter and this is Katie Kottle from the Detroit Times. We’d like to follow up with some questions Mr. Dingman…Louis Dingman, asked you earlier today.”

  “Dingman...I don’t recall. Do you honey? Sorry, this is my wife, Lucinda,” Lopez said, looking at the woman next to him. She nodded whispering in Spanish. “What? Oh, apparently, I was asleep then. What do you folks want to know? More about my hunting catastrophe I suppose.”

  Yahoo, Porter thought. Dingman didn’t get the scoop after all.

  “Yes, can you tell us if you encountered anything strange about the deer your friend shot?”