The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  I backed away. It obviously wasn't a good time to call.

  LESSON NINETEEN

  ‘Herbert, what do you think of the sample I showed you?’

  ‘It is crap, Marco. As I have told you until I am blue in the face, you have greatness within you, but you have still to let it out.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Herbert. Please give an example of what I need to do better.’

  ‘You must choose your words with greater care, Marco. You write ‘I looked at my watch and discovered it was teatime’. Discovery implies endeavor, or the revelation of a thing hidden. You discover cures for cancer; you discover the existence of tectonic plates; you discover lost temples in the jungle. You don’t ‘discover’ it is teatime.’

  ‘What should I have written, Herbert?’

  ‘You might have said that you ‘saw’ it was teatime, Marco. It would be more concise and more appropriate.’

  ‘Need I take such care with every word, Herbert?’

  ‘If you are to be a great writer, yes.’

  ‘But Herbert, there must be literally hundreds of words—finishing a book could take weeks!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In which Marco’s recollection of Herbert inspires a truly Pollock-like development.

  I went for a walk around the lake, hoping to give the Kelloggs’ neighbors a chance to finish their heated argument. As I picked my way over the rocks, I thought back to when Herbert and I first met. I was a sophomore at an elite university at which Herbert was a visiting professor in English literature. I did not fit in with the other students: they had money, privilege and social status; whereas I was an orphaned boy living with impoverished foster parents in a poor part of the Bronx. I had gained a place at the university through sheer brilliance and the encouragement of my Bronx mom.

  “Markie,” she encouraged, “you can get to the elite university with all that sheer brilliance of yours. Now eat your cake like a good boy.”

  Herbert coached boxing in his spare time, a sport I had taken up to discourage older bullies from bullying me. And younger ones, now I think about it. I developed a special technique that guaranteed I would never lose a bout—the technique of never taking part in them. Herbert was often around when I was sparring. One day he approached me as I removed my gloves.

  “Not bad. Not bad,” he said. “You have quite some technique there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And yet you never take part in competitive bouts?”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply without giving my secret away, so I merely shrugged.

  “Anyone can spar,” he said. “Perhaps you’re not man enough for the real thing.”

  As usual, Herbert had a clutch of beautiful girls in tow, the sort of girls who would ignore me if I walked by. They giggled at Herbert’s taunt. Something snapped within me.

  “Au contraire, Quarry. I will fight any opponent of your choosing, at any venue of your choosing, at any time of your choosing.”

  “Oh? By coincidence, the heavyweight boxing champion of the United States is due to meet me for some advice at the gym next door. Come along now and we can see what you are made of.”

  I was trepidatious, and worried about ending a sentence with ‘of’, but I knew it was my destiny to impress Herbert Quarry or die trying, so I went along. Within minutes I was in the ring with my giant opponent—six inches taller than I, and a hundredweight heavier. We eyed each other from our respective corners as we warmed up. My trainer rubbed my shoulders, wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead, and murmured advice. Keep low. Watch his left. No biting. Get in close. He cuts real easy if you can hit his face. Tie that shoelace.

  Ding. The bell rang and we were off. I can now barely recall the fight itself. Round after round of grueling effort, pain, and weariness. But eventually came the final bell. My legs could hardly support my weight, but we stood there, my opponent and I, on either side of the referee. I shall never forget the disappointment I felt when victory was awarded on a split points decision to my jubilant foe. All I could do was to shuffle wearily to my corner, picking up my teeth as I went. However, my depression was short lived, for as I climbed down from the ring in my robe, Herbert Quarry clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Ow!” He’d clapped me right on one of my many huge bruises.

  “Man, you must have balls like space-hoppers” he said. “I will now be your firmest friend for life. Let us go and share a beer overlooking the sea.”

  It seemed a strange suggestion to share a beer, but perhaps he was low on cash, I thought.

  Stumbling over a rock brought me back to the present. My circumambulation of the lake was almost complete. I headed once more to the Kelloggs’ neighbors’ house.

  As I approached, I heard Wagner still played at full blast. Wondering whether the heated argument had now given way to love and kisses, I edged to the jamb of the door. These were the very words I overheard:

  Woman's voice, full of rage: “You sick perverted bastard. If it hadn't been for you, Lola would never have run to that creep.”

  Man's voice, indignant: “How dare you accuse me of being a sick perverted bastard? If you and those witches you call your friends hadn't dabbled in satanic rituals with those bloody Kelloggs, we wouldn't have been in this shit-hole in the first place.”

  The blood froze in my veins and my hair stood on end as I realized those were the exact words I had overheard the last time I eaves-dropped at the house, freshly copied and pasted. I pushed open the screen door. It was too dark to see inside, so I decided I would just have to risk it: I burst into the living area.

  The sight that met my eyes was at once both normal and horrifying. In seats either side of a coffee table were a man and a woman, their mouths open as if in speech. Their eyes stared vacantly across the room. I continued to hear their noisy argument, but the words came from hi-fi speakers behind me. The two people were motionless and silent. A thrill of horror came over me as I realized they were dead!

  In disbelief, I approached them. Their fingernails were unnaturally long. Their glassy stares were glassy for a reason—their eyes were glass. What I was seeing were two stuffed human bodies, possibly long dead. An endlessly looping recording was playing on the hi-fi to project sounds of life outside the house, but life was long gone within. Who could have done this? How could they have done it? When could they have done it? Why could they have done it? How come nobody had spotted this before I did?

  With those and other questions racing through my startled mind, I called Como. I remembered his forensic taxidermy course, and I reflected on how handy that would now become, as I waited impatiently for him to answer.

  “Detective Galahad. How may I help you?”

  “It’s me, Como. If you’re driving, pull over.”

  “It’s OK, Writer—police officials are allowed to use their phones while driving.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant what I’m about to say will startle you so much you’ll be unable to steer safely. I’m at the house of Lola’s father’s neighbors. They’re both long dead. Someone has expertly stuffed their bodies to make it look to a casual observer that they are sitting in their lounge, and a tape recording has been playing on a loop to give the impression they are talking inside the house.”

  I heard another long screech of tires and a thud.

  LESSON TWENTY

  ‘Herbert, you are often telling me that writing a book is like a sport. What sport is it most like?’

  ‘It depends on the book, Marco. Sometimes when I write I feel I am taking part in a boxing match; other times I feel I am weightlifting or competing in the pole vault.’

  ‘What will my experience of writing a book be like, Herbert?’

  ‘It will be like the Cresta Run, Marco’.

  ‘You mean… thrills and excitement at every turn?’

  ‘No, I meant you would get off to a slow start then go downhill fast.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY
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br />   In which there are thrills and excitement at every turn. Well, nearly every turn.

  So startled had he been by my report, Como crashed his police car. I went to pick him up. We watched his mangled motor being winched onto a transporter.

  “Maybe you’ll get a new one,” I said, hoping to cheer.

  “Yeah, and maybe I’ll shit gold ingots next time I get five minutes in the men’s room. And I don’t see me getting five minutes any time soon with all the forms I’m gonna have to fill. McGee’ll go nuts.”

  I made a note to remind myself to work on my cheering technique, then drove us to the Kelloggs’ neighbors’ place to let Como investigate the incredible scenario I’d invented there. I was impressed by the expert way in which he examined the stuffed bodies.

  “This is taxidermy of the highest quality, Writer. See how the facial expressions are so lifelike. The curl of the fingers in repose is most exquisite. I would estimate there are not a hundred taxidermists in the world with the skill to make such realistic forms from dead humans.”

  “And to think, Como, we have Chief McGee to thank for your remarkable knowledge of taxidermy.” I smiled at the irony of it. “What should we do next?”

  “Let’s take a look round.”

  The house had a dusty, neglected look. None of the rooms showed signs of recent habitation, bar one. It was upstairs, the room with the best view of the Kelloggs’ place. At its scrupulously clean window, a pair of gyroscopically-stabilized, military-grade binoculars with the finest triple-coated optics was mounted on a five-way adjustable tripod. Someone with a predilection for hyphens had been monitoring the Kellogg family.

  Any question about the subject of the mysterious surveillance was more than adequately answered by dozens of photographs loosely stacked on the window ledge. Each portrayed Lola Kellogg. In some she was alone; in some she was with a man dressed as a priest—presumably her father; in some she was with Herbert; in the remainder, she was with another man—a man in a distinctive uniform: Chief McGee.

  Como leafed through picture after picture, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. I knew how he felt—I’d expected to see Lola with Herbert, but McGee?

  “Writer, look at me.” I looked at him. “Don’t say a word about these pictures to anyone—get me?”

  “Christ, Como, they’re evidence—we can’t just sit on evidence that might have a bearing on the case.”

  “We can sit on what the fuck we like, Writer, especially where my ass is concerned. Right now, McGee thinks we’re going along with his bullshit story. What’s he gonna do if we say we’ve found two stuffed bodies in the house next to Lola’s, and guess what—the house is full of pictures of him with Lola?”

  I’d no idea what to write for the best. Unable to concentrate on the dilemma, my thoughts strayed to the fancy binoculars.

  I leaned to the eyepieces. The superb instrument furnished the clearest possible view of the Kellogg house—as if I had been standing within arm’s reach of the place. I was panning from one window of the Kellogg house to the next, wondering who had been at these eyepieces before me, when…

  “Como, I think there’s something you need to see.”

  I stood away from the binoculars to let him take a look. He had to pull over a chair as he was too tall to bend down to them. He looked for maybe a second and a half.

  “Let’s go.”

  I followed as Como ran down the stairs, outside and across to the Kellogg place. Smashing a pane of glass in the front door, he put his hand through to unlock it from inside.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  We walked warily upstairs to find the room we had previously seen through binoculars. Como eased open the door. Flies buzzed. A man’s body was hanging on a rope from a hook in the ceiling.

  “Do we sit on this too?”

  I asked the question as Como examined the hanging body.

  “Looks like Lola’s pa. He was a priest. The set-up’s classic for suicide.”

  By ‘set-up’ I assumed he meant the way a chair was tipped over near the hanging body. His next words confirmed my guess.

  “Kellogg stands on the chair; he gets on his tippy toes to put his head in the noose; then he kicks the chair away.”

  It was very plausible—except I didn’t think Como would speak in semicolons.

  I tried not to wonder whether it was a real suicide or a staged one—I needed to let the story grow on its own, without interference, like a vegetable.

  "Zucchini,” said Como. He was inspecting the shoes on the dangling legs of the body. “That’s weird.”

  He could say that again.

  “Why’s it weird?” I asked, ignoring the obvious reason.

  “There’s zucchini squashed in the grooves on the sole of the right shoe. Where would that be from?”

  “The grocery store? Don’t ask me, Como—you’re the detective.”

  Como used his hanky to pick up the chair.

  “No sign of zucchini on the seat.” He let the chair down. “Let’s look around.”

  “OK.”

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “OK.”

  “Tell me if you see any zucchinis.”

  “OK.”

  We failed to find zucchinis in the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the conservatory, the dining room, the lounge, the kitchen, the study, the hall, the billiard room, the ballroom, the library or the cellar.

  “Let’s take a look outside.”

  “OK.”

  Outside we found a huge raised bed upon which grew zucchinis of every variety, including exotic and heritage strains of exceptional rarity. No expense had been spared in preparing the ground to promote the growth of the magnificent fruits. Fertilizers and feeds of every kind filled the shelves of Father Kellogg’s gardening shed. A huge heap of recently delivered manure steamed in the sunshine.

  “Como, look at this.”

  I called him into the shed. On the table was the schedule for the Clarkesville County Annual Horticultural Show—a booklet setting out all of the classes for which competitors could submit entries. The schedule was held open at a certain page by a terracotta pot performing the role of a paperweight. Certain zucchini classes were marked with a penciled asterisk, presumably indicating those for which Father Kellogg had fancied his chances. The rear wall of the shed was entirely covered with rosettes from Father Kellogg’s previous outings to the show.

  “So?” Como seemed entirely unimpressed by my discovery.

  “I take it, Como, you are not a keen gardener?”

  “Writer, if I want vegetables, I get them from the store. I hardly have time to eat them, let alone grow them.”

  “But imagine you had grown them, Como. Imagine they were your pride and joy. Imagine you had spent your every spare moment lavishing every care upon them. The flower show is this weekend, the show at which you expect to sweep the board, bringing home rosettes by the armful. Would you abandon your glorious fruits, walk upstairs, and top yourself?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll call it in, but we won’t say it’s us who found it. You can make the call.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, they’ll know my voice if I do it.”

  “What shall I say?”

  “Don’t tell them about the body—just say there’s been a break-in. And don’t give them your real name.”

  “What if they trace the call to my mobile?”

  “We’ll use Kellogg’s landline.”

  We went downstairs and found Kellogg’s landline. Como told me what number to call. As I was starting to dial, I thought ‘What if they record the call and play it back just after hearing me on one of my many TV appearances and realize it’s me?’ I asked Como if I ought to put on a stupid voice.

  “No, it’s already stupid enough.”

  Smarting at Como’s hurtful comment, I dialed the PD and fought my way thro
ugh a horrendously overcomplicated system of menus, pressing an eight, a four, three threes, a one, two sixes, another eight and a five, to signify I wanted to report signs of a break-in. After a computer voice asked me to hold the line, I finally spoke with a human, to whom I enunciated the Kelloggs’ address and zip code before being asked for my name, address and phone number. Wondering if I was committing perjury, I gave Herbert’s name and contact details, and killed the call.

  “Shit, Writer—why’d you give them Quarry’s name?”

  “Why d’you think? It was the first thing that came into my head. It can’t do any harm, can it?”

  “Let’s hope not. Ok, let’s go wait and see what happens.”

  We went back to keep watch in my black Range Rover. I drove it into the shade of the Kelloggs’ neighbors’ carport, which would keep us hidden behind our heavily tinted windows.

  We didn’t wait long before a car arrived. A man stepped out in a decidedly alert and business-like manner. It was McGee. He strode directly to the Kelloggs’ door, inspected the damaged pane, reached inside to let himself in, disappeared for two minutes, came out, went to his car, got a cloth from the trunk, went to the house, wiped the door handle, went to his car and drove off.

  I must admit it was an impressive performance—McGee’s I mean, not my writing, which was even more drearily pedestrian than usual.

  “Well, Como, credit where credit’s due. You have to hand it to Chief McGee.” I looked at my watch. “Less than ten minutes since I called the PD, and he’s been here—in person mind, no sending a junior—examined the damage, and even polished the Kelloggs’ door handle. Now that’s what I call service.”

  “Writer, you’re a bigger dumbass than I thought you were—and I thought you were a fuck of a big dumbass. You think McGee’s responded to your call like a proper concerned police chief doin’ his job the proper police way? Jeez—you’re such a dumb fuck.”