Flyblown and Blood-Spattered

by Jarred Martin

  “Now that we have heard the opening remarks, Mr. Corrigan you may call your first witness.” Said Judge Stroud, the excess fat rumbling on his jowls as he spoke.

  Corrigan stood once more and broadcast that obnoxious grin, first to the jury, then to the judge. “Thank you, your honor. Now some, like the esteemed counselor, Mr. Tasse, would like to parade a bunch of y'all good folk up to that there witness stand and have them relive the sordid details of the eighth of August. I have no such intention of wasting your time with the conjecture and speculation of those tangentially involved. No. There are only two people who can say for sure what happened on that bloody night. One of them sits before you in this very courtroom,” he gazed at Renfield. “But his testimony is unreliable. His character is questionable. Any man who could even be accused of an act as heinous as murdering the only person you have legally sworn to love and cherish, for life, I might add, would not even blink at the notion of perjury. I cannot call upon you, Renfield. Your lies will not be heard today.”

  Judge Stroud glared at the garrulous attorney. “Mr. Corrigan, I don't know how they conduct trial in your part of the state, and frankly, I have no interest in experiencing it today. But please keep in mind that in this county, in my courtroom, we try to keep spectacle to a minimum. So call your witness and be done with it, sir.”

  Corrigan chuckled to himself, “Keep the spectacle to a minimum. Boy, y'all sure like to keep it simple, don't you. Is that what you mean, your honor? You want a nice little simple trial? A trail free of spectacle, well gosh.” Corrigan could scarcely contain himself.

  Judge Stroud failed to see any sort of humor. “Mr. Corrigan, so far the only thing being tried today has been my patience, which you will find is threadbare to begin with. I will not ask you again. Call your witness.”

  “Very well, your honor. In direct violation of your urging of minimal spectacle, I call the only person who can give an honest account to the proceedings of the night of August, eighth. I call Mrs. Annabelle Renfield to the stand.”

  Corrigan turned to the spectator's pews and reveled in their slack-mouthed stares and murmurs of confusion. “Objection!” Tasse shouted. “This is a farce, your honor.”

  Judge Stroud slammed his gavel down hard enough to make its base flip into the air. The whispers in the crowd heightened to a dull roar. “Silence! Silence, one and all.” Stroud cried, still hammering away. The thrum of excitement receded. “Mr. Tasse, I do not need you to tell me that Mr. Corrigan's behavior is objectionable. Mr. Corrigan, you have displayed an utter lack professionalism in your short time here today, furthermore, you seem to be deprived of even the most rudimentary notions of decency and proper conduct. I am more than a little tempted to declare this a mistrial on the grounds of prosecutor incompetence and find you in contempt of court. You have one remaining chance to explain yourself.”

  Corrigan reached into his jacked pocket and produced his handkerchief, which he wiped across his brow in mock- relief. “And here I was thinking you didn't like me, your honor. And you go and give me a chance to redeem my character, that makes you a right sweetheart in my book. Yes it does.” He turned to face the crowded pews. “Why don't y'all take a look around this room. Nice ain't it? We got us some lawyers, and a defendant, judge and a jury, we got a bible to swear on and all these rules and formalities and law books that establish precedent and maximum penalties and minimum fines and all sort of things to make sure that justice is no longer blind, but looking us square in the eye. Hell, there was a time when a trial meant you were forced to retrieve a stone from a big ole pot of boiling water or oil, and when you pulled your arm out, if the skin didn't immediately fall off, that meant you was innocent. We used to hold a woman's head underwater to make sure she wasn't a witch. If she could still breathe, she was a witch; if she drowned, she was declared innocent. Now I can't see how being dead and innocent is proper justice, can you? In some cultures, they put a turtle in the middle of a table with two bowls of lettuce on either side. Now, which bowl the turtle walked to to eat out of decided a man's innocence. I'll bet y'all didn't know that did you? The point is that the idea of justice and the nature of trials that decide justice have changed over time. We started out with boiling water and turtles but we got to this point here. And what we have is good. It's real good. But it can always get a little better. And it does. We can now use things like blood type and fingerprints in our search for justice. Can you imagine a time when we didn't implement those technologies? How primitive those people were, how basic their trials. They may as well have been deciding a man's guilt by asking a turtle. I tell you this because I am here to reveal to you something unprecedented in modern criminal analysis.” Corrigan looked to a side entrance. “Mr. Pootes, you may enter now.”

  Every head in the courtroom turned to watch the gaunt coroner as he wheeled in a long table trailing a black cord with something hidden beneath a thick white sheet of canvass. He pushed the table to the front of the courtroom and positioned it parallel the witness stand.

  Corrigan looked positively giddy. He clasped his hands together and moved his feet in a frantic jig. “Is it ready, Pootes?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Corrigan. Just let me know when you want me to switch it on. I'm confident it will start immediately.”

  Tasse leaped up from his chair. “Just what sort of madness are you exposing us to, Corrigan. Your honor, surely you will not allow this courtroom to descend into lunacy, will you?”

  Judge Stroud was stupefied. He looked to the covered table and back to Tasse. “I'm not exactly sure what sort...”

  A shrill scream exploded from the spectator's pews as Leigh Anne Geist rose from her third row seat. She screamed again and pointed to the covered table. A human arm dangled from beneath the canvas.

  The room burst into chaos. Screams and cries mingled into one unending bellow as the crowd shot to their feet.

  Judge Stroud banged his gavel till it snapped in two, but it did nothing to quiet the crowd.

  Lester Renfield shoved his face into his hands and cried.

  Corrigan began to scream at Tasse, “Lunacy? Does this look like lunacy to you? This is...” And he yanked the sheet off the table, “Progress. This is revolutionary,” Corrigan finished.

  Beneath the sheet lay the bloated and purple corpse of Anne Renfield. She was attached to complex and incomprehensible machinery. All around her there were wheels and cogs, hoses leading into her body and back out again, glass jars of mysterious solutions connected to accordion-like pumps.

  The court was struck dumb and from somewhere in the crowd, Allison Whitaker made the sign of the cross although she was not catholic.

  “Allow me to explain,” began Corrigan. “I have brought this device with me from the capital. I will not begin to explain to you how it operates, in all honesty some of the more subtle complexities are beyond my understanding, for I am a dilettante in regards to science, but an expert when it comes to justice. And this machine shall be the instrument of justice. The machinations of this apparatus will bring forth undeniable evidence, and we will soon know the identity of Mrs. Renfield's killer. I have asked Mr. Pootes to assemble and operate the machine and he assures me that it is in proper working order.” He turned to look at Pootes. “Would you attest to the fact that this machine is operational?”

  Pootes swallowed, audibly. “Well, I can certainly attest that the machinery will work in theory, although I have yet to see it in action. This machine was assembled by myself, using the detailed instructions that accompanied it. The science involved is sound, again I must say in theory only, for I have not witnessed it myself. But when switched on, this machine should reanimate the corpse of Mrs. Anne Renfield for a short while. But her ability to stand trail remains to be determined.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pootes, but it is not your duty to determine whether a person is fit for trial or not. Without further adieu, ladies and gentlemen, I give you an unprecedented and miraculous spectacle that will forever revolutionize murder trials
as we know them. Pootes, you may throw the switch.”

  Judge Stroud was rabid on his bench, he stabbed at the base of the gavel with its broken handle, "Pootes, if you touch that switch, I'll have your job. Do you hear me? You'll never work--”

  Pootes, far more engrossed in his own scientific curiosity, shrugged and threw the switch. The machine coughed and sputtered a few times in a rhythmic churn. It sped up to a thunderous bellow and billowed vast clouds of black smoke. The electric lights in the courtroom shuddered and dimmed before blinking out completely, and all that existed in the darkness was the awful roar of the machine and the choking pall of smoke it produced.

  And finally, above all, could be heard the voice of Corrigan. “Enough! Enough! Pootes, switch it off.”

  The machine wound down with the same sputtering with which it had begun, and the lights first flickered, then remained.

  Every eye in the court was on Anne Renfield's corpse. They waited with bated breath. Sheriff Horn touched the butt of his gun, ready to draw at a moment's notice if she sprang to life and started menacing the courtroom.

  Anne Renfield lay, mercifully, inanimate.

  Corrigan and Pootes stood by the corpse and conversed quietly in a huddle. The spectators looked on as Corrigan fervently pointed to various components of the apparatus and whispered questions to Pootes.

  Corrigan finally faced the crowd and grinned sheepishly while mopping his brow,“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have a bit of a technical mishap. Mr. Pootes and myself have concluded that she just needs another jolt and she'll be fine as paint. Please bear with us, this technology is very new and we're still attempting to work the kinks out, as it were.”

  Judge Stroud had had enough. “You won't switch that device on again in my courtroom. Bailiff, place these men under arrest and escort them from the premises.”

  The two men were led out of the courtroom. Pootes offered no protest, he seemed immediately resigned to a glum attitude of defeat and he went calmly with his head down. Corrigan, led by the sheriff, had to be dragged up the aisle screaming.

  “You hicks,” he yelled. “You ignorant halfwits! Do you have any idea what you are doing? I've tried to bring you progress. Is this how you treat enlightenment? Go back to your caves, you apes.”

  Arthur Beasley got up from his seat as the sheriff dragged Corrigan by, and grabbed his legs to help carry the screaming wretch out the door.

  Sheriff Horn was pushing in on the door, holding Corrigan around the chest, when someone called out. “Oh my Lord, she moves! She's come alive again.” Both men stopped dead and their arms went slack. Corrigan slipped unnoticed from their grasp and tumbled to the floor. He scrambled back down the aisle with the sheriff chasing after.

  “Is it true? Did she move?” Corrigan demanded, his voice cracking with excitement. “Don't lie to me, now. Who has seen it?”

  “I seen it,” answered Dottie Paige from the jury box. “Her hand twitched a little. Look! There it goes again!”

  They watched as Anne Renfield's hand jerked with a brief spasm.

  “Success!” Shouted Corrigan. “Quickly now, Sheriff, bring Pootes back in here. We haven't got much time.” Corrigan laid his head on Anne's chest and listened. “She's alive,” he confirmed. “Her heart beats faintly, but it beats.” He peeled back an eyelid with his thumb and forefinger. “Anne, can you hear me? I'm afraid you've been murdered, I'm sorry to say. We've brought you back for an indeterminate while so we must move quickly. Do you understand? You must tell us who did this to you.”

  Anne Renfield opened her eyes. They were milk-white and cloudy and seemed to stare at nothing and everything all at once. Just then, Alabaster Pootes arrived at Corrigan's side. “Help me move her to the witness stand, Pootes! She must testify!”

  Pootes unhooked the rubber hoses and clamps and other machinery attached to the formerly deceased. Then the two men moved Anne to a sitting position and helped her off the table. She was able to stand, and to walk with their help, although she moved like nothing human. Her steps were rigid, and she walked like she was forcing each step through the rigor of her muscles. It was like watching someone defy death with each step.

  They led her up onto the stand. “Don't just sit there, man, swear her in. Swear her in!” Corrigan cried.

  Judge Stroud sat in stunned silence for a moment before addressing the corpse. “Uh... do you... uh.. swear to tell the truth...and...uh..before God...and...”

  Anne Renfield turned to the judge. Her head rotated slowly with a sound like old rubber being stretched, loud enough for the entire court to hear. She looked up at the judge, and he withered in her eerie, milky-eyed stare.

  “That will suffice,” said Corrigan. He leaned over the witness stand with his palms splayed flat along the wooden enclosure. “Anne Renfield, sometime between the night of August, seventh and the morning of August, eighth, you were murdered. We have brought you back to the land of the living to reveal your killer. Speak the name and let justice be done. Who has killed you, Anne? Was it this man?” He aimed an accusing finger at Lester Renfield, who had been crying with his face buried in Mr. Tasse's shoulder, muttering, “that's not my wife. That's not my wife anymore,” from the moment the battered corpse had gotten off the table.

  Anne Renfield's mouth lolled open in slow, torturous jerks until it hung slack in a gaping yawn.

  Corrigan leaned forward. “Quiet, you all. She speaks!.”

  The crowd sat entranced, staring into the discolored and rotting flesh of Anne Renfield's face.

  A low hum like a hive of bees began to emanate from deep inside the dead woman. Her mouth stretched wider and wider, until her jaw was resting on her chest. A trickle of foul liquid began to seep out between her bottom teeth, black like crude oil.

  “Mrs. Renfield, please,” Corrigan begged, covering the bottom half of his face with his handkerchief. “You need only utter the name and you shall soon be at rest again. You will have peace, I guarantee it.”

  Anne Renfield's mouth slammed shut with a sound like bones cracking. Her pale eyes leered at him from behind dull strings of hair. How hideous that gaze, that unblinking stare that had seen into eternity and returned barren of any semblance of humanity.

  And finally she spoke. Her voice was no longer human, but the droning buzz of a swarm of locusts devouring everything living; not one voice but the voices of tens of thousands of dead speaking as one. It was an awful sound, a sound that made the living wilt.

  “THEERE ISSSSS NOOO PEEEEACE. THEERE ISSSSS NOO REEEST. ONLY LOOONG BLAAACK ETERNITY. THEEERE ISSSS NOOO PEEEEACEE, ONLY FOREVER.”

  Audrey Dufour, fifty and in the early weeks of pregnancy, felt the life shrivel and die inside of her. In the same instant, the heart of Arthur Beasley's mother stopped beating in her chest, and she keeled over and tumbled out of her wheelbarrow. These occurrences went unnoticed, both the crimson stain spreading beneath Audrey’s dress and the morbidly obese woman sprawled across the center aisle.

  The crowd covered their ears to block out the raging locust-hum of Anne Renfield's voice. It did no good. The sound crept in and echoed in the skulls of all and sundry.

  “THEERE ISSSSS NOOO PEEEEACE.”

  Bodies contorted in anguish at the gnawing drone chewing its way through them.

  “THEERE ISSSSS NOO REEEST.”

  Corrigan's screams went unheard as the dead woman's hand shot out and latched onto his forearm. He struggled ferociously, but was unable to pull away. Her grip was vice-like and Corrigan felt the bones in his arm snap, and he watched in horror as his arm drooped like a wilting flower in her clutch.

  “THEERE ISSSSS ONLY LOOONG BLAAACK ETERNITY.”

  Sheriff Horn pulled one hand away from his bleeding ear and drew his service revolver. He leveled it at the corpse and squeezed off five quick rounds into her chest. The same reeking fluid that had spilled from her mouth now poured from the wounds but she neither released her grip on Corrigan, nor quit speaking.”

  “EEEENDLESSSS COLL
D HELLLL”

  Horn saved the last shot for Corrigan. It hit him just above his right eye and sent a hot splash of brains and skull all over the Judge's bench behind him. Corrigan collapsed and Anne Renfield still held his arm high above him, like a victorious prize fighter.

  The gunshots had motivated the crowd to flee. Those that had been watching from the lobby scrambled in a mad rush for the exit. Some were trampled in the blitz, their bodies stomped into the cold tile floor. Those that made it out the heavy double doors never even looked back as they began to swing shut on their own.

  Tate Novak was the first from the pews to rush for the door. He was spry for an old drunk and darted through the mass exodus of bodies like hurdles. He reached the exit and dove at the ever-narrowing gap towards freedom. His head and shoulders passed through the door, and for one brief moment, he rejoiced in his escape before the doors slammed shut around his abdomen, squeezing his intestines out of his mouth like a crushed toad.

  The doors would not open. A host of the town’s brawniest men had been trying to pry the doors open for several minutes after they sealed themselves shut. The men could hear no sounds from within the courtroom. They couldn't decide if that was a good sign. One look at the bisected remains of that old drunk Novak, with his guts sprayed over the steps suggested that there were no good signs.