by Bo Luellen
Utterson made some meaningless notes thinking, Let’s give this creep just enough time to assume the worst.
Taking out his phone, Utterson hit the red button on an audio recording app and proclaimed, “For the record, state your name.”
The man cleared his voice and replied, “Henry Jekyll.”
The Detective took some notes and added, “Spell that.”
Leaning forward, Henry repeated, “Jekyll. J-E-K-Y-L-L.”
John looked up thoughtfully and inquired, “Jekyll. What is that, British?”
The younger man scratched his ear and answered, “French, I think.”
Utterson wrote down a few more notes, then asked, “What were you doing last night, around 2 a.m.?”
Jekyll shifted uncomfortably in his seat and reported, “Ummm, I was home. There was a Halloween party earlier that night at Lewis’s house. It was a dress-up party we have every year.”
The door to the shop swung open, and Detectives Michaels and Cobb walked to the back of the shop. The crew watched them as the pair went into Turner’s office and started working through his personal effects. Henry stared at them intently, as the rest of the crew comforted one another.
Detective Utterson stated flatly, “Mr. Turner’s family is estranged from him. He is divorced, and we don’t want to ask his daughter to make the trip in from out of town to identify him. However, due to the condition of the body, we need someone to make a positive I.D. just to be sure. I’ll need you to come downtown with me to identify the body.”
Jekyll wiped the tears from his face with the palm of his hand and complied, “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”
He walked to the door with Henry and told the other Detectives where he was heading. The dark-haired waitress met him at the front door with the coffee, as the Detective studied all their faces carefully. Each seemed genuinely surprised and in anguish. One of the waitresses hit her knees with sobbing cries. None of this played on his heartstrings, as he had seen people cry, lie, laugh, and swear to get out of trouble.
He tapped Jekyll’s shoulder and urged him, “Come on. Let’s go.”
The drive into downtown Tulsa was unpleasant for John, as the smell of Jekyll’s body odor and vanilla was almost overwhelming. He turned off the heater, rolled down the windows, and gasped for air. The young man shivered at the cold. Still, John enjoyed sitting in his warm, long black jacket, smoking a cigarette, while Jekyll’s teeth chattered.
He glanced over at Henry thinking, Not the first disgusting ride I’ve had in my car. I’ll have to wipe down the passenger seat with bleach just to get the smell out.
He parked and led Jekyll to the morgue, where the body of Lewis Turner was waiting on them. They rounded the corner into the Medical Examiner’s office, and the Detective smiled at the stocky woman with a muscular build that greeted them. She exuded a masculine energy that was accentuated by her hawk-like features. The 31-year-old ME had a stylish blonde flattop and a light five o’clock shadow of facial hair encircling her jawline.
Utterson took off his long coat and announced, “Dr. Amy Howard, this is Henry Jekyll. He’ll be identifying our victim.”
The young man awkwardly stuck out a hand for her to shake, but Howard kept her blood-stained glove back musing, “I think it’s better if we not shake. That is unless you would like a drug dealer’s Hepatitis-laden blood on you. In which case, I’m giving out free hugs.”
Red with embarrassment, he withdrew his hand as John smirked, “Don’t take it too personally. Dr. Howard’s been the Chief Medical Examiner of Tulsa for the last five years. It’s made her a little irritable.”
Her deep baritone voice retorted, “And you’re Mr. Charm?”
She took off her lab coat and surgical gloves, showing off a thick line of muscles that strained against her black T-shirt. Howard turned to her laptop and brought up the file on the deceased Lewis Turner. She pulled a sheet off the corpse to reveal Jekyll’s decapitated boss. Lewis was cut open with a Y-shaped incision from the shoulders to the bottom of the breastbone. Jekyll winched at the dead man’s white, pale skin tone that contrasted a mass of black chest hair. Utterson observed the man’s pain-filled expression as Jekyll took a closer look at a gruesome rip along the victim’s neck. The jagged cut the train wheel made started just above the clavicle and went from one side of the throat to the other. Veins and tissue dangled like dark spaghetti out of the open neck. Some of Turner’s organs lay in an odd collection on the examining table.
Utterson started his recorder again and announced, “Henry Jekyll, can you identify the victim?”
The man was standing as still as a statue with his chin slightly raised. It seemed like seeing the body had sobered him up entirely, and now he was processing the tragedy. Jekyll shuffled forward a little bit, putting a hand on the edge of the metal table next to Turner’s forearm.
Tears rolled down his face as he offered, “I don’t know. I mean, it looks like Lewis. I’m not sure.”
Utterson raised an eyebrow and remarked, “Not having a head has a tendency to make identification difficult. Is there anything about the body that you could use to help us? A birthmark or a...”
Through a quivering lip, Henry blurted out, “Wait. Lewis had a tattoo on his forearm of his daughter’s name.”
Before Howard or Utterson could stop him, he grabbed the dead man’s right forearm and turned it over. A tattoo of a name written in cursive scrawled from the elbow to the wrist. It read, “Riley,” with roses decorated in the letters.
Utterson stepped forward to put a hand on Jekyll’s arm and suggested, “Look, you had better not touch...”
Howard and Utterson both tried to catch Jekyll before his limp body collapsed to the ground. Cursing to himself, he only managed to graze a corner of the man’s sleeve, as Jekyll collapsed backward onto the concrete floor. His skull made a sick cracking sound as it impacted on the cement and then bounced once.
Uttterson and Howard quickly hit the ground and found the man knocked unconscious, and a strange gurgling sound escaped his throat. A tiny pool of blood leaked out onto the floor from Jekyll’s skull, and a single stream of blood ran towards an adjacent wall. Out cold, Jekyll twitched violently, and his breathing became deep and labored.
She screamed, “Fuck! John, radio the EMT’s right now.”
Howard snapped on some fresh gloves, grabbed a handful of gauze from a work table, and put it to the back of Jekyll’s head. The bandages quickly filled with blood, but she kept applying more dressings and pressure. The powerful woman got the wound to stop bleeding, and she let out a sigh.
After a quick 911 call, Utterson stooped beside her and sat down on his butt. He watched her check pulse and breathing on the unconscious man while keeping the gash plugged with gauze. The pair looked across at one another, then gave a small smile at the insanity of the situation.
He thought to himself, Well if he knows something about this guy’s death, he is putting on one hell of an act. Not many people faint, unless it’s unexpected, and someone close to them.
Amy checked Jekyll’s eyes and diagnosed, “He is just knocked out. His breathing and pulse are strong. Once he gets to the hospital, I think he’ll be fine.”
Utterson leaned back on one of the cabinets and replied, “Well, if he doesn’t make it, at least we know how this one died. It would hold the record as your quickest customer.” She granted him a tiny smile as he changed to a serious expression and asked, “Why an autopsy?”
Howard turned her head towards him while still applying pressure to the wound, offering a confused, “What?”
He rested one arm on his knee and repeated, “Why the autopsy? I mean, the body hadn’t been positively identified yet, so the family couldn’t have asked for it. That means you found grounds to perform one. He was found lying beside the tracks with his neck across the rails. His body was busted up, which meant he fell or jumped. What makes you suspect something different?”
Howard leaned on her right elbow and observ
ed, “Well, trains don’t usually stab you in the liver before they run you over.”
Utterson’s eyes went a little wider as he remarked, “No, not generally. What did you find?”
She blew a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face and revealed, “When the body came in, I did a full examination. I came across a single entry wound in the back. The blade that did it was at least 9 inches long and curved. Do you want to hear something weird?”
Utterson stared at the way her blue eyes shone in the light, It’s been too long since I’ve gone to her apartment for a ‘visit.’
He shook off the recollections of her naked body on his and took the bait, “Tell me something weird.”
She gave a sadistic smile and offered, “The knife went into the liver. It was a clean cut. When I opened our stiff up, there was a mucus-like substance all inside the wound. It was reacting to the body like acid.”
Straightening up, Utterson gave a confused, “Acid? You mean someone injected acid into the body or did they coat the blade with it?”
In the distance, the sirens of the ambulance filled the streets outside. Utterson took a mental account of it but was too focused on this new information. He fumbled for his pocket recorder, turned it on, and pulled out his notebook.
Howard scoffed, “Ahh, no. You’ve been watching way too many movies. Coating a knife with poison is more in line with a James Bond film or that sword and sorcery bullshit. First, putting acid on a knife is pointless. Most of it will get wiped off as the blade enters the body.”
Utterson scribbled some notes and inquired further, “Wait, so if it was acid, how did it…”
Howard shifted to a different side on the concrete and corrected, “No, I said it acted like acid. Whatever was on the knife was having a chemical reaction to the victim’s body. When I opened the wound, I couldn’t find anything that would cause that kind of chemical response. I’m sending samples of the foam and tissue for testing.”
The EMT’s came bursting in the door, startling them both out of their thoughts. Utterson and Howard backed up the paramedics as they assessed the fallen man and took over the application of pressure to the back of the man’s head. Jekyll jabbered on incoherently in his sleep and made quick jerking motions with his hands. They were asking him questions, but he wasn’t responding in an intelligible way.
The shorter of the two women stood up and informed Utterson, “We’re transporting him to the hospital. Do you want to ride along, Detective?”
Utterson flipped his notepad closed and answered, “No. I don’t think this one is dangerous. I’ll assign a patrolman to stay with him. He’ll meet you at the hospital.”
The EMT’s secured Jekyll onto a spinal board, while Utterson got on his cell phone. The Detective arranged for Officer Terry Johnston to watch over the kid until he was cleared medically. Terry had a few choice words to say about the babysitting duty but agreed to notify him when Jekyll came around.
As they wheeled the young man out, they all heard him mutter, “Scion.”
Utterson looked at the ME and ordered, “When those tests come in, I want to know the results immediately.”
Howard put on a fresh pair of latex gloves, teasing, “So demanding! Will you come over and punish me if I don’t?”
Utterson turned to leave, but his eyes stayed on her, as he told her, “I’ll be off at 4. I’ll stop by for our usual.”
She raised her voice a little as he was heading out the door, “Hey, where are you off to?”
Utterson marched on as he responded, “I have to amend a report. Lewis Turner’s suicide just turned into murder.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma - Tuesday, October 16th, 2018 – 4:35 p.m. CST
Utterson laid down on the brown shag carpet of Amy Howard’s condo as he struggled to catch his breath. Both of them were nude, except for Howard’s leather bondage wrist restraints. He had several bite marks on his outer thigh, where she had managed to sink her teeth into him. She slipped out of the padded cuffs, tossed them back in a drawer, and took a drink from the bottle.
He watched her muscular form ripple as she swallowed the wine and marveled at the decorative tattoo markings on her body. The intricately woven patterns dancing around her nipples covered nearly her entire body. It wasn’t until the first time he saw her naked that he knew why she always wore long-sleeved shirts, even in the hot Oklahoma summer.
He reached over and took the bottle back, as he remarked, “You know, there is still so much I really don’t know about you.”
She pointed at the Saint Andrews cross drilled into the wall of her bedroom and replied, “You know the important things about me.”
Getting up, he walked over to a cabinet that contained a bevy of medals and honors, asking, “Is that an Olympic Medal?”
She sat on the edge of her bed and replied stoically, “A Bronze, yes.”
Utterson stooped over and read, “Breaststroke, wow! Your family must be proud of you.”
She rolled her eyes and gave in, “My mother died in childbirth. My dad’s a lawyer at a firm here in Tulsa, and his list of accomplishments is… superhuman, to say the least.”
Utterson’s pudgy gut glistened, and his bones cracked on the way down to take a seat at her feet. He felt like he was about to have a heart attack, while she had barely broken a sweat. He took her small foot into his lap and started rubbing it.
With an inquisitive smirk, he told her, “Keep going. We’ve been fucking for six months, and I barely know anything about you. At this point, you should know I can keep a secret.”
She put her foot on his face and gave him a little push before answering, “From the moment my dearly departed mother shit me out, the pressure was put on me to win. Even as a toddler, I was given mental exercises to increase my cognitive growth. At 11 months, I said my first word, which was “Howard.” It was a moment that I was told had made my Father very happy. At sixteen months, I was forming sentences.
School was never fun. I was expected to hold down nothing less than a 4.0-grade average and learn how to socially interact favorably with the other children. Dad didn’t want me to just be the smartest kid in class, he wanted the other children to love me. I was given courses in other cultures, dance lessons, and studied psychology. By the time I graduated, I was able to speak three different languages fluently.”
Utterson looked stunned and gave a flabbergasted, “That is a lot of damn pressure to put on a kid. Do you have a relationship with him today?”
She leaned back onto the bed and replied, “Daddy’s favor hasn’t been one of my achievements. After the Olympics, I returned to college and started drinking. My father never liked that I came in third, and took great care in reminding me that it still meant I wasn’t ready for gold. He wouldn’t let me stop training until I beat the Gold Medalists' time in the event I lost. It took me a year, a few dozen treatments of steroids, and some extra help from Daddy, but I got it done.”
Utterson crawled up next to her and consoled, “That seems intense and cruel.”
She played with his chest hair and continued, “After that, I stopped caring about my grades and started hating him. I barely got my Bachelor’s degree in biology and skated my way into medical school. I added alcoholism to my steroid dependency when I got into my residency. Two months in, I had a psychotic breakdown and was admitted into a drug and alcohol treatment program.
After I dried out, I waited tables for nine months, cut off from my family’s wealth. That was until one day Daddy came knocking on my door. He had bullied the board into taking me back and made a sizable donation to the university. When I asked him why he said it was because I was a Howard. Every time I left school, I would look up and see the Howard Athletic Hall staring me in the face, and I knew he believed in me even when I didn’t. When I graduated, he handed me the Gold Medal that had been awarded to the Breaststroke the year I competed.”
She pointed to a different cabinet, and Utterson got up and got his glasses. Putting them on, he peered into t
he trophy case, and there it was, a large Olympic Medal made of gold. The Nike flame was embossed on the medallion, and a laurel wreath was lying around it.
Utterson’s phone buzzed, and a text read, “Lewis’s Hoagies and Turner’s residence turned up zero. We will go over the bridge a second time tomorrow. – Cobb.”
He scoffed at the message and declared, “Shit! I gotta go. Cobb and Michaels just decided to knock off for the day with more work to be done. I’ve got to go out and double-check the tracks where Turner’s body was found. We might have missed something.”
Howard cocked her head to the side and guessed, “Did my little sob story turn you off?”
He put on his pants and replied, “No, I'm just not totally buying Jekyll’s fainting goat routine. He is hiding something. All those guys at the shop are. Maybe Turner was selling drugs, and a deal went bad.”
She reached inside his pants and tormented, “Don’t be long. I’m not done tonight, and I’d hate to have to call someone to replace you.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma - Tuesday, October 16th, 2018 – 5:01 p.m. CST
As he pulled out of Howard’s driveway, he pondered, We searched the area under the bridge where the body was found. The stab wound was low on Lewis Turner’s body and from behind. That means whoever knifed him, must have come up unnoticed. Otherwise, Turner would have turned, and some defensive cuts might have shown up on his forearms.
Ten minutes later, he parked on the bridge just short of where the victim had fallen. The ground still had some ice on it, but most had melted off in the daytime sun. He pulled out the report from his briefcase and took note of Amy’s determination that the time of death was between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.
He looked at the bridge above, There wouldn’t be that much traffic at that time of night. Whatever reason Lewis had for being on that bridge, it looks like someone else knew he would be there. The victim could have been assaulted and tossed over the edge with no one seeing them if the timing was right. Turner wasn’t a small man, and if he were thrown, it would have taken a great deal of strength. It was that, or multiple people did it.
