The fat pathologist stroked his beard, and gave me a smile. “This is your cousin, the Yankee from New York. Right?”
Luke rolled his eyes. “Something like that. Shade this is our pathologist Stan Gadford.”
I put my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
Still stroking his beard, the pathologist stepped back, giving off guarded suspicion and left me hanging, hand still extended. I dropped my arm, whispering to myself, “Nice to meet you too.”
The refrigerated air inside the miniature morgue smelled of Lysol disinfectant and lemon-lime sanitizer. Of the four cadaver drawers in the wall, one had a hot pink Post-It Note with Ricky Lee Stopher scrawled on it. The box offered by Debbie, we each snapped on rubber gloves. Gadford grabbed the door latch and popped it open. A body-sized, stainless steel drawer discharged. Ricky’s nude corpse slid into full view. The corpse had been chilled and the skin was taking on that post-mortem tint of cyanotic-blue. His face was covered with aluminum foil, which Gadford immediately peeled off.
Half the kid’s face looked normal, perhaps a little cold. The other side was blown out like an old tire. Then it hit me. I spoke the thought out loud. “I’ve seen this guy before.” As if on cue, everyone at the gurney turned and stared at me at once.
The heavy-set forensic pathologist stepped back, stroked his beard, the distrust climbing back in those prescription glasses again, me wondering how many germs he had in his beard. “But I thought you just moved here.”
I looked at Luke and he stared back blankly, his eyes eager for a quick explanation. I nodded and looked longways at Wadsworth. “Chief, what you said about me being a civilian? About this town being one giant lens?” I leaned over and examined Ricky Stopher’s disfigured face. “This was one of the street pukes I mixed it up with on your security video. The dipshits on those motorcycles that tried to beat up old ladies.”
“Same guys huh?” Debbie asked in a respect-for-the-dead-low-tone, scratching her square jawline, face shaped like a snow shovel. “You sure?”
I nodded. Wadsworth sing-songed quietly, “Happen to get the names of the fellows he was riding with?”
I leaned in closer into the gunshot wound, trying to guess what gauge had been used. Or if hollow-point had been involved. “I didn’t take any names Chief…just shook them out of there.
Wadsworth stole a quick breath. “Noted.”
Nearby, Gadford grabbed a four-foot long plastic projection rod off a wall-mounted rack and waved us over into a huddle on the left side of the body. “Debbie, Luke, grab the shoulders, roll this guy on his side a bit. Jim, push the head so it clears the gurney.” Wadsworth nodded at me. This part of the old crime fighter’s career, wrestling cadavers around, was long gone. So I pushed Ricky’s head to the side until it cleared the gurney. Gadford frowned in disapproval but set about his task while Debbie and Luke muscled the body onto its side. The bearded pathologist winnowed the plastic dowel rod into the rear of Ricky’s head and clear through his skull until the tip pushed out of his face, from the center of crater above the eye socket. Debbie dry-gagged softly. The four-foot long plastic dowel rod shoved into Ricky’s head gave him the appearance of a life-sized voodoo doll.
“In the rear and out the front,” Gadford chirped. “This is the path the bullet took that ended Ricky’s motorcycle ride. The bullet entered here in the rear, at the occipital lobe, this tiny entry point right here, and came crashing out like a fist up front, basically blowing out his eye socket and this entire portion of the forehead.
“Signature of a high caliber hollow point,” I said. “Did you say up close?”
“Back of the kid’s skull coated gunshot residue,” Gadford answered with a neutral tone, holding the suspicion at bay for a moment. Maybe he was warming up to me.
Stepping up, Wadsworth squinted and suddenly looked uneasy. “But he was mounted on the bike in a riding position, like a horse jockey, and traveling at a very high rate of speed. It seems deliberate.”
“Yeahhh.” Stan wheezed, still bent over the projection rod.
“How in the hell did somebody get a shot off like that?” Wadsworth asked as he scanned the room. “I mean seriously folks. Stan, about how fast you say was he going?”
“Given the prolific internal hemorrhaging, his guts twisted like spaghetti, I’d say well over 100 mph.”
“Then a fixed point, road-side shot would have been impossible,” Luke said.
“Yeah but the killer wasn’t riding on the back seat either,” I smirked. “Or we’d have two dead bodies.”
Gadford blinked giant eyes behind his coke bottle glasses, the sarcasm coming on. “Well evidently we are surrounded by a table full of geniuses.” He pulled the projection rod from the corpse with finality. “Clearly at the moment we have more questions than answers.”
The Chief looked at me, rubbed the loose skin under his eyes and glanced at the cadaver. “Okay Stan, that’s enough for now. Zip him up.”
It stuck with me for the rest of the day. The unexpected interview- or whatever the hell that was. But Jesus, the U-Haul moving truck hadn’t even cooled off yet. I hadn’t even arranged the fishing lures in my tackle box. The kids and I had yet to lay a foot on the historic Wilderness Trail in the Cumberland Mountains. The geographical layout of my new town began to take on the vague shape of a question mark. I didn’t really even know where I was yet. But the fucking money.
The Chief had used the classic bait and switch by showing me Ricky Stopher’s body. He knew that the investigation would get into my blood. And it worked. The case intrigued me: A misfit blasting along on his motorcycle at breakneck speeds with his brains blown out point blank. Not to mention the proximity of me having a run-in with the guy the day before. The case beckoned my weakness. It was every real investigator’s ultimate drug. Motive. Why? Why a surgical assassination? Unpaid drug money? Jealousy over the cheating girlfriend? In considering these questions, something stirred in my heart. I’m not sure what. Maybe it was…passion. For the first time since Emily’s death, the investigator inside me was waking up. I took a deep breath. A real breath. I was a hunter. I was intrigued. I wanted answers. And then I cursed under my breath, not wanting to acknowledge this part of it- even hating to admit it: Brant and Lilly needed a new pair of shoes. And school supplies. Maybe eventually a home of their own.
But no.
I just wasn’t ready yet.
9
Chumley’s
I could see one or two of them sliding their hands up inside my wife’s thighs. I checked my watch and floored the black Mercedes Sports Coupe straight into town. A long, steady rainfall lubricated Exodus Avenue, and caught the traffic lights above in watery green and red liquid reflections. A few blocks down, I spotted Chumley’s, the most exclusive club in Story Mount. It sat smack in the middle of town. So not a country club necessarily. More like a town-club. From the outside looking in, a passerby might see a brief crack of light, a split in the dark velvet curtains that offered them a glimpse into a world few would ever know, fewer would even begin to understand and that they would never be a part of. The typical hick in this town would never have the capacity to even ponder the inconceivable dimension of wealth and excess that abounded inside, where historical entitlement, pedigree and a merciless voting process determined membership for the very chosen few. Inside those curtains, candlelight glowed, the glint of diamond jewelry winked on delicate wrists, wet lipstick sipped from crystal glasses, muffled laughter rose into the air, soft jazz played. This was not a fine dining restaurant or some swanky $500 per plate private dinner party promoting some cause or introducing the next powerful politician of tomorrow. There was nothing special going on here at all. No marked occasion. No momentous fundraiser. This was just another other night at Chumley’s. We were just very wealthy. And bored. And as I pulled around to the rear, the parking lot was packed. I knew all about this place because I was a member. And
I fucking hated the place and all the privileged assholes inside. I waved off the valet, parked and made my way to the private entrance half-hidden in tall geometrical shrubbery and an eight-foot tall wrought iron fence, the black bars scrolled into huge fleur-de-lis. I typed my member number into the keypad mounted on the granite column at the gated door, wondering where our gorilla-sized security guard might be lurking tonight. I didn’t like him. The guy was dangerous. And dumb. Some said he was one of Greymore’s personal henchmen. All I knew is that he wasn’t here and that suited me just fine.
Inside the front gathering hall, museum-quality medieval English oil paintings and eighteenth-century lambskin tapestries of dancing cherubs hung from the walls. Along the left side, five deep semi-circular burgundy leather booths with high, private walls sat permanently reserved by family name. Opposite this, beneath a crystal chandelier still hanging in place since the Civil War, sat Chumley’s centerpiece: An imported Mahogany bar, the scrolled face inlaid with red marble. On it sat Ming vases full of fresh cut roses, alongside dozens of unopened 100-year-old bottles of bourbon. Not for drinking of course. Just for display. I hated being here. It made my stomach go into knots.
So how exactly did I, Indian born Dr. Svidi Malhotra, the locally celebrated plastic surgeon, procure a membership here? Along with my Kentucky-born physician wife Carlina? Neither of us having any appreciable bloodlines or pedigree? I’ll tell you exactly how. That shitty, horrible contract presented by Mr. Charles Greymore himself. That’s how. I knew we were making a huge mistake when my wife and I signed it. Our membership contract was special. Since I was a foreigner and my very gorgeous white wife was a nobody physician, our entire invitation to join Chumley’s came with a stipulation: In exchange for active membership, I would give Charles Greymore and his wife Cynthia all cosmetic services and surgical procedures totally free of charge. Without signing it, Carlina and I would’ve been laughed down the street on a one-way ticket out of the front door because I was a foreigner married to a white woman. The only non-white member here. But the incentive of free cosmetic services made me worth it to them.
So we signed on. And everyone here pretended to love me. To my face, they feigned deep affection- but only because I performed their personal plastic surgery. And I was good. Top of my class. My instructors applauded me, said I had the hands and the meticulous commitment of a concert violinist. The only thing that commanded respect among my wealthy peers was my blade. All of the women here tonight had been on my surgery table. Some more than a couple times. But respect? There was none to be found here inside this beehive of white, wealthy elite. Eventually I was treated like a serpent. The wealthy wives turned away from me in disgust in public. In my office of course we were besties. Lately inside the club, whispers and hissing fell in behind me. I’d heard nigger more than a few times in the last month. This was new. And a rage flickered inside me. I’d never been accepted in this community. Even in the beginning when the wives greeted me, kisses never touched my cheek, hugs were palm-open and quickly pushed me away. Fondness and warmth were little more than cheap lines and bad acting that lasted only until the cosmetic evaluations were scheduled. Then I was treated with disdain. I’d been bought and paid for like an itinerant Mexican laborer, the rake and bag of mulch traded for a scalpel and scrubs.
My Kentucky-born wife, Dr. Carlina Malhotra, a practicing gynecologist, experienced Chumley’s in a very different but equally degrading fashion. Behind her back, wealthy-asshole husbands called her hot and said things like I’d like to get into that. It didn’t matter if I was standing there. They gave me no respect. I was invisible. Carlina was desperate for these people’s affection. So she played the part to the fullest. She dressed in impossibly tight and short cocktail dresses, always with the plunging low neckline, showing all her cleavage, nearly spilling out. Her behavior got worse. Too much drinking. Staggering around. And now getting into her own activity at the club, behind the scenes, always hanging with the hardest group of husbands—becoming the center of bad attention. In the last few months the men had grown more brazen, often groping and tugging at her, becoming more daring, the other wives starting to keep their distance. Carlina appeared almost addicted. She liked the perversion, like she was getting off on it. The only reason I visited the club anymore was to catch the bitch in the act, just once, sucking a man off in a side room or mounting him on one of the commodes. I was fucking tired of the dishonor and disregard. I was angry. I didn’t even need to see adultery. Heavy petting would do before I shot someone in the face. So tonight, I went inside…armed with a loaded gun.
In my motherland of India, my family and friends regarded me, the American educated physician, as a benevolent king. They had no idea about my pain now. But early on, they’d warned me against American women. They told me the taste of a white woman’s kiss was bitter like snake venom. But I didn’t believe them. Once I met Carlina, took in her beauty, her smile, her kiss, I refused to believe them. I railed against my elders. Who did they think they were, spouting off with anti-white racism? How could a wonderful country built on freedom and dreams of financial success be full of such vile people? My mother had shrugged, “Say what you will, but all American women are sluts. They will fornicate any man with the next bigger wallet or bigger whatever. They don’t even know how to clean and refuse to cook. Useless snakes.”
Perhaps she had been right. The official divorce rate in the United States hovered around fifty percent, in India the same statistic was just below one percent. I‘d waved my mother off. But now I cocked my gun inside my dinner jacket and strolled into the jazz filled foyer only to have all the stupid fucking, sneering bitch-wives flip their hair and look away, throwing heads back, cackling. Each were dressed in tailored outfits of silk and lace. I caught a conversation kindling up about Parisian boutiques and shopping for artwork in France. Sapphires and diamonds shimmered on fingers, wrists and ears, French manicures clinking crystal that sloshed with blood colored wine. The faint aroma of sweet cigar smoke overcame my senses. My personal work could be found all over the parlor. Plump silicone cleavage strapped in silk-wrapped tops, collagen lips swollen and pouty faces pulled tight, the skin marble-smooth with Botox injections. They’d all been tucked and sculpted by my meticulous hands. I’d made them lovely to look at. And they hated me anyway.
I crossed the dining room and attempted to engage a feminine throng of familiar lipsticked faces. They saw me coming and split apart. I clenched my teeth, and watched the scene play out, women scattering away. I spotted Allison Silk and walked up. In my mind, I grabbed the green wine bottle sitting in front of her, smashed it against the stone fireplace mantel and jammed the shard into her perfumed neck. Her eyes went wide as her body convulsed, a fish flopping, gurgling, arms rolling up toward her throat with her head bobbing. The blood spiraling onto the white linen table cloth.
“Svidi, it’s so creepy when you stare at me like that,” Allison took a drink of wine and threw her hair to the side to address the women sitting at her table. “It’s like he’s raping me with his eyes.” All the women at the table burst into laughter, at the boldness of putting me down publicly, right in front of everyone. And then she kept at it, talking at the table but directing it all at me. “Is that how all the men act in Calcutta. Or is it just you? It’s just you. Isn’t it?”
This time no one laughed. And I walked away feeling numb, knowing my wife was here, knowing that somewhere nearby she was up to no good. I found the darkened hallway that led to the Men’s Bar, which meant what it said. No ladies allowed. But it also meant this is where the men can come to be undisturbed by their wives. There were stories about the shit that went down behind this door. I palmed the gun inside my jacket, tapped in the code, pushed the door open and stepped in. Carlina laughed in the near distance. I froze. The shock spilling over me like ice water. Knowing she was around here was one thing, but catching her here, the reality stung. I immediately stepped into shadows beside the bar undetected
and watched. She sat on a tall barstool at the other end of the darkened room, the low light Tiffany lamps with glass shades painted dark green illuminating silhouettes. Men were huddled in around her, vying for her attention as my wife cooed.
What I saw next paralyzed me. Carlina oozed sexuality, her breasts bustling up in her dress, legs uncrossed, with the men sitting on either side. That goddammed Charles Greymore, Wayne Whitten, and Randy Olmstead. Wayne dipped down, pushing his paws toward her skirt, Carlina swatted him away, giggling. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. The one I suspected all along. And here it was happening now, taunting me, sin swelling before my eyes, the dirty stench of the immorality and bad behavior. In India a woman could be stoned to death for this kind of crap. The gun went hot across my chest. Whatever happened next, if anything happened next, I’d pull it right there and blast away. One man catching a bullet in the mouth here, an eye exploding in its socket there, Greymore’s brains discharging from the side of his head all over Carlina’s screaming face. Then afterwards, I might jam the gun muzzle deep into the roof of my mouth, wait for the pop and watch white light smear across space and fade to nothing. Just like that. Only inches away, I palmed my gun. Still. Waiting. My heart thundered in my throat. My stomach twisted. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. There was nothing to do yet. Except hold my breath. And watch.
Greymore and Randy Whitten leaned in now, all three men pushing bodies against my wife, whispering in her ear, hands and fingers grasping, trying to get that one special touch. She threw back her head, let off a deep gasp and a wet smile, her stoned eyes rolling around her head like a broken toy. Me squeezing the grip of the gun, about to pull it. But she kept fending them off. Arching her back, her breath sounds speeding up, she regained her composure, giggled and smacked them away. Then the unthinkable happened. A shiver ran down my spine and my groin tightened. I looked down, my cheeks going hot with shame. An almost-erection. Hidden in the obscure darkness by the bar, I leaned my back against the wall, becoming a cowardly-freak in my own shoes. At that moment, I hated me. I hated her. I hated them. I hated Story Mount. Every asshole that lived here was now my enemy. Kill my wife? I’ll kill all your wives. Just watch me. Suddenly Carlina stood up and announced an end to the games and began to leave fast. Good. She was safe. For now. Before anyone could spot me, I slipped out, dashed down the corridor and hit the revolving glass door so hard it made a hallow thump like a bass drum. The noise caught the attention of the security guard standing outside, his eyebrows raised with mild amusement. Chin tucked down into my collar, I brushed beside him, refusing to give anyone an inch anymore, patted the gun inside my jacket, and ducked into the alleyway beyond the wrought-iron fenced parking lot. And crashed directly into some idiot, street-zombie, who had been limping along with a walking stick. He toppled right down to the pavement. “Shit man!” He shrieked in as much pain as surprise. “Watch where the fuck you’re going!”
Skin the Cat Page 9