by Drew Franzen
Dojcsak said, “You’ll get off easy. Go overseas; probably come back a fucking hero”.
“Sure, Ed, the Marines are always looking for a few good men. My father says I’ll go in a boy, come out a man.” Leland raised his cigarette to his lips with a shaky hand. “If I come out at all.”
“What’s the matter, Lee, scared?” Dojcsak asked.
Scared? Scared, Leland thought, was watching a Hammer Horror Film in the dark, late at night after the family had gone to bed. Scared was telling ghost stories around an open campfire, wrapped in a sleeping bag in the woods on an island half way to the middle of Lake George, on a night where the wind was up, the leaves rustled like whispers in the trees and the lake lapped at the rocky shoreline like the tongue of a bloodthirsty serpent. Scared was racing down the ski slopes at Ellicottville and just as you believed you wouldn’t, losing an edge and then control, free-falling in cartwheels to the bottom of the hill. Scared was a quickening pulse, a racing heart. Scared was pure exhilaration. Leland wasn’t scared; he was terrified. His guts boiled with it, and his perspiration stank. Fear seeped from his asshole and his pores like fetid swamp water.
In the eastern sky, the sun was high on its journey west across the horizon. Dojcsak was standing facing the river, his back to Leland, who sat resting against a tree, on his haunches, elbows on his knees. Unable to read Dojcsak’s expression, Leland studied his posture for a hint of malice. There was none, but that didn’t stop Leland from wanting to plunge Dojcsak head long into the river, to the same fate that had befallen the girl. Leland was a soldier now and in this new world what was one more dead body?
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
IT WAS OFFICIAL: Ed Dojcsak now numbered among the seventy-five million Americans considered clinically obese. Though he tipped the scale at two hundred seventy pounds, it was not so much Dojcsak’s weight, Henry Bauer lectured, as his Body Mass Index that defined him as being a fat man, rather than merely a large one.
“With a BMI at plus thirty-seven, you’re at risk for a number of potential complications, Ed,” the doctor said on the day Dojcsak had relented to honor the visit he had twice in the past month forgotten.
“Such as?” Dojcsak asked, as if his body wasn’t already telling him so.
“Heart disease, emphysema, diabetes and stroke. Shall I go on?”
“Isn’t that enough?” said Dojcsak.
“Not hardly,” replied Bauer testily. “There’s also kidney failure and nerve damage owing to the resulting poor circulation. Possibly amputation, not to mention the risk of various forms of cancer—colon, stomach and lung—because of the cigarettes and diet.”
“I’m beginning to regret having re-scheduled this appointment.”
Ignoring Dojcsak, Bauer said, “You carry your weight in your belly, Ed, another bad sign.” He tapped Dojcsak’s solar plexus with the index finger of his gloved, right hand. “Visceral fat; deadly,” he warned with a shake of his head, though Henry himself was a few pounds beyond what Dojcsak considered to be the slim side of average. “It’s packed around your guts like sludge. It’s linked to the stress hormone cortisol and together with the smoking and the natural tendency of high insulin levels to thicken artery walls and elevate blood pressure, it makes you a prime candidate for the heart attack and stroke. Not necessarily in that order. Any shortness of breath, while either exerting yourself or at rest?”
Dojcsak’s expression ruled out exertion. To the latter he admitted, “Indigestion in the evening, after I go to sleep. But I eat late, and as you already know, poorly.”
“Feeling stressed?”
“It’s been busy,” Dojcsak stated dryly. “A murder investigation.”
Bauer turned up his nose, pressed his stethoscope to Dojcsak’s chest and said, “Breathe.” Dojcsak did. “Congested, like the Long Island Expressway.”
Dojcsak fixed the Doctor with a sour look.
“Again,” Bauer instructed.
Again, Dojcsak obliged. The instrument was cold on Dojcsak’s chest. He begrudged the indignity, the need to sit half naked before this man as if he were a specimen, a thought reminding Dojcsak he needed to pee. Earlier, he had been compelled to provide samples of blood and urine, then been asked to spread his cheeks for the obligatory internal, digital exam.
“Are you having sex?” Bauer asked after conducting the probe. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Your prostate is the size of a coconut, Ed.” He paused to remove his latex gloves and replace them with a fresh pair. “An exaggeration, maybe, but swollen beyond normal.”
Dojcsak sat quietly, as if understanding, finally, that the condition was not a sign of virility.
“Depressed?” Bauer wanted to know. Dojcsak harrumphed. His massive upper body quaked with the effort, but he did not immediately reply. “Sleeping more than usual? It’s a classic symptom.”
Dojcsak considered his response. The truth? Admit to Henry that of the ailments by which he currently was plagued—acid reflux, excess gas, boiling urine which scorched his urethra like molten lava, shortness of breath, absence of mind, short sightedness, pain in the feet, pain in the back, pain in the chest and generally an overwhelming sense of lackluster malaise, if such a condition were to exist—of all these, insomnia was not among them? Prevaricate, knowing Bauer would recognize the lie and the imminent collapse of Dojcsak’s anatomy, as if he were one of the twin towers at the World Trade Center disintegrating into an indistinguishable heap of rubble and human debris?
Bauer struck a familiar pose, regarding Dojcsak dubiously over half-lenses with a look that seemed to pronounce on the Sheriff a fate similar to that of Dojcsak’s doomed daughter.
“And what, Ed, is the problem with your skin; too much sun? Get dressed,” he ordered. “I’ll write a prescription. A cream for that…” Bauer struggled for the appropriate word, indicating with a wave of his hand the pink skin pulled tight across Dojcsak’s cheeks, “…that rash. Also, I’ll give you something to moderate the blood pressure, and something else to help reduce your cholesterol. I’m not optimistic though. Without substantive life style changes, you’re doomed.”
A sentence of death: appropriate, and not entirely unwelcome.
Dojcsak did not respond to Bauer, simply refastened his St. Jude Medallion over his neck, dressing slowly as the doctor prepared the prescription and with a clinical detachment worthy of the physician observed his own belly, suspended like a watermelon from his hips. For no reason, he thought of his dying daughter. Though he hated himself for doing so, Dojcsak wished she would get it over with and simply let go.
Unwilling to dwell on it any longer, Dojcsak turned to thoughts of the Bitson murder investigation. Earlier in the week, Dojcsak had visited the local McDonalds where, according to the Medical Examiner, Missy had consumed her final meal.
“You’re in luck, sir,” the shift manager had said. “Sunday afternoon, between two and five, is our slowest period. If we sold any Bacon Double Cheeseburgers that day, it wouldn’t have been many.”
The manager was young, no more than a teenager, and Dojcsak wondered at how he managed himself, let alone how he carried the responsibility for others.
He shuffled to his office to gather the receipts for the Sunday in question while Dojcsak indulged a craving for an extra large cola and a deep fried cherry pie. The store was beginning to fill; teenagers with backpacks recently out from school and young mothers with strollers, up from a walk along the river or from window-shopping in the stores along Main Street as it passed through the center of town. It would be window-shopping, thought Dojcsak, at least on this side of the river. For the most part, the locals were either unable to afford, or unwilling to pay, the big city prices charged by the area shops that catered principally to the tourist trade.
Church Falls was beyond an easy commute from New York City and the wealth that accrues typically to a community from moneyed professionals residing locally, and working elsewhere, even though on the outskirts it
had its share of monster and modest estate style homes and the private Strathallan Academy for Boys. It was better off than most in the northeast, a community of shopkeepers, retail and service industry workers, with a transient population supplementing the indigenous labor force by working the low-paying agriculture and light industrial jobs the others didn’t want. The shopkeepers might be owners, but they were not necessarily consumers, Church Falls dependent on the annual influx of summer tourists to sustain its economic prosperity.
The phenomenon was a relatively recent one, a decade perhaps or a dozen years, certainly no more. Prior to the nineties recession, forestry had been the principal livelihood for most. For twenty years, until his premature death in nineteen seventy-two, Dojcsak’s own father had operated a logging truck, accepting the position upon leaving high school in his junior year because, though the work was hard and the hours long, employment was steady and the pay adequate on which to raise a small Church Falls family, which ultimately consisted only of Dojcsak’s father, his mother, and Ed.
Physically, Frank Dojcsak was substantial, a big, rough-hewn log of a man seemingly carved from a single piece of hard wood; apple or cherry, that if stoked was slow to ignite, but once started burned long and hot with a simmering and relentless heat. Though his father drank heavily, it was never while working or driving. Ironic, then, he should sacrifice his life to a drunk driver—a woman—while returning from Albany after purchasing a rebuilt alternator meant for a sixty-seven Cat diesel, on a snowy Interstate during a Wednesday evening on which Frank had consumed only coffee, a chili cheese dog and cigarettes.
Dojcsak neither mourned nor rejoiced the loss of his father. By then, whatever impact the man had on him had been etched permanently on his personality, like a scar. Growing up, Ed Dojcsak had as normal a childhood as most, refusing to accept, just because his father occasionally beat and belittled him, that he was abused. After all, by the time he was fifteen, Ed was himself pushing two hundred pounds and almost six feet tall, able to defend himself and, on days when his father had been drinking, able to fight back. By contrast, with the passing of her husband, Magda Dojcsak seemed to fade, gradually to disappear, as if Frank were the tapestry on which her life had been accidentally smeared, like a stain. That she and Frank never seemed close made her response to his passing all the more difficult for Ed to fathom.
Dojcsak stood sipping his cola, absently brushing the crumbs from his topcoat, realizing after a while that he was drawing looks. It was to be expected. He was, after all, the officer in charge of the investigation into the killing of someone they knew, or knew of. (Was it curious that despite this investment no one from town approached him to inquire as to his progress?) After five minutes, the manager returned.
Dojcsak said, “That was quick.”
“Computers,” said the young man, as if Dojcsak should understand. “It was like I thought. We sold only two BDCs between two and five, both on the same ticket: at three thirty-eight in the afternoon.” The duty manager brightened, picked absently at an angry looking pimple as if it were an insect bite, and said, “They ate in.”
“Oh?” said Dojcsak.
The young man nodded. “Yep. Drive-through processes its orders on a separate till. We won’t serve walk-up traffic through the window, which means they ordered here.” He indicated the service counter. “Does this help?”
“It may.” Reaching out for the receipt, he said, “Can I take this?”
“Sure,” the young man agreed. “We have back up copies, for head office, you know, in case they want to audit our sales.”
“Why should they want to do that?” Dojcsak asked, absently.
“We’re independently owned. The franchisee pays a royalty on sales and is obligated to purchase all supplies from the parent. Sometimes they audit to ensure what we sell jives with what we buy; make sure we aren’t buying burgers off the back of a truck, you know?” The young man chuckled at his own joke.
“Makes sense,” said Dojcsak. “I’ll need the names and contact details for all staff that were on duty Sunday afternoon.” Narrowing his eyes, he struggled to read the time stamp on the receipt. “Within half an hour either side of three thirty-eight.” As an afterthought, he asked, “Don’t suppose you have security cameras?”
The young man waggled his head left to right. “Been asking management but so far no go. Never been robbed. Not worth the investment, I guess.”
Afterward, Dojcsak sat smoking in his vehicle, studying the printout. In addition to the Bacon Double Cheeseburger, French fries and small diet soda, the receipt itemized two Big Mac Sandwiches, a Super-Size Fries and an extra large Coke: an additional beverage and a substantial meal for two people. Missy had not dined alone on the day of her murder. Her companion had been a he, not a she; what self-respecting female would permit such a public display of fat-food indulgence, Dojcsak concluded? Missy’s companion had eaten well before snapping her neck, though in his mind Dojcsak was not yet entirely convinced he could prove the killer and the companion to be one in the same; soon, but not yet.
Henry Bauer grunted, interrupting Dojcsak’s thoughts, reminding him he had buttoned his shirt and fastened his necktie, but had yet to pull on his pants.
“Don’t flash my staff, Ed.”
“Scare them to death.” Dojcsak grinned.
“The pharmacy will fill the prescription and advise you on how much to take and when to take it.”
Convinced the medication would be no more helpful to him than Jack Daniels—or Jim Beam—Dojcsak filed the prescription deep in a back pocket, together with a spent tissue and loose change.
Bauer said, “The blood test will take at least two, three weeks. When I have the results, my nurse will let you know.”
“I’m free to go?” Dojcsak asked, tucking in his shirttail and fastening his belt.
“Ed,” Bauer said, his eyes fixed uncharacteristically on the floor, “I appreciate the strain you’re under. It’s difficult circumstances with Luba, and now with the killing, but you make it impossible by refusing to take responsibility for your own health.”
“It’s why we have HMO’s, Henry.”
“Joke if you like, but what you’re doing affects more than just yourself. So will your passing, particularly if it follows on the heels of your daughter, or worse yet, comes before. If I didn’t know better, given your attitude and total disregard for the direction in which you’re headed, I’d say you were suicidal.” He said it with a sheepish smile, though with little doubt he thought it possibly true.
Dojcsak said, “I’ll take it under advisement.” He reached for his jacket, which earlier he had hung from a hook on the examination room door.
As he pulled it over his shoulders, Bauer said, “She was a patient here, Ed. The girl, Missy Bitson.”
“Oh?” Dojcsak was noncommittal, aware of the constraints governing doctor-patient confidentiality and the difficulty in meaningful disclosure. “Half the town is a patient here, Henry.”
Bauer appeared to be ill, his expression pained, as if vexed by some internal dilemma. He removed his half-glasses, his eyes still fixed to the floor, as if contemplating a mark that only he could see. The exhaust fan hummed. Outside the small room, Dojcsak heard the voices and sounds of a busy working environment, though nothing to indicate what the nature of the work might be. Patiently, he waited for Bauer to continue.
When finally he spoke, he said, “You’ve received the preliminary autopsy report, I assume?” Bauer raised his eyes to meet Dojcsak.
Dojcsak said, “I have, though aside from cause of death, it’s inconclusive.”
“And?”
“Pretty straight forward; her neck was broken.” Dojcsak refrained from elaborating.
“Nothing more?”
“What is this is about, Henry?” asked Dojcsak, thinking he needed a cigarette. He rubbed his jaw self consciously, while Bauer watched.
“Was she raped?” Henry asked.
Dojcsak paused before replying. Missy Bitson was thirteen and therefore legally under the age of consent; in Dojcsak’s mind this did not necessarily equate to ethically under the age. “She’d had sex, Henry,” he said. “Fairly recently before her death, though based on the forensic evidence it’s unlikely she was raped. I don’t say the killing wasn’t a direct result of sexual misconduct, but for now, we don’t think it includes rape.”
Bauer came to a decision. Her reputation in tatters, Missy could no longer be maligned, though regretfully she could no longer be redeemed. He paused, from embarrassment or for effect, Dojcsak didn’t know.
“The girl was HIV, Ed.”
“She was HIV? You mean AIDS?”
“You would have known soon enough, when her blood work returned from the lab. The mother didn’t know, and I hadn’t yet been able to tell the girl.”
Dojcsak said, “Hadn’t been able, or hadn’t been willing.”
“I would have done. She died before I could.”
“But you knew she was promiscuous.”
Bauer shifted uncomfortably. “I knew she wasn’t a virgin. I’d treated her for various infections over the last year.”
Dojcsak interrupted. “Over the last year?”
“The child was active at an early age.”
“And you never thought to report it to child welfare? To her parents? To me?”
“She knew what she was doing, Ed. Missy was not being abused by her father; she was insistent on that. Whatever the girl was into was of her own free will.”
“She was thirteen, she had no free will.”
“Listen, Ed,” said Bauer, raising his hands as if to deflect a blow. “I thought I could counsel her, convince her to stop, or at least be more careful. I’d warned her about taking precautions against the dangers: pregnancy and venereal disease. In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined this. I mean, we’ve had a run on amoxicillin, I’ll admit; it’s like perpetual spring fever around here, lately. The kids are screwing like rabbits. In a small town like this, seems they have nothing better to do. But HIV? It’s just not something I’ve ever seen. Not here. Ever.”