Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

  “Welcome to your personal print center. What can we do for you today?” The woman doesn’t look up as she speaks. The scissor blades dance dangerously close to her fingers and Peter winces as she snaps them shut, trimming away a millimeter of hair.

  “I need a name badge and some business cards printed, please.” He fishes a flash drive from his pocket and drops it on the counter.

  “No Christmas cards?” When he shakes his head in answer, she hops off her stool and drops the scissors in a penholder. “Thank God. If I have to arrange one more layout of people in matching holiday sweaters, I might kill myself.”

  “I don’t even own a holiday sweater. Looks like you’ll live another day.” Peter grins and points to the gray-hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing.

  “Name badges and business cards are easy. You have a layout on your drive?” She picks up the thumb drive and plugs it into a row of ports embedded in her computer.

  “I do for the badge, but not for the business cards. They don’t need to be fancy. White with black text is fine. A logo if you can fit it.” Peter watches her fill out a form. She asks questions about lamination, embossing and whether he needs to buy a lanyard. Each box she ticks gets him one step closer to where he wants to be. She prints a proof of both the cards and badge for him to look over. Peter signs off on them and turns to leave.

  “Hey,” she calls after him. She pulls the false name he gave her from the form, “Ted. I know our guarantee is to have stuff printed in four hours, but as you can see, I’ve got a serious lack of shit to do. Want to sit and wait? This’ll only take about twenty minutes.”

  “Sure.” He returns to the counter and the print girl gestures to a metal stool behind the desk.

  “Have a seat. Look professional if someone talks to you. Ask them to wait, then come get me over there.” She points to a block of machines along the back wall. Peter nods. She hits a few keys on the desktop keyboard to lock the terminal.

  Peter watches the customers jockeying for position at the shipping counter. Suddenly, she’s back at his side with a laminated badge and fifty business cards.

  “What do you do for this Alphabet Apes place, anyway?” She looks him up and down, her doubtful expression causing Peter to feel uneasy.

  He busies himself with paying so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye. “Market research, mostly. Checking out the local demographic for the home office.” Peter gestures at the modest bundle of cards on the counter. “I lost all my stuff on the plane ride in. I’ve got to be out in the field tomorrow. If I wait for the airline to find my luggage, I’ll be flying home before I get any work done.”

  “I hate when that happens.” The girl offers him a receipt, but he waves it off. She chucks the evidence of his order in the trash.

  “Yeah. Me, too. Thanks for getting me taken care of. You’re a lifesaver.” Peter looks at her with as confident a smile as he can muster.

  She tucks his purchases in a paper bag. “If you don’t know your way around here, I’d be happy to take you on a tour tonight.”

  Peter’s eyes snap up from nervously watching her hands. “What?”

  “You don’t want to be alone for your whole trip, right? I know a place we could grab dinner later.” Her bored expression has transformed into glowing bronze cheeks and glossy eyes.

  “Oh, um,” Peter stammers. “I’m meeting a banker for dinner tonight. But maybe I’ll drop by the next time I’m in town?”

  Her thin lips spread into a smile. She writes the name Staci down on a blank card in bold, blank ink, followed by her phone number. Sliding the card across the desk to him, she utters, “I’d like that.”

  Peter takes the card and waves it at her in a clumsy goodbye. He thinks about calling Valorie to cancel, but he already showed up late to meet her the day he printed all those labels, and he knows he’s skating on thin ice with her. He’s got to be present for a while if he hopes to smooth over her rigid expectations of him.

  “Next time,” he whispers as he tucks Staci’s number in his pants pocket.

  Thirty

  For several weeks, Peter’s been buying groceries, gift cards and small prizes around town at odd hours. He’s secretly been casing stores, trying to choose the one he’ll use for his test. It was hard to commit to any one supermarket, but he finally decided on a giant twenty-four-hour grocer alongside a quiet suburban highway west of the city. He’s discovered they only stock shelves at night.

  Besides the store employees working the night shift, manufacturers also send merchandizing employees in to build product displays and stock their individual shelves in the middle of the night. Peter’s been to this store several nights over the last week, chatting up cashiers and pretending to shop.

  Tonight, when he pulls in behind the store, he sees the Alphabet Apes company truck. He parks beside it and climbs up the delivery ramp to let himself in the back of the store.

  Peter learned a long time ago, the easiest way to blend in is to act as if you belong. It was something his foster care director told him when he was fifteen, transferred to a Washington home because he’d been rejected out of one too many families in the Oregon system.

  “Just pretend you’ve lived there your entire life and the other people are the ones who are new,” she’d told him. “If you act like you’ve got all the answers, no one will know any different.”

  He pulls the badge from the print shop out of his pocket and loops the lanyard around his neck. The plastic ID slaps against his chest as he walks. He grabs a clipboard off a stock-room shelf, tucking a sheet of labels under the clip. Following the storage racks, he’s deposited in the bulk foods section at the back of the store. Peter cuts through the barrels of loose pasta and organic rice. He wanders the aisles until he stops in front of a pallet stacked six feet high with unopened cases of cereal.

  A fit, youthful man in jeans and a t-shirt opens the cases by hand. He punches the taped seam, causing the box to snap open, then rips its flaps apart. In one fluid motion he spins the case on its head, lifts the cardboard, and exposes twelve fresh boxes of cereal on the pallet. Without looking, he tosses the empty cardboard shell to the side, wraps his arms around the entire stack of cereal at once, and deposits them on the shelf with the practiced precision of a machine.

  “Excuse me,” Peter says. The man doesn’t look over his shoulder. He grabs another carton off the pallet, marks it off the list beside him, snaps the tape open with a punch, and proceeds to rip, dump, and shelve the cereal.

  Peter takes advantage of the momentary failure in their conversation to compare his badge to the one clipped to the merchandiser’s hip. They’re not the same by a long shot, but he hopes the guy doesn’t look close enough to rouse suspicion. His eyes move from the man’s hip to his ears. He’s wearing earbuds, and his phone shifts in his pocket as he moves.

  “Hey, Andrew!” Peter beams enthusiastically, smacking him on the shoulder like an old friend. He stands upright, startled. Peter gestures fleetingly to his badge. “Ted. From the home office? Ah, I bet you don’t remember me. Us office dorks probably all look the same after a while, right?”

  “I guess so.” Andrew’s brows lower and his square jaw moves from side to side as he assesses Peter.

  “No matter. Well, hey, Sandy sent me down. Corporate rolled out some big promotion and really bumped it up on the radio and online this week. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing the commercials already.” Peter rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic sigh.

  Andrew pulls an earbud out of one ear. “No commercials for me. I just listen to this thing.”

  “Smart.” Peter nods. “You know what Corporate forgot to do?”

  “No,” Andrew says with a shrug.

  “Those asshats forgot to print the contest on the boxes!” Peter pulls a sheet of his glossy stickers from the clipboard in his hand and shows them to the merchandiser. “I’ve got to mark at least thirty boxes per store tonight. The contest goes live tomorrow.”

  “That sucks, man.” Andrew
looks at the pallet beside him. “You want to grab those three cases on top? I can shelve something else while you work.”

  A moment passes where Peter can hardly believe he’s pulling this off. He snaps out of it, pounding Andrew’s shoulder again. “Sure. Thanks, man!”

  He pulls the boxes Andrew pointed out from the pallet and moves them to the side of the aisle. The night stocker pulls his second earbud out and chitchats with Peter about office politics that don’t exist. When Peter passes the boxes marked with his stickers to Andrew, the merchandiser surprises him again.

  “Are you going to all the Hillsboro stores?”

  “Well, you know Corporate,” Peter answers vaguely.

  “I’ve still got two more stores to stock tonight. If you want to head out and label while I finish up, you can probably shave an hour of driving out of your night.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Peter blinks, genuinely shocked by the offer. “That would be great!”

  Andrew smiles. “Anything to help a co-worker out. Just make sure you file an Atta Boy when you get back to the office tomorrow. I could use another one of those bonuses to download some new music.”

  “I’ll do you one better.” Peter grins. “How much do you usually get when your boss gets a positive comment?”

  “Twenty bucks,” Andrew says, puffing his chest with pride.

  Peter pulls a prepaid Visa out of his pocket. “Fuck that noise. Here’s fifty.”

  The merchandiser yelps with excitement when Peter hands him the card. “You just made my night.”

  “Hey,” Peter says, shaking his hand before heading out to the truck, “the feeling’s mutual.”

  Thirty-One

  Days creep by following his luck with the merchant at the grocery store. No one’s called asking for prizes. His faith in the scheme falters. He reminds himself cereal doesn’t sell out the day it’s stocked. Parents buy boxes and take them home, hiding them in dark cabinets out of reach of greedy children.

  It’s only a matter of time. He needs to be patient. The reassurance does absolutely nothing to quiet the anxiety building inside him.

  When the phone finally rings, it isn’t the burner he’s dubbed the AA phone in honor of the cereal he’s using as bait. The ruckus comes from his regular cell. When he answers, the now-familiar message from the prison down south plays in his ear. He hits the button to accept the charges before the automated woman finishes speaking. The line clicks as it connects, but it’s strangely quiet on the other side.

  “Dad?”

  Heavy breathing leaks through the line. Ollie clears his throat a couple times before speaking. “Hen, I’ve got pneumonia.”

  Peter sits up straight, frustration melting into concern for the weak, raspy sound in his father’s voice. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “They’re talking about sending me to the hospital,” his father wheezes. “The staff wants to avoid the security risk. But the on-duty nurse is afraid I won’t make it if they leave me here.”

  “When did it start? You seemed fine at the video store.” Peter tries to remember how long ago that’s been. The snow has long since melted, replaced by the familiar pounding of Portland’s winter rain. The days blur together. It’s been at least a week since Peter last saw his father. Possibly two.

  “A couple days after our outing, I came down with some crazy flu. Hit me hard, even though I got the shot.” A coughing fit overwhelms him. The hacking lasts a long time. When it’s finally over, Oliver’s voice is barely a whisper. “I thought I was getting better, but two days ago I woke up and felt like I had a bowling ball tied to my chest. It got worse from there.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?” Peter scrambles toward the closet to get his coat.

  “The best thing you can do for me is keep working that project of yours. I’ll have someone let you know when they’ve got me checked in. After I’m settled, you can come tell me how things are going.” The old man’s next cough racks him so hard, it resembles crying.

  “I’ll call Dougy. He’ll get you out of there.” Peter starts to tell his father goodbye, but he can tell Ollie can’t hear over his lungs convulsing. He hangs up, looks through his phone, and selects Inspector Douglas’s number. Soon the line rings in his ear.

  “Peter!” Dougy’s voice is loud. Almost cheerful. “It’s rare I see your number on the caller ID. What’s happening?”

  “Dad needs to get to a hospital. I don’t know if the corrections people have told you, but they think he’s got pneumonia.” Peter leaves the closet door open, his jacket disheveled on its hangar. He drops to the sofa.

  “Dammit. Hang on.” Peter hears a rustling through the phone. Dougy returns, suddenly breathing like he’s rushed across the house. “Do you think he’s faking it?”

  Holding a hand over his forehead to stave off the stress headache threatening to bloom, Peter answers. “The sound of his lungs attempting to exit through his eyeballs is convincing. I want you to make a call and push them to let him go.”

  “I’m sure they’ve got it under control.” All excitement has drained from the inspector’s voice. He sounds distracted, as if he’s looking something up even as he says, “They’ve got some of the best prison medics in the state.”

  “Just call them!” A burst of anger races through Peter. He leans back and takes deep breaths, clearing his mind. Maybe he can pull this from another angle to make Dougy do what he wants. “We need him alive to keep closing cold cases. He’s the only one who knows where the victims are. If you lose him, you’ll spend your whole retirement waiting for people to stumble across all the other bodies by accident.”

  Inspector Douglas grunts. “I never thought I’d see the day you had to talk me into working these cases.”

  “Me either. And yet, here we are.”

  “I’ll get Mac on it,” the inspector finally concedes. “She’s more diplomatic than I am. The folks down there like her better.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “You’re welcome, Henry. I’ll call you soon.” Inspector Douglas hangs up, leaving Peter cradling his phone against his ear, listening to the silence.

  Thirty-Two

  Even with Inspector Douglas breathing down the administration’s neck, it’s two full days after Ollie’s call before they transfer him out of the prison. After forty-eight hours of anxious pacing, Peter’s relieved to be in the car heading down to the hospital in Salem.

  He pulls into the drive-through lane of a coffee hut. The barista exudes enthusiasm only achieved by snorting a line of ground espresso. The song Radioactive pulses out of the tiny booth’s window, and Peter wonders how the neatly groomed skater can hear him place his order for two large coffees. He does, though, and shouts directions to a tiny woman who could be the next Portland Monthly cover model.

  “How’s the morning going?” Skater Dude hangs over the window ledge, leaning into the car and smiling as if Peter stops by for a chat every day.

  “Fine, I guess.” The song dies out. It’s replaced with rhythmic double-bass kicks and melodic screams. Peter nods toward the shop. “I can never understand what these kinds of singers are saying.”

  The guy laughs. “Well, most people around here can’t understand these guys. Their accents are a bit off, y’know. They’re from Japan.”

  Peter glances at his watch. “It’s an intense track for nine in the morning.”

  “No way, man! It’s never too early for MergingMoon.” The guy reaches behind himself to retrieve Peter’s drinks from the sprightly woman doing all the work. As he hands them to Peter, she jumps up and down, strumming an air guitar to the gyrating beat of the music.

  Skater Dude rewards Peter with a stamped frequent customer card as he pushes a few dollar bills into the tip jar on the windowsill. “Thanks. Have an awesome day!”

  “You, too.” Peter looks at the writhing woman. “Don’t hurt yourselves.” They drown their laughter in a sudden roar of music. Peter is thankful for the silence that envelops hi
m as he pulls away and rolls up the window.

  The road is wet and overflowing with commuters when he pulls onto Highway 26. Peter curses their existence as he follows the signs toward I-5 South. Like a true Portlander, he busies himself thinking about a time before traffic. Marveling at how construction along the side of the freeway is changing the landscape of the city, a shrill sound fills the car.

  It takes a couple rounds of the high-pitched bleating for Peter to realize it’s the sound of a ringing phone. He pulls to the interstate’s shoulder and flips on his hazard lights before unbuckling and frantically pawing through the pockets of his coat. The AA phone vibrates against his fingers. He’s able to pull it out and hit the green button before it sends the call to voicemail.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Alphabet Apes?” a strange voice asks.

  Peter smacks himself in the forehead. He’s been practicing this call for days. “Yes, sorry. You’ve reached the Alphabet Apes contest line. This is Ted. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Ted. My box of cereal says we might have won a prize.” Children squeal wildly in the background. The woman hushes the rabble. “Sorry about that.”

  “Hey, that’s okay. I’m glad you called. You’re our first contest winner!” He does his best to sound enthusiastic while he hunts around the car for a pen and scrap of paper. The renewed squeals on the line are so piercing he has to pull the phone away from his ear.

  The woman’s shouts are garbled, but firm. She returns to the conversation with a normal tone. “Really, so sorry. The girls are excited they’ve won. The sticker on the box doesn’t say what the prize is. I’m assuming you’ll mail us a beach ball or something?”