by Dean Kutzler
Detective Scanlin was making sure this game of interrogation was going to play out the way he intended, despite the tragedy. Jack settled down on the bed and attempted to find his patience. He took a few deep breaths, remembering how Calvin had taught him a breathing technique to calm down and said, “I haven’t lived here in years. I only come home for most of the holidays. I really wouldn’t even know of anyone, other than family that knew my uncle, let alone someone that would want to hurt him. He was like a father to me growing up. We were really, really close but we didn’t talk on a regular day to day basis.” Hearing himself out loud made him realize how it made him sound like an orphan. Why shouldn’t it? It’s how he’s felt all of his life. His face didn’t redden this time.
“Would any of your family members want to hurt your uncle? Any feuds? Fights?”
“No, not really. Not that I can think of. I mean, he and my father always butted heads, but nothing that didn’t get settled over a scotch and a stogie. They’re brothers, it’s what they do.” Jack felt guilty at the unintended implication. “Can we check on my uncle? I just need to know he’s okay. I’ll answer every one of your questions, in triplicate, please! I just want to know he’s okay!”
“You haven’t told him yet?” They both turned their heads as Julie walked past the detective, giving him a narrowed glare. “How could you keep him waiting and wondering like that? I’m sorry, Jack. After I called my fiancé, I went to check on your uncle. He is still alive, in critical condition, but obviously much worse than before. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s slipped back into a coma. He’s going to need a transfusion.”
While Jack was unconscious, the detective had instructed her to keep silent about the incident. Not a peep. He was banking on her humanity just long enough, hoping she couldn’t follow through with his instruction. All the while, he’d been amping up Jack, so when he learned of his uncle’s condition, the reaction would be a real one he could gage his sincerity by.
It always worked like a charm. Criminals were taken off guard by all the badgering, so much so that they weren’t quite prepared to feign the false emotion needed to fake real human surprise or sincerity. And in that quick moment, the telltale signs of calculated deceit always surfaced on their faces. Just one quick moment. Whether it was a twitch at the corner of a mouth, an eye flutter or a fleeting glance. It didn’t matter. It was there, waiting to be read. He had to be quick to catch it though, because criminals can be pros at faking it. It’s what made them good.
He’d been observing Jack’s behavior, his mannerisms from the moment he awoke. He had a real good feel for what made Jack who he was. Detective Scanlin, Gary Scanlin, had done enough training on profiling to be an expert. The FBI, CIA—hell even Mr. Fava-Bean-Lecter couldn’t hold a candle to him! He could sniff out a fake from over a mile away. Now, he waited to lower the boom.
“I’m his nephew, a blood relative.” Jack blurted out. “Can I help? Can I give blood?” He forgot about the detective for a moment. “Isn’t it better if it comes from family?”
“Not necessarily. But kinda.” Julie explained. “That’s mainly with organ donors you’re thinking of. But since you’re here I was going to suggest that we test your blood type and compatibility to see if it’s a match. Then you’d be able to help your uncle. The test takes a while, but I’m good friends with Rorie down in the lab. He actually set my fiancé and I up. He’ll do his best to rush it for me.”
Julie didn’t wait for Jack’s response. She’d only known him from a short walk down the hallway, but her gut said he was a good person. She was off-duty and didn’t care. She rushed out of the hospital room, but not without throwing the detective another dirty look.
“What?” The detective said, shrugging his shoulders as she passed him by, her evil-eye never wavering.
His plan almost worked. There was no question. Jack was genuinely happy his uncle was still alive; he could see it in his face. But he still needed to see his reaction on a few of the gory details. His happiness could stem from a second chance at finishing the job. Even though the bump on Jack’s head was very real, it may have been self-inflicted. After all, people have done harsher things to themselves to elude capture.
He needed to spring it on him and fast if he was going to get a good read on his emotions, but the doctor beat him to it.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m Doctor Alderson.” The doctor looked as if he’d stepped right off the set of a soap opera. Typical successful, handsome doctor with a demeanor that demanded the respect of his title. “I don’t mean to interfere with your investigation, detective, but I have a duty to my patients and their families. And from the moment he landed in one of our beds, Mr. Elliot is both.” The detective just blinked as he continued. “Mr. Elliot, I’m Dr. Alderson.” He extended his hand. “I’ve had the, ah, pleasure of meeting Mr. Scanlin earlier while you were recovering from the blow to your head.”
“Nice to meet you, Doc.” Jack shook the doctor’s hand while giving the detective the eyeball. “Wish it could have been under better circumstances.”
“Nurse Carlson was in the middle of ordering a test for a blood transfusion that we wouldn’t have been able to perform with the restrictions of DNR policy. In regards to the special nature of this case, I was going to try and get a court order to allow us to administer the transfusion in respect of keeping him comfortable during his passing, which would be within the guidelines of DNR policy. However, the lack of blood from his severed tongue has halted our efforts. I’m very sorry to inform you Mr. Elliot, your uncle has passed away.”
There it was…
The doctor had delivered a better hand than the detective could have hoped for. Where the nurse had failed, the doctor trumped two-fold. He was just waiting for Jack to discover the horrific details of his uncle’s unnatural demise. Someone had cut out his tongue, shoved it down his throat and left him to choke to death on it. But a person can’t choke someone to death on a ventilator. It does the breathing. So the murderer was either ignorant to the fact, or wanted to silence his uncle, knowing his motor skill functions were too shot for writing. The man had already been slated for death according to Dr. Alderson and this unfortunate news would help the detective make a decision in which way this case would head.
But there was just one more thing.
Detective Scanlin watched Jack through his seasoned eye as the cascade of emotion genuinely washed over him. Shock followed by sorrow followed by despair. Three things he trained himself to rate for authenticity. Shock was easy to feign. Sorrow, despair, not so much. Not only had Jack lost his uncle, he’d lost his chance at goodbye. The detective read the defeat all over him in an instant. Now came the ugly part. Sometimes he hated his job—hell, often times he hated his job—but he had to do it and to the best of his abilities. He had to be certain, without a doubt, in his gut, that Jack was innocent before he continued with the investigation.
Forensics could sniff out a trail like nobody’s business, but his well-honed instincts had never failed him and always lead the investigations off in the right direction. From the initial call from the hospital, the forensic team had scoured the scene and had come up empty of any resolve that would pin the crime on Jack.
There had been no visible signs on Jack’s person, such as blood, and no murder weapon at the scene. That’s why his instinct was so important. People could be very deceitful, such as a case he’d remembered reading about with a dead pregnant wife, a minivan and a foul lie of a black man from the mouth of a white husband. Lack of evidence didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. But guilt has a keen way of hiding in the face of truth. It’s all in the details.
The forensic team had confiscated all the instruments in the room, scalpels, picks or anything that could have been used to sever a human tongue from the body. Everything had already been clean, unused as documented by the hospital ICU staff, so the instruments would have to be tested for trace amounts of blood or any other DNA that the lab might find.
If any of his uncle’s blood or DNA had been on the instruments, they would find it. He’d double-checked and confirmed with the head nurse on duty and she’d been one hundred percent sure that none of the instruments had been used on Jack’s uncle. Even the medical wastebasket came up empty, which made it seem as if someone else had committed this crime and left the scene with the murder weapon. No rags or paper towels used to wipe the blood clean had been found anywhere.
All that was left was to shock Jack with the gory details and read his reaction. The doctor had told him of his uncle’s death. An unfortunate bonus, yes, but still a bonus in the shock value department. But what the good doctor left out were the gruesome details. Details that were going to give the detective what he needed to proceed.
“Again, I’m very sorry, Jack, that you didn’t get your chance to make peace with your uncle. I’m sure he wanted to express his love and thankfulness to you for having such a wonderful nephew in his life. You came a long way in such a short time and I’m sure that he would have been quite proud.” The doctor’s bedside manner was up to par in line with his soap opera looks and composed demeanor. He placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder and said, “If you need someone to talk to, the nurses can get you some information on a grief-counseling group that gathers to discuss their feelings on the loss of a loved one. It is a wonderful program, Jack, that the head of our psychology department has set up for family and friends, to help support and get them through tough times as such. It’s a free program and I’m sure they would welcome you with open arms.” There was a gleam of pride sparkling from the corner of the doctor’s eye, leaving no doubt in Jack’s mind where the group’s founder was standing. His bedside manner left out that info.
“Thank you, doctor. But, that won’t, ah, be necessary.” Jack was fighting his emotions. Death was final and he’d gotten his first taste. A wicked, bitter bite. One that he wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Sorrow comes in many forms. Not just degrees of one to ten, but entirely different concepts. So entirely different that it’s hard to even label them the same. It can only be rated in degrees. Jack wept with the world at the tragic loss of Lady Diana only to come to a new height or concept of sorrow found here in the passing of his beloved father-uncle.
The doctor lingered the appropriate amount of time before giving Jack a few pats on the shoulder, a box of tissues and a few more kind words before he left the room. Words. Words were really just that, words. Whether the doctor’s words were heart felt or rehearsed, the fact still remained that Jack’s uncle was gone.
Uncle Terry was gone. The closest thing to a real father had been murdered and in a horrible way.
But why?
Why would someone kill a man that is already dead? Jack put his grief aside for the moment when he realized the detective was still in the room and staring at him, a little too intently. He felt like a bird in a cage right before it realized the cat was staring through the open door.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Elliot.” What, no Jack? Back to being formal? “Truly, I am. But this case just turned into a homicide which makes it all the more important that I learn all the details. You were saying that your uncle and father—“ flipping back a page, “—as you put it, ‘butted heads’? Did they do this often?” Detective Scanlin didn’t want to miss a beat. He was going to strike while Jack’s pain was the sharpest.
The balls on this guy. “Detective, can we finish this conversation another time? I—I really feel now is not a good time! What do you think?”
“Yes. Yes, I certainly understand Mr. Elliot.” All the more so he thought. “I just have to ask for the sake and integrity of the case that you keep the details of your uncle’s murder under wraps. I can’t have any leaks to the press. You’d be surprised at the nut-jobs lining up to confess to a murder they didn’t commit.”
“Details? You, you mean about his tongue being cut out and shoved down his throat?” Jack became nauseated at the fact.
“Yes, but there’s more.” The detective eluded, putting his head down, and looking away.
“More?” Jack’s face was white. He felt like he was going to pass out.
“Yes. The initial report from the head of our forensic team said that whoever committed this crime must have been, please excuse the pun, cut short.”
Jack was choking back bile.
Was this guy for real?
Images of his uncle’s tongue being cut out flashed through his head. The pain, the blood—the violence it would take to commit such an act. It was too much to process. All his poor uncle could have done was lay there and endure.
How could something so cruel and gruesome be endured? He hoped and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in, that his uncle was catatonic or out cold during that horrible act.
“According to the forensic report, the murderer didn’t have time to finish cutting through your uncle’s tongue. Just a speculation here, but either a nurse or doctor was coming, not sure, but something caused him to stop. It was cut about two thirds of the way through before it was pushed down into his throat.”
Now the detective left the rest up to Jack. He’d been watching intently, reading his true emotions as he started to tell him the rest of what had happened. He went from pale to green faster than a Porsche can do zero to sixty. He thought for a moment Jack was going to toss the old cookies.
“But, his tongue!” Turning greener. “His tongue—I saw it come out—he was having trouble, some kind of—a seizure I thought, I thought—a seizure and then—his tongue was on the—“
“Yes, Mr. Elliot. His tongue was on the floor next to you where the staff found you unconscious. The forensic preliminary report surmised that your uncle had chewed the rest of his own tongue off with his own teeth.” He bared his teeth and clacked them together like a pair of dime store wind-up teeth.
“The report was confirmed when they matched the evidence of the teeth marks on the third portion of his tongue where it was jagged, unlike the clean slice on the other two thirds, to the teeth marks that matched his most recent dental records. One of his molars had a cap that was partially broken. He recently went to the dentist and had it fixed. This provided the team with a perfect match. He used the molars in the back of his mouth to gnaw his tongue the rest of the way off.”
Detective Scanlin, Gary Scanlin, really hated his job at times, but it didn’t stop him from doing what was necessary. “The gag reflex, whether knowingly or not, probably caused him to finish the job, in order to get it out of his throat.”
Boom served.
The nauseating details of this murder crime were enough to sour the toughest man’s stomach. The detective sat back and watched Jack turn the final shade of green before he threw up and passed out. The detective thought for a journalist, he sure had a weak stomach.
Detective Scanlin’s, Gary Scanlin’s gut was satisfied that Jack was innocent.
Jack wouldn’t spend a single night in that hospital, regardless of the slight concussion, the state-sized bump on his head and the protests from both Dr. Alderson and the nice Nurse Julie. He’d be damned if he spent any more time in this crazy place. Not to mention his uncle met his timely end here in a horrific fashion at the hands of some sick lunatic that was still on the loose. Which, for this place, was par for the course. No siree, Bob! He’s had his fill of lunacy here at the Insane-o Resort Inn… A place where they’re just dying to get out. Or is that in?
He finished up with the detective who’d apologized for being so harsh and had assured Jack that he’d do everything within his and the department’s power to bring his uncle’s murderer to justice. Jack was sure the case was in good hands with Detective Scanlin aka Lieutenant Columbo.
After giving the hospital his insurance information, Jack wasted no time beating feet out of there. He didn’t even mind the ER nurse’s continued rudeness when she commented on how he’d done things backwards by giving his info on the way out instead of on the way in. She added, “And usually,” looking ov
er her dime store glasses, “people get hurt on the outside, too.” Apparently she hadn’t traveled much beyond her desk and into the realm of the Insane-o Resort.
Jack was back out on the street, with his freshly bandaged head, courtesy yet again, of the nice Nurse Julie. He thought about taking a taxi back to the hotel. Second thought, check that—he’d enough harrowing cab rides for one day. Hopefully poor Harold hadn’t gotten too many tickets. It’d be a shame telling him how his efforts had been in vain. He was one hell of a cabbie, not to mention a hell of a guy.
Jack opted for the subway and it’d been a long time since he’d used the underground tube. Wait, that was Montréal talking. Here, it’s the subway and it was time to get reacquainted since he’s going to be here for a little while. He might as well start acting like a New Yorker again.
He walked on past Park Ave and over to Lexington. From there, he eyeballed the subway entrance on the corner of 103rd and Lexington. Down the hatch! He was in luck. The Six was just pulling up and he squeezed through the crowd on the platform just in time before the doors snapped shut. The Six would get him downtown fast if memory served him correctly.
Forgetting about the info on his iPhone, he spotted the empty seat next to the subway map and quickly plopped down. Sometimes good ole paper was preferred to digital. At the risk of looking touristy, like an out-a-towner, he turned around and traced his route.
He needed to get off at 63rd and Lexington then catch the F over to 47th and Rockefeller Center. From there he was close enough to walk the rest of the way to the Marriott. His home away from home.
With his destination in check, Jack sat back in the egg-carton seat as the Six charged its way down the tunnel a lot faster and bumpier than he remembered.
He had filled the detective in on the ransacking of his room. Another piece of the puzzle that hopefully could be used in solving the crime. The forensic team had already scoured the room while he’d been finishing up with the detective and the only thing they’d found were some black fibers. Probably nylon, but they wouldn’t know until the tests were completed. It didn’t really matter much. Black fibers in a hotel room? A hotel room that has guests every single day of the year? Good luck with that. The good thing was by the time he got back, he would be set up in another upgraded room, courtesy of the staff for all his troubles. The Marriott was never short on guest satisfaction.