by Jack Wallen
With the penis out of the way, the testicles were also easy to remove. His first attempts had been horrid messes. Hacking away at the sack with a scalpel took forever and made for a jagged wound that was nearly impossible to close. Eventually, he had discovered that scissors did the job so much quicker.
“Snip, snip, little men.” A light laugh escaped Lakmé’s lips as he quickly sewed the blood-spewing hole shut.
The vagina was always tricky to make. He had read so much literature about the construction of the female genitalia, all of it boring and seemingly impossible. Fortunately, by studying the pictures, he was able to develop his own methods which, more or less, consisted of sewing the wound shut and sculpting outer labia out of the flesh from the removed penis. It was art with flesh, and he was becoming a master of his craft.
As he finished the last suture on the new vagina, the phone rang, sending a shock of chill into his veins. Lakmé tried to hold his hand still as the phone continued ringing. By the third ring, his hand was shaking so badly that he could hardly pick up his blade. After the fifth ring, the phone finally went silent, but he heard an answering machine taking the call. He couldn’t make out what was being said over Charlotte Church, and he was glad for it.
Lakmé couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands. It felt as if another fit was about to overtake his mind. He couldn’t chance another episode now, not with the transformation nearly complete. He located the scalpel and grasped it in his shaky fingers. A deep breath was drawn into his lungs and he slowly started slicing down the top of his own forearm. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was enough to help him retain his faculties.
The trembling in his hands finally began to subside as he concentrated on the pain and the sound of the young girl’s angelic voice. He closed his eyes, praying the past wouldn’t infect his brain this time. He had to stay here, had to stay with Jean Kelly to complete her transformation. Should he get lost now, he would lose his patient for sure.
As the song completed and began anew, Lakmé felt his nerves soothe and his brain settle enough to continue with the procedure. He wrapped the already bloody t-shirt around his arm to stem the flow of his own blood and continued.
Once the genitals were completed, Lakmé decided to take the operation one step further and do a tracheal shave on the patient. Gene Kelly did have a rather large Adam’s apple, and when Gene awoke into his new world as Jean, the smoother neck profile would be a happy addition to the new woman.
Although he had been unable to find proper documentation on the process, he had devised his own method. Lakmé had what he called his ‘bone shaver,’ which would smoothly scrape off enough layers of the trachea to create a much more feminine look. He would first cut away a ‘double door’ flap of skin on the neck and then shave the tracheal cartilage down. Finally, the flaps would be sewn back together, and the Adam’s apple would be gone forever.
“I am good,” he whispered as the duet started another repetition. “And you will be so beautiful when you awaken.”
He finished up the transformation and dressed his patient. After kissing the reborn Jean Kelly on the forehead, he tidied up the room and left as silently as he had entered.
THIRTY
As soon as I slammed the car into gear, hit the lights, and squealed out of the parking lot, I grabbed my cell and called Jean Ann’s house. The phone rang five times before a machine picked up. “Jean Kelly, this is Jamie Davenport. When you get this message, please call my cell phone as soon as possible.” I didn’t want to leave too much information in case the killer was within earshot of the phone. The last thing we needed was to alert the killer that we were on our way. Hello, killer, we’re on our way so you’ll want to make your getaway in about five minutes. I wasn’t that stupid.
I put down my cell and slammed my foot on the gas. We turned onto River Road, and I goosed it up to seventy miles per hour. Skip called for backup; it was a little late, but I knew he wanted us to be the ones to cuff Lakmé.
“This bitch is ours, hon,” Skip reassured me.
I pulled up to the house without lights or siren. There were lights on in several rooms. Jean Ann was in there; I could feel it. But what about the killer?
“You go to the front door and ring the bell. I’m going to go around back and see if I can find a way to sneak in. If the killer is in there, he’s not getting out without going through us.” Skip’s face turned white.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t have my gun with me.” He put his hands to his face. “Damn it! I didn’t have it when I came down to see you in the lab.” He was near panic. For a cop, Skip had a pretty irrational fear of death, which became evident anytime we were on a scene and he wasn’t armed. I popped the trunk.
“I have a spare in the back.” I got out, grabbed my spare Glock, and handed it to Skip. Then, I took off for the back of the house. I was running in a crouch and trying to be as silent as I could. I had no intention of letting this maniac surprise me; I wanted to surprise him.
I heard Skip ring the doorbell. It was our standard procedure. His ringing the bell would either flush the suspect out the back exit or send him hiding somewhere in the house. I was actually hoping the psycho would come bolting out of the back door so I could nail him.
I quickly scanned the back and saw two doors, one on the ground floor and one on a second-floor patio. I carefully made my way to the ground floor door but found it locked. If the killer had managed to get in, it was either through the front door or the door above me.
I decided it was worth the risk to try to get to the upper door. I found a lattice that felt solid, holstered my Glock, and started climbing. The doorbell rang again, nearly scaring me off the lattice. I crawled over to the ledge and waited for a moment to make sure no one had seen me. Nothing.
I reached the door and found it unlocked. As soon as I turned the handle and started pulling open the door, the most horrific screaming I’d ever heard filled my ears. The sounds were almost inhuman. Assuming the killer was attacking Jean, I abandoned my stealth and raced in. I followed the sounds, but when I found the source, all I could do was stop and force myself to breathe.
We were too late. The killer had done his thing. But unlike the last victim, Jean awoke from the surgery. He was alive and screaming as if he had been turned inside out.
I ran to the bed to let him know that I was there to help him. He was covered in sweat and breathing like he’d just run a marathon. His pulse was skyrocketing. He would go into shock any minute.
I put my hand to his face to try to calm him down. His screams were echoing in my head. I heard footsteps. It was Skip.
“Get help, fast! I don’t how much longer this man has.” Fortunately, Jean was bound to the bed; otherwise, he might have been able to thrash around enough to cause himself more damage. I had no idea what to do. I imagined the pain he was suffering to be beyond comprehension. I kept my hand on his face, hoping the human contact would bring him some comfort. It was probably little comfort considering he’d just been mutilated and was bleeding to death from the inside.
I heard Skip calling dispatch. He was amazing when needed.
Skip came back into the bedroom. “On its way. You want me to check the place out, or you need me here with you?” Skip already had his gun out and was scanning the room.
“Secure the house and then the perimeter,” I yelled over the wailing Jean. His breathing was starting to sound labored. “He’s not going to hold on much longer. Damn it!” My frustration was wound as tight as my patience.
Skip first finished checking out the bedroom and then took off for unknown territory. Being left with a dying body was not my idea of joy, but I imagined that what Jean Ann was currently suffering made my life look like a damned shopping spree. “Hold on, Jean Ann, just hold on.”
I had managed to find out that Jean officially went by the name Jean Ann when presenting as a woman. I hoped the full name might bring some comfort to him.
; I wasn’t sure if it was my voice, my calling him Jean Ann, or just exhaustion, but he finally seemed to calm down a bit. The screaming subsided and gave way to laborious breathing. Was he in the process of dying? Oh, God!
I figured I should talk to him and keep him as relaxed as possible. “My name is Jamie Davenport. You don’t have to worry about anything now. We have an ambulance coming for you. You’ll be at the University hospital very soon. They’ll take very good care of you, Jean Ann.”
God, I so wasn’t good at this. I should have left Skip at the side of the bed. My talents for soothing the dying died along with my mother a decade ago. When I knelt beside my dying mother, she had looked me in the eye and asked me to leave the room so she could die in peace. As my feet had carried me out of that hospital room, I felt myself wither away from the inside out. Now I just seemed to feel defeat when trying to keep the dying from walking into the light. Unfortunately, I had been instructed over and over that as a homicide detective, the dead and dying would be my best customers.
“Jean Ann. That’s a very pretty name,” I said. I noticed his body was starting to shiver. He was probably diving into shock. I pulled the blanket up to his neck to try and keep him warm.
“I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I was at your last meeting. What you said was so inspirational; your words touched me very deeply.” Why wasn’t that ambulance here? “Jean, you are one of the bravest people I have ever met.” Christ, homicide classes had never touched on comforting the dying. All I could think of was the damned ambulance and why it was taking so long.
Finally, I heard the wail of the siren off in the distance. Thank God!
“Jean Ann, the ambulance is almost here. My partner will bring them up, and then we’ll be going to the hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
A moment later, I heard the front door opening and the sounds of a gurney being brought in. The cavalry had arrived, and hopefully, Jean Ann would survive.
Before the medics reached the bedroom, it dawned on me that Jean may have seen the killer and could identify the man. I felt a lump of hope leap into my throat. At the same time, I felt a tinge of guilt for thinking anything other than hope for his life.
The EMTs brought in the gurney, did a cursory check of the patient, and began working their magic.
It only took a few minutes, and they had Jean Ann attached to an IV and on the gurney. Before they left, I stopped one of the EMTs.
“He going to make it?”
“The faster we get him back to the hospital, the better his chances.” I got the hint and stepped back. After they left, I felt empty, as if something had been taken out of me. I wanted to cry, fall into a heap on the floor and cry. I couldn’t understand how someone could inflict such atrocities on another human being. But they do, every day. It made the bile in my stomach play tag with my throat.
I said a quick prayer for Jean Ann. It wasn’t much, and most of the time I didn’t even believe in the stuff, but I figured that he could use as much help as he could get.
Since Skip wasn’t inside the house, I assumed he had ventured out to scope the area. I stepped outside and took in some of the crisp night air. My breath came out in a mist which was a little odd for a Kentucky late spring evening. Nothing surprised me these days.
I saw Skip running from the direction of the road. He was out of breath when he reached me. “Nothing,” he said, and put his head down to catch his breath. “He still alive?”
Though I had hoped he would bring me news of a lead, I wasn’t at all surprised that he had come up empty-handed. “Barely.” There was obvious disappointment in my voice.
Skip to the rescue. “Hon, he’s alive. You saved his life, Jamie. Give yourself some credit, girl.”
We stood there in silence for a moment. Steam was rolling off of Skip and spitting out of my mouth in short, choppy breaths. There was no sound. Not a single car was passing. It felt dead. I felt dead. Then, it hit me.
“Oh, God! The clue. He’s off to the hospital, alive, and more than likely, he has the clue to the next killing inside of him. We have to get there before they take him in to surgery.”
We ran to my car, jumped in, and sped off. I grabbed the radio and called into dispatch to have them warn the hospital that we were on our way and to tell them not to destroy any evidence that might be on or inside the body. I flipped on the lights and sounds and slammed on the gas.
The ambulance had obviously arrived well ahead of us. Jean Ann Kelly was heading into surgery. I wished I had enough rank to pull rank.
“Listen, this is a matter of police business. I have to get into that OR before the one clue to the killer’s next murder is destroyed.” The nurse had obviously had a rough day because she wasn’t having anything to do with my tirade.
“I can’t let you in that operating room. No way.” She gave me a don’t push me look. I took a long, calming breath.
“Okay, I need you to get word to the doctor doing the procedure. Will you do that for me?” My pleading face was on full-force.
“Sure, just tell me what it is.” Finally, some cooperation.
We sat in the waiting room for what seemed like two years. After too much coffee, too much Oprah, and too little sleep, the doctor finally came out to tell us that Jean Ann had made it.
“We had to make some tough choices. We haven’t finalized the surgery yet. There is no next of kin, so we have to wait until the patient is conscious before we can complete the processes. We did recover what you were looking for. I’ll have it brought to you momentarily.” The doctor was efficient with words and demeanor. What was it with the medical types around here?
“Is there any way—” The doctor wouldn’t even let me finish before he interrupted.
“—you could see the patient?” I nodded. “Yes, but you’ll have to keep the visit minimal. Follow me.”
THIRTY-ONE
The hospital room had the usual IVs, tubes, charts, sounds, and smells. The smell of hospital rooms always reminded me of watching my mother die. I could see her withered body lying on the bed and hear the voice that had soothed me so much in life tell me to leave the room so she could die in peace. I hated that, and I hated hospitals.
And here I was, looking at some poor man who rested inches from death. He was breathing of his own volition, and his eyes were half open, not bad for someone who had just been mutilated by a psychopath.
“Hello, Jean.” I opted for a maternal, whispered tone. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him.
“Jean, this is the officer that saved your life,” the doctor chimed in. I was in no mood to pat myself on the back. The only person here who deserved a good stroking was the man in the hospital bed.
Jean looked over at me, and the slightest smile came across his face. His eyes closed slowly and then opened again. “Thank you.” His voice was weak. I smiled at him and grabbed his hand. He squeezed back as if it could be the last human touch he’d ever feel.
“Jean, I’m going to come back tomorrow morning and talk to you about what happened. I need to find out as much as I can. But for now, I want you to rest and know that you are safe. Okay?” He nodded and closed his eyes. We quietly left the room.
As soon as we were out of earshot, I confronted the doctor. “So what will happen to Jean Ann?” I started to correct myself for referring to the patient by his femme name but decided to let it go.
The doctor stared at me in disbelief, as if saying the name of the man’s female persona was a bad thing. “Currently, he has no genitalia. The internal damage has been mostly repaired, but there are decisions that have to be made that only the patient can make.”
“Such as?” I prodded gently.
“The patient has to decide if he wants us to construct male or female genitalia. And if he decides on the female genitalia, he’s probably going to want to undergo SRS therapy.” The doctor seemed a little bit edgy.
“But what about hormone therapy? Aren’t SRS patients required to undergo hormon
e therapy?” I had done my research on the subject.
“Exactly. These are unusual circumstances. He will have to do everything at once, so to speak. But that decision is his and his alone. He may very well decide to have us reconstruct his male genitalia.” When he said the last statement, the doctor seemed to show a sign of relief. I was starting to think I was seeing a very tightly closed mind.
Before the exchange could possibly get heated, a nurse swung by and handed me a small container which held the name of the next victim. I had nearly forgotten about the clue left in Jean Ann. I had to retreat and get back to the lab.
“Thank you, doctor. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to ask the victim a few questions,” I said as I was nearly turning to leave. Before I could get the full one-eighty out of my heels, the doctor grabbed my arm.
“You know you saved this man’s life, Detective.” For the first time, the doctor smiled. I smiled back, and that was that.
THIRTY-TWO
It had been a long, long day. But it was a day that had ended with another successful procedure. Gene was now Jean Ann, and the new woman would someday say grace to the stranger who had sneaked into her house and made her dreams come true.
Tomorrow, he would begin concentrating on the next recipient of his gift. Lakmé was overcome with a sense of purpose and self-righteousness. Looking in the bathroom mirror, all pretenses of masculinity aside, he peered into his bloodshot eyes and spoke in his soft monotonous voice: “I am like God. He makes Man in his image, and I remake Woman in my own.”
He was starting to find a thrill in his work, a thrill that had never before been present. The face in the mirror smiled back.
Power surged through his muscles. He was invincible. He had the power to change the very fabric of people’s lives, and he could never be stopped. For the first time that he could remember, he didn’t feel the urge to destroy his own reflection. He didn’t want to remove the curse of masculinity that was burned into his mind and onto his body. He had a purpose now. He had meaning in his life beyond running from the evil he had been a part of as a child. For the first time in his life, he felt human. And it felt good.