by Garrett Cook
I open the door and I’m almost tempted to stop and flush the evidence. Drunken high school kids usually wouldn’t stagger to the bathroom, although there is a faint trace of liquor in the air. Somebody squeamish was here. I check for footprints, but there are none on the concrete floors. Shit. I thought I’d found my killer. Maybe not yet, but I have a feeling that I’m getting closer. Closer than the cops got at least. I feel sorta like I’m in a Raymond Chandler novel, although Marlowe never found himself checking warehouse toilets for stale vomit to track down some heartless predator who decided there was nothing wrong with killing and skinning fifteen young men.
Fifteen young men. I gotta wonder where he picked them up. I have a sudden breakthrough when it occurs to me that out back the local kids discard their pot ashes, their beer bottles and their condoms. This pile of junk is so ancient and so innocuous that the cops wouldn’t have bothered with it. After all, there are none of them still here. I creep around the back and find a veritable altar to teenage decadence. There are only a couple of hypodermics here, mostly just discarded baggies, rubbers and bottles of beer, wine coolers and Zima. After all that I’ve done and all that I’ve been through, I find pawing this particularly distasteful. Kids will be kids, gradually becoming beasts or machines, gradually emptying themselves, but at some point they’re innocent. It’s not that the activities here are signs of lost innocence, it’s that these are the last things they do while they’re still innocent, the bits of pleasure they gather before they have to go too far to get it. Anybody who’d paw through all this after doing the skinning wouldn’t vomit at the sight and smell of his work, no. It’d take a real stoic, somebody emotionally shut off, the kind of person that just didn’t squirm. I know this person’s been through all this stuff because at the bottom of it is a wallet. I wonder if it’s theirs or a victim’s. Nathaniel Gilman says his driver’s license…and his SAG card. NOW I’ve got something. There’s no money in the billfold; this “Tanner” wasn’t too proud to steal. No money there, but six more SAG cards, six more licenses and a student ID. He really should have burned this stuff, but he probably knew that nobody would check back here, and if they did, the fact that the victims were actors wouldn’t mean anything. If I were a TV detective, or a detective at all, I’d have found a matchbook for some club where I could go and shake some guy down for information. This however is real life, so I have no such luck. There are only seven SAG cards and driver’s licenses, though. Seven I.Ds, fifteen skins. It literally doesn’t add up. So, are there only seven actors? At least I have a student ID. I can’t go creeping around a college campus, even in disguise, so I do the next best thing. It’s a Sunday night, studying needs to happen and kids need to procrastinate. I know an all-night coffee bar, nothing too hip, but nothing too mainstream either, but I have a feeling I can scare up some information. I put in a pair of blue contacts and quickly change into a T-shirt in the car.
The cafe has checkered floors and red, plastic tables. The walls are adorned with amateurish black and white art photos that are for sale at worshipfully exorbitant prices. As I expected, the place is full. The sad beanie clad greasy –dreaded Rastafarian at the counter doesn’t ask if I want anything, greet me, or acknowledge my presence. It seems like he doesn’t expect anybody to order anything. I imagine the coffees were ordered an hour ago and are being nursed as the kids stress out over their assignments. I walk up to the sad Rastafarian, hoping maybe he’d know something. I talk just loud enough for anybody relevant to overhear.
“Hey, does Bobby Greer ever come in here?”
The Rastafarian shrugs. “Are you a cop?”
“No. I found his wallet; I’ve been looking for him or somebody who knows him all night.”
“You’re at the wrong café,” a skinny blonde with a long face and glasses says, “That little fag’s a Ripkid. He hangs out at Murderland. He’s in my acting class, though. You want me to give the wallet to him, tomorrow?”
Either this kid’s unpopular enough to be killed on Friday without anybody knowing about it on Sunday, or this kid isn’t dead. And the other seven? Are they also big enough losers that their friends and classmates wouldn’t notice they’ve died? Having already taken all the other Ids out, I hand the girl the wallet, and thank her, wondering where to go next. It doesn’t take very long. I go to Murderland as myself, since I’ve been seen there once out of disguise and didn’t get in any trouble then. Reap joints usually tend to hop after midnight, even on a Sunday, so I’m not surprised that there’s a crowd. I am, however surprised at who’s in that crowd.
When I sit down, a familiar face stares at me from the booth across from mine. He scowls, but then recoils a bit, remembering the beating I gave him. I forgot about that little gang of Ripkids. That little gang looks to have dissolved or have found a new leader, because the asshole that used to be in charge is seated alone in the middle of the restaurant. Probably for the same reason I’m here, to listen in on things. He seethes for a bit until he overcomes his cowardice.
“You fucking ruined me, you asshole!” he screams.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have left a member of your own gang to die on the street. I’d have kicked your ass for much less.”
I feel tough tonight. I feel invigorated. I’m making a difference without having to gut someone. Yet. So, this kid getting pissed off at me because I knocked him several rungs down the social ladder doesn’t concern me a whole hell of a lot. He looks like he’s ready to come over and get some or call me out to the parking lot, and I’d be ready had it not been for the actual purpose of this excursion. I’d love to put this kid in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, but I need to investigate something. His crippling would have to come later.
“I’m gonna take you outside and I’m gonna fuckin’ cut you open! He screams, I’m gonna cut you open and I’m gonna fuck your guts and cum on your heart! Nobody beats me up and humiliates me, nobody, you fucking Samaritan faggot! Come on, I’m gonna take you outside! I’m gonna take you outside and make you my fucking woman!”
The waitress, dressed in Manson family cool, a hippie chick with a blood streaked face, walks up to the table.
“You’ve been warned about this,” she says to him, “you’re disturbing everybody, especially this guy who’s just come here for a cup of coffee. If he wants a fight, he’ll meet you in the Safe Zone and put you in traction, okay, sunshine?”
The ex-Ripkid leader stomps out, and I get to enjoy my coffee. Hopefully I won’t miss any talk about the Ripkids missing a friend, or a wallet for that matter. I’m surprised that one of them approaches me, another one I recognize, the young one. He sits down at the booth where the other was before.
“Thanks for what you did, man,” he says, solemn, on the verge of tears almost, “you saved my life, man. We’re really glad that you knocked that guy out that day. He was just you know, unstable. He was gonna get us all killed, especially. Just, you know thanks. Can I get you anything?”
I shake my head, but then an idea comes to me. “You don’t happen to know, Bobby Greer, do you?”
“Well, I do and I don’t. If it was anybody who didn’t save me from bleeding to death in the middle in the street, I wouldn’t be able to tell ‘em, but you, I owe a favor. Yeah, I know Bobby Greer.” He speaks quietly, moves to my booth, across from me. He looks both ways before he starts to explain more.
“Bobby doesn’t exist anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Hmm, he might actually be dead. That would make everything about one percent more confusing.
“I mean, Bobby’s somebody else now. Changed his name, bought some documents. See, Bobby got in some trouble with the law. The kind of stuff that doesn’t slide in the Safe Zone. He made some extra cash, paid for acting classes by giving it up to guys around town. I’m surprised he didn’t get killed, you know, most people who sell sex do it outside the Safe Zone. It’s the best way to get you gutted. Dangerous profession.” He indicates his Ripper garb. It didn’t seem before like he’d b
e smart enough to enjoy the irony of his friend’s double life.
“So, he’s getting himself a new face, and a new name, and hopefully a career. Last time we spoke, he seemed pretty damn certain about the career part. Said he had something good lined up. That’s pretty funny, cause Bobby’s previous film credits don’t look so good when you IMDB him. That’s probably why the new name.”
So, this leaves the question of why the wallet was in the pile of crap outside the warehouse. Makes me wonder if the photo in the wallet was actually Bobby, or if he got a fake made. The possibility still exists that he’s dead, though. The mystery expands, just when I thought mysteries got smaller. They should shrink as you get closer to the answer, not grow. I almost wonder if going after this “Tanner” will be worth it. This kid’s life was so insignificant; pointless enough that I would want to kill him. If he were the sort of victim, whom so which might still be possible, he has my blessing. But, on the other hand, it seems pretty likely that he’s still alive somewhere. So, why his ID? What was it doing in the wallet if he didn’t exist anymore?
“How long ago did you talk to Bobby?”
The kid’s quick. Most people his age would have to stop and think to get exactly when it happened down, but not him. He remembers instantly. “Friday, Friday afternoon.”
Friday afternoon does me no good, because the bodies were found Friday night. I look through the little file on police procedure in my head, and I ask him the next question the police would.
“Did he leave with anybody?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Would a beat cop have bothered helping a kid who was injured during a Splat game?”
The kid doesn’t have to think for very long.
“So what’s the deal?”
Something makes me want to tell him outright that I’m Mr.400, and I’m investigating Bobby for vigilante superhero purposes. I don’t know what to tell him about the deal that wouldn’t make him vastly uncomfortable. My nerves become visibly frayed, and I’m surprised that the kid doesn’t look more suspicious.
“I don’t have to know,” he says, “you saved my fucking life, so the least I can do is tell you what you want to know. You’re not a cop and you’re not a John, so I’ll tell you, okay? Clearly, you’ve got your reasons.”
“Thanks.” It’s a relief dealing with somebody reasonable for a change. I’ll be damned.
“He left with a couple guys he says were from his acting class. I know that they’ve done some extra work, since they talk about it all the time, acting like they’re fuckin’ Meryl Streep because they’re Young Man number 1 or Clumsy Waiter in some cheap indie piece of shit that nobody goes to see. They’ve done extra work, but I’ll tell ya, they’re not from his acting class. Gilman’s involved with Bobby’s…you know other job. I almost don’t blame him, though. The pay is pure shit at the Orange Julius.”
“Shit, I hate the mall.”
“That’s all I could tell you, I’m sorry, man. I don’t know anything that could help you out. But, I’ll keep your investigation under my hat. I’m used to not even speculating about certain things. Smart kids don’t even speculate.”
I’d agree with that. I’m getting a very big headache from all of the speculating I’m doing. “Thanks. We’re even now.”
“Ten minutes of talk about local male prostitutes is worth my life? That’s great for my self-esteem.”
I shrug. “I do cheap favors.”
“Good luck,” he says, getting up to leave.
“You need a ride home?” I ask.
“Nah. I’m okay.”
Brave kid, too. I can’t believe he’s walking home through the Safe Zone at 2 am. I don’t try to press the ride, because I’ve got a feeling he’ll survive okay. As long as he’s not playing Splat, he seems perfectly capable as a human being. Pretty damn observant. It’s a real break finding him here, whether he’s a regular or not. Gives me something to go by. I’m getting tired and the mall is closed, so I head home.
I dream again of the plains and the snakes and the mountains and the debris. I dream again of General Lud telling me that I am God’s lightning. The dream dissolves though, into le Couteau. Music plays loudly, it sounds live, but nobody’s there. I’m alone with the lights and the gaudiness and the discomfort I feel every time I go through those doors. I don’t want to look up, because I know that there is no ceiling and the sky is filled with something ghastly, but since this is a dream, I know that I can only look up. A great clothesline stretches across the skyline of the city and hanging on it, as if to dry are millions of human skins. Le Couteau shatters around me, and it is just me in the city with the skins. I wander the dark streets, knocking on doors and trying to see if anyone knows why the sky is filled with the skins of dead men. Nobody answers. I stop in front of a church and I pound and pound on the door. Suddenly, I feel an unearthly strength, and the door shatters into millions of splinters.
I know somehow that General Lud has lent me the strength to make this happen. The church is empty, save newspaper pages pasted to the walls and the windows. You can’t even see the stained glass through all of the newspaper. I try to read each front page, but every one has nothing on it but symbols and gibberish. The papers suddenly shuffle, flying into the center of the empty church, making a shape several feet high, a shape consisting of two figures: H 8. Lud places his hand upon my shoulder, it is no longer wrinkled, and his ratty urine-soaked coat becomes a long, white priestly vestment. His face looks fifty years younger. I don’t know how old General Lud was, but he looks twenty. He looks almost sane and almost handsome. He no longer looks like the raving street preacher he is.
“The jackal and the serpent come; they come to take me away. See me here and now, listen up: the devil’s voice comes not from the mouth you think. You will know it in the Black Queen’s shadow, you will know this when I am taken. You will know the will of the Dark Ones, when you find the man you seek. Remember the Book of Mark; remember the one who said his name was Legion.”
I wake up and I go to the kitchen. It’s five am, I’ve barely slept. Remember the one who said his name was Legion. What is Lud doing in my dreams telling me to remember the Book of Mark? Telling me to remember that the demons said they were Legion? I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of coffee, both of which I end up ignoring. This sorry attempt at breakfast doesn’t settle me down any, make me want to sit and think. I’m glad that I left the pharmacy, because I would hate to go to work with this on my mind. I feel sort of bad that Cass still needs to work, but always says not to worry about. Do what you’re supposed to, she says. Try to do some work when you can, she tells me. Today I sure as hell can’t. Makes me glad the temp agency doesn’t have anything for me right now.
Cass is up unusually early, she sits down across from me, still in her t-shirt and panties and picks up the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“You gonna eat this?” she asks.
“Go ahead,” I tell her, and she eats it.
“Investigations ran real late, huh?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I can see she’s disappointed. I usually let her talk when she wants to talk. I don’t feel like talking when she’s disappointed, it’s too hard to concentrate.
“I don’t have to ask if you’ve found the guy. It’s pretty clear that you didn’t. Maybe if we go over this together, we can get to the bottom of it. I know you feel exceptionally capable, lately, but if there’s one thing I know about, it is murder.”
She has a point. I don’t know where to start. If I did, I’d have a beginning, and if I had a beginning, I’d know how this happened or who did it, or pretty much anything. It’s remarkable how much information you can turn up in a couple of hours of looking for it, and how little meaning you can extract from it.
“So far it doesn’t seem to be going especially well. I found a wallet full of I.Ds and SAG cards, vomit in the bathroom, and a very convoluted history of one of the victims. Apparently, these guys were all extras
and gigolos. One of them, a kid named Bobby Greer was seen around Murderland and was talking about establishing a new identity. I’m waiting for the mall to open to go the Orange Julius and see if they know anything about one of the other kids, Nathaniel Gilman. He works there, in between being a gigolo and an aspiring actor.”
“Busy boy,” Cass says, and she taps the table with her fingers as she tends to do when she’s deep in thought, “I’ve got a feeling that somehow you’ve taken the wrong angle. I’ve heard the name Bobby Greer somewhere. I can’t tell you where right now, but I should be able to tell you soon. It makes me wonder why him? A few other down-on-their luck extras and eight other people you can’t identify could be killed in one night by one person.”
“It might be two. I’ve got a feeling that there’s more than one person. Anybody willing to skin fifteen people wouldn’t be nauseated by it most likely. It would take somebody pretty amoral.”
“Another thing that gets me is that the killer left the wallet hidden, but didn’t burn it.”
She has a point. It’s a lot of evidence to leave around. If somebody was skinning, why would they be collecting I.Ds? Then again, the Cabana Boy took breasts and also took matchbooks to commemorate the occasion. Yet, it doesn’t seem similar. There had to be some better reason for keeping the I.Ds around, but any good one escapes me. I wish I could posit a theory right now, so as not to look clueless in front of Cass, yet I can’t.
“So what do you think about that?” I ask, “Do you think he collects I.Ds and skins because he’s fixated on signs of outward identity?”