by Dave Eggers
Forty minutes he'd labored to revive the patient.
Forty minutes he'd tried to breathe air into the patient's collapsed lungs; he'd thumped her chest and shouted at her, pleading and furious. His excellent medical training was of little use to him now, for a dead body will remain dead.
Awkwardly—impatiently—for he was unaccustomed to such a task—Lucas tore black trash bags into halves and wrapped the body in them, as best he could. The patient was partly dressed in the growing chill of death and on parts of the exposed body the torn and bloodied paper stuck. Lucas observed himself removing from the body's fingers the expensive glittering rings for They would steal from her, whoever did this to her.
His nostrils pinched. A pungent odor of singed flesh, singed hair, rank animal panic and terror. In her death throes the woman had soiled herself.
Chloe would know what to do. Chloe would cry Oh Doctor—what has happened? I will help you.
Relief swept over Lucas, that Chloe wasn't at the scene, that Chloe hadn't returned to the office wanting to check on him. Oh Doctor—I saw the light still on here. I thought—I saw your car—
His heart like a metronome. If he'd had to kill her, too. Poor Chloe who was in love with him.
Thinking That, I have been spared. Thank God!
He was a good man, a generous man. Chloe would testify on his behalf. Every female employee he'd ever had.
This was good to know—this was important to keep in mind—but he was beginning to feel anxious, seeing how much there was yet to be swathed clean in this befouled room with paper towels, hot water, and disinfectant.
No time now. He had to be practical. These mundane tasks he would perform after.
The urgent task was the disposal of the body. He envisioned a remote wooded area, or a river—the deep rushing Hudson River, by night—if the rain-clouds cleared, by moonlight—and then he would return to his office. And then he would clean what had to be cleaned.
Not a trace would remain. He would use several pairs of latex gloves if necessary. He would dump disinfectant, bleach on the floor.
There was the question—how exactly had the patient died?
Things are not always so evident as they seem.
Small holes drilled into the skull above the forehead could not explain death, for these were trivial wounds. Such wounds to the frontal lobe many an individual has sustained, and survived.
Violent blows to the head, bullets and shrapnel lodged in the very brain, fractured skulls causing the brain to swell like a maddened balloon— These wounds are curious. But insufficient to explain death the medical examiner would note.
Lucas Brede knew the medical examiner of Dutchess County. Not well, but the men knew and respected each other.
Only an autopsy can determine. This is common knowledge.
Cardiac arrest probable. Suddenly plummeting blood-pressure, the consequence of shock.
For it was not reasonable to think that Lucas had caused the patienfs death by a sole act of his. When the dura mater had scarcely been penetrated.
He'd been careful. Obsessively so. The demanding woman had wanted "holes" drilled into her skull, but he would not drill "holes," of course, only small wounds.
The drill had failed him.
The drill was defective, was it?—surgical drills are set to shut off automatically when the skull is penetrated. But this drill purchased at a hardware store at the mall had failed to shut off.
He'd paid in cash. Hadn't given the sales clerk his credit card.
Calm in this terrible hour like one whose professional behavior—posture, even—"dignity"—was being preserved on tape, Lucas stooped to wrap the body in black plastic trash bags, kept in a storage closet in the corridor.
"Irma? Are you..."
Inside the mummy-wrapping of several trash bags he'd scissored to make a single large bag, the body had twitched. The body was heavier than you would expect, in its sprawling limbs a female slovenliness that suggested defiance, derision. Still around the ravaged head were strips of soiled adhesive tape covering the eyes that would be, Lucas knew, accusing eyes, and the mouth, that would accuse as well.
"Irma. My God—I am so sorry."
Was he?—this wasn't clear. His lips moved numbly in resentment, but by nature Dr. Brede was courteous.
His women patients adored him. His nurse-receptionist adored him. His wife had ceased to adore him, and the thought of Audrey filled him with such rage, he began to tremble anew.
How bizarre the body would appear when the slatternly trash bags were unwrapped! Around the head of graying, matted, bloodied hair the strips of soiled adhesive tape he'd wrapped carefully (he recalled), but the look of it was frantic, random. As if the deceased were a madwoman who had wrapped her own head for what crazed notion, whim, or expectation, who could say?
Recalling too: the latex gloves, that were surely torn; the blood-splattered surgeon-clothes, shoes, and even socks, that must be disposed of also. Thinking It can all go in the same bag. And in the Dumpster. If they find one they may as well find the other.
This logic he could not fully comprehend. Instinctively he felt this was a practical and sensible step.
He'd located the woman's purse also, which was an expensive purse of soft dark leather. He would take bills from the wallet, credit cards, keys—for whoever had done such a cruel thing to this woman would certainly take these items.
Drive some distance. Away from Weirlands. Afar corner of Dutchess County deep in the country in the night.
If not a Dumpster, a rural dump. A landfill. Lucas would drag other trash bags over his, to hide it. The vision came to him of a vast open pit in the earth out of which steam lifted, a pit that opened into hell. But if he kept well back from the rim of the pit, he would be safe.
Thinking of this place somewhere in Dutchess County, he felt relief as if thinking were doing, and in an instant the arduous task was done.
Fortunately he had a change of clothes at the office, khaki pants and a flannel shirt, running shoes. Underwear, and socks.
After, he would return to the condominium overlooking the Hudson River. Possibly by then he'd be hungry, he would eat. In the refrigerator was a reserve of emergency meals, takeout from previous evenings, an excellent Brie from the Hazelton Bon Appétit, and those crisp Danish crackers.
No: this was wrong. This was not right. After, he would return to Weirlands. Hours of cleanup awaited him; he must not lose track of these crucial plans.
It was 9:19 P.M. Those lighted windows at Weirlands he'd been nervously eyeing were still lighted, so he thought No one is there. Just lights on. This was a relief. This meant freedom. Stooping, he pulled the body along the floor—along the corridor to the door at the rear—this, the delivery door and not the door that patients used. He was perspiring badly, though he was also shivering. Impulsively he left the body on the floor, wedged partly against a doorjamb, went to his office and dialed the number of his former home, and with the stoic resignation of one who knows beforehand that he will be disappointed, he waited for the phone to ring and was thus badly surprised, shaken by the failure of the phone even to ring and the smug, recorded, female voice You have dialed a number no longer in service. This number has been disconnected.
He would never forgive Audrey for abandoning him. For betraying him. He would never forgive any of them.
At last—Weirlands appeared to be deserted. Only three vehicles remained in the parking lot—Lucas's car, a car presumably belonging to his patient, and, at the far end of the lot, a commercial van. Out of his darkened doorway Lucas dragged the lifeless body in the trash bags, now heavy as a slab of concrete. His shoulders and upper spine were shot with pain. Belatedly he thought of the woman's coat—for surely this well-to-do woman would have worn a coat to his office—which was very likely hanging in the waiting room to be discovered by Chloe in the morning. This crucial thought, too, he filed After.
How chill the night air, how fresh and invigorating! Lucas felt a surg
e of hope. Too much was expected of cosmetic surgeons, he hadn't trained to be a holy priest after all.... The wisest stratagem would be to remove the woman's body from the premises as quickly as possible—he would drag it uphill through the parking lot and into the uncultivated area beyond the Weirlands property line, where no one ever went. A half mile to the east was the Hazelton Pike, a half mile to the north was the New York Thruway; in the interstices of smaller roads, a prestigious new residential development called Foxcroft Hills, and the new, artificial Foxcroft Lake were pockets of uncultivated land, less likely to be explored than the open countryside of previous decades.
No one will ever find it. Her.
Lucas had in mind a faint trail he'd noticed from the parking lot, through tall grasses—a shady area where someone had placed a single picnic table for Weirlands office workers—therapists, secretaries. Not once had Lucas ever seen anyone eating lunch at this table overlooking the asphalt parking lot nor could he have said exactly where the table was, or had once been, but it was in this direction he dragged the body, sweating now heavily inside his clothes. How annoying it was, the parking lot was littered at its periphery with fallen and shattered tree limbs; it was an effort to drag the body here, colliding with storm debris, making his task so much more arduous....
Suddenly the thought came to him Her car!
Of course— the woman's car. Lucas would have to get rid of her car.
If he failed to remove the woman's car from the Weirlands lot, it would be discovered in the morning; the woman would be traced to Weirlands Medical Center, and to Dr. Lucas Brede. Rapidly his brain worked—of course, he would have to dispose not only of the woman's body but of her car as well.
Logically then, to save steps he might place the body inside the car.
In the trunk! He would place the body in the trunk—of course—and he would drive the woman's car some distance from Weirlands—twenty miles, thirty—across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey.
Once in a remote area of New Jersey off the turnpike he would abandon both the car and the body in the trunk of the car. He would drive the car to the edge of a steep precipice above the Hudson River, or another body of water, or some sort of quarry, or gravel pit. He seemed to know that New Jersey would be a safe territory, if he could but get there. He would jump out of the car at the last possible moment and the car would plummet down into oblivion as into a pit of hell ... Lucas Brede would be safe then, for he would leave nothing of his own in the woman's car. And the car, and the body, would never be discovered.
Except: he would have no way of returning then to Weirlands. No way of returning to his expensive but mud-splattered Jaguar SL parked at the rear of Weirlands.
He hadn't thought of this. The thought was an obvious one like a tree root he'd just tripped over, nearly causing him to fall atop the tattered trash bags.
Quickly modifying his plan. For his brain worked swiftly, like the brain of a machine. As it wasn't practical to drag the woman's body into the woods above Weirlands, so it wasn't practical to drag the woman's body to her car and haul it to New Jersey: instead, he would have to drag the body to his own car and lift it into the trunk—panting and cursing as he struggled to lift the cumbersome thing that seemed to taunt him with its heaviness, and its smells that made him gag. And his arms ached, his body was faint with exhaustion. At last he managed to get the damned body into the trunk, to force its odd-angled limbs into the confining space beneath a spare tire and a tire iron. Horrible it seemed to him, that he had to stoop, to lift this so physical and obdurate thing; he had to grip it in his embrace, lift it into the trunk and slam the trunk lid down, but hastily and carelessly so that a torn part of a trash bag was visible, fluttering outside the trunk like a woman's black silk slip.
Doctor, I am so grateful. My new life.
He worried that some sort of inevitable moisture—blood, urine, liquid feces—was leaking through the plastic material into the trunk of his car that had been until now pristine-clean. The thought came to him The trunk can be cleaned. At the car wash. Inside and out.
If the car wash couldn't disinfect the trunk totally, he would dump disinfectant and bleach inside. The most virulent bacteria teeming in the bowels of the dead can be fatal to the touch of the living.
Next, he climbed into his car. This was strange! Because so ordinary, commonplace. He turned the key in the ignition—the Jaguar was sometimes slow to start—this time the motor came to life at once and the windshield wipers came on and the radio, which was tuned to WQRS. Nor did he have difficulty driving out of the Weirlands parking lot and along the private Weirlands Road to a busier street. He would follow this street until the intersection with Route 11, and he would turn south and continue for miles out of Hazelton-on-Hudson and through the suburban villages of Drummond, Sleepy Hollow, Riverdale; he would pass the exit for Fort Tyron Park; he would exit for the George Washington Bridge, and he would bring the body in the trunk into New Jersey as it was planned for him and there he would discard the body; he would know where when the exit loomed in his headlights. Again this thought was so vivid it was as if he'd already executed it, in the instant of thinking it. Then, he would turn the Jaguar around and return across the George Washington Bridge—he would take the lower level returning, if he took the higher level going—details like that were crucial. By midnight if he hadn't any delays, he would return to Weirlands and he would then drive the woman's car no more than two or three miles to the small Hazelton train depot where he'd park it unobtrusively and where often vehicles were parked overnight. This would attract no attention! This was a very practical idea. Once he left the woman's car in a safe, unobtrusive place he could wait on the train platform for a train to arrive; he would mingle with passengers, and hail a taxi at the foot of the stairs.
Where're you going, sir?
D'you know that new condominium complex on the river? There.
Just beyond the exit ramp for the George Washington Bridge traffic was being rerouted into a detour. Here were police cars, medical emergency vehicles, blinding lights. Traffic was backing up for miles. Lucas leaned out his window, sick with apprehension. He lowered his window and called out to a police officer directing traffic in the rain—what was wrong? why were they being held up? how long?—but the officer, a young man, rudely ignored him. In the roadway were fiery flares, sawhorses blocking the lanes. Farther he leaned out the window of his car calling out to another police officer, but smiling—remembering to smile—his strained, affable, doctor-smile—for Dr. Brede would want these law enforcement officers to see, if it came to giving testimony, or evidence, that he'd behaved calmly; Lucas Brede had been in a genial, rational, reasonable mood at this crucial time; somewhat edgy, of course, and impatient, as any driver would be in such circumstances.
Evidently there'd been an accident. Two vehicles—three vehicles. Giddily lights spun atop emergency vehicles. Sirens pierced his eardrums. Quickly Lucas lowered his car window. "Officer? Do you need any help? I'm an MD."
Politely Lucas was told no, told to remain in his car. Told no, his services as a doctor weren't needed, or weren't wanted, there was an ambulance at the scene. Please remain in your car sir. Do not leave your car. Seeing the wrecked vehicles on the roadway like broken bodies, piteous female bodies and glass glittering on pavement, confused by the piercing sirens, Lucas opened the Jaguar door and began to climb out into the roadway but another time was told, sternly this time, he was being shouted at, instructed No. Trying to remain pleasant, reasonable—"I don't think you heard me—I'm a doctor—a neurosurgeon. I can examine the victims—I can determine if there's dangerous hemorrhaging in the brain." An older police officer came to Lucas and asked for his driver's license. Lucas fumbled to comply. He was clearly not drunk nor even agitated. His hands shook badly—this might be palsy. This might be the onset of Parkinson's. There was blood on his khaki cuffs, but the flashing red lights did not detect blood. Smears of blood on the front of his coat, mysteriously—f
or he'd been careful with the trash bags which he'd tied with the unwieldy body inside, he was sure he hadn't brushed against them. Yet there it was, a smear of blood like a bird's wing. And on his hands. Unless this was older, long-dried blood from earlier in the day, that had been a very long day beginning with dark pelting rain before dawn.
"But I want to be of help, officer. Please let me help. I'm a doctor—this is my mission."
They had no time for him. His offer was rebuked. Rudely he was made to climb back into his Jaguar, and to wait like the other drivers. Eventually traffic bound for the bridge was rerouted. Eventually the stream of vehicles began to move. The terrible dark rain had lessened, now columns of mist lifted from the river far below like ectoplasm. Which river was this Lucas could not have immediately said, though he knew its name as he knew his own. He accelerated his vehicle onto the bridge. It was the upper level he chose. In the mist, the farther shore and the length of the great bridge were obscured. Lights shimmered uncertainly along the vast river, evidence of lives within. He started out, he would cross to that farther shore.
The Suicide Catcher
Michael Paterniti
FROM GQ
THE BRIDGE ROSE UP AND AWAY from the city's northwest quadrant, spanning the great Yangtze river. And yet, from the on-ramp where the taxi let me off that Saturday morning, it seemed more like a figment of the imagination, a ghostly ironwork extrusion vanishing in the monsoon murk, stretching to some otherworld. It was disorienting to look at, that latticed half-bridge leaving off in midair, like some sort of Surrealist painting. It gave off a foreboding aura, too, untethered and floating, and yet it couldn't have been more earth-bound—and massive. Later I'd find out it was made from 500,000 tons of cement and 1 million tons of steel. Four miles long, with four lanes of car traffic on the upper deck and twin railroad tracks on the lower, it transferred thousands of people and goods to and from the city every day. But now the clouds clamped down, and a sharp scent of sulfur and putrid fish wafted on a dank puff of air. Rain slithered from the sky. There, before my eyes, the bridge shimmered and disappeared, as if it had never been visible in the first place.