Brainquake

by Samuel Fuller

  Crew and cops erupted from their vehicles. Their lights kept blinking.

  The Inspector could almost hear her heart, feel it hammering against his chest. Slowly, he stepped back and stared at her madeup face and her jet black hair. The only recognizable thing he saw was the unforgettable blue of her eyes, gleaming in the blinking lights.

  He was aware he hadn’t greeted her as she’d expected, hadn’t flung his arms around her to comfort her. She needed to see he was not going to be on her side in murder. He saw the fear now filling her eyes, and made the smallest gesture he could: he took her arms in his, held them gently.

  She burst into tears. They were the same tears she’d shed when she was nine and he had removed a painful splinter from her toe.

  “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the plank. She led him to the room. She stayed in the doorway while he went in.

  Reacting more to Lafitte’s staring eyes than to the abundance of blood glistening all over his jacket, he didn’t—he couldn’t—examine him. The surgeon would do it any moment. With four citations for bravery as a street cop, the Inspector lacked the courage to see if Lafitte was dead. He had seen many victims of sudden death staring up at him with popped eyes, and none had been revived to life.

  Michelle watched his glances swiftly take in the baby sketch on the wall…the raked, bruised face of Paul, still prone on the floor…the blood-matted thick hair on the back of his head… blood-smeared ashtray on floor…red gash on his temple… Luger in his hand…blood on the bed, on the blanket, on the lid of the chest.

  The Inspector knew the tale behind every memento in that memory chest, including the Luger that Jean Bourgois took from a Nazi he had killed and gave to Lafitte for courage on the youth’s seventeenth birthday. Unlocking Paul’s grip on the gun, he recognized the trench-knife-scratched initials on the Luger’s butt.

  CL for Christian Lafitte.

  He looked up at Michelle framed in the doorway, her blue eyes riveted on his, her dark makeup smeared with tears on her cheeks.

  “You know how this bastard got Lafitte’s Luger?”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll have a talk, Michelle. Go clean your face.”

  She nodded but before she could move a cyclone slammed her aside. The surgeon blasted in, trailed by Rensonnet carrying a stand and two medical boxes, the ambulance doctor, Dr. Sully, with his intern carrying medical kits, and Gautier, the forensics man.

  The surgeon stared at Lafitte’s chest blanketed with blood.

  “X-ray!”

  Gautier bolted for the quay.

  Michelle didn’t allow herself to feel anxious. She knew the Bomb Squad had used an X-ray machine to save her baby’s life, but she didn’t believe any machine would save someone dead, and Lafitte was stone dead.

  Watching the surgeon feel for Lafitte’s pulse with his hand on Lafitte’s neck, under his ear, she felt a strange but exciting spasm shoot through her. She was in control of all this. The surgeon would never feel a beat.

  The powder-blue shoulder of a lab technician in a smock shoved her aside and jarred her thoughts.

  The technician stood by Rensonnet, who was taking a specimen of Lafitte’s blood in a small vial. The vial was handed to the technician, who carried it out to the mobile lab parked twenty feet from the water.

  Michelle watched as the surgeon pulled up the lid of Lafitte’s left eye. Rensonnet adjusted the stand next to him, checking the long tube attached to it, checking the syringe.

  The surgeon struck a match, held the flame against Lafitte’s hand. Michelle felt the pain. There was no reaction from Lafitte.

  Rensonnet opened both medical boxes, placed two metal cartons on the bed. One filled with balls of cotton absorbents, the other empty. Also on the bed he placed a plastic bag containing surgical gloves, and a headband with a lamp attached, like coal miners’ helmets.

  Her gaze shifted to Dr. Sully listening to Paul’s heart on his stethoscope.

  She was shoved aside again, this time by two females.

  One was a cop in uniform. On her right hip hung her holstered gun. On her left hip hung a batch of pressed cellophane bags with attached cards. On the top bag, stamped in blue: POLICE/NATIONALE. She went over to the Inspector, who was watching the surgeon examining Lafitte’s eye.

  The other female, not in uniform, was a police photographer with a dead panatela in her mouth who began to take flashbulb photos of Lafitte and of Paul. She turned to the Inspector, who indicated other articles to photograph. She took pictures of the Luger, the blood on the back of Paul’s head, the blood on his temple, the blood on the chest, the blood on the ashtray on the floor.

  Then she left for the crime lab’s developing room.

  Michelle watched the surgeon slipping out of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, slinging stethoscope round his neck, adjusting the headband.

  The lab technician in powder-blue smock returned with a bottle of blood and left. Rensonnet hooked it on the stand, jammed the needle into Lafitte’s arm, switched the flow open.

  Michelle watched blood moving down the tube into Lafitte.

  The surgeon, the Inspector and Rensonnet watched.

  The blood clogged.

  She knew it would. There was no heart to pump blood anymore.

  She watched Rensonnet tear open the plastic bag, blow into the two gloves, hold them out. The surgeon thrust his fingers into them.

  Rensonnet turned on the bulb on the headband.

  The surgeon pulled apart the top of Lafitte’s jacket, ripped off his tie, ripped open the shirt. Rensonnet repeatedly sponged blood, tossing red balls into the empty box.

  The surgeon moved his stethoscope in the blood as he hunted for a single faint beat.

  Michelle knew he was wasting his time, so she watched Dr. Sully examining the blood-soaked hair on the back of Paul’s head. His intern held out scissors. Dr. Sully began cutting away the hair and stopped. Exploring the matted hair, he pulled off Paul’s thick wig, handed it to the Inspector, then began cutting Paul’s real hair away.

  The female cop ripped off a bag, opened it, wrote on the tag as the Inspector said:

  “Wig. Paul Page.”

  He gave her the wig, initialed the tag. She placed the wig in the bag, clamped it, ripped off another bag, opened it.

  Dr. Sully examined the gash.

  “The wig softened the blow.”

  The Inspector ripped off Paul’s beard.

  “Beard. Paul Page.”

  The female cop wrote it on the tag. He initialed it. She placed beard in bag, ripped off another bag as Dr. Sully dabbed antiseptic on the head gash, then moved to check the temple gash being dabbed with antiseptic by the intern.

  Dr. Sully examined the second gash, then glanced at the smear of blood on the edge of the war chest, then back at the gash.

  “An inch higher, he’d be dead.”

  The Inspector picked up the Luger. The female cop wrote as he said:

  “Murder weapon. Luger. Paul Page.”

  He gave it to her barrel-out, initialed the tag. She placed the Luger in a bag, clamped it, dug another, larger bag out of her pocket as he picked up the stone ashtray. She wrote as he said:

  “Assault weapon. Stone ashtray. Michelle Troy.”

  He initialed the tag. She placed ashtray in bag, clamped it.

  Without a word, Michelle pulled off the black wig she was wearing, handed it to him, stepped back in the doorway. The female cop ripped off another bag, wrote on the tag as the Inspector spoke:

  “Wig. Michelle Troy.”

  He gave her the wig, initialed the tag. She placed it in the bag, clamped it.

  “Wait in the other room.”

  The female cop with bagged exhibits brushed past Michelle. The Inspector beckoned to someone behind Michelle. A burly cop pushed her aside and entered, followed close behind by a moustached cop.

  “Put him on the big table out there.”

  The two cops lifted Paul up. The intern gathered his ge
ar, followed Dr. Sully out past Michelle.

  “Want him cuffed, Inspector?” the burly cop said.

  “Not yet. When Dr. Sully patches him up, don’t move him to the ambulance. Keep him on the table. When he comes to, I’ll talk to him. If he wants the WC, stick with him.”

  They carried Paul out to the living room. His limp arm struck Michelle’s body as they passed. She turned, watched them place him on the big round table where they’d had the birthday dinner.

  No sound from the baby in the crib meant he was sleeping peacefully. One blessing.

  Gautier returned, powering toward her like a runaway locomotive.

  “Don’t block the doorway!”

  She stepped out of the way and he dashed past, followed by two lab technicians. They slid the adjustable metal table across the bed as Rensonnet swiftly picked up the two boxes. Metal legs on each side of the bed were adjusted firmly.

  Michelle moved back slowly, peering in to see Rensonnet placing the two boxes on the metal table.

  “Don’t block the doorway!”

  She moved away like lightning as four lab technicians carried in the big X-ray machine and, under Gautier’s supervision, placed it on the metal table. All the technicians left.

  Gautier switched the machine on.

  Her view was blocked by the surgeon, the Inspector and Gautier. Again she reassured herself that the machine would be useless…but she started to get a sickening feeling. She forced the feeling away. She hated herself for even permitting the feeling to hit her gut.

  She stepped to one side so she could see. Through the X-ray, the region of the heart clouded by blood was brought into view for the surgeon, the Inspector and Rensonnet. Between flashes of Rensonnet’s skeletal finger bones mopping blood, the surgeon caught a glimpse of the bullet.

  “See the bullet?”

  “No,” the Inspector said.

  The surgeon pointed out the spot on the window. When the blood was mopped away:

  “I see it!”

  “Slightly deflected by that brass button.”

  “I see no button.”

  “You will.”

  Two more balls of cotton filled with blood…then:

  “I see it!” More blood was sucked up. “Did it pierce the heart?”

  Michelle tensely waited for the affirmative.

  “No.”

  The floor under her reeled one way, she the other. She fought to maintain her balance. Her mouth was dry, her body shaking.

  “The bullet smashed the edge of the sternum.”

  “It bruised the heart?”

  “Can’t tell yet. I want the heart to fill the window!”

  Gautier adjusted.

  “That’s as close as we can get.”

  “Perfect.”

  The stilled heart filled the window.

  The Surgeon’s finger tapped the spot. “Looks like a hair distance between bullet and heart.” They stared. Veins and arteries could be faintly seen now.

  The Inspector moved. An instant later the flattened bones of his hand came on the window. They were pressing down hard on the heart, lifting abruptly, pressing down hard, lifting abruptly, pressing down hard, lifting abruptly, and the procedure never stopped as they watched.

  “Hold it!”

  The Inspector did.

  The surgeon’s eyes glued on the heart saw a single, very weak movement. It could have been the flash that he wanted to see. But now the heart was still again.

  “Keep going.”

  The Inspector did. Every time he abruptly lifted his hand, the surgeon and Gautier felt their own hearts jump. But there was no movement at all.

  Suddenly they saw the Inspector’s bone fingers clench into fists. He beat down on the heart and, with a steady rhythm, kept beating, pounding, furiously, steadily. When blood gathered it was sponged up by Rensonnet who kept his eye on the blood in the tube.

  Still clogged.

  “Want me to take over?” Gautier said.

  “Hell, no!” the Inspector said, breathing heavily. “I’ll beat him back to life myself!”

  Like hell you will, thought Michelle. The strain was tearing her apart. Can’t they see he’s dead? Don’t they know? They’re experts. Don’t they know? They couldn’t hear it beat! They can’t see it beat! Are they crazy? Why are they doing this to me? Eddie fucked up! He should have jammed the muzzle against his chest and fired! He should have fired twice! Three times! I felt for a pulse, there was none. So I fucked up, too. I should have made him fire three times. Four. The sickening feeling in her gut became a fist that seized and squeezed hard and twisted. Then she realized it wasn’t her gut being twisted. It was her heart. She felt it stop beating. She felt it as still as Lafitte’s.

  “Hold it!” the surgeon shouted again.

  The Inspector stopped. This time the surgeon was sure. He caught another weak movement…and another…and another.

  “Good lord. You’ve done it.”

  The Surgeon moved closer, bent to give Lafitte mouth-tomouth. The Inspector kept up the compressions.

  “I see a very slow beat,” Gautier said.

  Who said that? Is he crazy? He’s imagining it! He saw nothing! He saw nothing!

  “Getting stronger…”

  They continued, their rhythms matched, laboring over the old man’s bloody body.

  “Stronger!”

  In the color of blood shrieking mutely, she heard Lafitte’s heartbeats growing louder…

  Michelle was ashamed of herself. Sweating. Shaking. Hysterical like an amateur. She was not Paul. She was not sick in the head. The situation had made her lose her grip for a second. Lafitte alive was a monkey wrench, an unwelcome development. But who could say how long it would last? Or if he’d ever regain consciousness? She was in control again. She would make it through, as she always did. So Lafitte was coming back from the dead. It would be very brief.

  She took a long deep controlled breath. She knew exactly what she had to do. The Inspector expected it from her.

  “Heart’s pumping!” Gautier said.

  “Thank God!” Michelle screamed.

  And she collapsed.

  46

  Tonight. It would be tonight.

  The stroll to his car parked off Étoile was enjoyable. Sober as a corpse, not a drop of wine with his late dinner at Fouquet’s, Father Flanagan was pleased he wouldn’t have to dodge death like a lunatic on wheels around the Arc de Triomphe to maneuver out of that traffic merry-go-round that had become second nature to drivers in Paris.

  For no reason at all, a thought crossed his mind: how much was a hit man paid in the old guillotine days? They must have had them from the time the hill of Montmartre poked its head out of the ocean that covered Paris. The run of kings wouldn’t have made first base if not for the killers they employed.

  Hit men helped make history.

  That absurd word “assassinate” brought a smile. A king or president was assassinated. Any lower human was killed. Rank in death always amused him. He frowned, unable to believe what some hits went for today. He’d read of a wetnose paid by a jealous girl to hit a high school football hero who had cheated on her. Fifty bucks! It was insulting. The killer was a student. What kind of education had he gotten? Just by reading history you should know that hit men got money, land, castles. Or perhaps the wetnose couldn’t read.

  After the double hit tonight he’d leave the baby in that orphanage and get his ass out of Paris. This hit had put a strain on him. It was the only job he could remember that had done that. Once it was over, he would need a vacation. He reached his car and opened the door.

  “We beg your pardon, Father.”

  At the sound of the woman’s voice he spun around. Two nuns smiled up at him. One about fifty, the other in her early twenties. He had noticed in the last few days how their teams were made up of contrasting ages. For an instant, he saw the older nun nude. Not the younger.

  It worried the hell out of him.

  “May I help you, Siste
rs?”

  “You’re American,” the older nun said.

  “How did you know?”

  “You have the American look. We saw you leave the restaurant and we followed you.”

  Jesus! If a pair of nuns could follow him without his noticing, he was further gone than he thought. He’d have to take extra care tonight.

  “We are taking a poll,” the younger nun said, “of what American priests find the most memorable about Paris…”

  He glanced at his watch, frowned. “Forgive me, if I had time we could enjoy a cup of tea and discuss the matter, but I’m afraid I am late for a meeting with a member of my parish—a twentieth-century Mary Magdalene—I swore to her parents that I would meet with her and usher her back to the fold. It’s taken me several months to find her, and…I’m sure you understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He climbed behind the wheel, started the motor, closed the door, rolled down the window. “Good night, Sisters.”

  He sped down Avenue George V.

  Framed in black, the young nun’s face had been ivory…like the widow…the bagman called her “Ivory Face” in those poems he had written; the poems dug up at her apartment by Zara, God rest her soul; poems published on page one of the New York Post and Daily News; poems read aloud on news programs on TV and radio; poems analyzed by psychiatrists, grandstanding politicians, angry Op Ed bloviators.

  He had read the poems, too. They were silly. Juvenile. But the wave of coverage they’d spawned was even worse. He’d heard one Sunday-morning commentator who’d unearthed a statement attributed to Al Capone: “Love makes a bagman a poet or a madman”…bullshit…love could never make a bagman a poet. Though it sure as hell could make one a madman.

  Only a madman would open the bag for a woman.

  He drove along the Seine, keeping an eye out for the landmark he’d sighted earlier. It was going to be difficult to spot the right phone booth with so many blinding lights hitting him in waves from the opposite lane. How many phone booths were there atop those goddam ramps? He had neglected to check. He drove slowly, angering the cars behind him. He was sure he hadn’t passed one on his left yet.