The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  “Of course. Public records. Does one just walk into a police station and ask to see them? Is that how it works?”

  “This is what I’m talking about. You are an absentee chair. No finger on the pulse of this planet, no idea how Dogflatites have consolidated their society.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “You are so lucky I’m here, you’d be lost without my guidance. Come on, let’s go.”

  Mi-cro-fiche: A sheet of film that has very small photographs of the pages of a newspaper, magazine, etc., which are viewed by using a special machine. – Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

  Before the digital age had fully matured, it was the analog age, and the analog age meant you were tirelessly and tediously scouring through sheets of microfiche when researching historical records of any type.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater were doing just that in the dank basement of a research library, Pumpkin Eater at the controls.

  “I don’t see anything here that wasn’t documented in her soul report.” Pumpkin Eater said, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

  “Wait a minute, back up. What’s that?” Jon asked.

  It was a newspaper article describing an event that took place shortly after Grace’s birth. Apparently, a nurse had presented newborn Grace to her mother, a teenage runaway, in her hospital bed and left the room for a moment to fetch some water. When the nurse returned, she found Grace’s mother dead in a bloody mess, Grace still snuggled on her chest, smiling.

  A doctor was also in the room, writhing in pain because two of his fingers had been severed. The doctor was arrested and charged with murder. The article named the nurse and doctor and hospital.

  “This wasn’t in her soul report.” Jon pointed out.

  “Why would it be? It doesn’t pertain to her. It pertains to her mother’s doctor. He was the transgressor.”

  “Are there any follow-up stories, why he did it, whether he was convicted, those sorts of things?”

  In 1989, those were not easy questions to answer. The follow-up articles were there in all likelihood, but it was locating them that was the hassle. They scoured for a while, coming up empty, finally deciding to visit the hospital to see whether they could track down the nurse and ask her what she knew about the incident that occurred that fateful day and about events that unfolded thereafter.

  “Are you with the police?” Nurse Shyne asked as she carried a tray of hospital cafeteria food toward the cashier.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater responded in sync. Jon said no. Pumpkin Eater said yes.

  “Well, we’re not really with the police per se. We’re private investigators working for the California State Attorney General’s Office. It’s an old case and they’re swamped down there. We just wanted to go over a few things.” Pumpkin Eater lied. He was polished at it, in fact. All those years of working the gate and hearing every falsehood and exaggeration known to mankind was proving useful now. Even Jon was impressed in an uncomfortable sort of way, but this was Pumpkin Eater’s show now. Jon decided it might be best to remain silent. And he did.

  “They don’t demand a minimum type of dress code for that sort of work anymore?” Nurse Shyne asked, confused by their attire.

  “We’re on our own dime, off the clock, if you will. But we always feel like we’re on duty.”

  “I’ve already told the police everything I know. Talk to them.”

  “Yes, we have. We just wanted to hear it from you. An incident like that, that’s something that never goes away. Sometimes time can offer clarity, a new perspective on things. I’m sure it’s never left your mind.” Pumpkin Eater explained.

  “I think about it pretty much every day.”

  “Please, allow me.” Pumpkin Eater said as he produced his credit card to pay for her meal.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  The transaction occurred smoothly. No I.D. requirement. Nurse Shyne found a seat at an empty table. Jon and Pumpkin Eater joined her.

  “Okay, what do you want to know?” Nurse Shyne asked.

  “Well, perhaps you could start by telling us what you remember when you returned to the room.”

  “There was blood everywhere. On the ceiling even. That’s something the media never mentioned. He killed her with his bare hands. Gutted her like a fish. They found two of his fingers lodged deep in her abdominal cavity.”

  “Did he mention why he did it?”

  “I thought you talked to the police.”

  “We did.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “That he was crazy. I mean one would have to be to do something like that, right?”

  “He was crazy all right. He claimed there were two other men in the room. They did it. Snatched his hand and made him do it, I mean. Forced him. What a freak. There was nobody else in the room, it was him. He had two pending malpractice lawsuits against him at the time, did you know that?”

  “Yes.” Pumpkin Eater lied, keeping up his act.

  “Hospital administration was attempting to have him fired too. He beat his wife. I knew her. Not as friends or anything, I’d bump into her every once in a while at the spa. She liked to swim and so did I. I saw her bruises.”

  “Is he still alive?” Jon asked, deciding to chime in all of a sudden.

  “What do you think? Only the good die young.” Nurse Shyne responded.

  “Do you happen to remember the name of the institution in which he’s incarcerated? It’s escaping us and we’d like to talk to him too.” Pumpkin Eater explained.

  Nurse Shyne looked at Pumpkin Eater as if he’d grown a second head, finally responding with…

  “I’m a lifelong Democrat, but this is where I agree with the GOP on things. Government is wretchedly inefficient. They hired you and they didn’t bother to tell you what happened, where he ended up?”

  “We both share your sentiments about government inefficiency. They did, in fact, furnish us with boxes upon boxes of tedious paperwork. We could pore through or you could just save us the time. It would be like you were single-handedly mitigating government waste.” Pumpkin Eater said.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true… He was convicted of murder in the second degree but he never spent a day in state prison. He served twenty-five years in a psychiatric facility and was released in 1986. Last I heard he was staying at a rooming house downtown, living off social security. Bankrupt. I hope he rots in hell.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Pumpkin Eater told her as he and Jon found their feet. Nurse Shyne called out after them as they left the area.

  “Hey, when you see him, tell him what I said. That I hope he rots in hell.”

  “Very well, madam.” Pumpkin Eater responded before turning to Jon. “What did you make of that?”

  “You’re really good at bearing false witness. Smooth.”

  “I’m well-practiced because I’ve heard it all before, Pinky Boy. I work the gate.”

  “Is it possible she could’ve done it?” Jon asked.

  “The nurse?”

  “Grace.”

  “An infant?”

  “What if she were possessed? That would explain it. Her dark soul as well. It’s not really her, it’s someone else. Is that possible?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Her soul report would’ve disclosed that. That soul is hers and hers alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not just one hundred percent sure. An infinite amount of percentage sure. Soul reports are like DNA. They’re impossible to hijack.”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why she’s the darkest soul in Dogflat Hollow.”

  “We’ll see what the good doctor has to say for himself. Maybe he can give us something useful to go on. If so, we’ll take things from there. If not, we’ll blaze a new trail.”

  “How do we find him? Downtown is a big place.”

  “We head there and ask. Someone of his notoriety can’t keep a low profile.”

  “Yes, that
sounds right.”

  “Aren’t you happy I’ve taken charge? Hands-on leading. Like your father. This is what it looks like. We’re finally accomplishing things now.” Pumpkin Eater said, puffing out his chest, thoroughly relishing his role as the alpha male.

  Dr. Zubin Rupa was a defeated man who’d aged well beyond his 69 years. Along with two missing fingers, he was missing five teeth, all four incisors and one bicuspid, and he was jaundiced and fatigued. To describe him as a man with the pallor of someone near death’s door was an understatement.

  His eating and drinking habits weren’t helping, of course, as evidenced by the dozens of empty bottles of liquor strewn everywhere in his one room hovel and the repugnant stench of empty tins of cat food, his main source of protein. He had been living here for four years now, and quite frankly, it seemed as if he had never dusted or tidied up.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater stood because there was nowhere to sit – and even if there were, they’d still be standing. Pumpkin Eater thought about relaying the nurse’s message but decided against it. The nurse hoped Dr. Rupa would one day rot in hell, but the truth was, he was already there.

  Dr. Rupa poured himself a drink, contemplating what to tell these two investigative journalists from The New Yorker, as Pumpkin Eater earlier described he and Jon to be.

  “I knew someone would eventually come looking to archive my story.” Dr. Rupa said, as he downed his drink and poured himself another one.

  “Before I begin, I’d just like to say this. Most of what you’ve probably heard about me is true. I was a dreadful husband and yes, I beat my wife. I was also an error-prone physician. Not due to overwork or sleep deprivation, or substance abuse – the normal causes, but to downright laziness and disinterest. Truth is, I didn’t enter the medical field because I cared to heal the sick. I became an obstetrician for the money. I wanted to become wealthy and I became an entitled prick instead, plain and simple. But as Shiva is my witness, I didn’t kill that woman. Not voluntarily.”

  “What happened in that room?” Jon asked.

  “It was empty when I walked in, just the teenage runaway and the newborn I had helped deliver hours earlier. It was a routine visit, I was just there to peruse her chart and ask how she was feeling. She said she was thirsty but a nurse was fetching water. By the time I turned to leave, there were two men standing there right behind me, as if they’d just materialized out of thin air. I was taken aback of course, but I asked them who they were, what they were doing there, visiting hours were over for everyone except immediate family and she had no immediate family. They never responded, just kept looking at me with depraved expressions on their faces. Then one of the men, the taller one, zapped me with some sort of stun device. It was as if he had a tail and it whipped up and stung me on the neck, incapacitating me. He took my hand and plunged it into the woman as his friend watched. By the time the nurse arrived, the men had vanished – right before my eyes – they vanished – and I was stumbling down onto my knees in a corner. The entire time, the baby was laughing. Like it was being tickled. It was laughing.”

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater exchanged glances.

  “I know my story sounds fantastic, but it’s true. Every word of it.”

  “What did these men look like?” Pumpkin Eater asked, dubious.

  “I know who they were. I didn’t at the time, but I know now.”

  “Who were they?” Jon asked.

  “The man who just stood there watching was the same man I’ve seen on bus advertisements in recent weeks. Yves LaPomme. The other was a demon, perhaps Rakshasa, one of Shiva’s many powerful nemeses. That baby was that demon’s spawn, I’m sure of it.”

  “Why would this alleged demon want to kill its baby’s mother?” Pumpkin Eater asked, humoring Dr. Rupa.

  “Only Shiva knows. But I watched that baby’s eyes glow in unison with the demon’s as my hand was being plunged into its mother. They glowed.”

  Suddenly, things were beginning to make sense to Jon. He reserved explaining his theory to Pumpkin Eater until much later – after they had left and were making their way back to their apartment on foot. And after Pumpkin Eater had the opportunity to examine a strand of Dr. Rupa’s hair that Jon had managed to pluck from Dr. Rupa’s dandruff-laden shoulders.

  “A quarter million demerits.” Pumpkin Eater explained, as he twisted Dr. Rupa’s strand of hair between his fingertips. “He was a fiend, all right. But he was telling the truth. He didn’t kill her. Second degree murder carries a demerit penalty level of one million, minimum.”

  “It all makes sense now. She’s the Antichrist.” Jon reasoned.

  “Impossible.”

  “She has to be. Who else but the Antichrist could burn your fingertips at the mere touch?”

  “The Antichrist is supposed to be an adored charismatic male.”

  “According to scripture, but nothing is going along according to scripture, is it? I was supposed to know about this, I was supposed to break the first four of the seals. She’s the Antichrist, that’s the only reasonable explanation.”

  “Wrong.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “She’s not the Antichrist. Let’s just leave it at that, Pinky Boy.”

  There are a few biblical references that describe Jon becoming exasperated and angry at times, but only once did he ever become violent. As the story goes, he wandered into a temple one day, expecting to find worshipping going on, but instead came across a group of enterprising capitalists who were busy buying and selling birds. Doves, according to some biblical interpretations. Pigeons, according to others, and animals meant for sacrifice, according to still others. Whatever the species, there was buying and selling taking place. Jon became so outraged that the temple, in his mind, was being desecrated, he upended tables and benches and tossed chairs, single-handedly expelling the frightened capitalists from the temple grounds.

  If the Bible were being written on this particular day, its authors would have a second account of Jon using violence as a means to an end. It wasn’t the latest Pinky Boy reference that sent him off the deep end either. It was Pumpkin Eater’s demeanor, his persistent holier-than-thou superiority complex – and the fact that he had been harboring a secret that was surely vital for Jon to know.

  Jon took Pumpkin Eater in a headlock, wrestling him to the ground, tightening his arm around Pumpkin Eater’s jaw.

  “Out with it, Pumpkin Eater!” Jon bellowed, as he continued to grind Pumpkin Eater’s jawbone, threatening to break it.

  Pumpkin Eater remained silent, trying to squirm free, but it was no use. Jon’s aggressive juices were in full throttle.

  Speaking from personal experience, a similar incident occurred during recess in a Catholic school playground while I was a kid growing up. A bully had taken me in a headlock, demanding that I divulge the answers to a test he had missed the previous day and was about to take when class resumed. I held out a little too long before capitulating, to the point where my jaw became so sore, it hurt to eat for a few days. Needless to say, the experience ruined a few meals for me.

  Pumpkin Eater finally surrendered, exposing that Grace was actually Mary Magdalene, reincarnated. That’s how he knew she couldn’t be the Antichrist – hers was a recycled soul. Jon released him, unsettled. Stunned. Pumpkin Eater further revealed everything else Virginia had told him, including the fact that Jon’s stepfather, Joseph, was in Dogflat Hollow as well, probably shacked up with a new woman by now.

  “This is insane.” Jon said, completely cognizant that as crazy as it all seemed, it only deepened the mystery further. Why was Mary Magdalene’s recycled soul the darkest, most sinful soul in Dogflat Hollow?

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater turned a corner, continuing their walk home, when they happened upon a throng of people looking up, chanting, “Jump, jump, jump.” The
y glanced up to see Buddy on a rooftop, drunk, proselytizing at the crowd below as he walked perilously near the ledge. There was no police or paramedic presence yet, but distant sirens signaled their impending arrival.

  “No, don’t jump! Get away from the ledge! Buddy! Buddy!” Jon yelled, but it was no good. Buddy couldn’t hear him, didn’t even notice Jon standing there flailing his arms.

  “He may as well jump.” Pumpkin Eater offered. “His is a lost spirit anyway.”

  “What?”

  “The man is a homosexual.”

  Jon took Pumpkin Eater roughly by the earlobe, leading him toward the building’s entrance, Pumpkin Eater objecting loudly all the way but Jon remained resolute – like a fed up 1950s era parent schooling a 1950s era belligerent child.

  Minutes had passed, but on the roof, Buddy continued wielding an index finger as he yelled down at the crowd below.

  “He simply made things in one order and saw fit to place them here in another! There’s no misprint in Genesis! What is it about that you folks just don’t comprehend?!”

  Buddy seemed to lose his balance for a second, nearly dropping to certain death. The crowd beckoned him, frenzied sharks eager for blood. Jon and Pumpkin Eater materialized on the rooftop, Jon finally letting Pumpkin Eater’s earlobe go.

  “Buddy!” Jon shouted.

  Buddy spun, startled, his eyes deserted. I mean, completely abandoned.

  “Step away from the ledge.” Jon pleaded.

  “I could’ve loved a woman once, but her boyfriend came between us.” Buddy responded, whimsically.

  “Listen to me. It’s a grave mistake to take your own life.”

  “What difference will it make? I’m already damned. Tell him, St. Peter.”

  Jon turned to Pumpkin Eater, awaiting an explanation. Pumpkin Eater turned away. Jon refocused on Buddy.

  “Forget Peter. He’s a bumbler on the brink of senile decay.”

  “Enough!” howled Pumpkin Eater. “I will not be insulted in this fashion! I am a saint and as such, I demand respect! Even from you!”