Holy Hell

by Elizabeth Sims

  The owners of the funeral home never suspected anything. Wycoff got busted because the wife of one of his clients thought her husband was cheating on her. She hired a private investigator to tail him, and what a surprise she got. Can you imagine?

  Yeah, Mrs. Thornside, your husband's been cheating on you, all right.

  Oh, Mr. Sludge, I knew it. Who is she?

  You might better ask, "Who WAS she?"

  If the owners had figured it out, they would've handled it quietly themselves. I mean my God. But the P.I. couldn't resist; he blabbed. So the owners were obliged to get the police involved.

  The papers couldn't get anybody to corroborate; nobody would say a word to them. You could taste their chagrin; oh, man, they wanted that one so bad. Wycoff copped a plea on the package of charges they leveled on him, thus avoiding a trial and the gory details it would've yielded. I think he did some time in Jackson.

  I ran into him once, about a year after I stopped hearing about him. I was covering a fund-raiser in Eagle for an independent gubernatorial candidate; Wycoff was standing next to the punch bowl talking about his philosophy of life, which he said came from the works of Cole Porter. I remember telling him he could use a dose of Dorothy Parker in there too, and he laughed hard.

  Doing sick stuff to dead bodies—perhaps Greg Wycoff was a man I could learn from.

  I called the mortuary he used to work for. The woman who answered the phone hung up before I got his whole name out. I went over there and found a driver buffing a hearse in the side parking lot.

  "Oh, yeah," he said, snapping his rag at a yellowjacket that had lighted on the hood ornament. "He's gotten out of the business. Oh, yes, he's a changed man, I've heard." He gave me this huge sarcastic wink. He named a travel agency in Royal Oak and said Wycoff worked there now.

  "He's a travel agent?"

  "Well, he's gotta do something."

  "Did you know him?"

  "No." He looked crestfallen. "I started here just before he...left."

  .

  Greg Wycoff remembered me and readily agreed to meet me for coffee at Delia's on Woodward, a chrome-and-countertop diner that's been there so long there are dinosaur tracks in the parking lot. He looked as I remembered him, neat and trim with a confident air, like a football coach at a private prep school. He didn't seem the slightest bit surprised or insulted by my interest in his disgrace. A film of reserve veiled his eyes, yet deep in them I saw a barely concealed eagerness to dish.

  After shaking hands we took a table at the back and ordered coffee. He ordered a BLT as well.

  "I really appreciate your meeting with me," I began as soon as Delia had brought our cups, steaming from the big Bunn shrine behind the counter. "Most reporters are liars, but for whatever it's worth, I give you my word that this talk will stay entre nous."

  He cocked an appreciative eyebrow at the French term, which I'd thrown in with just the right shade of conspiratorial gravity. You never know what will ingratiate you with a source. Something very slight can do it.

  "I come to you because you're—well, you're a man of certain experience."

  He nodded in acknowledgment.

  "Um, do you miss being a mortician?"

  "Horribly. I miss it horribly."

  "But you still have connections?"

  "A few." He made a gesture as if to say, It's all right, go ahead.

  "OK, here goes. I want to learn about people who mess with dead bodies."

  He swirled cream into his coffee and squinted into it.

  "I mean," I went on, "I guess there's more than one reason people want to get their hands on dead people. Right?"

  He sipped his coffee and said, "Most people are in it for the sex. What's your angle, sweetheart?"

  "I found out a secret about a recent murder."

  "Something about the body?"

  "Yes."

  "I see. You've got an inside bit of information on something, and I can guess what it is, but I won't yet." He paused, then said, "Death is second only to sex in the fascination it holds for people. And when you combine them, you get the ultimate peak experience."

  "Yeah?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  "Excuse me for being obtuse, but how do you—how does a person have sex with a body?"

  "Oh! It's easy! Like falling off a log. First of all, if the body's been autopsied, you need some towels handy because there's going to be quite a lot of fluids, and—"

  "Stop! I'm sorry! I'll use my imagination. So most people are in it for the sex. What about the others?"

  His sandwich came, and he lifted it to eye level to inspect it. Then he bit into it, showering crumbs down into his napkin. I gazed at the traffic on Woodward. A wino lurched past, open-mouthed.

  Greg Wycoff swallowed and said, "Well, you know how there's a black market in Nazi artifacts, like crafts made from Jewish corpses?"

  "No!"

  "You've never heard of it?"

  "No! God almighty! I mean, I've heard that the Nazis made lampshades out of people's skin and so on, but I guess—I would've thought all those things would be destroyed by now. Or buried, or something. I've never heard that there's a trading club for them."

  He continued to eat as we talked, relishing his sandwich. "Well, in effect there is. These people have a sort of network, a deeply secret network. They don't betray one another. There's also a market for body parts in general. She puts just the right amount of mayonnaise on, doesn't she? I'm not talking about organs for black market transplants—now that's far-fetched! I'm talking about body parts harvested postmortem for use in things like death cult ceremonies—Satanism, I suppose—and plain old arts and crafts."

  "Arts and crafts?"

  "Fetish objects, you know. Ornaments. Some of them are quite beautiful." He adjusted the collar of his open-necked shirt, and I looked for a piece of jewelry. He saw me looking and held up his wrist. "See this?" He wore a beautiful braided bracelet that looked like fake elephant hair, you know, those thick fibers, but I knew instantly it was something human.

  "My God."

  "Assorted ligaments. They take dye very nicely. Honey, people have made art like this all over the world since the beginning of time. It's only modern culture that finds it offensive. Scratch the surface of white-bread America and you'll find an absolute cavalcade of unconformity! You want diversity? Most people don't know the meaning of the word!"

  "But don't these people get found out eventually? I mean, what happens when they die and their relatives find the stuff?"

  "Sometimes they don't know what it is. And if they do, they quietly get rid of it. What would you do if you found a tambourine made of human skin and knuckle bones in Grandpa's trunk? Call a press conference?"

  A drop of tomato juice dribbled down his chin; he caught it with his napkin.

  "So," I said, "there's some kind of underground market for stuff like this?"

  "A very small and fragmented market, but there is one, yes. In fact, there's someone here in Detroit I'm thinking I should put you in touch with. Because I see your ears pricking up. This murder—you said there was something unusual about the body?"

  I nodded.

  "Like strategically missing body parts? A butcher job?"

  "Sort of. Yes."

  "Interesting."

  Delia swooped by to refill our coffees. She was no spring chicken, but she moved like one. Wycoff said, "I like a good thriller, don't you?" He bobbled his head in excitement. "It's got to have an extraordinary plot! Like nothing you've ever heard, with plenty of twists and turns: a story that's almost over the top."

  I had to smile. "So who's this person you should put me in touch with?"

  "Someone who's trying to expand the market for death fetish artifacts."

  "Oh?"

  "A very industrious individual. Hmm. If you were in the market for an object—skin, bones, teeth—"

  "Teeth?"

  "Aha."

  "Wait a minute, Greg. Where's your ethical code in all this? I mean, d
idn't they teach you anything in Jackson?"

  He laughed. "Oh, they taught me plenty in Jackson." His eyes roved off to the side, and he inhaled deeply, with a satisfaction that made the hairs on my arms stand up. Then he said, "The way I see it, a body's a body. The dead don't give a shit, while the living have to live, you see. If you can't be happy without a corpse in your life now and then, well, should that by definition be bad? Should that damn you forever? As for body parts, well, doctors mine corpses for their natural resources all the time."

  "But to kill for—"

  "Heavens, no! Oh! That's where I draw the line. That's the psychopath line. No, no, no, no. Oh, no."

  "Or to, like, eat—"

  "No! No! That's beyond the pale, as far as I'm concerned."

  I zeroed in on this person he mentioned. An artist, he said. An odd duck, to be sure, but very expert, some medical background, but no psycho. Made absolutely beautiful things.

  "You've seen them?"

  "Oh, yes," he said.

  "Well, I've got to meet this guy. I think he could—"

  "It's a woman."

  "A woman?" My blood ran cold. "What's her name?"

  "Clarabelle."

  I looked at him.

  "She calls herself Clara," he said, "and I add the belle. Just to tease. She's an odd duck, like I said, but she doesn't mind me. I rather like her."

  "What's her last name?"

  "Come to think of it, I don't know, dear. Not that I couldn't find out, if I wanted to. It's just that—well, who needs last names to have a good time?"

  "Nobody."

  "You got it, kiddo."

  "What do these artworks look like?"

  "It's hard to describe them. Think well, think Hieronymus Bosch meets the Sundance catalogue."

  "Oh."

  "You've got these amazing materials, other-worldly. You look at this thing and it doesn't look like a metatarsal or a gallstone, yet it reminds you of something, something deep within yourself. Clarabelle respects her materials. It's almost spiritual, the way she works. And it's very lucrative."

  "It is?"

  "Oh, my, yes."

  The thing was, Wycoff told me, she wasn't very generous with her time. She was busy trying to make contacts in the Far East. She'd gotten the idea there's a bigger market over there. Could I buy something to make it worth her while to meet me?

  I sipped my coffee. I don't think so.

  I pictured a hollow-eyed ghoul all in black, with black lipstick, listening to eerie, disharmonic music, sawing away at a thighbone or something, while a pot of sinew boiled on the stove. If she'd recently gotten hold of some fresh teeth, I could maybe nail the Creighters.

  "I don't have a whole lot of time here, Greg," I explained.

  He decided to invite her over to his place that night. "I'll think of something to get her to stop by. I might have to fib about you a little."

  "Don't tell her my name."

  "Oh, heavens, no! Actually, I think the two of you just might hit it off." He polished off the last of his BLT and let me pay.

  Chapter 21

  Greg Wycoff's house was a long, low brick job in Harper Woods. Three kids were playing monkey-in-the-middle with a beach ball on the front lawn next door by streetlight. I smelled fresh-cut grass.

  He answered my ring holding a frosty cocktail. "Come in, precious!"

  A dachshund yapped at my ankles. "Oh, stop it, Roscoe," he said in a light, encouraging tone. "Stop it at once!" The dog yapped louder.

  "Is she here?" I said.

  "Yes," he said, nodding toward the rear of the home. "We're in the ruckus room."

  "The what?"

  "Well, I can't call it the family room, not being exactly a family man, can I?" Then he whispered, "I told her you're an expert on the Far East—you know, an expert on the markets for rhinoceros horn and all that. She got very excited."

  A change had come over him since lunchtime. His face and neck were flushed, his eyes were bright, his manner festive. He was wearing a lime-green Lycra T-shirt and black jeans.

  "Great," I said.

  "Wait, let me get you something." He stopped me in the kitchen, drawing me over to the counter. Beyond an archway I saw the back of someone's head sticking up from an armchair. The head didn't move. I noted a rough brick fireplace, natural-wood wainscoting, Japanese fishing floats. Classy.

  "What are you drinking?" I asked.

  "Mai Tais. I've been on a Mai Tai craze for four months now. A friend of mine had a luau. In Pontiac. These things are marvelous."

  "Do you have any Scotch?"

  "No, dear."

  "I'll try a Mai Tai then. What's in them?"

  "Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Rich and fruity."

  "I see."

  I heard a grunt from the person in the chair. Something about that grunt held my attention for the briefest second, then I was distracted by Wycoff's energetic mixology.

  Making Mai Tais is labor-intensive, but he had it down to a science. Shloop went the ice, swish went the rum and syrups, squish went the cut lime, spat went the pineapple garnish.

  "I should have mint, but I don't, precious. Sorry, here, drink up."

  It wasn't bad. The raw lime juice saved it from being cloying. "Thanks. Hey, I know where you could get steady work mixing these things." I kept talking as we walked into the ruckus room. "A neat little lesbian bar."

  "Oh, you flatter me."

  "It's called—"

  "Lillian, meet Clarabelle!"

  I rounded into the conversation area, and there she was: garish print dress, monumental head, hulking figure, delicate pudgy hands holding her own Mai Tai. Her eyes were fixed on me in disbelief.

  "The Snapdragon," I whispered, staggering slightly.

  It was Mrs. Creighter.

  "What is it, dollies?" Greg said, then guessed, "Oh, you already know each other!"

  "That's one way to put it," I said brightly. You murderous bitch.

  "I believe we've met," she said, making an effort to collect herself. Her boxy straw purse sat on the floor next to the chair.

  I set down my drink but remained standing.

  "I'm going to nail you," I said.

  "What are you talking about?" she said, trying to look puzzled, but there was blood in her eyes. Blood and panic.

  Wycoff didn't see it. He was quaffing his fourth or fifth Mai Tai, by the looks of him, holding it in two hands and gulping like a thirsty preschooler.

  "Where are the others?" I demanded. "Did you harvest their teeth too? For what?"

  She stared at me with that same cold, fake-puzzled look. Then her lips began to move silently.

  Our host finally picked up the vibes. "Lillian, what's wrong? I thought you two would get on famously. Clarabelle needs information, and you need information. And I need a Miltown! Hah!"

  I said, "You've given me plenty of information, Greg." I grabbed Mrs. Creighter's purse and dumped its contents out on the floor. "Where's your stuff? Huh? Your little art pieces?"

  Wycoff shrieked, "Lillian! Precious! You're being very naughty!" He hadn't expected to have to really function this evening and was caught off guard.

  "She's crazy," Mrs. Creighter volunteered, not moving from her chair.

  I knelt and pawed through the contents of the purse but saw nothing I wanted. The dog Roscoe got into the spirit, yapping and running in circles.

  "Greg, this woman doesn't share your moral code," I said, straightening up.

  "She's crazy," Mrs. Creighter repeated, but she wasn't talking to Wycoff. "You can see it, can't you? Yes. Why are you sending me this trial? I know that, but—" Her eyes fixed themselves in the middle distance. "What should I do? I will follow."

  "What?" Wycoff clutched his Mai Tai as if it were the only solid object in the room.

  I told him, "She's not talking to you."

  She went on, "I can't do anything right this minute, all by myself. You can see that."

  Wycoff sobbed, "Will someone please tell m
e what's going on?"

  "She's frightening me," Mrs. Creighter said to him.

  "Good," I said.

  "Time for all good bunnies to please, please go home," said Wycoff helplessly.

  Chapter 22

  Silly me. I'd thought perhaps Mrs. Creighter was doing business with the doyenne of—what did Wycoff call it?—forensic art? But as it turned out, she was the doyenne of forensic art.

  All right, I thought, she's a talented weirdo with strange ambitions. Who wants to kill me. She wouldn't have done it in front of Wycoff, unless she wanted him dead too, which she wouldn't, as he was useful to her.

  I beat it out of Wycoff's fast, then spent another restless night at home with my plank against the door. I tried to read myself to sleep on some Kay Boyle short stories, but all the wartime details made me queasy, so I switched over to Flannery O'Connor. Good old savage religion. The stories made me laugh, but they didn't anesthetize me. When dawn broke I brewed coffee and sat and thought.

  I wondered anew what happened to Mr. Creighter: How did he die? Was he buried somewhere? Mrs. Creighter said he'd been dead for six years. Should I even be thinking about him? What if he died under mysterious circumstances? But circumstances weren't what I needed to stop the Creighters; I needed evidence the police could tack to their foreheads.

  I went over the events at the Creighter home again. My mind came to roost on the photos and papers I'd seen. What about the papers? Something in the back of my mind was trying to click. Those pages: the distinctive sans-serif typography, the playbill-sized paper; the blocks of fine print.

  Suddenly I had it. They were pages from the Triangle, the only gay periodical in the area. Specifically, they were the classified pages, the reams of lonelyhearts ads placed by gay men and women from all over the metro area.

  The Triangle was primarily a shopper: It carried display ads for all the bars, schedules of events like drag shows and charity dance-a-thons, as well as a smattering of whatever gay/lesbian news there was.

  Without a doubt, the most important part of the Triangle was the personals section. Surely it was the most profitable part of the business. Every now and then I'd read them for cheap thrills. There were always tons of "male seeking male" ads and "saw you on the bus" ads, but usually the "women seeking women" took up the smallest portion of space.