The Rattle of the Bones, Chapter 1

Approximately 4100 words

"Invalid Item" 

Chapter One

         

         Stan deposited a single red rose in a crystal vase and centered it on the table in his apartment's dining alcove.  He moved one of the two place settings a few millimeters to the right and used his index finger to press out an infinitesimal wrinkle in the crisp, linen tablecloth.  Tangy scents of ginger and garlic wafted from the kitchenette, while cool tones of Dave Brubeck oozed from the satellite radio in the living room.  He let a contented smile bend his lips in anticipation of a romantic evening with his boyfriend, Conner.

         His cell phone shrilled from the charging stand by the sofa, bringing a frown to his features.  Conner was already late, even for him. Conner-time seemed to extrude from a wormhole that dragged behind the rest of the world, or at least behind Stan's orderly calendar.  The phone rang again, and he muttered.  "I'm coming, already. You better not be blowing off our date."

         When he reached for the phone, his face relaxed in a smile as he recognized the number of Detective Sergeant Barb Murphy, his ex-partner from his ex-career on the police force.  "Hey Murph.  How are things with you?"

         Her pleasant alto chirped from the phone, "Not bad.  How about you?  The PI racket still keepin' you busy?"

         Stan thought about his sparse case load and answered, "Same as always."

         "That bad, huh?  How about your personal life?  You still seein’ that sweet eye candy, Conner?

         He frowned.  She didn’t need to know the details. "Yeah, on and off.  How are Clarence and the kids?"

         "All good. I guess I forgot.  My eye candy hubby is as handsome as ever."

         Stan couldn’t help but grin.  Her husband, Clarence, was bald and fat, with a nose big enough for Mount Rushmore.  "You know, he always struck me as more like eye broccoli."

         She rewarded him with a chuckle, and he picked a fleck of dust off the end table as she cleared her throat.  "Stan, about why I phoned.” Her voice turned serious.  “I caught this case tonight.  A dead body in an apartment. One of the tenants complained about the smell, and we got called in."

         Stan frowned.  "Yeah?"  Why would she phone him about a DB?

         "It was Rob."

         A frisson of dread prickled across Stan's cheeks and, for a moment, he couldn't breathe. 

         "You there, Stan?"

         "Yeah," he murmured.  Rob.  His first lover.  Even yet, his heart fluttered at the mention of the man's name.  That is, before other memories kicked him in the gut. Rob, the prostitute, the drug dealer, the scum bag who outed him, lied about him, and ruined his career without a trace of remorse.  That Rob.

         Barb spoke in a rush.  "Look, sweetie, I'm sorry to tell you like this, but I knew you'd want to know.  And, well, I think I could use your help."

         "Give me a minute, okay?"  He put the phone down and took a deep, steadying breath.  A bottle of bourbon over the refrigerator beckoned.  Conner had left it there, but now it called to him.  Two quick steps and he could drown those agonizing memories.   

         Enough of that.  Barb would know jf he slipped.  She always knew. He still had some pride, even now.

         His hand trembled when he picked the phone back up and dared a reckless whisper. "What happened to him, Barb?"

         "Well, there's a disagreement about that.  That's one reason I need you.  He was staying at those apartments on Route 61 behind the Riverside Chevy dealership.  You know the ones?"

         "Sure.  We raided them often enough."  He settled into the calming routine of police patter.  "There are crack houses and meth labs all through that neighborhood.  A perfect place for that SOB to end up." The SOB who gave him so many sweet nights of loving.  Memories of Rob's perfect body, his quirky grin, and his musical voice threatened to drown him.  Memories of his betrayals stabbed him.  "I remember." 

         "You sure you're all right, Stan?  I'd come over, but I haven't closed out the scene yet.  The ME himself came out for this one. He's still here, messing with the body.  It'd speed things up if you could confirm the ID, too.  That is, if you're up to it."

         "ID Rob's body?"  He hated himself for the quaver that leaked into his voice.  "I can do that. Give me fifteen minutes. Twenty tops."

         "Stan, sweetie, I gotta tell you it ain't pretty.  He's been dead two, maybe three days, and the smell is...well, you remember the Nowachek case?"

         Stan winced, imagining Rob's body turned into the same bloated, fly-infested horror that Wanda Nowachek's had become.  "That bad?  You could smell her from half a block away."  His knees turned to water and he collapsed onto the sofa.

         "The smell's worse, if anything, but the decomp's not as advanced.  Seriously, I want to talk to you about the case, and it would help to have someone who knew him to confirm the ID. "

         Stan glanced at his watch.  Conner was now over half an hour late.  Typical.  "I need to make one call, and then I'll be on my way."

         "Thanks.  I really appreciate this.  I'll tell the guys to look for you.  You can't miss the apartment once you're here." Relief showed in her voice.  "Oh, and watch out. Rob's psycho brother Chuck was around earlier, too drunk to do an ID.  We had a uniform take him downtown to sober up and cool off.  Kramer told him there was paperwork he had to fill out, but he might be back."

         "Got it.  See you in fifteen." 

         Stan hung up and called Conner.  No answer.  When the phone rolled to voice mail, he said, "Conner, something's come up.  Barb called and needs my help with a case she's working.  I'm going to have to cancel dinner tonight.  Sorry.  Call me, okay?"  He dashed to the kitchen, pulled the roast from the oven and turned things off.  He gave the room a quick once-over, straightened his necktie, brushed minuscule wrinkles out of his suit coat, and rushed out the door to his car.

         When Stan arrived at the address Beth had given him, he steered around a black-and-white that was parked askew inside the apartment's parking lot, its strobe lights still flashing.  A ghostly fluorescence leaked over the rooftops from the adjacent car dealership, exposing a rag-tag group of gawkers.  Stan parked behind the Medical Examiner's wagon and rolled down his window as one of Blackhawk, Iowa's finest approached.

         "You Dunstan Scholl?"

         "Yeah."  Stan flashed his PI license.

         The officer's jaw muscles jumped, but he pointed toward the second floor of the building.  "Detective Murphy said you should meet her up there."  His shoulder radio squawked, and he turned away to mutter an answer.

         Stan started toward the crowd in the parking lot. One little girl squatted on the curb near the police cruiser, clutching a tortoiseshell cat to her threadbare nightie.  She stared at him with giant, red-rimmed eyes.  Recent tears had left grimy tracks down her cheeks. 

         None of the other onlookers showed the slightest sorrow at the death of one of their neighbors.  Soulless faces from the crowd inspected him with veiled hostility.  They were the usual clump of losers with nothing better to do than seek out the thrill of a real-life episode of Cops: shirtless men with grizzled beards, women in ratty bathrobes and over-sized curlers in their hair, unwashed pre-teens in their underwear.  They reeked of BO and beer.  Their stink was almost enough to hide the putrid odor of death.

         A red glow from the shadowy edge of the parking lot drew his attention. The glow faded and moved.  A cigarette. Someone lurked in the ragged bushes, waiting, watching.  The glow dropped to the ground and disappeared while Stan walked toward the apartment building.  Whoever was hiding there didn’t want the police to see them.  That, or it was a ghost.  Not that Stan believed in ghosts.

         A uniformed officer who looked to be no more than twenty stood at the bottom of the chipped concrete and steel stairs that led to the second floor landing.  The guy's peachy cheeks looked like whiskers had never sullied them.  White smears of Vick's Vap-O-Rub trailed underneath each nostril.  Stan paused and showed his ID again.

         The officer inspected it, and then stood aside. "Detective Murphy is expecting you, sir."  He hesitated, and then held out his jar of Vick's.  "It's pretty bad up there.  Would you like some of this?"

         "No, thanks." He glanced at the nametag on the man's chest.  "You know, Officer Skrivseth, the DB odor numbs your olfactory nerves after about ninety seconds and you can't smell anything.  That stuff just prolongs the agony."

         Skrivseth's eyes widened. "I didn't know that, sir."

         "A trick of the trade I learned from the old ME, before she retired."  Stan took another deep breath, winced at the stench, and climbed the stairs.  He got to the top just as a wiry woman wearing a rumpled pantsuit and sporting a short, efficient hairdo emerged from an open apartment door.  He held out his hand.  "It's good to see you again, Murph."

         She ran up to him, ignored his proffered hand and trapped him in a bear hug.  His arms hung at his sides for an instant before rising to give her a hesitant tap on her shoulders. 

         Her breath warmed his ear as she whispered, "Stan, sweetie, thanks for coming." She pulled back and gripped his shoulders, her gaze raking over him.  "Look at you.  How do you do it?  It's nine PM and you're perfect, like you just stepped off a fashion runway in Paris.  Oh, I've mussed your coat."  Her nervous fingers fiddled with his jacket.

         Stan pulled back and twisted his head to one side. "Where's the DB?"

         Barb's new partner, tall and lean like a greyhound, slouched out of the apartment.  Stan tried to recall his name but could only come up with Freddy Kruger.  At least it fit with the guy's appearance. 

         "It's inside," not-Freddy rasped.  "The place is a mess. Besides the vic being a personal sperm bank, it looks like he was settin’ up a Beavis and Butthead lab.  There're meth supplies all over, and jism sleeves on the floor.  Can't smell the meth crap, though, 'cause of the DB stench."

         Stan kept his face impassive and peered into the apartment.  Sure enough, spent condoms littered the floor, along with tattered S&M porn magazines covered with dried-up jets of cum.  He'd heard Rob got into kink while he was in the joint.  A Frankenstein collection of bottles, glass tubing, and mason jars jammed the top of a waterfall dresser.  Bottles of Sudafed, cans of paint thinner, and propane tanks lay scattered nearby. 

         Barb touched his hand.  "The body's in the back, in the bedroom."  She hesitated.  "How long since you've seen him?"

         "Five years.  Right after he got out of the joint he hit me up for money.  I bought him a one-way bus ticket to Chicago and told him to never come back.  I had no idea he was in town."

         "No phone calls?"

         "God no."

         She hesitated again.  "Did Conner mention any calls from him?"

         "Conner?  No.  Why would this skuzz call Conner?"

         "I don't know, but his cell phone log shows that he called Conner's office number at least three times last week."

         "Well, Conner's a social worker.  Maybe Rob was one of his clients."  Stan said it, but he didn't believe it for an instant.  Conner dealt with minors, not with ex-cons like Rob.

         "Maybe."  Barb's tone showed she didn't believe it either.  "Come on.  The ME left right after we talked on the phone, but his tech is still in the other room."

         Something prickled up Stan's spine.  It couldn't be fear, but still he hesitated.  He frowned and asked, "Where're the CSI techs?"

         She looked grim.  "There won't be any.  The ME has already given a preliminary determination that this is an accidental death, and Morgan--you remember him?"

         Stan nodded.  "He still an ass-kissing FLUB?"

         Her mouth quivered as if she wanted to smile, but her partner growled in his best not-Freddy-Kruger voice, "Yeah.  Fat, lazy, useless.  Don't know if his parents were married or not.  He's the watch commander. Go figure."

         Barb continued, "Anyway, Morgan doesn't want to spend the money to investigate.  Once the ME says it's accidental, we're more or less done no matter what the evidence seems to say."

         Stan snorted.  "Yeah.  Well, if Rob were a straight, rich guy he'd sing a different tune."  He frowned.  "You think it's a homicide?"

         "I think even Rob deserves justice.  We should at least check things out." 

         Not-Freddy nodded. Maybe he wasn't a jerk after all. Kramer, that was his name.  Frank Kramer.

         Barb's gaze held his attention.  "Stan, I think there's not going to be much of a police investigation into Rob's death.  I'll do what I can, but Morgan's bound to shut me off.  Things don't look quite right to me, especially since he was a dealer and a hooker.  For example, why the hell did the ME haul his ass out of bed and come here himself? 

         Frank chimed in, "No reason for him get off his ass. There's no TV news cameras for him to pose in front of.  That's all he cares about.  Most dangerous place in the city is between our glorious ME and a camera."

         Barb's mouth formed a grim line.  "Yeah, and he had a long talk with someone on his cell phone before he swaggered out of here."  She paused and gazed in Stan's eyes.  "Look, there's no money or drugs in the apartment, and there aren't any entries in his phone's call list before six days ago.  What kind of dealer doesn't have inventory, and what kind of hooker doesn't get calls on his cell phone? Someone should check out his customers.  Would you be willing to take a look?  Ask around and see if you can turn up anything? I'll share what little we've got with you."

         Kramer nodded.  "We'll both help, off the record.  Fuck that asshole Morgan."

         Stan blinked. It wasn't like he was overloaded with cases right now, and Barb was right.  Even Rob deserved justice.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I guess I owe him that much."

         A pudgy, white-coated tech wearing rubber gloves sauntered out of the back room and interrupted them by confronting Murphy.  "Hey, this place makes me want to hurl.  Can I just load the DB into the wagon and get out of here?"

         Her eyes narrowed and she delivered her words like punches to his flabby gut.  "I told you, you can go when I say.  I haven't released the body yet."

         "Yeah, well it's a clear-cut case of auto-sexphixiation, if you ask me.  There ain't no ligature marks on his ankles or wrists, and ain't no sign of a struggle.  I tell ya, it's just like the Doc said: he scarfed himself, was high on drugs, and was too baked to know when to quit.  He did us a favor.  Think of it as evolution in action."

         Stan's face heated and he started to speak, but Barb touched his cuff and beat him to it.  "So run a drug screen on him to verify he was high. Check for evidence of sexual intercourse.  Right now, that's all just conjecture."

         "Waste of time. He's too far gone for a drug screen.  He's already bloated and oozing puss from his anus and nostrils.  Any sperm would be long spoiled.  His tongue's all purple and hangin' outta his mouth, and his fuckin' dick's hard.  That's evidence enough of auto-asphyxiation for me."

         Barb's voice turned sharper still.  "You know damned well that could all be from the decomp.  Did you even check the body for a struggle, or other wounds?"

         The tech rolled his eyes.  "I toldja. No signs of struggle or trauma.  'Course, it's hard to tell with this level of decomp."  He seemed to notice Stan for the first time. "Who's this guy?  What's he doing here?"

         "I asked him to come to give us a positive ID on the body."

         The tech stood aside.  "Be my guest.  Anything to get outta this hole."

         Barb turned to Stan.  "You don't have to. This could wait until he's in the morgue."

         "I want to."

         Concern pooled in her eyes and she squeezed his hand.  "I'll go with you."

         He considered, chewing on his lower lip.  "I'd rather do this alone."

         "Stan, I'd feel better if I went along.  Protocol."

         He blinked.  Something was going on here, but he was too numb to think it through. "I understand.  I won't disturb anything, but you've got to be sure."

         "It's not that..."

         "It's all right. We're all professionals here."  Stan strode into the bedroom.

         The body was as bad as the tech had said.  An unforgiving overhead incandescent light glared on the naked form which sat upright in a double bed with its legs splayed open. Dark lines mottled the greenish skin, giving it a faintly marbled appearance.  Coffee and god only knew what else stained the sheets and the carpet.  Withered condoms, crumpled porn magazines, syringes, needles, cigarette butts and other detritus covered the floor. 

         The eyes, open and milky, bulged out above the cheeks, as if in horror.  Stan shuddered at the surreal scene and steadied himself against the door jam.  "It's him.  I recognize the dragon tattoo on his leg."

         Barb pressed his hand against her cheek and caressed it.  "It's all right, sweetie.  He can't hurt you anymore."

         The room wavered and Stan realized he was crying.  He swiped at his face.  "I'm an idiot.  He means nothing to me."

         Her hand warmed his as she squeezed it.  "He was a person.  You loved him once.  It's all right to feel something."

         Voices from the outer room jerked his attention away from the remains on the bed.  Kramer was at the door blocking a red-faced man with a shaved head.  The newcomer screamed, "He's my fucking brother and I've got a right..."  Then his eyes focused on Stan and went wide.  "What's that fucker doing here?  This is all his fault.  Lemme at him. I'm gonna kill him!"

         Stan hung his head.  Just what he needed:  Rob's whacked out brother, Chuck Olofsson. 

         Barb approached Olofsson with her hands held out.  "Sir. Sir, listen to me.  I understand you're upset about your brother.  I called Mr. Scholl to help with the identification.  I don't think you want to see your brother, sir.  Not the way he is now."

         "I don't want that rat bastard anywhere around Rob.  He's the one what fucked him up in the first place, and then his fuckin' lies sent him to the joint. I tell ya, I'm gonna kill that faggot fuckwad."

         Kramer pinned Chuck against the wall.  "Mr. Olofsson, you don' t mean that. If you meant that, we might have to take you back downtown for questioning."

         Olofsson grunted and Frank tightened his hold.

         "Now, what we're gonna do is let Mr. Scholl here go out to his vehicle, all nice-like.  And then you, Detective Murphy, and me can have a chat about what you want done with your brother's remains. Agreed?"

         Olofsson twisted in Kramer's grip and screamed, "Let me go, pig.  This is police brutality.  I'll fuckin' sue your sorry ass."

         Frank gave him another push and twisted his arm.  "This is official police business.  When you entered this apartment, you disobeyed an officer, interfered with our investigation, and then assaulted me. Right now I'm showing restraint because of your loss, but don't fuckin' push me."  He paused and then sneered, "Now, are you gonna be good, or do I gotta cuff ya?"

         Olofsson's face turned purple, but he nodded.  "I'll be good. For now."  The glared at Stan and spat.  "I'll deal with you later, creep."

         Barb grabbed Stan's elbow and pulled him past her partner and his captive.  "Would you like me to go with you for coffee, maybe sit with you for a while?  I could call Conner. Let him know what's happened."

         Stan shook his head.  "I'll be fine.  Don't bother Conner.  He's got to get up early.  I just need to be alone right now." 

         She examined his face for a beat.  "All right, then.  I'll call you tomorrow.  You take care of yourself, okay sweetie?"

         Stan stumbled down the stairs and headed toward his car.  A gentle tug at his wrist made him glance down and into the fluid eyes of the little girl he'd noticed earlier, mangy cat still in hand.

         "Mr. Olofsson's dead, isn't he?"

         "I'm afraid so, honey." Stan squatted down so his eyes were at her level.  "Did you know him?"

         "He let me pet Mr. Dumbledore."  She stroked the cat, who narrowed his eyes and looked indecently pleased.  "Was Mr. Olofsson your friend, too?"

         "You could say that. This is Rob's cat?"  Stan's hand tickled the animal under his chin and earned a loud purr in return.

         "Yeah.  What'll happen to Mr. Dumbledore, now, Mister?"

         "I don't know.  What's your name, honey?"

         "Darla." She blinked back tears. "Momma says I can't have no fucking cat and we should put him to sleep.  The policeman said he'd call someone.  Are they going to arrest Mr. Dumbledore?  He didn't do nothin' wrong!"

         "No he didn't, Darla."  Stan sniffed and his eyes already burned from being so close to that damned cat.  He didn't know what the hell he'd do with a stray cat, but when Darla's eyes leaked tears down her filthy cheeks he blurted,  "Would you like me to take care of him for you, honey?"  Just what his allergies needed, a fucking cat.

         "You won't let them arrest him?"

         "No. I'll take care of him.  Promise." He crossed his heart.

         A haggard woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth stomped up and screamed, "Darla, what the fuck do you think you're doin', you little shit?"  She jerked at the girl's arm, and Mr. Dumbledore howled and scratched at her.  "I told you to get rid of that fuckin' cat."

         Stan held out his hand and let the Mr. Dumbledore sniff him. "I'll take the cat, if that's all right, Ma'am."  After a suspicious stare, the animal jumped from Darla's to Stan's arms and stropped against his suit coat, leaving a trail of silky fur.

         Darla's mother glared at him.  "Just get rid of the fucking thing.  Come on Darla. You need to get your ass in bed."  She jerked on her daughter's hand and pulled her toward the apartment complex.  Darla looked back over her shoulder and mouthed, "Goodbye."  Stan imagined the farewell was for Mr. Dumbledore and not him.
 
           With the cat in his arms and shedding all over his suit, Stan retreated to his car under the cold stares of the other onlookers.  He rested his head on the steering wheel and longed for the world to go away.  When he looked up, it was mercilessly still there.  The bourbon hiding above his refrigerator beckoned.  He tapped his fingers on the gearshift and concentrated.  He was forgetting something.

           Mr. Dumbledore spent a few seconds clawing at the already ragged seat covers and Stan wondered how, on top of everything else, he'd managed to saddle himself with Rob's fucking cat.  It was like the asshole reached out from beyond the grave to dump one final obligation on him.  Mr. Dumbledore peered up at him, curled into a ball and licked at his fur, self-absorbed just like Rob.

           Conner!  That's what he'd forgotten.  He pulled out his cell phone to check his messages.  Sure enough, Conner had sent a text about twenty minutes ago. 

Got your VM.  No worries...am running late myself.  Lunch tomorrow at da Village Inn?

           Stan typed "K" in response. Why the hell had Rob been calling Conner, anyway?  And why hadn't Conner said anything about it?  It made no sense.  He sighed.  Tomorrow. He'd figure it out tomorrow. 

           He started the engine and backed up. His headlights flashed across the bushes, and a man in a black jumpsuit raised an arm to shield his face from the glare. Must be the smoking man he’d seen earlier, still hiding.  For sure not a ghost. Cop’s instincts told him to check the guy out.  Or gal. 

           Screw it.  He wasn’t a cop anymore.

           Tonight he had this damned cat to take care of. Then he could lose himself in the sweet, sweet stupor of bourbon.  Anything to make the pain go away.