Feather in the Tar: Squelchy

           Florescent tubes follow exposed pipes along the ceiling and tint the grey walls yellow, a muddy sulphur glow, squelchy. Along the baseboards, scuffs and stains spread toward the end of the hall. Scribbles appear at random intervals, phone numbers, addresses, even a childish drawing of a house, yard, and family: it’s at knee height. Genie glances at them as she passes. Her breath shortens, and she can fill sweat run down the inside of her upper arms. As the posse approaches interview room no 3, one tube dims above the door; it’s not dead but flicker bright every 30 seconds, as if attempting to reset itself. Sampson turns the handle, Cochran enters first then Ms. Hallowell, Bardo, and finally, Sampson closes the door behind him.

          The room is not any less used than the hall way or the building in general, worn down not from rust but the constant weight of men and women on the wrong side of the glass. A table sits in the center with two chairs on either side. The carpet is a dull matrix of grey, black, and pea-green, and at each leg of the table, a blackened steel hoop pokes through the carpet. A mirror, a two-way, is built into the top half of one of the walls, old school observation. Lt. Inspector Cochran sits with her back to the mirror and motions for Hallowell to sit across from her. Bardo sits next to her, and Sampson stands at the door with his arms crossed.

          Genie stares at the Lt, and Cochran stairs back. The two size each other up. Genie’s hands shake, but she doesn’t look away, she is breathing extremely shallow and fast. Cochran’s face is stone, and her stare penetrates the thickest babble. Genie takes Seven’s hand and looks away to him for support. Cochran exhales loudly, but her face muscles are frozen.

           “Lieutenant,” Seven says, but Cochran continues to stare at Ms. Hallowell. “Lieutenant Cochran,” a little more formal, Seven tries to break her trance. “Em.”

           “Stop,” Cochran flashes her palm to Seven’s eyes. “I told you Bardo, we are not familiar anymore.”

           “But Lieutenant..,” Bardo says and the Inspector looks at him and then Sampson.

           “Inspector, escort Mr. Bardo to the hallway.

           “NO,” Genie shouts. “I said I would talk to you with Seven.”

           “Mr. Bardo, are you Ms. Hallowell’s counsel?” Sampson crosses the room to Seven and puts his hand on his shoulder.

           “No, but I thought,”

           “Your are making an ass of yourself, dick.” Sampson says as his hand clamps down on Seven’s shoulder forcing a lean.

           “I ain’t saying SHIT, unless he stays,” Genie squeaks out.

           “Mr. Bardo,” Cochran says softly.

          Seven arches his head up from the restraint and looks at her face.

           “Seven,” she says, “please, we need to speak with her alone.” She motions her head slightly at Sampson. He releases his hold.

          Seven rises up from the table and exhales. He turns to Genie and grabs her hand. He holds it softly, but firm through the tears welling up in her eyes, “don’t worry Genie. They just need the truth. You’ve nothing to hide. Just tell them what you know.” She lets them out, and they roll down her cheek as she whimpers softly.

           “I, I, I don’t want any trouble…m, m, my life sucks, but, but it’s mine,” she stutters. Seven pulls a tissue from the box on the table and hands it to her. Cochran sighs and leans back in her chair as Sampson opens the door to the interrogation room.

           “Don’t worry.” Seven drops her hand and wraps his arms around her. “Just tell them what you told me. Tell them what you know and everything will be fine.” Seven squeezes. Genie sniffles and wipes her face with the tissue.

           “Ok.” She whispers.

           “If you need me, I will be right out side.”

          Seven stands from the table, walks over to the door and passes though it in front of Sampson. Sampson follows and closes the door. They step to the next room, and observation room on the opposite side of a two-way mirror. It’s dark in the room, with a small LED lamp on a table in front of the window.

           “Sit.” Sampson barks at Bardo, and pulls out chair for him to sit in. Both men sit, and Bardo takes out a micro digital recorder and a leather clad notepad. Yellow paper peeks out at a corner and in the middle along an outer edge; the pad’s cover is misshapen, handmade out of raw, chocolate brown cowhide with a layer of black smut where his fingers touch again from years of being on this side of the looking glass.

           “Do you want something to drink?” He asks.

           “Coffee, black.” Seven answers.

           “I’ll be right back.” Sampson opens the door and motions to an officer standing guard at the end of the hall.

           “You know, she doesn’t really know anything.” Seven says to Sampson’s back.

          He turns, “probably not, but she may know more than she realizes.” Sampson turns back to the hall.

           “Two coffees, one black, one all the way.”

           “Yes, sir.” The officer can’t be any older than 23, pressed stiff, and fresh out of the academy. Before he can turn away, “And, run a report on Genie Hallowell.” He pulls a small ring bound note pad out of his coat and writes her name on it and hands it to the Blue. “Use my name and badge number.”

           “Yes sir.” The rookie turns to walk away.

           “Bring the coffee first then run the report.”

           “Sir.” The Blue says and smiles over his shoulder.

Feather in the Tar: Splice

         “OH MY GOD,” Chaz shouts, “you, how can it be?”

         {Step Left}

         The OS responds, and moves towards Chaz. Who the hell is that, Frank thinks to himself. His hard drive spins up.

         {Find Video: itsalive}

         {Play Video}

 

         Inspector Sampson pulls the Ford up to a small house in need of paint. The ivory is coated in diesel, thin, and chipping in spots. The flowerbeds have gone wild in full bloom with spring wildflowers. Sampson taps the horn, and Lt. Cochran exits. She is dressed in a similar outfit, brown herringbone tweed slacks, light blue blouse with ivory buttons starting down the center and then veering off to the left, black fleece jacket, and brown boots, 8-eyelet, Dr. Martin. She walks to the passenger door, opens it, and sits in the front seat. She adjusts her gun, and turns toward the backseat.

         “Hello Lieutenant Cochran,” Seven says and nods.

         Her eyes widen and the corners of her lips turn down, “where’s our witness Mr. Bardo?”

         Sampson interrupts, “we are picking her up at a bar in North Beach, mum.”

         Sampson backs out of the driveway, and turns the car towards Avenue 19. Cochran sighs and turns back around.

         Her face is warming. She stares out the window without seeing the passing row houses. “She better be there.” She says to the windshield.

         “I’m sure she will be Lieutenant. It can’t be helped; her roommate is at home entertaining guests.”

         “I’ll bet she is.” Cochran says under her breath.

         “I trust her word.” Seven adds. “I’ve known her many years, and she’s never led me astray.”

         “Maybe Dick, but we’re busy. We’re investigating a serial murderer, and your faith is of little value.” Sampson says.

         “Unless you did it.” Cochran says and smiles.

         “Wouldn’t be the first time, the right/wrong-man’s gone to Saint Q.”

         Cochran chuckles, “it would sure clear our case load.” She smiles and turns toward Seven in the back seat. “What do you think Bardo?”

         “I trust you two as well.” Seven replies.

         The Ford pulls up to a brick and curb, alley. Out of place on Columbus full of tourists and Chinese, Bart’s is about 10 yards down the ally where a sign hangs over the red and green, large, heavy redwood door. The handle is copper, and after 50 years of sweat, dirt, and diesel, the patina is green from the bolts to muddy black with permanent finger size groves, a legacy of an old hard-working class neighborhood. The “B” pops, flickers, and brightens; the rest of the neon is out.

 “I didn’t know this place was still here.” Sampson says.

         “Yeah, mostly locals, mostly ex-pats from a flat life.” Seven adds as he opens the door and steps out. “Care for a drink?”

         “No.” Cochran shouts as she looks forward through the glass.

         “Ok, but Mel the bartender always demands one for the city.”

         “No.”

         “Hurry back Dick. My tank is low and the fog is coming in.” Sampson says.

         Seven turns and walks down the alley. He opens the door, and a faint cheer can be heard through the alleyway. Bart’s daughter runs the place now and always welcomes familiars and attractive tourists who stumble in with a cheer and hug.

         “Seven what’ll you have.”  Mel says and emerges from the bar.

         “I’m sorry Mel,” Seven says she approaches and wraps her arms around his waist. “I can’t stay. The Blues are waiting at the curb.”

         “Invite ‘em in. We always support our city centurions.”

         “No. They don’t appear to be in the mood. Have you seen Genie?”

         Mel looks to the end of the bar where it turns 90 degrees so any anxious patron can watch the door. Genie shoots the rest of her whisky and gets up from the stool. She smiles and motions toward the back, the restroom. Seven nods, and Mel continues to hold on to him.

         “A shot of Jameson? It’s on me.” She says and if by magic, the blink of an eye, she is behind the bar, pours a double, and places it on the bar in front of Seven. You look like you could use one, love.”

         Seven exhales. He can’t refuse his old friend. He chugs it in one breath. She was the first to accept him as a local when he moved here 20 years ago. Just a kid working for her dad, she got him his first job in the city as a dishwasher. They’ve been best friends ever since, and Seven returns the favor if she needs info from the street or to chase some douche bag away.

         “When are we going to hook up?” Mel asks. Seven inhales, exhales deeply, and reaches mint on the counter at the door. “You know I’ve loved you since we first met.”

         His faces warms up, his eyelids clamp down, as the corner of his mouth beams from ear to ear. “I love you too,” he says, but not too loud. Genie joins him at the door. Her powder and lipstick are fresh, and perfume, Channel or a facsimile wafts about her.

         “Ok, love. We’d make delicious babies, and we’re not getting any younger.” She says and meets them at the door.

         Still red, a bead of sweat forms on Seven’s head, “yes we would.” He hugs her again and kisses her behind her ear.

         She exhales, “don’t tease me. Come see me on Friday, I’ll be here till close.”

 

         Seven opens the car door for Genie, and she bends down–her skirt is a little too short, Seven turns his head to look down the street–she scoots over pushing her skirt under her as she goes. Seven enter on the curbside after her.

         Cochran turns and looks in to Genie’s eyes. “So this is our mysterious friend of a friend.” She says. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

         Genie offers her hand and introduces her self. “Genie Hallowell.”

         “The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant Inspector Emily Cochran.” She says, ambivalent. “And our driver is Inspector Noel Sampson.” He looks in the rearview and nods.

         “I don’t know what to say, I didn’t see….” Genie starts, she takes Seven’s hand.

         “Wait.” Cochran interrupts. “We’ll talk when we get to the station.”

         “Oh, Oh Ok. Do I need a lawyer?” Genie asks and grips Seven’s hand more tightly.

         “Do you?” Sampson inquires.

         “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” Seven says to her. “I trust them. You can too.”

         Genie exhales and lets up her grip a little. Her hand is shaking and she looks out the passenger window as they pass a squad car and two officers enforcing a DUI test. A belligerent teenage driver steps out of a red BMW onto the sidewalk and falls down.

Feather in the Tar: Cross Stitch

          “Lock up when you leave,” Mike says, but Chaz doesn’t respond.

          “Hey, Chaz, do you hear me?” Mike shouts from the doorway of the lab. It’s 5:00 PM, and Mike is on routine. Chaz doesn’t look up. “Damn it.” He says under his breath. He walks over to Chaz’s computer and stands behind him.

          Chaz focuses on a blender schematic. He parses between the schematic and a rendered 3d object. He pushes the run button on the blender, but nothing happens.Chaz searches the schematic again. The blender is for an online interactive education tool at the neighborhood elementary school.

          Mike reaches down to touch Chaz’s arm, but before he makes contact, Chaz shudders and spins around in his seat. His eyes are as big as fried eggs.

          “Whoa,” Mike jumps back. “Dude, you’re freaking me out.”

          “What?” Chaz exhales, closes his mouth and upturns the corners. His face is warm, but nowhere near as flush as Mike’s. He rubs his eyes.

          “I didn’t even touch you, man.” Mike exclaims.

          “Sorry, what time is it?” Chaz ask as he sighs.

           “It’s five. I’m on my way home. I’m meeting the fam for an early dinner and a movie.

          “Oh,” Chaz says. “What are you going to see?”

          “I don’t know, Libby picked something, and I’m not looking forward to it. I just hope I can stay awake.” Libby and Mike met at the original Star Wars wrap party. She was a costume dresser, 5’ 10”, dishwater blonde, and curvaceous. Mike, kidded her “your beautiful build is made for lots of kids.” She laughed, scowled, and laughed, she claimed she was as free as a moth and sensitive to the flame; but when they danced to the Mos Eisley Cantina song, Mad About Me; it was obvious that they were Star Wars crossed. A five bedroom ranch on two acres in Sonoma, an organic garden, with a few grapevines for daddy’s little project, three kids, 6, 7, and 9, Mike and Libby are as happy as a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

          “Ah, I heard the animated film about Nazi Concentration Camps was extremely intense.” Chaz says.

          “I can’t take the kids to that.” Mike shakes his head, and the nonchalant charm goes out of his face.

          “Sorry, I’m out of focus at the moment. We’ll have to go sometime.” Chaz smiles.

          “Research?” Mike asks

           “I suppose. I just read it was really good.”

          “See you tomorrow.” Mike pats Chaz on the shoulder. Chaz turns back to his work on the monitor.

 

          “The head didn’t match.” Seven says. He is sitting alone in the backseat of the squad car.

          “Was that the head of the last victim?” Cochran turns and asks Sampson.

           “I think so. It didn’t look fresh, and judging from his driver photo…”

          “If the woman’s head is missing, then we’ve another victim on the wheel.” Cochran says. “Looks like we’ve got a real sick fuck.” She turns her head and looks in the back seat. “Time for you to come clean, Seven.”

          “I’ll have to talk to my client, then…”

          “We may not have time; you are interfering in a police investigation.” Cochran says as she stares into the backseat.

          “Maybe he needs 48 in the cooler?” Sampson says. “His records could get lost for a week.”

          “I don’t know Sams, but we sure need a spark. He’s the only sulfur we’ve got.” Cochran turns around.

          “Emily,” Seven reaches up to touch her shoulder through the bars. “I think I can convince her to come in, but she doesn’t know much.”

           Cochran turns around. Seven’s not sure if she’s going to spit or smile. “She’s all we’ve got, even if she’s useless. The heats on, and at the moment, you’re not the only one standing in the fire.

          “Drop me off at my apartment, and I’ll bring her in, in an hour or so.” Seven says.

          “Lieutenant, I could sure use a shower and a change of clothes.” Sampson sniffs the atmosphere in the Ford.

          “We both could.” She says. “OK. Drop me off first, then Seven. After you’re finished Sams, pick me up and drop me at the Hall. I’ll brief the chief, then you pick up Seven and our mystery witness.”

           “Two hours?” Seven asks.

          “Yeah, that should do it. I hope the Chief is working late. Not.” Cochran answers. Inspector Sampson steps on the gas and pulls the red lamp out of its box in the dash. He turns the cruiser toward the North Beach.

          Cochran turns back to seven. She holds up two fingers “two, two…hours, Seven, understand?”

           “Yes.”

          “Or you’ll be spending the next week in the tank.” Sampson adds.

 

           “I’ve got it,” Chas says to himself. It’s 9:30 P.M. He turns his head toward the storage closet. “What the hell is that?” He hears gurgling and rush air, like steam escaping.

          {Power On}

          {Heat Water}

          “Where am I?” Frank shakes his head and looks to the inside of a canvas tarp.

          {Camera Lights On}

          He looks to the gauges in his heads-up vision system. A temperature gauge rises towards 100 Celsius, water’s boiling point. Frank sits for a moment, “Where the hell am I?”

          {Accessing memory card}

          {Find password}

          The head of terabyte hard drive in a pack on his back whirs to speed and pops as it reads data off of the platters. Frank sits still and asks himself for the third time, “What am I? Who am I? Where am I?”

          {Enter Password: waroftheworlds}

           He lifts his arm slowly under the tarp, turns his palm up, and grabs it. He pulls it down over, off of his head. Two beams of light bounce off the opposite door. “I remember,” still photos parse through his conscious, faster and faster, they become a film. Frank is watching himself; the most recent history is first, then further back, to his death, his business, his wife, his girlfriend, his business, his childhood, and finally, his birth. “How? I could not see my own birth.”

          Eight Nikkond Research diamond processors, mounted two each to miniature circuit boards, 64 gigabyte of RAM, a one terabyte solid-state drive, and a two-terabyte hard drive mirror, one for one, push the water temp to boiling. The processors hum at 65 GHz, 1.5×10(to the 6th) MIPS (1,500,000 million instructions per second.) The RAID drive platters spin at 15,000 revolutions per second, faster than any consumer AV drive. Chaz over-clocked the platter processors and added rubies to lubricate all read-arm movements. Heat is managed through a combination of an independent nitrogen circulation system with a thermostat/radiator of water and glycol. The heat generates steam in a miniature, stainless steel, and football-shaped boiler in the bottom of the backpack. The steam keeps all the analog pistons alive with enough pressure to actuate cogs, lifters, ball joints, and dampeners. All fluids and steam circulate through carbon fiber pipe coated with silicone.

          Chaz embedded micro pizoelectric fan blades in the steam circulation tubes to generate one megawatt of electricity. A lithium-ion laptop battery in the backpack stores excess and start up power, which can run the electronics for 5 hours before needing a charge.

          Originally, the processors measured brain density and permanent patterns to create random numbers. Chaz does not realize it, but those patterns overwrote the original scope of the operating system, creating time-restrictive autonomy for Frank. The hardwire-clock only allows OS autonomy at night. From 8:00 PM to 5:00 A.M. Frank can activate himself.

          Chaz gets up from his workbench, and looks around the shop. He hears the rustle again, and then the sound of boiling water. It is very faint; he quiets his movements and his breath, slow, slow, quiet, quiet. “What the hell was that?

          Frank’s regulator lets off a whisper quiet whistle. All images link ito congruous emotion, and he remembers all of it. “That bitch, she killed me,” he thinks to himself. Her face betrays her. She knew, she had to have known I was allergic to peanuts. She’s the last one, and then, then, then? What’s next?

          “I knew it. Someone’s in here?” Chaz looks around and thinks to himself. I should call the cops and Mike? Finally, he’ll believe I am not crazy. Where are they? What if they’re armed? What if they’re bigger than me? Chaz looks toward his workstation, but his cell phone is still in his pack. The landline is at the entrance, about 25 feet away, round worktables, stools, and parts. “Don’t panic.” They don’t know you’re here. Where the hell are they?

          Frank visualizes leaning to the side, grasping a plastic bag under his seat, and lifting it to his side. He pauses as pressure builds again. Frank’s regulator whistles again equalizing pressure throughout his system. The temperature gauge in his heads-up is in the green. He visualizes standing, and pistons in his legs and back extend, slowly and solidly. Each movement requires a millibar or two on the gauge. Standing, he waits for pressure to build, but further in to the green bar, close to the orange level. After each movement, steam pressure drops and re-pressurizes. As long as he doesn’t move to fast, he can maintain a steady consistent flutter in the green and fluid motion.

          “Shit, they’re in the storeroom.” Chaz says. Cell phone or landline, he thinks. It will take time to get it out of the pack, but the landline is further away. “Did I charge it?”

           “Joe killed me. Where is she?”

          {Access local wireless network}

          {Enter password: wellshg}

          {Google search her address}

          A GPS system on the left and a Google map pops up on the right side of his heads-up. It syncs with the map, and outputs directions in steps with coordinates down the top center. Frank steps forward one step. The pressure gauge drops a tick out of the green, too much force. It rebounds quickly and he takes another step, closer. “Do I have to learn to fucking walk every time?”

           The first decapitation pops into his head.” Shit, did I do that?” Who is that? It’s her boss, and my wife? “Whore,” she slept with anyone and anything. A series of random pictures flashes across his cortex. A plumber, a parking attendant, a stripper, a dealer under the blackjack table n Colma, a waiter in the Stinking Rose, and I was there. I was masturbating; whore, but it was fun to watch. A beautiful Great Dane crosses his synapses. It’s rust coat smells like sweating dog, and it’s drooling uncontrollably; “no,” that was too far. “Bitch, “must die; she is dead. One more to kill, Frank takes another step, and the gauge flutters perfect. He walks to the storeroom door.

          {Reach right arm forward}

          {Grab door handle)

          (Close fingers and turn}

          Chaz reaches the doorway. “I should run.” I don’t have my cell, he thinks. No one will believe me, unless I catch whomever. “Shit, run idiot.” He says out loud. Chaz hears the door mechanism to the storeroom click and door opens outward slowly. His jaw drop; he’s frozen. He can’t look away.

Feather in the Tar: Foreplay

          “It is not so much what I know but who.” Seven answers.

           “Enough with the riddle-speak,” she pokes him under the left pectoral. “What…do…you know about a murder at the Bridge Motel on Lombard?”

           “Like I said Em,” Seven replies.

           “Lieutenant Inspector Cochran to you,” she moves closer to Seven. Her face is flush and breath hot with the scent of Kona. Her eyes are cold.

           “Lieutenant, we don’t have time for this limp dick.” Sampson steps to the side and puts his arm between them. “Coch,” he squeezes in between them as in an angry rou jia mo, and faces her, “we’ve got to get to the Marina; the chief is waiting.”

          Cochran exhales, “OK Sams, let’s go.” She turns to face the front of the elevator. She inhales then exhales slowly, deeply again. Sampson reactivates the elevator.

           “Bardo,” she says without looking at him. You come with us and tell us everything you know.”

           “I have a client.”

           “They’ll have to wait.” She replies. The elevator opens and she turns toward them before they exit, “unless you want to spend the afternoon in the drunk tank.” She turns around and motions towards an entry gate officer. “Conroe, come here.”

           “That is not necessary.. I’ll call and reschedule.” Seven says. He takes his cell phone out as the three leave the Hall of Justice. “Hello Alicia, I’m going to be late.”

           “You’ve never called me that,” Genie answers her cell phone.

           “I know, but something has steamed up in homicide.”

           “WHAT?” Genie squeals in the mouthpiece.

           “Everything is fine. I will see you tonight at my office. I’ll call later to confirm.”

           “Am I in trouble? I didn’t do anything.” She reiterates in the same pitch.

           “No, no, everything is fine. We’ll talk later. Calm down.” Seven mutters into the mouthpiece, low enough not to be heard and loud enough to appear normal.

           “OK, but don’t forget. I can’t take this much longer.”

           “Don’t worry; it will work out. It will be fine.”

           “OK, bye.” She sniffles.

           “A twitter kitten?” Cochran asks as she slides into the Ford next to Seven in the back seat

           “Uh, yeah, she doesn’t want to loose her husband.

           “Stinky snoop,” Inspector Sampson sniffles fake tears.

          Sampson pulls the brown Crown Victoria out into traffic on Bryant, but keeps glancing to the rearview mirror. The talk around the crapper is that Seven Bardo stuck it to the Lt. and I don’t mean in the biblical way. I don’t know what the fuck she saw in him, but while working on a high profile murder case involving a City Supervisor’s daughter and a street punk, a ganja gimp from the Haight. Bar-douche stole the spotlight and saved the stupid teenager.

          Lt. Cochran had her dead to right for using marijuana and 80 percent sure of murder. The 17-year old was hanging out at the entrance to Golden Gate Park with her meth-boosted boyfriend. He got in a screaming match with another dealer over remarks the other loser made to his girlfriend. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and pulled out a gun. He squeezed off a shot into a tree, and a scuffle insured. Her boyfriend killed him, but not until she kicked the other dealer in the balls.

          The doper blamed the girl, and Cochran had her fingerprints on the weapon. Undercover and on his own, while Cochran was processing the girl into the system, Seven recorded the truth from the doper. The punk was bragging to his buds about how to fuck and toss a rich lawyer’s daughter. He got it all on pocket video. He thought he was helping her out, but the girl’s father danced on Cochran’s shield.

          Seven showed up in the press conference, although he didn’t plan it, and Cochran was suspended with pay, a forced “vacation for a courageous officer in need of rest,” quoted the Chief. Emily has never forgiven him.

           “The Bridge Motel,” the Lt. breaks the forced silence, “Mr. Bardo, what do you know about a murder at the Bridge Motel on Lombard?” Sampson looks to Seven then Cochran.

           “I’ve heard about a witness, Lt. Inspector Cochran.” Seven says.

           “Cut the shit,” she says, “what do you know?” She spits, but doesn’t yell. Sampson checks the rearview again.

           “I know that someone broke into room number 202 and murdered a local bartender.”

           “How do you know the room number? Were you there?” She asks.

           “No, no. Where they’re any fingerprints or strange tracks? Where did they lead?” Seven inquires.

           “Did I say anything about quid pro quo or even a handshake? I’ll ask the questions and you’ll answer, with the truth.” Cochran snipes.

           “’I’ve never lied to you.” Seven says.

           “How do you know the room number?”

           “A friend contacted me about the murder and I am doing them a favor.” Seven replies with a empty professional tone.

           “Answer the damn question, snoop?” Sampson barks, slows and pulls to the curb. “Or, I’ll stop the car and remedy it.”

           “Ok. Ok.”

           “How did you know the room number?” Cochran iterates. “Who told you and why?”

           “A friend of a friend…”

           “DAMNIT.” Sampson pulls into and blocks a driveway in the Marina. “I’ve had enough.” He opens his door and exits the Ford, slamming it. Inspector Sampson pulls Seven’s door open and leans over to grab him by the shoulders when Lt. Cochran intercedes.

           “Calm down Sams, there’ll be time later.” She exits the Crown Vic and walks to the entrance of the apartment building. She shakes hands with a blue suit (fresh, just out of the academy, he blushes; he’s heard about her.)

          Bardo stands up out of the back of the car, and Sampson turns around and pushes him back down. “We won’t need any help. You stay where you are, snoop.”

           “Come on Inspector.” Emily says as the rookie holds the door open. She enters and shakes her head.

           “Ya know ass wipe, no one would care if you got a few bruises or broken nose.” Sampson slams the door shut and locks the car.

          Seven waits until the two are out of site and reaches through the protection screen with a telescoping forceps. He unlocks the door, exits, and walks to the entrance.

           “Sorry sir, no entry.” The rookie stands in his way while holding the door shut.

           “Come on officer, you saw that I’m with them.” Seven begins to push.

           “Sorry sir, NO entry,” the blue uniform bolsters.

           “Ok, I’ll wait.” Seven says. He walks to the corner, looking back occasionally at the blue pillar.

          The officer lifts his radio microphone to his mouth and looks in the opposite direction. Watching for the blue’s glance, Seven dashes around the corner of the building. He makes his way to a city access door, and tries it. No luck. It’s an old lock. It has some fresh scrapes, so he’s probably not the first to jimmy it. He takes out a pair of surgical gloves, then his pale blue private library card. It is old school, extremely thick, but not brittle. He wedges it in the weather strip, manipulating it as little as possible, and open-says-me. He opens his wallet to replace the card, but the business end is coated in a slippery jelly. He sniffs it, sweet but oddly chemical like from a butcher store or renderer’s kettle. He wipes it off on his jeans and puts it back in his wallet.

          The hallway leads to the apartment power meters, breaker boxes, and trashcans. The light well has a steal fire escape running to the backdoor of some of the apartments. He lifts the lid of a trash bin, reaches in, and pulls out a tied 3-gallon bag, it drips. Seven slowly creeps up the ladder of steps, gently trying not to shake the building. He doesn’t want to draw any attention. He hears the officers on one floor and then they move upstairs. He climbs another flight and listens to a fiery discussion.

           “Why the fuck did you bring that fucking PI with you Cochran?” The Chief of Police says. “Hasn’t he screwed you enough?”

           “Sir, he may be a witness to the first murder?” the Lieutenant answers.

           “We don’t bring witnesses or suspects to a second crime scene Lieutenant. Why didn’t you bring a damn reporter while you were at it?”

           “No sir, yes sir.” She says.

           “Report to me as soon as you get back to the station Lieutenant Cochran. We may have to do something about those stripes.”

           “Yes sir.”

           “Sampson, you make sure; you’re in it up to your eyeballs.”

           “Yes sir.” Inspector Sampson says.

          A herd of heavy footsteps moves down the stairs. Seven waits for them to fade then opens the door to the inside corridor of the apartment building. Slowly, he looks around the corner and can see activity at one end. He walks into the hallway carrying the plastic bag, and another blue suit stares at him. Seven looks away and whistles Mingus, Better Get it In Your Soul. He swings the bag back and forth as he walks towards the officer.

          Seven turns his back and mimes opening the door across the way. Lt. Cochran shouts out from inside the open apartment, “Officer Johnston, go get me some more bags out of the trunk of my car.”

          The officer turns and looks in the apartment, “yes mum.”

           “And, make sure the dipshit is still down there.”

          The officer jogs, down the hallway and rounds the first banister, keys jangling quieter and quieter. Seven drops the bag, turns, and enters the apartment. No one is in the entry hall. He looks in the living room, empty. He walks down a short hallway to two doors, one is closed, and he can hear the tear of tape and murmured voices from the other.

           “Time of death, Raymond?” Cochran asks.

          Seven pokes his head through the door. The forensic examiner is pulling a long, sharp temperature probe out of giant mound of gelatinous flesh.

           “Judging from the unusual condition of the bodies, I would say about 5 days.” Raymond says as he stands up. He accidently kicks the bed.

          The smell hits Seven just as blood drains out of his face. The mound of flesh jiggles like chilled deep fryer fat, and muck billows over the edge of the bed like a waterfall. His vision closes down to pinpoint then blackness. He hears a shout as he falls backward into space.

           “WHAT THE FUCK is he doing here? Cochran shouts.

           “Sir,” the blue suit returns with the bags. “There is no one in your car.” The officer looks down to his feet. “Oh.”

Feather in the Tar: Sickeningly Sweet

          Abby, Josie’s downstairs neighbor in the Marina gets up early Friday, at 5:00 A.M. She has a meeting with an important client and still has to catch up on her work email after a 4-day weekend in Vegas. Abby and her girlfriends stayed at the Venetian, but only spent time in it to shower and change clothes.

          She looks in the mirror; the dark caves at the window of her soul are shallower, and less powder will hide them. “At least that bitch cougar didn’t wake me again,” she says to her weary reflection. “She’s due for an earful at the home owner’s meeting this month.”

          She leaves the bathroom, and raises both arms above her head to stretch. She yawns, bends over to stretch her back, and returns her hands at full extension. She takes a deep breath, one, two, and coughs violently. “What the fuck is that smell?” She takes another deep whiff. She feels her throat tighten, and her diaphragm heave. She turns around and runs into the bathroom. She almost gets the lid to her toilet open in time. Her throat burns; she washes her face off in the sink and swishes out her mouth. Abby moves back to the edge of her bed. Her head pounds, her eyes water up from the burning sensation in her nasal cavity.

          The scent is musky and sickeningly sweet, overpowering. Abby moves into her living room, her kitchen, and then her patio to escape it, to no avail. “What is that?” She sniffs, but not too deeply; she tries breathing through her mouth, but she can taste it as well. She imagines how formaldehyde must taste. She picks up the phone in the kitchen and punches 8 for the super. His line rings, and she draws her hand to cover her nose and mouth. A memory rushes into her consciousness; she remembers her light brown hamster, Cecil. When she was in grade school, her brother let it out as a prank one morning after she was gone. Her mother and her could never find Cecil. Four days later, her mother picked her up at school, so they could stop at the supermarket for supplies to make walnut brownies for her class’s Halloween party.

          “Oh my god,” her mother said as she put the sacks down on the cabinet, and covered her nose and mouth. They couldn’t make the brownies until dad sniffed out the offensive odor behind the dishwasher. Pulling it out from under the cabinets, Abby could see maggots infesting the remains of Cecil.

          Abby didn’t eat brownies that year for Halloween. She never ate them again. Brownies remind her of Cecil’s sunken eyes, and the walnuts of worms crawling out of his mouth and body. She imagines what his fur taste like, not like before when she would kiss his snout, before Cecil became an organic meal.

          “Henry,” the answering machine picks up. This is Abby Gateman in apartment 202, and something or someone has died in the building. The smell is horrific.” She hangs up the message and dials 911.

          “911, what is your emergency?” the operator says.

          “Something has died in the building.” Abby says.

           “What? Someone has died in your building?”

          “I don’t know, but it smells like something has died.” She repeats.

          “Ms, a pet death is not an emergency.”

          “No, no, I don’t have a pet. The smell is overwhelming.” Abby says.

          “I am sorry. I have to go now, Ms. Gateman. Misuse of the 911 system is punishable with a stiff fine or even incarceration,” the operator answers in a stern voice.

          “I don’t think y…” The call drops. “Shit.” Abby punches 7 for the police department.

          “I am sorry, but all of our lines are busy. If you know your party’s extension please enter now. If this is an emergency, then dial 911.”

          “Damn-it,” Abby dials the super again, “Mr. Roberts, Henry, I know you’re there, pick up…silence then a click.” She dials again. Pickup Henry. I mean it. This is an emergency. If you don’t pick up, I am calling a meeting to fire you. I mean it. Pick up…silence and then a click.

          “Hell, hello,” a voice on the other side responds in the receiver. It is a woman’s voice.

          “Is Henry there?” Abby asks.

          “No, he’s on the property.”

          A knock on the door interrupts the call, “Hello, hello, Abby are you OK?” Henry says through the door.

          “Stupid girl” Mrs. Roberts says to herself as she hangs up.

          Abby hangs up the phone and opens her front door; she holds her hand over her mouth and nose. She can’t escape the odor. “It’s about time.” She mumbles as the super enters the apartment.

          “What’s the problem? Are you OK?” He looks around the living room and then cover’s his mouth too. “Oh my god, what is that smell? Is your toilet over flowing?” He walks past her through her bedroom and opens her bathroom door. The smell is worse in the bedroom. “What the hell happened here?”

          “I got sick from the smell.” Abby blushes as they stare at, at the remnants of her late night dinner–pork, corn, and a bites of flour tortilla.

          “It smells like something has died in here.” She says.

          “Uhh, I think I am going to be sick.” Henry gags and holds his hand over his mouth; he contains the heave. They turn towards the bed, and on the sheets, several murky red puddles have formed. They look up to the ceiling and around several broom handle dents, a large damp, pail brown yellow and red spot forms on sky blue as droplets add to the puddles.

          “What the fu…” Abby catches herself. “That wasn’t there when I got up.”