Squatting next to the hunk of organ tissue on the carpet, I already suspect what happened here, but the client at least deserves a show for the money he’s fronted.
“What time did you regain consciousness?” I ask.
Mr. Olsen jumps a little, like I’ve just thrown a ball at him he wasn’t expecting.
“Um...I...eight, I think,” he shivers, fidgeting awkwardly, still trying to catch that ball.
I pull the toothpick I’d been chewing on and poke at what I suspect is a bit of human kidney, rolling it to one side. Later, I’ll make sure he sees me with another pick in my mouth, a different one. But he won’t know that.
I sigh, and catch a furtive movement in the corner of my eye and know the family dog is watching us. I decide not to notice.
“Who would do this?” Mr. Olsen asks, a little too loudly, like he thinks he’s auditioning for a play. “Who would take my organs?”
Standing, I glance toward my client, who is still shivering from the ice bath he apparently left three hours ago.
“You have any enemies, Ralph?” I ask. “Anyone who hates you?”
“Well,” he says, still on stage. “I can’t imagine...why, the Gordons! Next door! They’ve always hated me!”
I turn my back to him and ponder the kidney on the floor.
“Hated you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “They can’t stand that I’m Swedish.”
“Enough to harvest one of your organs and leave it to decay in your living room?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Definitely.”
“I don’t think we can prove that,” I say, bending to look at the kidney again.
“But that’s why you’re here!” he quails, almost whining. “That’s why I hired you!”
“Look,” I say, “the best I can do is try to disprove your self-surgery there.”
There is a moment of silence, and then he looks aghast.
“What!?” he blurts. “I could never! I would never...”
“Right, right,” I say. “Whatever. Really, though, we’ve got a bigger mystery here.”
“We do?” he asks, immediately calming down.
“Have you ever been bitten by a wolf?” I ask.
“A wolf?” he parrots back.
“Or a dog, a rat. Feral cat, maybe?”
“Maybe,” he says, interested. “Why?”
“Because that,” I say, pointing to the kidney gore on the carpet, “is not a fully human organ.”
His face blanches, and he stares at the piece of meat he pulled from his own abdomen.
“Then I...I’m,” he starts, then mutters, under his breath, “this explains everything.”
He looks up at me, dead serious, and says, “no one can know about this. Ever.”
I nod, and he begins to gingerly gather the meat from the floor.
“You still want to try to frame the Gordons?” I ask.
He turns to me, still hunched over his viscera, in what I think is his best impression of a wolf-man, and whispers, “no...no, that would draw to much attention. Best to leave well alone.” He sniffs loudly. “For now.”
“Right then,” I say. “The rest of my fee?”
“On the kitchen counter,” he growls.
On my way out, I count the money from the demented, though perfectly human, self surgeon, and discover it to be twenty short. I chuckle, and decide to ignore it.
“What time did you regain consciousness?” I ask.
Mr. Olsen jumps a little, like I’ve just thrown a ball at him he wasn’t expecting.
“Um...I...eight, I think,” he shivers, fidgeting awkwardly, still trying to catch that ball.
I pull the toothpick I’d been chewing on and poke at what I suspect is a bit of human kidney, rolling it to one side. Later, I’ll make sure he sees me with another pick in my mouth, a different one. But he won’t know that.
I sigh, and catch a furtive movement in the corner of my eye and know the family dog is watching us. I decide not to notice.
“Who would do this?” Mr. Olsen asks, a little too loudly, like he thinks he’s auditioning for a play. “Who would take my organs?”
Standing, I glance toward my client, who is still shivering from the ice bath he apparently left three hours ago.
“You have any enemies, Ralph?” I ask. “Anyone who hates you?”
“Well,” he says, still on stage. “I can’t imagine...why, the Gordons! Next door! They’ve always hated me!”
I turn my back to him and ponder the kidney on the floor.
“Hated you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “They can’t stand that I’m Swedish.”
“Enough to harvest one of your organs and leave it to decay in your living room?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Definitely.”
“I don’t think we can prove that,” I say, bending to look at the kidney again.
“But that’s why you’re here!” he quails, almost whining. “That’s why I hired you!”
“Look,” I say, “the best I can do is try to disprove your self-surgery there.”
There is a moment of silence, and then he looks aghast.
“What!?” he blurts. “I could never! I would never...”
“Right, right,” I say. “Whatever. Really, though, we’ve got a bigger mystery here.”
“We do?” he asks, immediately calming down.
“Have you ever been bitten by a wolf?” I ask.
“A wolf?” he parrots back.
“Or a dog, a rat. Feral cat, maybe?”
“Maybe,” he says, interested. “Why?”
“Because that,” I say, pointing to the kidney gore on the carpet, “is not a fully human organ.”
His face blanches, and he stares at the piece of meat he pulled from his own abdomen.
“Then I...I’m,” he starts, then mutters, under his breath, “this explains everything.”
He looks up at me, dead serious, and says, “no one can know about this. Ever.”
I nod, and he begins to gingerly gather the meat from the floor.
“You still want to try to frame the Gordons?” I ask.
He turns to me, still hunched over his viscera, in what I think is his best impression of a wolf-man, and whispers, “no...no, that would draw to much attention. Best to leave well alone.” He sniffs loudly. “For now.”
“Right then,” I say. “The rest of my fee?”
“On the kitchen counter,” he growls.
On my way out, I count the money from the demented, though perfectly human, self surgeon, and discover it to be twenty short. I chuckle, and decide to ignore it.
Wow. Poor guy.
Posted by: Q | November 28, 2007 at 05:56 AM
So I was reading "Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons" over Thanksgiving and concluded something. Dean, you were Calvin as a child. Right?
Posted by: Gretchen | November 28, 2007 at 02:15 PM
Ralph is not a very Swedish name.
I'm just sayin'.
Posted by: Marcus Aurelius | November 29, 2007 at 07:51 AM
He goes by "Rolf" in the old country, I'm sure.
Posted by: Dean | November 30, 2007 at 12:57 PM