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#4

‘Bodies and Water'

By Joshua David Krenz

 

“On average it takes thirty-eight hours to find a dead body. Most of the time this is due to ignorance. Famously it has been reported that corpses have taken train rides around cities—unbeknown to their neighbor passengers. Sometimes people don't know how to report the dead. The protocol for handling the dead is rarely established to the general public. We teach our children to never touch dead raccoons on the side of the road, however humans are rarely presented with the opportunity to interact with a dead body. Because of this most corpses are either ignored or passed over until an unlucky housemaid or security officer comes across the deceased. When you get a corpse that is fresh—discovered moments after death, well there's something morbidly gratifying about that situation.”
-from the notes of Walter Cratchet.

This year had been terrible for Walter. Had he charted out the number of floaters he and his partner Job had been exposed to, the graph would quickly overtake his mediocre apartment. Every third subject seemed to be drifting down a river or dead-manning in a pool. In this case the body rested face down across an indoor hot-tub.

“How old do you think he is?” Walter asked Job.

“Driver's license says nineteen,” Job answered, sucking on a small red and white swirled mint as he fingered through the kid's wallet.

“Name?”

“Justin Dav—eez. Spelled D.A.V.I.S.”

Walter nodded. He had never heard the name before, which in itself held no significance. The boy didn't seem to carry any amount of celebrity—local or global. The news crew that had beaten them to the crime scene had made sure of that—dead rock stars in compromising situations is always a hot seller. Job had to practically threaten the photographers with castration in order to chase them off—not that Job minded assaulting the press. It seemed to be just another dead body in a hot-tub—a prospect better than some of Walter's more recent cape-related cases.

Walter started jotting down notes on the scene into his blue spiral-bound notebook.

“You know,” Job spat the words into the air, “this place—I could dig on a place like this, you know? All these bath salts and fancy oils—a man could really relax in here. That aroma? Can you just feel how soothing it is to the skin?”

The building was a commercial bathhouse. Consumers paid twenty-five dollars an hour to gain access to private rooms along with tea service. The rooms looked out onto a private garden, where tenants were capable of relaxing with their own personal view of carved Buddha and waterfalls. Tinny-plucky world music filled the air like the warm steam rising from the tub's surface, creating ambiance and a sense of New Age-empowerment. The entirety of the scene was calming to take in—a niche of tranquillity in a chaotic city. Still, this little circle of oneness had been disturbed by a quickly bloating corpse.

“Initial investigation shows no signs of struggle. The body does not appear to have visible wounds or bruises. The owners report that no disturbance was observed during the brief period of stay. The body was—fortunately--discovered mere minutes after the party left the room. Employees of the bathhouse have not been able to give accurate data regarding the group who rented the room. It can be assumed by the six used tea-cups that the bathers equaled six in number, however non-tea drinkers have been known to frequent bathhouses. The party was described as mixed-sex, largely female and two males. The guests paid in cash, and promptly left when their time in the rented space was up. The descriptions of the tenants are only superficial--'tall', 'handsome', and 'probably blond with what could have been facial hair.' The room had been reserved for one-hour by the deceased, Justin Davis—who called in the reservation with his cell phone.”

Nothing had been left behind but the dead boy and his clothes. A crime-scene unit would need to scour the room for any remaining evidence, but the likelihood of it being useful was quickly disappearing. The chlorine used to keep the public bath sanitary was ruining any semblance of clue that had been left behind.

“We've got no other names, no other descriptions of suspects...and no real sign of a crime. We're not even certain if this is a murder. It's just a dead body right now.”

“Alright,” Job shrugged, “I'm done with this place—you?”

Walter shook his head. “There's something important that we're missing.”

“Yeah, it's called a lead. But right now we've got more pressing matters...like I'm tired of being in a room with a dead naked dude who still has a hard-on.”

End Chapter One.

Justin Davis lay flat across an examination table. His erection remained days after his unexplained death. His cause of death was still to be determined, but a brief run through by the mortician revealed a clogged airway—likely caused by a reaction to a foreign substance.

“A possible poisoning?” Walter thought as he scanned through the notes and the photographs.

The only substance inside Justin's stomach was the tea and a partially digested bagel. “Someone could have slipped a poison into Justin's drink—something that we have yet to find traces of. This explains why the other members of the party were not affected—it was only in one cup.”

Still, evidence failed to support this hypothesis. Nothing unusual was reported from the cups, nor had the toxicity report from Justin's examinations shown any known poisons in his system. For all intents and purposes this wasn't even a murder—just a dead body found inside a hot-tub.

“At time of death,” Walter read, “subjects heart-rate was slightly elevated. This can be attributed to the increased body temperature due to exposure to the 104-degree water, or possible activities that the subject had been participating in prior to his eventual expiration. Small tears have been located along the anal cavity, indicating that the individual has recently partaken in homosexual intercourse. The smaller size of the tears implies consensual sex. Some scarring has taken place along the anal tissue, most likely from previous sexual encounters.”

Job burst into the room carrying a box of shredded wheat squares. He popped them into his mouth like chips, supposedly to balance out his diet. Still, the dry crunch of the flaking wheat bricks echoed through the room like a sonic boom, sending little fibers of pulled wheat in every direction like a fireworks display. Job Randall flopped down on the seat in front of Walter's desk, spilling cereal debris across the case-file.

“Bath salts, tea-service, and boners—what was this kid, some kind of homo?” Job jested.

“Actually,” Walter looked up from his notes—clearing off shredded wheat from his desk, “that does seem to be a possibility.”

Job's jaw dropped, spilling out half-masticated wheat chunks. “No shit.”

Walter nodded.

“I thought those two short-haired chicks, the ones that owned the place, said that he was there with some other chicks.”

“Along with another male.”

“So you think this guy was there...for the dude?”

“That appears to be the case, yes.”

“Think the other dude wasn't...you know...into it and decided to poison him?”

“No,” Walter responded, “poison requires planning, you're describing a crime of passion—which this is definitely not.”

“So maybe it was one of the chicks, you know—they weren't happy with him moving in on their realm and female duties—so they gave him something at the tea house.”

“Toxicity doesn't seem to reflect that. There doesn't seem to be a single piece of evidence that shows any wrong-doing here.”

“Well...” Job thought out loud, “at least it doesn't involve a damn cape.”

End Chapter Two.

Walter sat in the warm water looking out at his own personal garden. It really was very relaxing, despite the absurd cost on a detective's wages. Some people would request a raise—higher wages and better benefits—had they been in Walter's position, but Walter Cratchet seemed incapable of placing those kinds of demands on his superiors. As he saw it, to complain was to seem ungrateful—and the prospect of being unemployed was largely unacceptable.

The water soaked the soreness out of his flesh—penetrating deep into the muscles like only warm water can. The hard wood floors—likely cedar—released a relaxing scent into the air, the kind only familiar to saunas, spas, and closets with wool. Somewhere in the distance a small speaker kicked out the latest tunes from an unknown stringed-instrument—probably something once used in a Beatles album. The gentle plucking followed its own rhythm—refusing to take part in the current “beats per measure” trend. Instead, the musician had decided to play whatever notes came to mind at the time—holding no specific melody, but randomly searching out notes in appropriate intervals.

Juniper tea sat tepidity in small ceramic mugs without handles. It was a nice touch. The bitter taste of the tart berries went well with the scent of cedar and the steaming bath. Before long a bell signaled—informing Walter that it was nearing the end of his stay. Only fifteen minutes remained, time had fallen away while he bathed and watched his own personal garden.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Walter exited the small room and entered the hallway. It really was a nice way to spend an hour—relaxing in hot water, drinking warm liquid, and watching the carved Buddha sitting next to the waterfalls.

“This,” Walter thought, “is something I could get used to.”

As he mindlessly rounded the corner to recover his clothes left in the other room he almost ran into another guest. Caught up in the moment of relaxation he had failed to notice anyone else walking in the hallway, let alone those coming from a blind corner.

“Hey pal,” the other guest said, “why don't you watch where you're going?”

Walter looked up at the man draped in a towel. Walter's vision had been ruined by years of squinting at small details—like black and white photographs and individual grains of sand. Sometimes it took him a second to adjust.

“Job?” Walter asked, “is that you?”

The two men in towels awkwardly shuffled around each other as they tried to avoid any real eye-contact.

“Well...” Job stuttered, “seemed like a good way to spend an hour...”

Walter slowly backpedaled. “Oh,” he said, “it sure is.”

“Yep.” Job nodded. “Well...I'll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Uh huh.”

Walter walked into the room where the clothes were kept when revelation struck.

“The clothes,” Walter realized, “the damn clothes were in the room. Someone had to bring them back into the room.”

End Chapter Three.

There was something perpetually terrifying about being naked and exposed in potentially public places, especially for Walter Cratchet who spent a majority of his high school years avoiding any activity that would require public showering. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other boys, but that he didn't trust himself enough to muster the courage for the event. Sometimes he would simply lather himself up with deodorant and soap in order to cover up the scent of sweat—other times he would smuggle a water bottle into a bathroom stall and attempt to shower in privacy. Eventually a note was sent home, and Cratchet was forced to talk about his discomfort with a school official.

Being naked is always a traumatizing event—especially when you had Walter's body. From his angle everything about him either looked bigger—like his gut—or smaller...like his muscles...in comparison to the other boys. It made him feel awkward and small, but it made him even more uncomfortable knowing that he was measuring himself by looking at the other boys. It felt wrong, and he didn't want to get caught.

The school official told him that everything was all right—that everyone felt exposed in the shower, but that basic hygiene and school policy required him to shower with the other boys. Walter was forced to explain more of the situation to the official—that he felt strange because he didn't want to “look” at the other boys. The official didn't seem to understand the problem and sent Walter on his way.

From that point on Walter avoided these situations as much as possible. Any type of nudity was hidden and concealed, even from him. If he could, Walter changed in complete darkness—that way he didn't run the risk of looking at his own body. Walter even showered with the lights off. From time to time this would lead to losing the soap, or cutting himself with a razor—but eventually Walter adapted. He started shaving in the mirror over the sink, and bought a soap dispenser for liquid soap.

It had felt good to take that bath in a public place, because for once Walter was able to forget about what scared him and simply sink into the moment. These moments were precious to Walter, and helped him forget how afraid he was of the rest of the world.

End Chapter Four.

The next day would have started with an uncomfortable silence if not for the fact that Walter had been sleeping on his desk. From the moment of his awakening in the bathhouse Walter had started researching the articles left in the room. Simple attire—a plaid button up shirt and a pair of raggedy shorts, the kind surfers wear. A necklace—laced white twine wrapped around sea-shells and a metal medallion in the shape of some strange ancient Mediterranean idol.

Job woke Walter up with a gentle shake and a jelly donut, which was refused and quickly devoured by the perpetually food-greedy Job.

“This was outside the door when I came in.” Job said through a mouth of cake-dough as he tossed a folder to Cratchet.

“It's a medical history for Justin Davis.”

The report read normally. Regular checkups, regular tests for HIV and other STDs. No history of illness or disability, other than a food allergy. His record read like any normal human, probably better than most. It seemed that Mr. Davis was better at visiting the doctor than most, and kept tabs on his health.

“Amazing,” Walter said. “Absolutely amazing—there is nothing abnormal about this kid. No history, no criminal record, nothing. He lives with his parents, works at a supermarket, and attends community college. His open sexuality could be cause for motive, except there is no sign of foul play whatsoever. I don't even know if what we have here is a criminal case. As far as I can tell this kid just keeled over and died, the only crime that we are even looking at here is leaving the scene of an accident—which is hardly worth spending all this time to look into.”

“Do you think his parents knew that he was a...you know...”

“I imagine so.”

“Do you think they know who his boy...friend was?”

“I spoke to them about it, they said he was some foreign guy that Justin had just started dating a week prior. The two of them met at some bar in the city somewhere. None of Justin's friends were with him at the hot-tub before he died—the only possible lead is Justin's boyfriend who may or may not have been present at the time. I started asking around about this boyfriend, but it appears as though he was royalty on vacation—and that he has already left for home.”

“Hey,” Job asked, looking at the necklace in the evidence bag, “what is this thing anyway?”

“Some kind of ceremonial symbol worn by Atlanteans. It seems to be another popular trend among youth, much like tribal tattoos and various acts of piercing.”

“Huh,” Job said. “What did you say he was allergic to again?”

“Fish,” Walter answered, “why?”

End Chapter Five.

“We're not even certain if this is a murder.”
-from the notes of Walter Cratchet.

Walter Cratchet had become rather fond of Juniper tea. The flavor seemed to distract him from his daily quirks and nervousness. Somewhere in that bitter tasting beverage he had found a way of focusing his thoughts on something that wasn't unpleasant or upsetting, but rather positive. His regular Chinese restaurant had been shut down for good—health reasons—so he found himself a new haunt for his eating ritual. This place was more a corner shack than an actual eatery. Prospective customers waited in a simple queue outside this ten by ten box surrounding an oven and yelled out their orders. Sooner or later you were heard, and your order was thrown on a giant wok and cooked up. Otherwise it was dished out of a mysterious location beneath the counter-top—piping hot, but uncertain in quality. Walter rather enjoyed the place.

Surrounded by shouting luncheoneers, Walter failed to notice Job Randall—his partner—sit down next to him and start mashing away on Walter's remaining mushu.

“Someday I'm going to make you pay for all of my leftovers—some type of finder's fee.” Walter mildly protested.

“What?” Job complained, “you don't want it to go to waste, do you?”

Job grabbed the freshly poured cup of Juniper tea and started chugging it down, only to be surprised by the bitterness. He coughed for a second, then finished off the cup, setting it down and refilling it from the metal teapot sitting before them.

“Man I can't believe you drink this stuff. They served it to me at...” Job trailed off, “some...place...couldn't stand it.”

“I like it.”

“Somebody's got to keep the farmer's employed. So you filed our final report on Dav—ees” Job asked.

“Mmhmm,” Walter said while sipping at a clean cup of tea. “I think we've got this one fairly wrapped up.”

“Yeah?”

“All it took was a simple statement from the Atlantean government and it seemed fairly clear what had happened. They denied the whole thing.”

“How's that helpful?”

“It means my reports from the other witnesses at the scene were correct. As soon as I realized that an Atlantean was involved it wasn't hard to track down the other people at the scene. It seems that a certain member of the Atlantean royalty likes to take vacations to the mainland to...well, perform Roman rituals. When the bell rang to end the session the Atlantean sent the girls away to grab their clothes from the next room. When the girls returned they found the two men in an embrace. Shocked and embarrassed, the member of the Royal family quickly changed clothes and left with the girls. Soon afterwards Justin started suffering adverse affects from the Atlantean's fish-like physiology. Justin's throat started to swell up, and with no one else in the room to help him he quickly suffocated. No one was even aware that he was dead when they left, nor was there any cause for them to ask about him afterwards. To them, he was just a guy at a kinky sex party.”

“So it was all an accident?”

“Seems so.”

“It wasn't even a murder?” Job Randall said with a mouthful of mushu, quickly rinsing it down with cooling Juniper tea.

“Nope.”

“Then why did we spend so much time on it?”

End Chapter Six.

End Bodies and Water.