I had forgotten its fullness had arrived until I came upon its reflected shimmer in a rain puddle on the street. Colors not evidenced in its original glow swirled in the eddies remaining after the violent intrusion of car wheels.
Image by Safal Karki via Unsplash
EXT., HALLWAY/OUTSIDE SMALL BUILDING, DAY
Detective Andrew Tassel, young, new on job, squares his shoulders before entering outer room of the Morgue. Gives himself a little pep-talk.
ANDREW
Okay, Drew, you can do this. Yes, it’s your first murder, yes, you’re new on the job.
Sign on the wall instructs him to put on “sterile suit” hanging on wall and gloves. Also tells him to leave all phones and electronic devices in basket on counter. He does this while continuing the pep talk.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
But this is a frickin’ one horse town. And you have a degree, a degree in Criminology. Use your head. You probably know more forensics than this podunk doctor. Let’s just get this over quickly.
He opens the door and enters main room of Morgue.
INT., MORGUE, DAY
Body of KATHERINE FEATHER on slab, we see her bare feet and head. The rest of the body is draped. Medical Examiner ISAIAH CRANE examines the feet as Andrew enters. CRANE is a tall, thin, slightly morose man, given to folding his hands in front of his chest while speaking. His speech is cryptic, punctuated by the occasional inappropriate smile.
ANDREW
Hi. You are . . .?
CRANE
Isaiah Crane, M.D., J.D., Ph.D.
(turning)
Your M.E. You can call me Dr. Crane.
ANDREW
Hello. Hi. I’m Andrew Tassel. Detective Andrew Tassel.
CRANE
Welcome to King Gulch. How can I help you?
Andrew glances at the body as CRANE continues to examine lower extremities. He retches slightly.
CRANE (CONT’D)
What? Did you say something?
ANDREW
No, nothing. So, Dr. Crane can you give me any information about Ms. Feather’s death?
CRANE
Yes. . .
ANDREW
(impatient)
Well . . . Your report?
CRANE
. . . isn’t complete yet.
ANDREW
What? What am I doing here? You called me, said I should come over.
CRANE
I thought we should meet.
ANDREW
Really? Like I don’t have enough to do? Okay, as long as I’m here, how about a preview?
CRANE
I don’t do previews . . . But I’ll humor you since you’re new. Death occurred at approximately 11pm. Cause of death was asphyxia. But the blood work isn’t complete. The discoloration and edema of the feet and ankles I can’t figure out yet.
ANDREW
Great. How can give me a time of death when you don’t even know what she died of? You’re wasting MY time.
CRANE
I’m wasting your time? Listen, sonny, I’m not only the ME in this county, I’m the only doctor, too. You were the one who wanted me to get this autopsy done. I’d rather be delivering a baby somewhere.
ANDREW
Hey! Out here there have to be more deaths than births.
CRANE
Natural deaths, but not . . . Murder!
SC1 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Thirtysomething couple, the Andres, are fighting. Man, Van, is short, pudgy and balding. Woman, Adrianne, is tall, slim and fit.
Apartment is modern and upscale. The only things out of place are the cowboy boots on the floor next to a coffee table holding a cowboy hat and a Slim Pickens album.
VAN
We’ve been over this a zillion times. It never changes.
ADRIANNE
And since when are you so damn perfect.
Voices escalate.
VAN
I’m not perfect, but marriage is a compromise and when one person really hates–
ADRIANNE
And how much do I hate about you? Let’s start with pot belly and balding head?
VAN
Every argument it goes back to that. It’s my genetics.
Both are pacing, clenching fists. Adrianne picks up a piece of heavy cut glass.
ADRIANNE
Your mom and dad are both smart, so where do you get your stupidity?
VAN
If I’m stupid then you’re a slug.
ADRIANNE
God, you can’t even argue right!
VAN
And you have no taste.
ADRIANNE
Taste! You dare talk about taste!
VAN
You drive me crazy!
ADRIANNE
You drive me crazy!
SC2 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Apartment is quiet, seems empty. A hand sticks out from behind the coffee table. There is blood on it from several cuts. The cowboy boots are lying down, sprinkled with blood.
SC3 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY/ ME EXAM ROOM
Small sparse surgery. Little equipment beyond a steel table, a light and a second table holding a tray. Tall, thin, dour man, Dr. Crane, bends over body on a steel table. The body is draped from head to torso and from feet to hips. The torso area is covered with blood. Dr. Crane mumbles to himself as he touches the blood.
CRANE
I wonder if there was a lot at the crime scene?
He pulls up the lower sheet to reveal cowboy boots and smiles.
CRANE
Nice boots. Think the blood will come out?
SC4 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY
Detective Abe Kates bursts into surgery. He is short, muscular and intense and carries a large black evidence bag.
KATES
Dr. Crane? Detective Kates.
Crane extends a gloved, bloody hand. Kates ignores it.
KATES
Got my COD?
CRANE
I’m working on it. I’ll have the report tomorrow or the next day. After I open the chest and see the pictures from the scene.
KATES
I got family breathing down my neck.
CRANE
The body was just delivered today.
KATES
And how long does it take?
CRANE
Long enough to do it right.
Kates sucks in a ragged breath.
KATES
Anything I can do to help?
CRANE
Are you a doctor?
Kates backs from the table and paces and Crane pulls off the boots and socks. He pokes around at the feet.
KATES
What’d the feet tell you?
Crane hands Kates the boots. Kates quickly puts on gloves, before taking and bagging them.
CRANE
I’d like them back when you’re done with them?
KATES
What? The boots? They’ll go to the family.
CRANE
Too bad.
Kates does an exaggerated eye roll. It’s lost on Crane, who is digging around in the cuts on the torso. Crane’s face lifts as he pulls out a bloody black chip. He rubs off the blood with a cloth as Kates, more excited than usual, opens the original evidence bag.
Crane brandishes a thin uneven triangle as Kates pulls out a bloody vinyl LP album with a chip missing.
Crane slips his chip into divot. It fits.
Heat and dust. The little girl kicked a stone down the road. No fair! Sent to the store twice in one day, a quarter clutched in her small, sweaty hand.
At the corner the old woman with the sun hat still worked in her yard. This morning she’d been clipping roses, now she was cutting rhubarb with a sharp knife. Whack! at the ground. Whack! again at the top. A pile of shiny red stalks at her feet, huge wilting leaves heaped on the grass.
Little Girl put her head down and walked faster. Too late. “Barbara Jayne! Would you like to take some rhubarb to your mother?” “No! I hafta go to the store!” She broke into a run. “Your mother makes such lovely pies.”
Little Girl ran faster down the long hill. She stopped at the crossing, hopped into the street as a car horn blared, raced to the curb and up the steps to the store. Inside it was stuffy but cooler. The fat storeman smoked at the back counter, looked up from his newspaper. “Back again, huh?” Little Girl laid the quarter on the counter. “Loaf of bread, quart of milk.” The storeman’s eyebrow shot up. “Please!”
He fetched the milk from the icebox, the bread from the bin, took the quarter. “You got change comin’ or do you want some candy?” “No!” Little Girl grabbed the groceries. “Ma says put it on her account.” She slammed out the door, into the blinding afternoon.
The hill was steeper now that she was walking up it. She was thirsty, should have bought a soda. But Sister would have seen the bottle and told on her. Pooh. She stopped, tried to put the loaf of bread on her head for shade. It wouldn’t stay, dropped in the dusty road. A car was coming! She picked up the loaf, wiped the package clean on her dress and turned her back on the swirl of dust stirred up by the passing auto.
By the time she reached the top of the hill, Little Girl thought a drink of milk might be a good idea. Nope. She’d be in trouble with Sister for opening the bottle.
At the corner, Old Woman had disappeared from her yard, the rhubarb stalks were gone, too. But the big green leaves still lay on the grass. Little Girl looked up and down the road. She looked at Old Woman’s house. No one. Setting the milk and bread at the side of the road, she picked up a rhubarb leaf, plonked it on her head. Cool relief!
Little Girl walked toward home, remembering, in the nick of time, to turn back and fetch the bread and milk from the roadside.
“Hurry up, slow poke! That milk will be curdled by the time you get in here.” Sister stood on the porch. “What do you have on your head?” Ma stood at the kitchen window, laughing.
“Sun hat!” Little Girl tipped her head back, stuck out her tongue.
Sister bounded off the porch, jerked the milk and bread out of Little Girl’s hands. “Come on! Ma’s gonna make a rhubarb pie for dinner. You gotta go to the store for butter.”
Images designed by Hannah Fulop
a subtle change
winter dies, conquered by
bird song
old Orion chases
the new moon
to the vernal horizon
gray skies, blustering
blossoms swirl
spring before the storm
Image by Redd Angelo via Unsplash.com
Moon Haiku
Her glow hidden
Neath the shadow of Earth
Goddess is eclipsed
image unsplash- aditya-chincture
The end is near, merge left.
Image found on flikr commons
He had worked for The Company for eight months and had learned. There were three kinds of employees: the Bigwigs, the Wheels and the Cogs. The Bigwigs worked upstairs. The Wheels had private offices. The Cogs slogged it out in cubicles. He was a Cog.
The physical plant was cheap. Walls surrounded the private offices but they did not contain conversations therein. He tried to keep his ears shut, he still heard too much.
Now one of the Bigwigs wanted to know what he knew about the Wheel who supervised him. In the palace intrigue, whose side was he on?
Image from Flickr Commons
I’m looking for my muse. Have you seen her? After searching for her in the usual haunts, I’ve decided she’s hiding from the daily onslaught of scandal, lies and corruption. I tried to keep her well with sleep and vegetables, but I’d find her sneaking peaks at MSNBC and reading WAPO. At first, I thought that might help, but for every hour she spent consuming TRMS she would spend three trembling under the bed. Maybe I need to let her go. Find a new muse with the muscle-mass of a body-builder and the goal focus of a raptor.
A drabble by Becky Kjelstrom
Painting by Charles Meynier
fog rises
rain falls
february
Image by Cameron Ballard via Unsplash.com
