October 8, 2018
Galveston, Texas
Roy opened the door to his apartment at the Galveston Arms, an eight story, high-end condominium complex. His unit was at the end of the top floor with panoramic views of the Gulf and Galveston Bay, with floor to ceiling windows on three walls, and Danish modern furniture. No tacky seashore décor in his sanctuary. He felt a sense of relief when he closed the door behind him.
He poured himself a glass of Merlot and sank into his leather shiatsu massage chair and activated it. The alcohol and the vibrations helped calm his nerves.
After twenty minutes and a second glass of wine, he pulled himself up and went into his master bathroom to examine the wounds on his face and leg. Damn mongrel! The black fixtures were set off against a textured red wall while another wall was composed of full-length mirrors. This was his favorite room. Recently, however, he found himself looking away from his reflected image.
While Roy had previously indulged in long sessions of self-admiration, he now rushed from the shower to grab a bath towel to cover his torso. He especially hated to look at his profile with its early-stage spare tire. Had Lindsey from Virology actually said he had such a “sweet droopy ass” the last time they hooked up?
Having been blessed with a physique worthy of a Greco-Roman sculpture for his first thirty-nine years, he never bothered to exercise. Hadn’t he been able to toss that sniveling surveyor’s body into the Dumpster? He took a closer look at the side of his head where the oxygen tank nozzle had given him a nasty bruise. Another battle scar. He wondered if Kathy had noticed the makeup he used to cover the abrasion. Her gaze had lingered when he greeted her the next morning. Then again, he thought she’d been looking at him differently lately.
He rubbed his hand over the stubble coming in on the sides of his otherwise smooth scalp. On closer examination, he saw the majority of tiny hairs were coming in gray. Damn! I’m about 24 hours from looking like an aging derelict. He padded out of the bathroom, keeping his eyes averted from the mirrors.
His career at the lab had finally reached a six-figure salary. But it was in the 100,000’s and not the 500,000’s he needed. He kept his eyes open for extracurricular opportunities to make money and found them, as evidenced by the recent six figure deposit into one of his accounts.
Roy should be celebrating his bonus, but he could only do so alone. How do you explain to friends that you made a windfall by suppressing scientific research which revealed an imminent public health catastrophe caused by global warming? Who would be impressed that you were able to bring down a computer system and delete vital health information from a research study? Okay, I’m impressed that I could do that.
Taking a deep breath, he wandered into his collection room. Looking at my treasures should calm me down.
The temperature in the room was kept at a constant 65 degrees. The track lighting artfully illuminated his toys. His interest in antique toys had started when he first noticed Nazi memorabilia in a dusty antique store on a trip to Buenos Aires. He was admiring a set of toy stormtroopers when the shop’s owner appeared at his side.
Sensing Roy’s interest, he explained that the set had belonged to Adolf Eichman’s little boy, Dieter, and came to Argentina with the child after the war. The dark history fascinated Roy. He bought the set and kept his eye out for more of the same.
Eventually, he was able to insert himself into the small circle of collectors with similar tastes. Attending “by invitation only” auctions and estate sales gave his international travels a context. He straightened Lucia Pinochet’s Barbie Dream House on its special shelf. As a collector, what he relished was the rush he got from beating out a competitor at auction. He smiled as he saw the sledgehammer and wire cutters. Someone would be bidding on these tools someday. With a quick check on the lock of his gun cabinet, he switched off the light and headed to his bedroom.
Thinking about his last meeting with Thatcher, it had not been as positive as he wished. I might have promised more than I can deliver. His trips to the hospital hadn’t brought the results he desired. The families of the dengue patients had no interest in heading out of town. They willingly answered questions from the county epidemiologist. This led to even more cases being diagnosed and counted. Gennifer Drake’s research was gone but her pesky friends were still investigating. He wasn’t sure if threatening the children had been enough to scare them off. They would definitely involve the police now.
His ruminations continued. So what? They don’t know who I am. I’m not afraid of taking decisive action. I have a plan.
He remembered how amped he felt after dealing those satisfying, bone crunching blows to the surveyor. God that felt good. It had released some of his rage for the useless piece of shit. He could sense his heart rate rising as he reran the sequence in his mind from that night. His plan had worked. His mutilation of the body had slowed identification.
Reflecting on the excitement of that night on the beach, he felt the stirrings of an erection. Roy gave himself the relief he needed and then returned to his bar and poured another glass of wine.
He moved to the windows overlooking the Gulf and watched the darkening waves breaking on the shore. He would solve the problem of Gen’s nosy friends. He looked forward to putting his collection of guns to good use. The chance to use his prize AK-47 was incredibly exciting. It was one of the first batch of rifles built in 1945 to fend off the Nazi invasion of Russia. Seventy years later it still worked like a charm. Its indestructibility and ease of use was the reason it was still the most common rifle in the world and responsible for a quarter million deaths a year. Thinking about that was almost too thrilling.
Roy calmed himself by focusing on his escape plan. He would be leaving town in twenty-four hours with a new identity and a stockpile of money.