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Insectile Witness

Bettinger stepped over the frozen puddle of ketchup and walked to the back of the store. Outside the office, he swept his light in every direction, divining rotten boxes, moldering floorboards, and rusty shelves, inspecting everything until he was satisfied that there were no more nasty surprises awaiting him.

The detective seized the doorknob with a gloved hand and twisted it around. Metal squeaked, and the latch clicked. Gently, he nudged the office door forward a fraction of an inch.

Bettinger retreated to a near aisle and picked up a can of coffee, which he then threw. The projectile clanked against the wood, knocking the door wide open.

“Police!”

Employing the tactical light, the detective scanned the office. The room appeared to be uninhabited.

Bettinger strode inside and pointed his weapon at the concrete floor, illuminating a pair of reddish-brown stains. Atop the dried blood were hundreds of pale flecks that had once been the victim’s knees.

“You still alive?” inquired a distant voice that belonged to Dominic.

“I’m at the scene.”

“Keep a eye out for big black footprints. And also a handkerchief with initials.”

Bettinger would have paid fifty dollars for a working lightbulb and ten times as much money for a new partner.

The detective withdrew a knife, thumbed the blade until it clicked into place, and kneeled beside the stains. There, he closely examined the yellow pieces of detritus, which were from the victim’s hypodermis, and the narrow white shards, which were bone splinters. The human debris yielded no new data.

Bettinger stood up, stepped back, and circled the evidence. All of the bloodstains and smears were perfectly parallel, indicating that Elaine James had not struggled during the sex acts that had occurred on the floor of this office. It seemed possible that she had been murdered in some other location and brought here afterward for the acts of necrophilia.

Although the detective loved his twelve-year-old daughter as much as he loved his son (and oftentimes, far more), investigations such as this one made him doubt the wisdom of bringing a woman into the world of hideous men.

“Find anythin’?” The acoustics of the market turned Dominic’s voice into something that came out of a child’s walkie-talkie.

“Looking.”

The detective panned the tactical light along the dark seam that joined the floor to the wall. Something flashed, and he stilled his hand, illuminating a crevice.

Two antennae twitched.

It was then that Bettinger beheld the largest cockroach that he had ever seen, which was remarkable since he had thrice visited Florida with his wife and kids. Slowly, he approached the creature, which boldly held its ground.

“You see what happened here?”

Antennae waggled like the eyebrows of a sage who answered every question that he was asked with a question that made no sense.

Bettinger turned away from the bug and began a slow and systematic inspection of the floor, looking for anything that had not been visible in the shabby (and incomplete) crime scene photos. The cold sneaked under his parka during this tiny activity, and soon, he was shivering.

A glance at the crevice confirmed that the cockroach was still interested.

“I’m gettin’ hungry,” Dominic announced to his partner, the bug, and the entire block.

Bettinger was two strides away from the end of his floor inspection when he saw something. Kneeling, he looked at the anomaly, which was a collection of intersecting scratches. These radiated from a central point that was a little bit deeper, but still quite superficial. No more than two feet away from this asterisk was a second, very similar mark. A glance to his right showed him one more collection of scratches.

Bettinger stood up, stepped back, and looked at the evidence. Together, the three asterisks formed a perfect equilateral triangle.

The realization of what he was looking at hit him a moment before the pang of revulsion.

“A goddamn tripod.”

Disgusted, the detective finished his inspection of the office and returned it to its owner, the cockroach.

*   *   *

“Nigga made a movie?” Dominic posited as he drove his silver luxury car south on Ganson Street. “Like a snuff movie?”

“I don’t think she was killed in that office.”

“He filmed it when she was dead?” The big fellow turned onto the dirt street where the pavement was kept in piles. “Sounds pretty fuckin’ boring.”

“I might use an adjective other than ‘boring.’”

“‘Adjective.’” Dominic repeated the word as if it might put warts on his tongue.

“If we don’t get anything from the autopsy, we’ll interview prostitutes—try and find another who’s got the same tattoo or who knows something about it.”

“I was doin’ other stuff before you started this here. I got important things t—”

“Now you’re doing this,” interrupted Bettinger.

Dominic tightened his fists on the wheel. His bandages rippled, but he said nothing.

The car proceeded south.

Soon, the policemen exited Shitopia and entered the Toilet, where the twilight sun painted cracked streets and broken civilians the color of urine. Although it was past four o’clock in the afternoon, most of these people looked like they were just waking up.