Serenity, Michigan
December 1879
Michael Parré removed the leather butcher’s apron and hung it from a hook behind the door. Moving to a sink on the far wall, he rolled up his sleeves and began washing the blood and gore from his hands. Only when they were clean did he move to washing his face, removing the specks of blood and drops of sweat that always collected there during his work. Even in the cellar surgery it became warm during the operations, especially when wearing the heavy apron. Not to mention that the work got his blood pumping and adrenaline rushing.
He looked casually back at the table, where the remains of his efforts lay in a pulpy pile. His gaze was dispassionate, the blood lust that fueled him having drained away with the conclusion of the day’s labors. It was always that way: an irresistible compulsion that would not quiet until he had satisfied its demands for blood ... and death.
Of course, he thought, that wasn’t the only reason he did it. No, there was a completely reasonable excuse. And he smiled to himself as he pictured the shocked and chagrined expressions of the faces of those fools at the University of Michigan Medical School who, in their eternal lack of foresight, had expelled him from the program on the basis of—what was it they had cited? Something about “a complete and utter disregard for humanity”? That was ridiculous. The expulsion letter had gone on to list several examples of how he, as a training medical student, had allegedly used unnecessarily brutal procedures on patients and exhibited an “unusually zealous reliance on surgical methods” to treat “minor ailments.” It was all absurd and a clear attempt to railroad him from the program, just because he was unpopular with the faculty and staff. Well, that same body would, indeed, be shocked and chagrined when he showed up on the scene, the answer to all of their problems, having been entirely self-taught and displaying skills superior to even their most experienced doctors.
In the end, Parré thought, the expulsion had likely been a blessing. Learning in school simply made one duplicate of everyone else. There was no imagination, no daring, no resourcefulness to anything they attempted. But here, in his own operating room and able to proceed with complete impunity, he could explore any methodology he chose and follow patterns of experimentation that would have him jailed elsewhere.
Finally done cleaning himself, Parré walked to the door of the operation room and let himself out. He walked into the main part of the cellar, leaving the door open to let the air circulate, and headed toward the stairs.
“Mrs. Chance?” he called, as he climbed toward the main floor of the house. “I’ve completed the operation. You may begin the cleaning procedure.”
Mrs. Chance did not appear on command as she normally did, which might have made Parré angry had it not been so unusual. He reached the main floor and, after peeking into the kitchen, made for the staircase that went up to the second floor, which held the sleeping quarters. He opened his mouth to call out, but for some reason remained quiet.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and listened. He thought he heard something—a soft sound, a mournful sound—but he couldn’t be sure. His hearing had never been the same since his time in the artillery and every now and then played tricks on him. But, concentrating further on the sound, he became convinced it was real; someone was crying, moaning.
He moved forward slowly, following the noise until he stood directly outside of Mrs. Chance’s room. As a rule, he respected her privacy and never entered her chambers, but now the door was slightly ajar—probably so she could hear him calling for her—and so Parré slipped close and peered through the crack.
Mrs. Chance sat on her four-poster bed, bent over something she held on her lap, her shoulders shaking with soft sobs. For several moments, Parré stood there quietly, unsure how to proceed. His eyes wrinkled with curiosity. He had never seen her cry before. And, now that he realized this, it seemed odd, women being no stranger to tears. He felt no empathy for the woman, but this caused him no pause—Parré had long ago made peace with his lack of emotion, even though he’d become aware it was something others experienced that he himself lacked.
At last, he raised one fist and rapped on the door frame with his knuckles.
Mrs. Chance jumped visibly and quickly moved the object—it appeared to be a box of some sort—on her lap to her far side, out of sight from the door.
“Yes?” she asked, too loudly, her voice cracking.
“It’s Michael. I called for you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not hear you.”
“I am done with the operation. You may proceed with the cleanup.”
“Of course,” she said. “I will be right down.”
Parré waited, hoping she would stand and reveal what she’d moved from her lap, but the older woman simply sat and waited.
At last, Parré gave up. “Very well. Please do so as soon as you can. There may yet be another before the day is out.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Chance repeated.
Parré shuffled back from the door, and then turned and walked slowly down the stairs.