Mike Faricy - Bombshell

“No, like I said on the phone, very straightforward. I’ve noted any discrepancy with a Post-It-Note but it was all very minor sort of stuff.”

“Sounds like it was pretty easy on your end.”

“I still had to make the calls. Still had to call back when someone was busy. You’ve got over three hundred applications, three hundred and seven to be exact.”

“Sign of the times, God I’d like to hire dozens, they all interviewed well, but it’ll only be one or two,” he said shaking his head, then looked at his watch. “It’s after five, want a bump?”

“Maybe just one.”

Andy’s expansive office was what I guessed any CEO’s would be like, well, if you discounted the huge painting of tombstones over the couch against the far wall and the oak panels sporting various coffin handles arrayed along the window sill. I always thought it would be funny if Andy’s phone played Taps or Amazing Grace, but kept that suggestion to myself. His desk was covered with files, reports and pictures of his family. I settled into the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk and waited.

He reached around to a wood box sitting on the credenza. The thing was polished burled wood, inlaid with mother of pearl and fancy veneer designs, a gorgeous little bit of craftsmanship. There was a brass plaque on the top of the box with Andy’s name exquisitely engraved. He opened the hinged top and pulled out a bottle of Jameson, then two cut crystal glasses.

“Gee, and to think I knew you when you used to drink beer right out of the tap.”

“Nice, isn’t it? It’s one of our better sellers, gorgeous little thing.”

“You’re selling liquor cabinets now?”

“No, you kidding? It’s an urn.”

“An urn?”

“For ashes, you know, after a cremation. Holds a fifth and a couple of glasses rather nicely, don’t you think?”

“That’s your name on the thing?”

“A little industry humor,” he said, pouring.

We chatted on a bit, catching up on various guys one or the other had lost track of over time. Then I asked Andy, “You follow the news about someone stalking that English Women’s Roller Derby Team?”

Andy took a sip, looked thoughtful for half a moment.

“Just that I think they finally got the guy, didn’t they? Some idiot attacked them down at the Veteran’s Auditorium. Guess he’d followed them all across the country or something. What an absolute whack job. Where do they come from?”

“Well, that’s not exactly right. I think the incident you’re referring to was more of a misunderstanding, some poor innocent actually harangued by one of the women. I don’t think that particular situation was the stalker as much as it was one of the women flipping out and going off the deep end.”

“Going off the deep end? The story I read said some nut case started grabbing and groping those women and they eventually beat the shit out of him. Not enough if you ask me. Someone did that to one of my daughters I’d have him lined up to sample a number of our products.” He followed up with a healthy sip, then reached around for the bottle.

“You weren’t involved in that, were you?” He eyed me suspiciously, held the bottle out ready to pour into my extended glass, waiting for the correct answer before he commenced.

“No, I wasn’t involved,” I lied. “I’ve been working with them, the English team, trying to get a handle on what sort of individual would be doing this.”

“That’s easy, like I said, some whack job.”

“Yeah, of course. But, part of the stalking has been someone mailing severed fingers to one of the girls.”

“Fingers?”

“Yeah, always the middle finger, minus the fingertip, by-the-way. Mailed the things to a couple of different cities where they were. Then in Chicago, he slipped one under the door of the hotel room.”

“No shit?”

“So far, none of the fingers correspond to any DNA in the data base. Well, actually we’ve only been able to get results back on one. By the way, it had been frozen. I mean frozen at some point, not after the thing was delivered.”

Andy nodded like this made sense, then took a sip.

“God, and people kid me about my business,” he said, gazing at the ceiling.

“Andy, how hard would it be for someone in your line of work to acquire fingers?”

“Harder than you think,” he said, not blinking. “You’re dealing with families. Now-a — days, it wouldn’t be uncommon to have an open casket prior to the actual funeral service whether at a mortuary or a church. From there you’re on your way to the cemetery for the graveside service, the casket’s locked, lowered, covered then and there. It’s pretty traditional for hands to be exposed while the deceased lies in repose. There’s family hovering around at all time. It would be very risky for someone to try what you’re suggesting, not to mention absolutely crazy on about a dozen different levels.”

“What about a morgue?”

“Same sort of process, think of the morgue as more like a holding facility, but the body is almost always turned over to a mortuary at some point.”

“How the hell could someone have access to a steady supply of fingers?” I asked.

“I really can’t see it from our industry, anything’s possible, but there are so many checks and balances. So much scrutiny and it’s very common for people to be putting a last minute something into the coffin, a letter, a photo, it just, it would be really difficult. What about some industrial circumstance?”

“Yeah sure, I can just imagine OSHA going easy on some place where guys routinely lose fingers.”

“Yeah, I get your point.”

Andy seemed to think for a long time, staring at his liquor urn, he sipped some more.

“You know, there is one way, maybe?”

“Oh?”

“A crematorium.”

“How does that work, the body is reduced to ashes, or in your case a fifth of Jameson.”

“Actually, it’s reduced to dried bits of bone fragments. They grind those up in what’s called a cremulator, then…”

“Okay, okay, too much information.”

“It’s extremely rare that a family would watch the actual cremation. Perhaps, you know, just before that process begins, you could get in there, harvest what you wanted and any telltale sign would be almost immediately destroyed.”

“Harvest?” I asked.

“Yeah, harvest.”

Maybe, I thought, then held out my glass for another refill.

“What about a hospital?”

“Sure it’s possible, but one thing.”

“Which is?” I asked, then sipped.

“Hospitals don’t amputate healthy fingers. The finger would have to be damaged, severely, before they would amputate. Of course there are all sorts of procedures and controls for disposal, they don’t just toss the things in the dumpster.”

That seemed to make sense.

“You said someone had removed the tip of the finger, so the fingerprints couldn’t be checked?”

I nodded.

“Well unless the thing was also severely damaged, which would seem to be obvious to anyone viewing it, I don’t think the hospital or a surgery clinic is your source.”

“My first thought was something along the lines of a homeless guy or a druggy but there’s four separate incidents of this, you’d think someone, somewhere, would report an attack or something. So I don’t know, I guess I’m back to your end of things,” I said.

“Possibly,” Andy replied and sipped some more Jameson.

The following morning I was in my office watching co-eds waiting for the Randolph Ave. bus across the street. They didn’t look too happy. Maybe that was just because it was morning and they couldn’t stay in bed. Maybe it was exam week. Maybe it was because they were nursing a hangover like mine.