Curran Array - Zombie Pulp

I’d been on the case a month when the eighth and final body in as many weeks turned up. I had narrowed down my cast of revelers to three men by then-one was a former mental patient, another just a big mean bastard with a history of sadism, and the third, a mild mannered guy who just happened to be a professor of anthropology of all things. It turned out that our boy was Quigg, the professor. I caught him in the act. I got there too late to save the girl’s life, but at least I stopped him from carving her up like the Christmas ham at grandma’s house.

I’ll be the first to admit that I worked him over pretty good before I called in Tommy and his boys. When the black and whites finally rolled in, Quigg was in need of some prolonged dental care. But the fact that this twisted, sick piece of shit was even breathing when the bulls slapped the bracelets on him was testament to my self-restraint. Given what he’d done, I should’ve made him the suck the end of my. 45 like a 10 cent lollypop before I urged his brains out the back of his skull.

Anyway, Tommy’s boys took him away. His lawyer-some hot shot greaseball garbage-eater with all the morals of a child molester-tried the insanity plea, but Quigg was convicted and sent upstate. His first night there, he opened his wrists and the angels sighed.

And that’s all she wrote.

Or was it?

“Who the hell would spring a stiff?” I said.

Tommy said, “Who knows? But I’m just bringing you up to speed here. All that happened twelve hours ago, chum. It’s what’s happened since that’s yanking my chain.”

He dropped the bait and I bit.

And it was worse than I thought.

An hour later, after a hot cup of Joe and a hotter shower, I pulled on my rags and went uptown to the townhouse residence of the district attorney, Bobby Tanner. He was a good egg for a prosecutor. He’d hired me numerous times to do background checks on cases he was working on. We were tight. Bobby’s family had money like geese have feathers: he could’ve stuffed mattresses with it. Bobby had attended some ivy league college, but had decided to go into public service much to the chagrin of his people who wanted him to join some upscale whiteshoe firm on Fifth.

But that was the kind of boy Bobby was: honest, decent, principles so high you would’ve needed a ladder to climb over them. Problem was, Bobby didn’t have anything anymore.

Bobby was dead.

His living room was crawling with cops and coroner’s people. They were thick as eels swimming upstream. Tommy and I were standing over in the corner next to a bookshelf, smoking, not saying a hell of a lot. Bobby wasn’t just another stiff, he was our friend.

The condition of the body was eating at us…much the way someone else had been eating at Bobby. He’d been partially devoured, you see. Most of the flesh had been stripped from his face and throat. His belly had been ripped apart. His head had been opened like a can of soup and sucked clean. His left arm was missing beneath the elbow. This time, the killer hadn’t used any tools, the coroner informed us, he’d used teeth and nails.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Tommy said to me, “but there can’t possibly be a connection between Quigg and this.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s dead.”

“He’s also missing,” I pointed out.

“That don’t buy beans,” Tommy said.

And maybe it didn’t. I started thinking about Quigg. It was something I dearly wanted to put out of my head forever. But now it all came back like a bad rash. The same old questions that I never could answer, but ones that I knew were important. Somehow. “I’m still wondering about Quigg,” I said. “What did we really know about him?”

Tommy just stared at me. His was a big fellow, went an easy three-hundred plus, was built like something that could’ve pulled a beer wagon for a living. He wasn’t pretty. He was balding, his face a roadmap of Death Valley, a cigar butt shoved in the corner of his mouth. Maybe not campaign poster material, but effective as hell. Only reason he hadn’t brought in Quigg himself was that Quigg, though under suspicion, was connected like the water works.

“He was a sick sonofabitch,” Tommy said. “He ate goddamn people and now he’s dead. And don’t start with any of that ‘cult’ bullshit with me again. I’m not in the mood.”

It had been my pet theory. You see, Quigg, although technically employed by City College as a professor of anthropology and folklore, had been on the last leg of a five-year leave of absence at the time of his arrest. According to the college, he had been gathering information for some paper he was writing. He spent two years in Haiti, another in Ecuador, and two more hopping around Asia and the Middle East. I’d never been able to connect up any of that unless he had learned how to be a cannibal from some jungle tribe. But I knew there was a connection. I could feel it like a fat man can feel cool air blowing up through a hole in the seat of his pants.

But the cult angle?

One of the few witnesses to the murders claimed he saw not just a lone man leaving the crime scene, but a group of people. And when I was following Quigg around he was always in the company of three or four others. And that night I found him doing his thing…well, I could’ve sworn I heard footsteps running off as I approached. Many of them. I hadn’t bothered following because I’d thought I had my man.

But were there others?

Was Quigg operating alone?

Somehow, I started to see a connection here. Whatever Quigg was part of, maybe it was still in operation. But why Bobby? Why a high-profile victim like the district attorney? It made no real sense…or maybe it made all the sense in the world.

“I’ll be in touch,” I told Tommy, heading towards the door.

“Where the hell you going?”

“Following a hunch,” I said.

Tommy looked at me. “I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass how you spend your free time, Vince, but don’t get yourself in trouble. You know how you are. When you get going, things happen.”

“Things?”

“You know what I mean. Try and keep the body count low, will ya?”

But I was already out the door.

It was midnight and rain was pissing down from a slate sky and I had spent the past three hours parked in the darkness. I was watching the house of Marianne Portis. Why? Because she was really all I had. Marianne was a slight, pale woman who looked like central casting’s idea of a librarian. She didn’t look to me as the sort that could hurt a fly…but you never knew. She showed up every day at Quigg’s trial and, more than once, I saw the two of them pass secretive looks. So I’d had her checked out. When Bobby bought it, I thought of her right away.

But nothing was happening. I didn’t know what I was expecting or hoping for, only that when it happened I’d know it. It was getting on one in the morning and I was starting to nod off when a black sedan rolled up. Marianne came out and hopped in. They drove off and I followed them all the way over to the East Side where they pulled into a small parking lot behind a funeral home. That definitely raised my curiosity a notch. Traffic was light so I didn’t hang around. I drove up to the next block and parked my heap across from some second-rate clip joint and struck out on foot.

The funeral home was stuck in between a boarded-up factory and a row of old houses. It was a two-story brick job with withered ivy climbing all over it like hair on a monkey’s back. There was a gray and weathered sign out front which proudly proclaimed it was the Douglas-Barre Funeral Home and had been since 1907…in case I was counting.

I strolled casually past the front and then circled around back. I came through the alley, a chill wind blasting rain into my face. My overcoat flapped around me like a flag on a high pole and rain ran off the brim of my fedora in tiny rivers. It was so wet even the rats were staying home. I positioned myself beneath the overhang of a warehouse loading dock, hiding in a pocket of shadow like a spider in a crevice.