Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

The two men nibbled and drank, and Jeremy felt warmth- a lacquer of relaxation- flow from his toes to his scalp. When Arthur said, “Their smiles give them away,” Jeremy was momentarily confused. Then he reminded himself: those obnoxious, pathogenic dads he’d been talking about.

He said, “Do as I say, not as I do. It never works.”

“Interesting,” said Arthur. “Not counterintuitive, but interesting. So, it’s all about families.”

“That’s what I’ve seen.”

“Interesting,” Arthur repeated. Then he changed the subject.

To butterflies.

Specimens he’d come across while serving in Panama. Off-duty forays into the jungles of Costa Rica. Weather that “had one drenched in sweat even as one showered.”

The old man drank and fooled with his bumblebee bow tie and ate skewered sausages, and a dreamy look came into his eyes as he embarked upon a story. A patient he’d seen back in Panama. A young officer in the Corps of Engineers who’d returned from a jungle hike, felt an itch under his left shoulder blade, reached back and fingered a slight swelling and believed himself bitten.

He’d thought nothing of it until a day later when the swelling had tripled in size.

“But still,” said Arthur, “he didn’t come in for examination. No fever, no other discomfort- the old machismo, you know. On the second day, the pain arrived. Wonderful messenger, pain. Teaches us all sorts of lessons about our bodies. This pain was electric- or so the fellow described it. A high-voltage electric shock running continuously through his torso. As if he’d been hooked up to a live circuit. By the time I saw him he was deathly pallid and shaking and in quite a bit of agony. And the swelling had trebled, yet again. Furthermore,” Arthur leaned forward, “the lad was certain there was something moving within.”

He selected a potato chip, slid it between his lips, chewed deliberately, dusted crumbs from his beard and continued.

“My assumption upon hearing that- motion- was crepitus. Fluid buildup secondary to infection, nothing alarming on the face of it. But the poor lad removed his shirt and as I observed the mass I became intrigued.” Arthur licked salt from his lips. In the dim light of the bar, his eyes were the color of fine jade.

“The swelling was huge, Jeremy. Highly discolored, the beginnings of necrosis had set in. Black flesh, somewhat bubal, so one had to consider plague. But there was no serious probability of plague, the corps had cleaned the Canal Zone quite thoroughly. Still, medicine is predicated on surprise, that’s the fun of it, and I knew I had to culture the mass. In preparation, I palpated- the wretch could barely contain himself from screaming- and as I did I noticed that there did, indeed, seem to be some sort of independent movement beneath the skin. Unlike any crepitus I’d ever seen.”

Another potato chip. A slow sip of martini.

Arthur sat back again.

Jeremy had moved forward on his seat. He relaxed, consciously. Waited for the punch line.

Arthur ate and drank, looked quite content. The old bastard hadn’t finished. Too drunk to continue?

Jeremy fought the urge to say, “What happened then?”

Finally, Arthur drained his martini glass and gave a low sigh of contentment. “At that point, rather than commence with the examination, I sent the fellow for an X ray and the results were quite fascinating, if inconclusive.”

Munch. Sip.

“What did it show?” said Jeremy.

“A gelatinous mass of indeterminate origin,” said Arthur. “A mass unlike any neoplasm or cystic formation I’d ever seen. My reference books were of no help. Neither was the radiologist- not the brightest fellow in the first place. In any event, I decided to cut the lad open, but gingerly. Which was fortunate because I was able to preserve it, intact.”

Arthur stared at the empty martini glass and smiled in reminiscence. Jeremy busied himself with the last drops of single malt.

Unbuttoning his vest, the pathologist shook his head, in wonder. “Infestation. Larval infestation. The poor lad had been selected by a little known jungle beetle as the nutritional host for its new family- an unusually petite ectoparasitoid of the Adephaga family. The insect is equipped with a set of biochemical tools that prove extremely useful to its survival. It’s brown and unassuming and, hence, hard to spot, and, to the uninformed, appears minimally threatening. Furthermore, it exudes a chemical that repels predators, and its excrement possesses anesthetic properties. Its modus is to deposit its feces on the victim’s skin, which accomplishes the dual goal of relieving itself and numbing the host epidermis. That allows for a swift, clean incision large enough to accommodate an extravagantly curved ovipositor- a beak, if you will, connected to the creature’s reproductive tract that allows for rapid injection of eggs. Of even further interest is the fact that it’s the father beetle who accomplishes this. I was reminded of all this by your mention of violence-enabling fathers.”

Smile. A rueful glance at the empty glass. Arthur went on, “Once his mate’s eggs have been fertilized, the male takes it upon himself to assume full responsibility for the family’s future. He reenters the female, extracts the eggs, injects them into his own thorax and feeds the brood with his body tissue until a suitable host is found.”

“Liberated man,” muttered Jeremy.

“Quite.” Arthur twirled his martini glass, ate the pearl onion, placed his large hands flat on the table.

“What happened to the patient?”

“I scooped out the entire mass, taking pains to do it cleanly. Thousands of larvae, all quite alive, thriving quite nicely, thank you, because of the high protein content of young, American military musculature. No lasting damage to the poor lieutenant other than a scar and some tenderness for several weeks. And several months of rather disturbing dreams. He applied for and received a discharge. Moved to Cleveland, or some such place. The larvae didn’t survive. I tried to come up with substitute nutrition for the little devils. Agar, gelatin, beef broth, bonemeal, ground insect parts- nothing worked. The fascinating aspect of the case was that the very existence of this particular beetle had been under speculation for some time. Many entomologists believed it extinct. A rather interesting case. At least I thought so.”

“The male beetle,” said Jeremy. “Sins of the fathers.”

Arthur studied him. Gave a long, slow nod. “Yes. You might say that.”

Jeremy and Arthur left the bar together and parted at the hotel’s revolving brass doors.

Jeremy was drunk, needed to walk it off, and he headed out to the street. A light rain had fallen. The sidewalks smelled of burnt copper; the city glowed. He walked to the fringes of downtown, entered dark, murderous avenues, unmindful of his own safety.

Feeling curiously uplifted- fearless- after drinking with the pathologist. The gruesome story of the soldier with the larval hump cheered him. When he finally drove home, his head was clear and when he reached his small house he thought, What a pathetic little place. More than enough for someone like me.

Jocelyn’s belongings had been packed up and shipped to the police. Four cartons, she’d brought so little.

Doresh and Hoker had stood around during the packing, and Doresh said, “Mind if we Luminol the bathroom? It’s a chemical we spray and then we turn down the lights and if it glows-”

“- there’s blood,” finished Jeremy. “Go ahead.” Not bothering to ask, Why the bathroom?

He knew the answer. The bathroom was the place, if you were going to…

They sprayed and found nothing. Uniformed officers carried the four cartons away. It was only when they’d left that Jeremy realized they’d taken something of his.