D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

The next morning, Nick was in the shower, debating what to do next. He came up with some of his best ideas in the shower, which is why most of them involved rubber ducks or dandruff shampoo. Toweling off, he grabbed his transmitter from atop his dresser. “Trans Sweeny.”

The transmitter was the size of a golf ball cut in half and looked something like a chrome-plated ladybug. At the sound of Nick’s voice, the transmitter opened its “eyes,” two tiny cameras that would send his image to Todd Sweeny’s home video screen. Moments later, a six-inch hologram of Todd’s head appeared above Nick’s palm.

“Ah, Mr. Wergild, yes. What can I do for you?”

“I need to see whatever’s left of Flockhart. After you chop up a corpse, what happens to the remains?”

“After we strip a long pig of its meat ,” Todd corrected, “we sell the leftovers to an elderly couple in Oregon who make scrimshaw.”

“…What’s scrimshaw?” he asked reluctantly. Whatever it was, he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Art made from bones.”

“Oh, lovely. That’s not creepy at all…”

The scrimshaw store was in the tiny town of Fossil, Oregon, about three hours away. The shop wasn’t hard to find, as there were only about five hundred people in the whole area. It was a dilapidated shack with faded blue paint, sitting across the street from a museum. A battered sign outside read “Napoleon’s Boney Art.”

“That’s the thing I hate about my job,” Nick thought. “I can arrest murderers and rapists, but I’m powerless to stop people who make bad puns.”

The inside of the store was one large room. The walls were darkly stained paneling decorated with autographed photos of the various celebrities that had supposedly been there. Strangely, they were all signed in the same handwriting, and many of the celebrities had forgotten how to spell their own names. Either the photos were fakes or the Hollywood lifestyle had rotted their brains. Possibly both.

Ancient, glass display cases divided the store into several sections. One case held flutes carved from femurs. Another case was filled with bowls made from skulls, some bleached white, but most painted in bright colors. Stacked near the door, a few pieces of furniture made from bones and barbed wire slowly gathered dust.

In the back of the store stood the sales counter, an immense, oaken thing inlayed with pieces of bone. On top of the counter, next to the cash register, a gray parrot dozed in a wrought iron birdcage. Behind the counter, a white haired man sat on a stool and stared at a grainy hologram of a daytime talk show.

“You must be Napoleon,” Nick said, extending his hand. “Or should I say mister….” Napoleon ignored his attempt at a handshake. Awkwardly, Nick pulled his hand away and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Nice parrot.”

“He’s my buddy,” Napoleon grunted. “The wife makes me keep him here at the store because he makes noise when we make love. I never saw what the big deal was. She made those noises first!”

Nick was suddenly desperate to change the subject. He introduced himself and quickly explained the situation: Renée’s apparent murder, the missing body, his joke about the Donner party, everything. “Have you received any damaged bones in the past month?” he asked. “Shattered skulls? Fractured femurs? Cracked coccyx?”

“No, can’t say I have. Everything is usually in perfect condition. The bones Mr. Sweeny sends here are always sealed in packing foam.” Packing foam was a chemical spray used in the shipping industry. After an object was coated in it, the packing foam expanded, providing a layer of rubber-like protection. It was also a tasty dessert topping.

Nick pulled his transmitter from his pocket. “Even so, I would like to call in a forensics team to examine your inventory. I know it’s a bit of an imposition but, if you have any of Flockhart’s bones here, it would help me find the killer. You could be a hero. Think of it! You could have a low-budget, made-for-TV movie loosely based on the story of your life!”

“I don’t want people looking around my shop,” Napoleon snapped. He yanked the transmitter from Nick’s hand and tossed it roughly onto the counter. “It’s not like when I was a kid. This is my property, and I don’t have to let anybody come in here. Private property is sacred, damn it! You have to respect that, even in the middle of a murder investigation. It would be better to let a thousand murderers go free than to see the rights of one innocent man trampled underfoot!”

“I’ll give you twelve dollars.”

“Sure.”

A white van pulled in front of the shop. It had a blue light bar on the top and a red and gold magnetic sign on its side. “Bend Forensic Investigation – Homicides, Sex Crimes, and Assaults – Also Available for Children’s Parties.” Four women and three men in white lab coats piled out of the van and headed into the shop. While they opened the display cases and examined Napoleon’s morbid creations, Nick waited outside, enjoying a cigarette. Actually, “enjoying” is an understatement. Compared to how the rest of his day was going, smoking the cigarette was unbridled ecstasy.

Overhead, a black and yellow airplane buzzed by like an enormous bumblebee. A dog walker brushed past Nick, grimacing and waving away his smoke. An ice cream truck rolled slowly through the neighborhood. Oddly, it was playing Ride of the Valkyries. The team supervisor, a woman with a severely shaved head and a silver nose ring, joined him on the sidewalk. Her name tag said “Wendy.”

“Mr. Wergild,” she said, checking her clipboard, “the majority of the bones appeared to be either male or of the wrong age, so they were rejected immediately. The bones from young, petite females belonged to just three individuals. We have taken scrapings from the bones and, as guaranteed in our commercial, you will have your DNA results in about an hour. Do you have a major credit card?”

“No, I do everything in cash.” Most credit card companies refused to do business with Nick, as he treated bills like mosquito bites: tiny annoyances that would go away if he ignored them long enough. “But not to worry. My client will be taking care of everything.” He made a transmission to Todd Sweeny.

“What is it now?” Todd demanded, annoyed. It looked like he had just gotten out of the shower.

“I need you to send your credit card number to Bend Forensic Investigation. I’ll give you their frequency…”

Nick followed Wendy back into the shop. Still sitting behind the sales counter, Napoleon was feeding the parrot a spinach leaf. In between bites, the parrot emitted shrill grunts and groans. One of the investigators, a heavyset man with a pockmarked face, rushed over to Wendy. “The DNA tests are finished,” he said, showing her his wrist clipboard. “No matches with our victim. One of the individuals had her DNA on file with a genetic research company in Portland. Another individual matched the employee records at a local bank; they keep their employee’s DNA on file as an anti-theft measure. The third was obviously too elderly. Her joints had deteriorated.”

“They won’t do that if you roll them properly,” Nick said.

“I have something else that might catch your interest,” the investigator said, addressing Wendy. “I happened to look out the back window, and it looks like the shopkeeper is stripping bones in the alley behind the store. The thing is, the chemicals he’s using are known to cause cancer, birth defects, and excessive bleeding from the eyes. He’s just letting the chemicals run down the street and into the sewer! I’m sure his insurance company wouldn’t be too happy about that!”