D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Several giraffes stood idly, mouths open, like bored guests at a cocktail party. They didn’t seem to notice that a filing cabinet with a cigarette lighter was trying to set them on fire. An elegantly dressed waiter explained to the coat rack that there were no salmon puffs right now, but if she would just be patient, a new batch would be ready shortly. Of course, none of them were real. They were the result of the powerful hallucinogens that were Nick’s main defense against the continued onslaught of reality.

Behind Nick’s left ear was an inducer, a small, black disk covered in tiny buttons. The inducer fired electromagnetic pulses into the user’s brain, producing near-overwhelming synesthesia. While under its influence, words had shapes and smells had sounds. If Nick played some music, he could see it hanging in the air, each note a different color. Oddly, blues songs were always orange.

He was also enjoying a far more common, electronic hallucination known as “television”. He had been watching comedies most of the day, but had switched to drama when he ran out of marijuana. Currently, the hologram projector in his desk was showing a war movie. Several miniature tanks crawled to the top of his stapler, preparing to bombard the enemy camp hidden behind his coffee mug. The LSD made the film’s special effects simply fantastic. Unfortunately, the plot was unintelligible. But for that, the drugs may have been less to blame than the director.

All these things combined meant that the normally vigilant detective never saw the white-haired man in the ridiculously expensive suit barge into his office. He also didn’t notice the man wave his hand through the hologram, impatiently check his watch, and clear his throat in an “I’m here, why don’t you notice me, you ass?” sort of way. Frustrated, the man jabbed Nick in the chest with the pointy end of his umbrella.

Nick lurched back in surprise and fell out of his chair. Picking himself up, he switched off the hologram, yanked off his inducer and stared. The man in his office was older, late sixties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair. He had a long, thin frame and a face creased with years of stress and worry. He wore a gray fedora and an Italian suit that, strangely, appeared to be melting.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” Nick asked cautiously. “If this is another hallucination,” he thought, “he’ll probably tell me to kill my girlfriend, or sell my soul to the devil, or to take up knitting.”

Extending a slender hand, the man offered Nick a business card. “Good evening, Mr. Wergild. My name is Todd Sweeney. I own a several businesses here in town, and I have run into a rather unfortunate problem with one of my employees. You have a reputation for solving unusual cases, so I thought you could help.” Todd spoke with a British accent but sounded as if he had been in America for quite a while.

“A man of your means ought to have crime insurance,” Nick said dismissively, now fairly certain that he was dealing with an actual person. He dropped back into his chair and tried to look professional.

“I have got insurance,” Todd insisted, gesturing with his umbrella. “However, my problem is rather… unique. Should I report it to my insurance company, I am positive that the story would soon reach the media. I assumed a private investigator would be rather more discrete.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms nervously, his silver wristwatch flashing in the dim lighting.

“I understand. No one wants bad publicity.” Nick motioned for Todd to take a seat. “May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Cigarette?”

“Again, no.”

“Horse tranquilizer?”

“What?”

“Nothing. So, what’s the problem? ”

Todd took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I suppose I should start by saying that there has been a murder. The head waitress at my restaurant, a young woman named Renée Flockhart. When her family discovers what has occurred, they will have every reason in the world to sue me. I would like you to locate the killer before I inform her parents of the murder. If they already have their reimbursement coming, they may decide to not pursue the matter in court.”

After the government collapsed, the private sector took over emergency and protection services. As there were no police, most people purchased crime insurance. If they were assaulted or robbed, the insurance company would reimburse them and then send their investigators after the suspect. Captured suspects were tried by an independent arbiter.

Non-violent criminals, if they had a legitimate job, were implanted with a tracking device and their wages docked until the insurance company recovered its losses. However, criminals were locked away in work camps if they were dangerous, unemployed, or aromatically challenged. The profit from their labors was given to the insurance company. The prisoners generally did simple, mindlessly repetitive work like making furniture, assembling toys, or writing for television.

Victims without insurance had to hire a manhunter like Nick. A typical manhunter would find the criminal in exchange for a percentage of the docked wages or work camp profits. Nick liked to call it “The Great Commission.”

“Look, Sweeney,” Nick said, standing unsteadily, “it can take months to solve a murder. I hope you have a meat locker at that restaurant of yours. By tomorrow morning, your dead woman will start stinking up the place.”

“Well, that’s just it. She won’t. There’s no body.”

“What happened to the body? It didn’t just get up and walk away! …Did it?”

Todd seemed anxious, unsure how to properly explain himself. “I’m sure you know about hospital organ purchase programs.”

“Sure. If you sign a sales contract, the hospital will buy your organs when you die. It’s a good way to pay for your funeral expenses.” Nick opened several desk drawers, looking for his bottle of little yellow pills. “Downers” always helped him concentrate on important conversations.

“The restaurant has a similar program,” Todd explained. “Anyone in good health may sign a contract with us and, after the hospital removes their vital organs, we get the rest of the body.”

“Wait… Why do you want the rest of the body?” Nick didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

“For the meat.”

Nick gave up on looking for the pills. This conversation called for bourbon. “You buy human bodies for the meat? Are you a cannibal, Sweeney?”

“I would never eat a human being; I’m a vegetarian. However, I have no problem catering to the wishes of my clientele.”

“Is that what happened? They ate the waitress? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you…”

Todd looked rather embarrassed. “It seems so. Believe it or not, there is a demand for such things. Actually, as strange as it may sound, many of my best customers are vegans. They have no objection to eating human meat as humans are the only animals that can consent to being eaten.”

“Unless you count parrots,” Nick observed, “or those gorillas that know sign language. But you never got consent. Flockhart was eaten, but she didn’t want to be?”

“Yes, that appears to be the case. The bodies are quite valuable, which has created a bit of a black market. Therefore, we keep multiple copies of the contracts and the delivery receipts. This shows that the person was not murdered, but rather died of natural causes.”

“Murder is a natural cause,” Nick insisted. “It happens in nature all the time. Animals fight over mates, or to control their territory. Squirrels kill for pleasure.”

“As I was saying,” Todd interrupted, continuing his story, “I was doing my regular audit of our records when I came across an error. We had recorded a body that didn’t have a matching delivery receipt… It seemed that we had a body that had never been shipped to us!”