Bottom line, boys: keep your eyes peeled for one or two twisted fucks with a penchant for teens, home surgery, and voodoo.
Sure enough, everything I told them involving the case fell into place. The cops, with the help of the Feds (who love to come in right at the end), located one Dr. Polynice, formally of New Orleans and fired from his post for “unusual practices with cadavers.” In his basement, the authorities discovered the good doctor’s very own teenage chop shop and Voodoo Lounge. After checking phone and mail records, it was found that the doctor had been shipping large crates all over the States. Before each shipment, a call was made from the doctor to MCL spokesman Francis Lazar.
Connection made, target hit. Bull’s-eye. Dr. Polynice’s network was collecting innocent teenagers, murdering them, rearranging their body parts into unidentifiable corpses, and reanimating the patchwork cadavers with forgotten voodoo zombie rituals. And it gets worse, if that’s possible. The bastards were selling the jigsaw kiddies to ManChildLove members. What those twisted pricks did with them I’ll leave to your imagination.
After the cops had jerked around for six months because they couldn’t stretch beyond their own perception of the world, it took me less than a week to solve the case. How many kids could’ve been saved if they’d called me sooner? That’s the question I couldn’t shake.
In the end, more than sixty people were arrested from D.C. to San Diego, charged with crimes ranging from murder to kidnapping to necrophilia. Arrested were members of MCL, lonely, disturbed women, and one or two well meaning but extremely misguided couples unable to adopt or procreate.
Throughout the trial, the subject of reanimation was never brought up, nor were the zombie teens ever shown, talked about, or presented as evidence. They just disappeared, victims for all time. Nobody wants to believe in Frankenstein, but they will believe that someone mail-ordered corpses for sex.
Soon as I heard Blout on the phone this time, I knew something strange was happening. Something the cops couldn’t handle using conventional methods.
“What is it? Emergency? ’Cause if it ain’t, I got a lot of throwing up to do.”
Blout laughed. “Yeah, I heard about last night.”
I didn’t want to let on I had no idea what happened at the Halloween party, so I returned the laugh and said, “It was a great party. I had a good time.” I laughed again. It was one chuckle too many.
“You have no idea what happened last night, do you?”
I paused as long as I could. “No.”
There was an awkward silence that happens every time Blout and I come too close to personal talk. He went on.
“You going to come down here or not?!”
I belched. Bile boiled in my throat. “Yeah, yeah, give me a couple minutes to clean up.”
“Please do.”
He hung up before I could retort. Bastard.
2
I took off my filthy clothes and used them to wipe up the area where I slept, then threw them out the window into the alley. It would be easier to get new stuff than to pay to have vomit, blood, and God knows what else cleaned out of them. I drew all the shades, lit a smoke, and strutted around the apartment naked until I found myself standing in front of my half shattered, full-length mirror. It’d been a long time since I’d looked at myself. What a mess; a maze of scars covered my body. I looked like a scarification fanatic, except they do it on purpose. I got mine quite unwillingly, the result of years and years of getting the shit kicked out of me.