The Journals of Bayliss #3

Not a cat guy.

Photo by Stacy Kranitz

Dec. 23, 2006 XX

X - In the dream, I’m getting closer. But, when I try to run forward, I can’t. When I try to yell at the person I’m after, I can’t. Some voice tells me that this isn’t a dream. Then, I’m outside a van and handed a piece of paper. What I want to say or what’s in my head is on the paper, but it’s so dark, and I can’t see it, or say it, or remember it, even though they’re my words. Then the person I’ve been after is right behind me. I’m straining to turn my head around, but can’t. I only whisper. The words falling from my mouth are visible in the dark.

---

Should I be writing about what I saw yesterday at that crappy apartment complex? I wish I hadn’t seen it. But to be honest, bodies that are in that condition have always intrigued me. I’m going to write shit down. Because if I can be honest no matter how fucked up it is, maybe there’s peace on the other side. So, I’ll write.

With a decomp it always goes like this:

#1 - Get past the initial stench, toxicity, the stinging eyes.

#2 - Manage the gag reflex. Once that’s handled, then it’s a full-fledged Disneyland ride. Goose bumps even. Feels like home.

#3 - Transverse the outskirts before landing in the town square.

I barely even looked at the body. I was scanning Walt Jamison’s living room like Frank and I would do.

From the walls, I circle in:

1 pair of bloodied socks, size 9-12 1 Broken chair on its side 1 Small table with a barely eaten TV dinner being licked by - 1 mangy, gray cat. 23 Empty beer bottles Foil sheets scattered around - a party gone wrong?

Moving closer there was -

1 men’s tighty whitey 1 torn pair of sweatpants, More blood and flesh in wet clumps, human and cat excrement 1 chisel, and 1 mallet covered in still more blood (murder weapons) 1 eyeball (left) surrounded by brain bits. 1 smashed up little guitar.

First thought: some murders are quick. This wasn’t.

Second thought: Oh. THAT Walt Jamison. It’s a smashed ukelele, not a guitar.

I made sure to step lightly and avoid anything. On the wall I noticed a stained, busted up poster advertising Flat Hills Own: The Jamison Family. There was a semi-crumbled piece of paper next to what was left of the person’s head. That paper will probably prove to be important, but I didn’t look at it too closely. It was a receipt of some sort, with red markings. I made out the word “Bar”.

The body: white, male, 35-40 yrs old, approx 6’0”, skinny 130 lbs soaking wet, AND knowing who it likely was - a musician.

There was an undisturbed chair. I sat down and reminded myself this wasn’t my job anymore, I was just an unfortunate interloper. I took it all in —dispassionate as could be. A thought arose:

Two people, maybe three. Drinking and smoking meth, or crack. There was a huge struggle. The broken chair was used on the victim, then he was beaten some more with that dinky uke. Tortured. Stripped down, and as far as I could tell, raped. The coup de gras would have been the mallet pounding the spike through his left eye.

That cat came over, rubbing up against my leg, purring. Why do cats take to me? It’s weird because I don’t like cats and since they’re supposed to be so smart, they should scientifically sense that.

This is about to be Flat Hll’s version of a Redball. No doubt.

That suspicion was confirmed the minute Cassie climbed through the window gagging. She screamed, “There’s that motherfucker Walt Jamison!” She tromped through the crime scene and spat on him, “Thank God my Paul’s still alive”, she’s laughing and crying, laughing and crying. Heaves, then runs out.

In those situations, I find it’s best to keep quiet. To be honest, it’s too bad that body wasn’t Paul because now Paul’s in a lot of trouble.

I went into the empty hallway of the complex, where the stench had mingled with mildew and the smell of fried pork. Knocked on doors until someone let me use their phone to call Tony.

“Jesus, you brought Baltimore with you” was all he said, then hung up.

But I didn’t do anything. This had nothing to do with me.

---

Dad discarded me and Mom. How did he justify beating me? Or calling me a liar about Uncle George? I often wondered what secrets he may have had that caused him to say ‘fuck it’ to his own family and not get help. As a species, he didn’t think humans were much good, or of much use. That time when he was so drunk, said humans were no better than straw dogs, sacrificed on a funeral pyre.

I’m sure of one thing. I became a Homicide Detective to prove him wrong. I told him on his deathbed that we have value, we aren’t disposable. A cop knows that better than anyone. I don’t think he understood, but at least I tried in the end.

---

By the time the coroner showed up, photos had been taken and evidence bagged. A couple of the Jamisons, father Floyd ( harmonica and vocals) and sister Marion (standup bass and dulcimer), had come by and were talking with Tony and his skeleton unit of frogs. I was getting hungry. Tony turned to me and cracked a joke about Walt Jamison’s left eye after the frogs bagged it. He said, “What do you call a penguin with no eye?” - he didn’t wait for me to guess - “A penguin.”

It was a little funny.

District Attorney up in Fairville is driving in tomorrow. Tony was getting aggravated, I could tell. The Jamisons still had plenty of fans in the county who weren’t about to let this go. The local paper even sent someone out to cover the spectacle, a funny-looking young guy named Duffy. So I was right, it was a Redball and Tony wouldn’t have the manpower for it.

Tony said we should meet up in an hour and left. I didn’t have a ride since Cassie blew out of here. Duffy offered me one.

Then I grabbed the goddamn cat on the way out. Why? No clue.

On the ride to the lot, I learned Duffy also runs the true crime radio show. He’s 25 and ambitious which is good to see in this town. He said I was pretty calm for someone at a murder scene. When he couldn’t get a peep out of me, he tore into his fascination with crime. He said growing up here there wasn’t much local crime so he found books on it, or when the TV worked he’d watch cop documentaries.

Then he starts in on Flat Hill, the missing persons, and Walt Jamison. I’m pretty sure he’s gay because he gets so wound up about this hobby of his, gets embarrassed, and then flips to talk about his girlfriend. How he does it is a sure tip-off.

He told me people started to go missing about 5 years ago, the same time that the oxy started getting a foothold. People he’d grown up with were changing overnight. Suppliers were coming through from Baltimore and Detroit covering the whole region. He said maybe as many as 20 were missing, but no one says anything because everyone is too busy looking for cheaper oxy, ripping family members off, or afraid they’ll be next. It’s tearing families to shreds, he said.

That’s what happened with Walt. The family kept performing without him two years ago, without a word of explanation. A year later they took a hiatus and Walt started showing up in the arrest logs for misdemeanors. He’d been brought in on a robbery, and a sexual assault - but never got charged.

I didn’t ask Duffy what he thought about Tony, although I’m sure he’d be honest. Instead, I showed him the receipt I’d lifted from Walt’s place. Why’d I taken it? Habit. Or maybe I don’t trust the frogs know what they’re doing.

Duffy recognized it, he said it might be this fancy place up towards Fairville. Then he gave me his number in case I needed anything. He might come in handy for something.

The cat was purring asleep.

I met up with Tony for coffee. It was a redball alright. He’s got pressure from the Jamisons, the press, and now Walt’s murder is threatening to screw up Christmas.

He said Fairville PD won’t touch it because they’re stretched too thin and the crime scene is contaminated. Some of that was my fault, he said, by walking around the scene. He knows I’m a pro, but I don’t mention Cassie, and just say, yeah maybe so. He says I owe him because I’m family and an ex-cop, so I need to pitch in and help get this solved before Christmas or the Feast will be a shit show. If not, he said he’d charge me with breaking and entering. What a bluff.

Old Gino came by the table, he’s the only guy in Flat Hill who wears a blazer all day. His granddaughter’s name is Virginia, the same as mom, and she was holding his hand. A big toothy 8-year-old smile. She asked if there was a murder. Was there? Insistent like young kids are. Tony, looked to Gino, who nodded, and Tony told her the whole story. She kept saying, “Oh my god!”Giggling and sheiking. “Oh my god!”

Gino nudged me, saying she loves true crime. “If that’s so,” I said, “she’s in luck. This town has plenty for such a quiet place.”

Just like that, everything slowed down. Smiles turned quizzical. Then Gino told me, we have a nice, quiet culture here, Mr. Bayliss. Then he laughed, his granddaughter Virginia giggled, even Tony laughed - but it all seemed strained. Or, maybe I was imagining.