Dealing with depression, PTSD and other issues, Tom Jurgen takes on a
murder case: The victim was stabbed 171 times, and his body was covered with
blood—but not all of it was human.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Chicken Fight, Part One
Vandella Burroughs pounded her fist on her knee. “My husband
is dead! Someone stabbed him 171 times! And the police aren’t doing a damn
thing about it!”
I took a
deep breath. Just like my therapist had advised me. “I don’t, uh, usually handle
murder cases.”
“Sure you do.” Sharon Marmont
clicked her expensive Montblanc pen. She’s a lawyer. She usually calls me when
she has a case that veers into . . . unusual territory. “You’ll want this one.”
I pulled the police report forward.
“Just let me take a look.” I opened the folder, reminding myself to stay calm.
This is what I did.
Tom Jurgen. Ex-reporter. Private
detective. Currently struggling with PTSD and depression. After years of
dealing with vampires, demons, and monsters of all kinds, including a dragon,
I’d had some kind of a breakdown that landed me in the hospital. Diagnosis:
depression, PTSD, high blood pressure, and too many Doritos.
But after a month of therapy
sessions, medications, and long walks in the park, I needed to get back to
work. Or I’d just sit in my apartment watching bad sitcoms and drinking coffee
for the rest of my life.
Jared Burroughs had been found dead
in an alley two months ago. He’d died of blunt force trauma and blood loss
caused by, yes, 171 small stab wounds in his chest and abdomen.
Vandella Burroughs sighed
impatiently. I leaned down. One detail stood out from the report.
Burroughs’ body had been covered in
blood. But not all of it was his. Or human.
I stifled a groan. Rachel was going
to kill me. But Marmont was right. This was my kind of case.
I packed the folder into my
briefcase. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
But first I had my weekly 11:30
a.m. appointment.
“So how are you doing this week?” Dr. Neral closed his
laptop as I sat down.
Dr. Francis
Neral was a psychiatrist. An African-American with a balding scalp and a thin
black necktie. I’d been seeing him weekly ever since I got out of the hospital.
He sat in
an office. I had the couch. A standard, comfortably upholstered couch, not a black
leather-padded one from the 19th century. No lying back and free-associating
about my mother here, Dr. Freud. “Well, I took a case.”
“Is that
good? What kind of case?”
“I don’t
know yet.” I shook my head. “But my internet isn’t going to pay for itself.”
“Right.” He
made a note. “Are you still taking the medication?”
I sighed.
“Yeah.”
“Any side
effects?”
I sat back.
“I don’t have much appetite. My girlfriend’s been cooking for me.” I had lots
of leftovers.
Dr. Neral nodded.
“How are things with Rachel?”
I
hesitated. “I guess she still likes me. I’m still not sure why.”
“Why
wouldn’t she? I mean . . .” Dr. Neral shrugged. “You’ve been together for a
long time.”
My
shoulders tensed. “Didn’t I mention how I almost got her killed half a dozen
times?” Not even counting the time she got possessed by a demon because of me.
I hadn’t gone through my entire case file with Dr. Neral yet. “But she insists
on coming with me.”
“And that
worries you?”
“Yes! I
mean . . . okay, she saved my life at least once.” Although if I hadn’t been
stupid enough to get abducted by aliens . . . “And I like having her around. She’s
smart. Smarter than me.” And she had a mean elbow jab. “If something happened
to her, I don’t think I could deal with it. I already told you about Elena
Dudovich.”
Dr. Neral
nodded again. “You still feel guilty about that.”
“Of course
I do. We weren’t exactly friends, but we . . . found a way to work together. If
I hadn’t screwed up . . .” My voice shook. “Shit.” I grabbed for the box of
tissues.
After a
moment Dr. Neral asked, “How are you sleeping?”
“I had a
nightmare about Donald Trump as a vampire.” I tossed the tissues into a can. “I
woke up before I could stake him.”
Dr. Neral
chuckled.
We had an
hour to kill. And although I was used to asking the questions—ex-reporter, now
a private detective—I was finding that answering them was oddly therapeutic. Go
figure.
But mostly
I wanted to get back to work on the case.
The main piece of information was the blood evidence.
Marmont had scanned a copy of the
police report. I emailed the forensics to a chemist I knew at the University of
Illinois, asking if he could identify the non-human blood. He’d worked for the
police for twenty years; now he was a professor, and he’d helped me out on a
few cases.
But forensics information only went
so far. I had to talk to people.
Jared had worked the 6:30 a.m.-2:30
p.m. shift in one of the big department stores downtown, managing loading and
unloading of the trucks that came in at all hours of the day and night. Vandella
had given me the names of a few co-workers. I had their statements to the
police, but they might be able to give me more information, since I was working
for her, and I wasn’t a cop.
So I started
making phone calls.
The first guy hung up on me. The
second guy said he’d call me back. Then Vlad Smith answered. He’d just gotten
home.
“Yeah, I
only saw him at work that day.” He yawned. “I didn’t go out. My wife was sick,
and I had to get home to take care of my kid. Hi, bubbles!” I heard a little
girl laugh.
Vlad cleared his throat. “Sorry. He
was going out with Mick and Hector. They’re two guys from work.”
Mick Soto and Hector Moore. They
were the first two people I’d called. “Do you know where they were going?”
“We usually
go to a bar called Friendly’s over on LaSalle. They might have gone somewhere
else later. Why don’t you ask them?”
“You’re the
first one who’d answer me.”
He
chuckled. “Look, I liked Jared, but I’m a white guy. Mick and Hector? Getting
questioned by a bunch of white police officers will make anyone a little nervous
about answering questions from some other white guy on a phone.”
I could
understand that. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”
I was scanning the internet for stories about the killing
when Rachel opened my door. She has a key.
“Hi there!” She dropped a bag of
groceries on the table. “What are you working on?”
I closed my
laptop and sipped my Coke. I wanted a beer, but I couldn’t drink with my
medication. “I took a case.”
“It’s about
time.” She started unpacking the bag. “Look! Ground beef! I hated buying this
for you, but I did it. Think about all the poor innocent cows who died for this
while you fry it up into hamburgers or bake it into lasagna.”
Rachel’s a
vegetarian. She’s also my girlfriend. She lives upstairs. And she’d also been
checking in on me at least twice a day since I’d been in the hospital.
“You don’t
have to cook dinner for me every night.” I was nervous. “This is great, but—”
“Dinner?
It’s 2:30. I have work to do. I’m just buying you groceries so you don’t forget
that milk and eggs go bad after a few weeks.”
I nodded.
“Thanks.”
“Okay, talk.”
Rachel sat down. She’s got short red hair and hazelnut eyes. Plus, she’s sort
of psychic. But she probably didn’t need
supernatural powers to sense that I hadn’t told her everything. “What kind of
case? Tell me it’s just a cheating husband. Or wife. Or a missing person. Or
embezzlement. Or—”
“It’s a murder case.” I braced for
a punch.
She blinked. “You’re really jumping
right back in.”
I opened my laptop. “The victim was
stabbed over 100 times, and he was covered in blood. Some of it wasn’t human. The
cops and the media aren’t paying a lot of attention to it. Probably because it’s
not a gang-related shooting.”
“Fine.” Rachel shoved her chair
back and stood up. “I’ve got a big project. Call me.”
Damn it. She was mad.
“Come on, Rachel!” I followed her
to the door. “I need to do something. I can’t just sit around doing background
checks, or trailing some worker’s comp case—”
“Bullshit!”
Rachel turned on me, her eyes burning. “You want the adrenalin! You can’t wait
to get back to fighting vampires and zombies and assassins who can walk through
walls!”
She punched
me. Hard.
“Okay,
okay!” I staggered back. “It’s what I do! I didn’t ask for it, but I can’t
quit. You know that. You know me.”
Rachel
grabbed the doorknob. “It’s a good thing I like you.”
I grinned.
“I think that every day.”
She slugged me again. Lighter this
time. “Jerk. I’ve got to go.”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Thanks for the groceries.”
I was
putting everything into my refrigerator when my phone buzzed. I ran back out to
the table to pick it up. “Tom Jurgen here.”
“Who? My
name’s Mick Soto. You called me.”
Mick. One
of the names Vandella Burroughs had given me. “Hi, Mr. Soto, thanks for calling
me back. I’m Tom Jurgen, a private detective working for Vandella Burroughs
about the murder of her husband Jared Burroughs. She gave me your name. Do you
have a few minutes to talk?”
“Shit.” For
a moment I thought he was going to hang up on me. “I don’t know if I should.”
“I’m only
looking for information. Jared’s wife and her lawyer think the case is being
ignored. Anything you can tell me would help.”
“That’s not
what I mean.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m working right now. Double shift, with
Jared gone. You want to come down here, then maybe we can talk.”
I looked at
the clock over the door to the kitchen. 2:55. “Sure. Where are you?”
He gave me
an address.
I texted Rachel when I got there. Usually I call to let her
know where I am, but I didn’t want to talk to her while she was mad at me.
Okay, maybe
she was right about the adrenalin rush. I’d missed it. When I was a reporter,
there’d been nothing like chasing a hot story. Since becoming a P.I. with a
reputation for cases involving the supernatural, I’d gone into some dark
corners. I couldn’t deny the fear, or the relief at surviving. But I kept doing
it.
Right now I
felt better than I had in months.
A light
rain was starting to fall as I met Mick Soto outside an office building on
LaSalle downtown. He was finishing a cigarette.
“I just have
a few minutes.” He looked down the alley. “More trucks coming in. I’m working
until midnight.”
“I’m parked a block away if you want to get
out of the rain.”
“Just get
to it.” He dropped his cigarette butt into a garbage can.
I held out
a card. “I’m working for Jared Burroughs’ wife. You can call her.”
“The cops
already talked to me. I told them everything I know.” He grinned. “You going to
crack this case?”
“Probably
not.” The last thing I wanted right now was to confront a murderer. I only
wanted to find some information that might provoke the police to take a closer
look at the case. That meant asking questions. “So what happened that night?”
Mick lit another
cigarette. “We all went down to Friendly’s. It’s on the next block. A couple of
beers. Then Jared and Hector left. That’s . . . all I know.”
I’ve
learned how to tell when a subject wants to say something more. Sometimes they
just need a nudge. “So why did he leave? Where was he going?”
He blew
smoke from his lips and shook his head. “Okay. He was going for a fight.”
“What kind
of a fight?”
“He’s—“ A
cab rolled past. “He used to be a boxer. Amateur. I guess he missed it. He talked
about getting back into it. Some days he showed up with bruises, and he laughed
about it. He was always a big, muscular guy—he could lift boxes it took two of
us to move.”
He lit a
new cigarette. “You know how it is? You want to go back and do it again? You
played in a band in high school, and so you start playing with bands in bars
even though you only know four or five chords and you can’t really sing. That
was Jared. Except he looked like he could do it. So maybe he went off to some
kind of fight. You’d have to ask Hector.”
He’d hung
up on me. “I tried. Is he working tonight?”
“Nah, he’s
been off for a few days.” Mick looked at my card. “I’ll ask him to call you.”
Off? “How
long?”
“Couple of
days. I don’t know.” He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it into the
garbage can. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Sure.
Thanks for your help.”
Mick looked
over his shoulder as he walked away. “Drive safe.”
Back in my apartment I called Vandella Burroughs. Sharon
Marmont was technically my client, but she’d given me Vandella’s number and the
okay to call her with any questions.
“Ms. Burroughs?
It’s Tom Jurgen. Can we talk?”
“What?” She
sounded surprised and angry. “I didn’t think—do you have anything?”
“No, not
really. Just a question. Was Jared ever an amateur boxer?”
“Uhh . . .”
She sounded confused. “Yeah. In high school. But he quit.”
I
hesitated. “He may not have.”
“I knew
it!” Her shriek made me pull the phone from my ear. Then her voice grew quiet.
“I knew it . . . damn it.”
Vandella
was crying. “He came home with bruises. He said a box hit him on the face. Or
the arm. The last time was a week before it happened, and he was bleeding on
his shoulder, and he said someone’s box cutter slipped. Goddamn it!”
“I still
don’t know if it means anything.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I’m still
waiting to hear from some people. I’ve been in touch with Sharon Marmont. Don’t
jump to any conclusions.”
“My little
boy is asking where his father is!” She gasped. “I’m sorry. Just—anything you
can find out. All right?”
“I’ll do
what I can.”
I started
to call Marmont when my phone buzzed. Len Dryer, the chemist at UIC. “Hi, Len.”
I gulped some coffee. “What’s going on?”
“I looked
at that report you sent over.” He sounded like he was swallowing coffee too.
“From what I can see, it looks like chicken blood.”
Chickens?
“Okay. How much?”
“Most of
it’s human, but the markers on about 30 percent of the data indicate some kind
of bird, and the closest match I can find is chickens. That’s all I can tell
you.”
Chickens. “Okay.
Thanks, Len. Send me your bill.” Marmont would pay it.
He
chuckled. “Sure will.”
I sat back
and sipped my Coke.
Yeah, Rachel was right. I lived for
this kind of thing. I’d have to talk to Dr. Neral about that soon.
That made
me remember to take my pills. I wasn’t sure how much they were helping, but it
just following the rules made me feel a bit more in control of my life.
I clicked
on my laptop. Chicken blood might mean voodoo. On the other hand, it might mean
he had a side job in a butcher shop. It could a lot of things. But why would it
be mixed with Jared’s blood? It didn’t make sense.
I should
have called Vandella Burroughs back again. But after just making her cry, I
wasn’t in any hurry to get her even more upset tonight.
So I called Marmont and left a
message.
Then I got up to make dinner.
Burgers. Rachel would be mad.
Chicken Fight, Part Three
The gate beneath the sign that read FREE RANGE CHICKEN
ASSOCIATION was locked. Hector tapped something on the sun visor in his minivan.
The gate opened, and then closed behind us.
“A chicken
farm.” Rachel grimaced. “You take me on the weirdest dates.”
“Hey, it’s
free range. At least that’s what the sign says.”
“And all
those chickens willingly give their lives just to make your McNuggets? Meat’s
still murder no matter how happy the animals are up until the last second.”
Did I
mention how Rachel’s a vegetarian?
We followed
Hector’s minivan down a short driveway past an empty parking lot in front of a
long ranch house. Floodlights illuminated the signs:
“The BEST Free
Range Chickens in the Midwest!”
“Come in for a
FREE sample!”
“Our chickens live
FREE and OPEN!”
“This place is bad.” Rachel shivered. She’s psychic, at
least a little. I’d learned to trust her instincts. But I couldn’t turn back
now. Could I? I glanced at my reaview mirror. The gate was shut.
Rachel flipped her middle finger at
the signs as we veered around the house. “Lies. Liars.”
“Sorry.”
She’d asked to come—demanded, really—but this didn’t seem like the time to
remind her.
Hector led us around the house toward
a parking lot behind the main house, in front of a thick building that looked
like a farmer’s barn. Attached to the barn, lights burned in a long barracks-style
building with corrugated steel walls and a curved roof.
A tall wire fence stretched 10 feet high
beside the barn and beyond it. I veered away from Hector’s minivan to take a
look. Even with the floodlights low, I could see hundreds of chickens hunkered
down for the night. A few of them stood up, fluffed their wings, and found a
different spot to sleep.
Hector
honked his horn.
This parking lot held twenty cars
or more. A few Hondas and Toyotas like mine, mostly newer. One pickup truck.
Minivans and luxury cars. One Mini Cooper.
Hector
jumped down from his minivan and waved. “Come on!”
Rachel
reached for the door handle—and froze, looking out the window to the long
building. “I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”
I tensed.
“Should we bail?”
“No.” She
ran her hand over her red hair. “Just—make sure we can pull a fast getaway, all
right?”
I unlocked
our doors, my skin tingling nervously. “You’ve got a key. You can drive off
anytime you want.”
“Not
without you. Jerk.” She punched my arm.
“You and me
both.” I opened my door and stood up on the gravel. Hector was glaring at me.
I shrugged.
“We needed a few minutes.”
Hector
rolled his eyes. “The show’s starting.”
A tall blond woman in cutoffs and multiple piercings in her
ears, nose, and lips glanced at me and Rachel. “Forty dollars. Each.”
I pulled four
twenties from my wallet. The woman handed us two passes to stick to our shirts.
“You come back and show these, you’ll get the money applied to your membership.
That’s if you’re approved.”
I handed a
pass to Rachel. “How do we get approved?”
“You need
two sponsors.” She waved. “Hi, Hector.”
“Hi,
Dulcie.” Hector pulled on my elbow. “Come on.”
Rachel
jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “You were checking out her legs, weren’t you?”
“Ow!” I
grabbed her hand. “I’m working. I have to be able to identify people.”
She
smirked. “Riiight.”
A short
ramp took us down into a circular room where folding chairs on risers surrounded
a wide pit. Most of the chairs were filled with men and women laughing and
drinking beer from a keg in plastic cups. Fluorescent tubes dangled from the ceiling,
swaying in the breeze through the slats in the walls.
In the
middle of the pit a steel cage rose 10 feet tall. Piles of straw covered the
floor. The bars looked rusty but firm. A large metal bell hung from one ot the
bars.
Hector
climbed onto a riser. He said hi to a couple on the aisle as we made our way to
a trio of chairs. “You want a beer?”
The aroma
was tempting, but I shook my head. “What is this?”
“Just
wait.”
So we
waited. Music played from speakers near the stage, country-western mostly, with
some Jon Bon Jovi mixed in. Rachel looked like she wanted to stuff her fingers
in her ears.
The man
next to me nudged my arm. “Gonna be a good one tonight.”
I looked at
the bars on the cage. “I can’t wait.”
Suddenly
the fluorescent went down. Rachel clutched my hand. Above the cage a floodlight
flared.
A man
walked into the pit. He had long black hair, a thick beard, and a gray T-shirt.
“Hi, there, folks!”
The
audience cheered.
“That’s Milo.”
Hector pointed. “He’s the MC.”
Milo raised
his hands. “Yeah, yeah. Well, you know we’ve got a good show for you tonight.
First, a preliminary bout. Get ready. You folks in front might want to sit back
a little, you know?” Milo laughed.
At the back
of the cage, a door opened. Then another one, on the other side. The audience
clapped and hooted. I leaned forward, not sure what I was waiting for.
It was
nothing I was ready for.
“Holy
shit.” Rachel leaned forward. “Is that—”
“Yeah.” A
chicken.
It was five feet tall.
A leather hood was mounted over its
head, and a sharp metal spike was
strapped to its beak. Metal spurs were wrapped around its legs.
The audience roared as the chicken
stalked forward, squawking and swinging its black wings, squawking and pounding
its clawed feet in the straw piled on the floor inside the cage. A wrangler held a leash attached to a collar
around its neck.
Then a second door swung back. Another
chicken, almost as large as the first, with red feathers but the same battle
armor, lurched into the cage, spinning around over the straw as if looking for
the way out. Another leash jerked around its throat.
Giant mutant ninja chickens. I
wondered if Dr. Neral would have me committed if I told him about this.
“Let’s get to it!” Milo stepped to
the side as the wranglers held the chickens back, jabbing them with electric
prods, but letting them get close enough to two giant chickens circled each
other in the cage, their feet crunching in the straw. “The red chicken is
Achilles! The black chicken is Lucas! Two enter, one will leave to fight again!
Place your bets!”
“It’s a cockfight?” Rachel jabbed
my ribs. “Don’t snicker.”
I shrugged, helpless. “What can I
say? I was hoping for voodoo.”
Audience members raised their hands
to place bets. Dulcie from the door and another guy in a loose T-shirt and red
suspenders worked the room, taking money and laying down odds.
I really wanted a beer.
Hector reached into his pocket.
“Ten on the red one. She looks feisty.”
Dulcie took his money, handed him a
slip of paper, and then looked at me. “How about you?”
“Maybe later.” What the hell? I
shook my head. “We’re just here for the glamorous spectacle of two giant
chickens fighting to the death. Thanks.”
She cocked her head, as if she
didn’t speak irony. Then she took a step down to solicit bets from the people
in the row in front of us.
Rachel giggled. “Not bad. Jerk.”
Milo rang the bell. “All bets down?
All bets down! Let’s do this!”
He stepped around the cage, and the
wranglers unhooked their leashes. They jabbed both chickens with electric
prods, then ducked back through the doors, pushing them shut and securing them
with heavy padlocks.
The creatures turned on each other.
Rachel
lurched up. “Okay, I can’t watch this.”
She pushed
past my knees and pushed around Hector, and then she was heading up the ramp,
her shoulders shaking.
I couldn’t
blame her. I looked at Hector. “What does this have to do with Jared?”
“Just
wait.” His face was flushed with excitement as he watched the chickens do
battle. “Just watch.”
I clenched
my fists under my arms and tried to breathe deeply, just like Dr. Neral had
told me to do if I had a panic attack. This
wasn’t just panic, though. This was real.
These weren’t the kind of chickens
you see in commercials, happy and fat. Large as they were, they were thin and
sinewy, the combs on their heads and the wattles under their chins sliced off,
their legs thin and tight—not fat for drumsticks. At normal size they would
have been intimidating, like turkeys in the wild. At this size they looked like
monsters from a 1950s sci-fi movie.
Achilles jabbed the spike on its beak
down at Lucas’s throat, but the black chicken spun away and lifted a leg to
stab Achilles in the thigh.
They circled each other, feinting
and stabbing. Achilles was more aggressive, lunging at Lucas with his spike
over and over again as the black chicken tried to defend himself. Blood dripped
on the straw.
A woman in front of me stood up and
screamed. “Kill him! Rip his heart out!”
Lucas got weaker as he lost blood.
He backed up against the cage bars, his legs thrashing. He lunged forward, head
down, and stabbed Achilles in the neck with his spike. Achilles stumbled back,
squawking and flapping his wings, his claws stomping on the straw-covered
floor.
Finally Lucas leaned over for a
last desperate kick, but Achilles dodged and stabbed his beak spike down into
the Lucas’ skinny throat. Blood gushed. A man rose onto his feet and shouted with
glee. The woman in front of me kicked over her chair onto my feet.
Lucas fell
to the ground, twitching. Achilles kept stabbing him with the spike over and
over again until the chicken was still, and dead. Then it jumped away, hopping
around in a macabre victory dance as Lucas bled out over the straw.
When Achilles calmed down, two wranglers came
in and attached the leash to his collar to lead him away. More wranglers came
out, wearing thick gloves to carry Lucas off and then sweep up the
blood-drenched straw. The audience cheered.
I leaned
close to Hector. “Is this what I think it is?”
He nodded.
“Just wait."
I was glad
Rachel was outside. But I had to stay.
Chicken Fight, Part Four
After fifteen minutes and a fresh layer of straw, when
everyone had their beer refilled, Milo returned to the pit.
“All right,
let’s get to the main event!” He raised an arm, one door opened, and Achilles came
out, squawking and waving his red wings.
The crowd roared again. The woman
who’d kicked her chair over waved her arms and screeched.
Milo
pointed to the other door. “Achilles, winner of the night’s first bout, takes
on his challenger—Kristianne!”
A woman
stalked out into the cage. She wore a black vest around her chest, tight shorts
that hugged her butt, and high black boots. She had muscular thighs and thick
shoulders, and she clutched two long daggers in her hands.
Achilles
strained at his leash, the spike on his head darting back and forth. One of the
wranglers pulled him back, yanking the leash hard.
Again the
bookies started working the room, taking bets and collecting cash.
Dulcie
walked up to us. “What do you want? It’s three to five on Achilles.”
Hector
pulled out a twenty. “Achilles.” Then he nudged me. “How much?”
Right. They’d get suspicious if I
just sat here. “Uh, twenty on Kristianne.”
She handed me a slip of paper. I
was glad Rachel wasn’t here.
Milo rang the bell again. “All bets
down! All bets down! Get ready! Hang onto your tickets!” He stepped aside.
Troy looked out at the audience,
his body tense, his daggers high. “Bring it on!”
One wrangler unhooked the leash
from Achilles’ collar. The other one zapped him with an electric prod, and then
they both dived back through the door and locked it up again.
Achilles charged forward, thrashing
around in panic or pain. Or anger. The spike on his head rose up and down,
seeking a target for his rage.
Kristianne stabbed at the chicken’s
neck. But Achilles lifted a foot and slashed a spur across her knee.
Kristianne staggered back and
lifted a dagger, her leg firm in the straw.
Achilles spun. Kristianne plunged
her dagger forward, but she only pierced a wing. Then Achilles lowered his head
and rammed the spike into her shoulder.
The spike tore a gash down her arm,
drawing blood. The chicken danced away, flapping his wings and squawking. Kristianne
spun her daggers, catching her breath.
Men and women were on their feet, pounding
their arms like football fans shouting for their favorite players. “Rip her
guts out!” That came from a twenty-something woman in tight leather jeans two
rows down from me. “Get his spleen! Are you a man or a chicken? Let’s see some
blood!”
My stomach lurched. I’d seen
enough. I handed my slip to Hector. “Take this. Let me know if she wins.”
“But it’s
not over yet!”
“That’s okay.” I stumbled past him
as the crowd howled. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I staggered
up the ramp. Dulcie shook her head as I veered toward the door. “No refunds.”
“Fine.” I tore
the pass off my shirt and tossed it at a trash can. “Nice meeting you. Have a
great night.”
I leaned against my Honda outside, fighting the need to
vomit on the pavement.
I could
call the cops right now. This kind of fight had to be illegal. They could link
it to Jared Burroughs’ death. They’d see the giant chickens. They’d have to
believe it.
But I’d
been a reporter and a P.I. too long to just run out and let other people
collect the facts. I had to know what was going on.
For a
moment I felt like my old self again. Before the depression, the anxiety, the
PTSD. I could do this.
So now
what? I couldn’t leave without Rachel. I looked around the dark, empty parking
lot. Then I peered into my car.
The burner phone lay on the
driver’s seat.
Rachel has
a key to the Honda, of course.
I opened
the door and pulled my own phone in the armrest compartment. Rachel’s phone was
gone, Good.
I sent a text: “?”
Three
seconds later she responded: “Behind long building.”
I closed and locked the door as
quietly as possible. Then I headed around the metal building attached to the
barn.
My back clenched
as I bent down. I paused, took a deep breath, and gave in to curiosity and my
aching back. Lifting my eyes slowly to peer through a window reinforced with
thin wire. A gray-haired man sat at a desk working at a computer in front of a
cage. Something moved inside the cage, large and angular, but I couldn’t get a
good glimpse.
Ducking down again, I made my way
around the building.
I froze. A
cigarette glowed in the darkness. Rachel doesn’t smoke, so it had to be someone
else. As my eyes adjusted, I saw two figures leaning against the structure. One
was Rachel.
They talked
in low voices. I heard Rachel laugh.
Finally the
guy put his cigarette out and opened a door. He held it, as if inviting Rachel
inside.
I stayed
put, but Rachel looked around and spotted me and waved an arm. So I walked
over.
“This is
Jay.” Rachel gestured toward the man. “He’s a technician inside. He said he’d
show me around. This is Tom. My boyfriend.”
Jay had
blonde hair and a thin goatee. One eye twitched when he heard the word
“boyfriend,” but he shook my hand. “I was just telling Rachel what we’re doing
in here. Do you want to see?”
I glanced
at Rachel. “Sure.”
Two steps
up, and the interior smelled like, well, a chicken coop. Not that I’ve spent
much time in chicken coops, but this was how I imagined they might smell: feces
mixed with straw and ammonia. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling down the
middle of a row of cages.
Six
chickens, ranging in size from three to five feet, lay sleeping on mats of
straw with dishes of water in food in the corners of their cages. Metal
nameplates identified them, and a sheet of information in a plastic packet hung
by the lock to each cage. Each chicken had a leather collar around its neck.
One
nameplate read “Kull.” The chicken inside was almost as tall as me, with orange
feathers and a sharp beak. The data sheet hanging from the cage might have been
in ancient Etruscan. I couldn’t understand anything more than the punctuation
marks.
Some of the
cages were empty. One held the nameplate “Lucas.” The other belonged to
Achilles. I wondered if he’d be coming back.
“How many
have you raised?” I looked down the row of cages.
“Ten so
far. We have others in incubation.” He pointed to a refrigerator with a glass
door. Dozens of eggs sat under a dim yellow light.
“Wow.”
Rachel his her repulsion. “How do you . . . do it? Some kind of. . . . genetic
engineering?”
Jay nodded.
“First the hens get additives in their feed. When they lay, a growth hormone is
injected through the eggshell. The needle is really thin. Then the chicks get a
different supplement orally after birth—”
“Jay? What
the hell is this?” It was the scientist I’d watched through the window stalking
toward us. “No one’s supposed to be here!”
“She’s okay,
Harvey. They’re—” Jay flicked her eyes at me. “They’re okay. They were just interested.
Rachel, and, uh, whoever you are? This is Harvey Duff. He’s a genius.”
“This is—“ Rachel managed to choke
out a word. “Fascinating.”
I leaned
forward to shake his hand. “Tom Jurgen. I was watching the fights. Incredible
work with those chickens.”
Harvey ignored
my hand, and then turned and stalked away. Presumably back to his computer. And
maybe to a phone.
I glanced
at Rachel. She nodded. “Thanks for showing us around, Jay. We don’t want to get
you into any trouble.”
“Right.” He
smiled. “No trouble. Nice meeting you both.”
Outside I
leaned against the wall, catching my breath. “Nice guy.”
“My
spidey-sense was tingling.” Rachel looked at the door. “I think I know him from
somewhere, but he didn’t recognize me.”
A roar rose
from the barn as we rounded the end of the building. The fight was over. “You
flirted with him, didn’t you?”
“He flirted
with me.” He bumped her shoulder against me. “I like it when you’re jealous.”
Yeah. “What’d
you tell that young handsome guy about being out here?”
“That I
couldn’t watch the fighting, but my idiot boyfriend couldn’t take his eyes off
it.”
“So, the
truth. Good.” I looked in the windows. Duff was indeed on the phone, waving an
angry arm around. “Let’s get out of here.”
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