And the Serologist, hidden beneath the gristle and scar tissue, uses his face like a weapon. He leers and he mugs. Giving each and every broken angle its share of the spotlight. It’s a performance, what this man does. It’s a Kabuki dance from hell.
“The thing you need to know about me is that I don’t know when to stop,” he says to Olivier Geome, who is tied to a bed frame. “Nothing new, really. Problem I had since I was just a kid. Back then it was schoolwork. I’d do my share and more. Read ahead in the textbooks, go to the library on weekends and research this and that. It’s basically an addiction. Simple Psych 101 stuff.”
Olivier is hardly listening. This is because he’s missing his ears. They are sitting in a teacup on a desk beside the bed. This is all happening around eight in the morning in Olivier’s small apartment, a place on West 8th that he’s had for about fifteen years. It’s in a quiet building, the neighbors are all elderly and the place is rent controlled. He never expected to be in this position, in this much pain, in his own place. Sure, it’s small and it’s dusty and the furniture is cheap. But it’s Olivier’s retreat, his own private slice of peace and quiet. Here he can get away, shower and pray. This is his place and the thought that he’s being brutalized here, that thought alone makes him so very sick.
“You know, it’s funny how this always goes the same way. Time and time again. Sad, really. You boil my life down and it’s just repetition. You ever see that movie Groundhog Day?” the Serologist asks.
Right now, Olivier’s head is throbbing, drowning out everything, and he’s really no good at reading lips. So he nods.
“Clever movie but it cuts a bit close to the bone for me. I’m stuck in this repeating pattern. Just me catching people unawares and then torturing them until I get the information I want and then it’s the same old ‘body disposal’ story.”
This terrible-faced man in a shabby suit is crouched next to Olivier’s bed. He’s sitting there beside the night table, his face all craters and mountains from the angle of the desk lamp, and he’s holding a long, serrated knife. The knife glints like something far beneath the surface of the water.
Olivier asks, “What did I do? What do you want?”
The Serologist closes his eyes, swallows. After a moment, maybe a heartbeat, he says, “To be honest, I worry that if I don’t work every day, then I’ll get rusty. I think that’s a very legit concern. Don’t you?”
Olivier groans. He stares out at the Serologist with his bloodshot right eye. The left is swollen shut.
Olivier asks, “Why me?”
“I couldn’t find anyone else,” the Serologist chuckles. “Like I said before, this thing is a compulsion with me. You know what I tell all our clients, I tell them that once they hire me, once I’m on the scent, so to speak, I can’t be shut off. I’m in ’til the end.”
“But I’m your partner.”
“And you’re an even guy, Olivier. I’ve worked with all sorts. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed. You know, they complain a lot about customer service in these post-9/11 days. There’s the woman at the grocery store that doesn’t bother looking you in the eye. The punk at the gas station who can’t break a twenty because he can’t figure out the change. Irritating stuff, really. I think I’ve actually been blessed with good help. You are one of the best. Most devoted for sure.”
Olivier only catches some of that. He whispers, “Why are you doing this, then?”
“It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” The Serologist nods, pats Olivier’s shoulder.
“No,” Olivier mumbles. His lips are numb and his teeth are shrapnel.
The Serologist pauses for a second. That one second of silence is like an eye of a hurricane. For the first time in what seems like a lifetime, Olivier’s muscles relax. He sighs and a long shiver runs up his spine. He thinks about crying but worries that it will just make the wounds on his eyes sting. So he closes his eyes and waits. He prays.
The Serologist leans over and whispers in what’s left of Olivier’s left ear. Really, it’s just a clotted hole. He says, “How long have we worked together?”
“Seven years,” Olivier says. “In one capacity or another.”
The Serologist sits back up. He sighs and pulls a switchblade from his breast pocket and cuts the ties on Olivier’s hands. Cuts the ties on Olivier’s legs. Smiles and says, “Sorry about that, Olivier. I think I tied these pretty tight.”
Olivier says nothing. He rubs his wrists where the ties were. The skin there is cut and bruised; it’s mottled purple and gray. Olivier wonders if he’ll ever regain feeling in his fingers and toes. At least the few toes he has remaining.
The Serologist stands up, stretches and says, “Well, I guess I’ll dispose of these.” He picks up the teacup with Olivier’s ears and he reaches under the bed and pulls out a bedpan that has, as far as Olivier can tell, a toe, a finger, and some ruddy congealed mass that has a clump of curly hair smack on the top of it. Olivier has no idea where on his body it’s from but he’s worried. The Serologist walks over to the kitchen. He stands in front of the sink and pours the contents of the bedpan and the teacup in. He turns on the water and runs the disposal for a few seconds. Then walks back over to the bed.
“How long have I been here?” the Serologist asks.
Olivier leans over and checks the alarm clock on the floor. The pain in his lower back is immediate and unrelenting but he pushes through it, worried that the Serologist could always get crazy again. He’d rather worry about the physical therapy later. The clock says ten PM. Olivier lies back and sighs and says, “Two and a half hours.”
“My, how the time flies,” the Serologist replies. He walks to the bathroom and returns with a damp towel. He sits next to Olivier on the blood-drenched bed and wraps the towel around Olivier’s head. There is a buzzing sound in the Serologist’s pants. He pulls a cell phone out. “I thought you might call me.”
The Serologist leaves the apartment and steps out into the hall. He leaves the door open and watches Olivier as he nods and paces, the phone glued to his ear.
Olivier pulls himself up from his bed. He stumbles over to the couch. It’s only about ten feet away but the brief walk is so agonizing that when he reaches the couch he promptly passes out. He regains consciousness thirty seconds later and the pain has subsided. He looks out at the hallway and doesn’t see the Serologist.
He waits a few breaths and then Olivier digs his hands under the pillows of the couch and pulls out a half-filled bottle of Percocet. It takes him over two minutes to open the bottle. His fingers are blue and rigid. When he does, he throws about five tablets into his mouth and chews them gingerly. Careful not to break any of his remaining teeth.
Then he digs back under the cushions on the couch and finds the remote.
He turns on ESPN and closes his eyes and falls asleep.
He is awakened a few minutes later.
“Olivier, we’ve got a gig.” The Serologist shakes Olivier’s shoulders. “Come on, out of your stupor. We’re needed.”
“Just leave me here,” Olivier moans.
“No, no. I need you to drive. You can wait in the car if you like.”
“Am I still bleeding?”
The towel wrapped around Olivier’s head is red. Red and wet. The Serologist looks at it and shakes his head. “You’ll be just fine,” he says. “This won’t take long at all.”
Half an hour later and Olivier pulls