Chapter 1
Jeremiah Van Houtte was slumped face down in a patch of cheap grass on the muddy banks of the Anapo River. Not ten feet behind his crumpled body his shopping cart lay on its side. Judging by the lines in the mud, it was the front left wheel that stuck, sending the shopping cart toppling over and forcing the tweed to abandon his belongings.
The stream of personal artifacts—books, diplomas, handwritten letters, and a bust of Martin Luther—stretched out across the bank, leading me to think that Dr. Van Houtte was really moving.
I used my foot to roll him over. His shoulders twisted all the way around while his hips and knees stopped half way. His mouth and eyes hung open like a clubbed fish and his arms stuck straight out from the onset of rigor mortis telling me the murder occurred at least three hours ago.
Using my foot again, I pushed open his sullied sport coat, leaving a smear of mud across his white collared shirt. Sure enough, a University badge strung on a lanyard hung out of his inside pocket.
A more meticulous investigator might have noticed knife wounds in his back or stomach. But I was in a hurry; shoving all his belongings into a duffle bag while keeping a nervous eye out for the murderer. To be safe I took a different route back to the apartment.
If the Greater Rapid Falls area were laid out cosmologically, like the chain of being, and the Waterfront was located somewhere in the ethereal region in between God and the angels, then Bedouin City would lie near the bottom; in between the beetles, the grit, and the dirt— a modern day leper’s colony, whose inhabitants manifest the same disease in their own personal ways. It was not always that way.
Bedouin City used to be a luxurious playground. The egg-shaped island was full of Casinos and boasted a skyline containing scaled-down replicas of the Eiffel Tower, the leaning tower of Piazza, and the Colossus of Rhodes.
But the Eiffel Tower was taken apart to fuel the war effort and the leaning tower of Piazza eventually fell, breaking up into large, cylinder-shaped columns and becoming a Mecca of sorts for squatters and downhill skiers.
The Colossus still stands, armless from the elbows down and infested with tweeds who have taken the casino between the Colossus’ giant feet as the headquarter for their societies.
Phin had been my roommate since he failed to be tenured at the Colossus because he, failed to make a lasting contribution in the arts and letters.
I found him under the old marquee with his diplomas under his arm and a newspaper over his head. Even under those circumstances he had that antiquated snobbery synonymous with the old college system.
I returned to my apartment to find Phin standing in the doorway finishing a pizza pocket from the corner store. He looked like a Nuyorican poet; with his dark eyes, stringy beard, and wrinkled suit; a Miguel Piñero with pedigree, distinction, and no talent. A piece of mozzarella dangled from his beard.
“What’d you get,” he asked, rummaging through Dr. Jeremiah Van Houtte’s belongings. He picked up book after book, reading the titles before carelessly dropping them on the bed. “A theologian, huh,” he said, turning his head to the side as he read the framed diploma.
“Sorry Jack,” said Phin, staring at the victim’s George Fox University badge, “I have no idea who he is.” Dead-end. I scribbled the date and Doctor of Theology on a box with a sharpie before dumping all the evidence and placing the box in what has now become the evidence closet.
“No wonder you got the axe,” I said, “you didn’t know anyone. It’s all about networking Phin. In all those years of school they never taught you that?” He shrugged and began picking his teeth with a steak knife.
“What would I have in common with a theologian? What would anyone have in common with a theologian. Who studies theology anyway?”
Out my living room window I watched the screenboards flicker from boating excursions to weight loss programs and wondered if they’re responding to his purchasing history. Is our killer overweight, I wondered. If so how did he catch the gaunt Dr. Van Houtte?
“Don’t lose sleep over it,” said Phin, as if he could read my mind, “I made twenty dollars on the rail today.”
“That’s twenty more than me.”
“Soon you’re going to have to relinquish your room and sleep on the living room floor,” he said, only part in-jest.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow I got the sale of my life. If it goes as expected I’ll move seven units. That’d cover half a years rent.”
If I could make the sale I could get my debtors off my back for a couple of months. A month or two of not looking over my shoulder would do wonders for my mental health. My mind reeled with what I could do with the money if everything went how I wanted them to. But things never go as expected.
The stream of personal artifacts—books, diplomas, handwritten letters, and a bust of Martin Luther—stretched out across the bank, leading me to think that Dr. Van Houtte was really moving.
I used my foot to roll him over. His shoulders twisted all the way around while his hips and knees stopped half way. His mouth and eyes hung open like a clubbed fish and his arms stuck straight out from the onset of rigor mortis telling me the murder occurred at least three hours ago.
Using my foot again, I pushed open his sullied sport coat, leaving a smear of mud across his white collared shirt. Sure enough, a University badge strung on a lanyard hung out of his inside pocket.
A more meticulous investigator might have noticed knife wounds in his back or stomach. But I was in a hurry; shoving all his belongings into a duffle bag while keeping a nervous eye out for the murderer. To be safe I took a different route back to the apartment.
#
If the Greater Rapid Falls area were laid out cosmologically, like the chain of being, and the Waterfront was located somewhere in the ethereal region in between God and the angels, then Bedouin City would lie near the bottom; in between the beetles, the grit, and the dirt— a modern day leper’s colony, whose inhabitants manifest the same disease in their own personal ways. It was not always that way.
Bedouin City used to be a luxurious playground. The egg-shaped island was full of Casinos and boasted a skyline containing scaled-down replicas of the Eiffel Tower, the leaning tower of Piazza, and the Colossus of Rhodes.
But the Eiffel Tower was taken apart to fuel the war effort and the leaning tower of Piazza eventually fell, breaking up into large, cylinder-shaped columns and becoming a Mecca of sorts for squatters and downhill skiers.
The Colossus still stands, armless from the elbows down and infested with tweeds who have taken the casino between the Colossus’ giant feet as the headquarter for their societies.
Phin had been my roommate since he failed to be tenured at the Colossus because he, failed to make a lasting contribution in the arts and letters.
I found him under the old marquee with his diplomas under his arm and a newspaper over his head. Even under those circumstances he had that antiquated snobbery synonymous with the old college system.
#
I returned to my apartment to find Phin standing in the doorway finishing a pizza pocket from the corner store. He looked like a Nuyorican poet; with his dark eyes, stringy beard, and wrinkled suit; a Miguel Piñero with pedigree, distinction, and no talent. A piece of mozzarella dangled from his beard.
“What’d you get,” he asked, rummaging through Dr. Jeremiah Van Houtte’s belongings. He picked up book after book, reading the titles before carelessly dropping them on the bed. “A theologian, huh,” he said, turning his head to the side as he read the framed diploma.
“Sorry Jack,” said Phin, staring at the victim’s George Fox University badge, “I have no idea who he is.” Dead-end. I scribbled the date and Doctor of Theology on a box with a sharpie before dumping all the evidence and placing the box in what has now become the evidence closet.
“No wonder you got the axe,” I said, “you didn’t know anyone. It’s all about networking Phin. In all those years of school they never taught you that?” He shrugged and began picking his teeth with a steak knife.
“What would I have in common with a theologian? What would anyone have in common with a theologian. Who studies theology anyway?”
Out my living room window I watched the screenboards flicker from boating excursions to weight loss programs and wondered if they’re responding to his purchasing history. Is our killer overweight, I wondered. If so how did he catch the gaunt Dr. Van Houtte?
“Don’t lose sleep over it,” said Phin, as if he could read my mind, “I made twenty dollars on the rail today.”
“That’s twenty more than me.”
“Soon you’re going to have to relinquish your room and sleep on the living room floor,” he said, only part in-jest.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow I got the sale of my life. If it goes as expected I’ll move seven units. That’d cover half a years rent.”
If I could make the sale I could get my debtors off my back for a couple of months. A month or two of not looking over my shoulder would do wonders for my mental health. My mind reeled with what I could do with the money if everything went how I wanted them to. But things never go as expected.
