requested," Dr. Benton said, the
bureaucrat's caution showing. It was, they both knew, a detective's option in a
suicide.
"I forgot."
"All orifices?"
"Might as well," she said. "I know it's
extra work, Dr. Benton."
"Nothing lost in going with your instincts,
Fiona."
"At least we'll have the information, just in
case." Not wanting to ring off just yet, she volunteered information.
"Next of kin probably won't claim the body. It looks like she's a
candidate for burning."
"Sad," he said.
"Cheaper, too," she said coldly.
He seemed to detect her depression, despite her efforts to
remain professional. The conversation was quickly ended when she couldn't think
of anything more to say.
Feeling alone again, she threw herself on the bed. The
sheets were cold, even where his indentation had been made.
"Fool," she cried. "Dying for a man..."
At least Dorothy was safe from them forever.
IV
Jason Martin sat in his parked car on Cathedral Avenue
across the street from the townhouse in which he had rented the ground floor
apartment. The upper floors were deserted. The house was owned by a foreign
service officer on temporary duty in Malaysia, a stroke of luck.
He had looked very carefully for the apartment, which had
to satisfy a variety of conditions: total privacy, centrally located on a quiet
off street, roomy and attractive. Above all, it had to appear "safe."
"But why do we need another place?" Dorothy
asked. He still had his old apartment on Capitol Hill.
"You'll see."
"Gosh. It's pretty. Like a hideaway."
"You got it. A place to hide. Just trust me, baby.
You've got to trust me. It's all for us. You'll see."
"I love it," she said. "And we'll fix it up
all in white. Real pretty."
"Do whatever you want. It's your place," he said,
looking out the rear window. The narrow yard stretched out to a chain-link
fence, beyond which was a deep ravine which fell sharply to Rock Creek Parkway.
They were a stone's throw from Calvert Street and the high stone bridge.
"Look how high," she said, crouching beside him
at the kitchen window. She pressed her cheek against the pane.
"They call it suicide bridge. Lots have gone over. I
did a story on it once."
"Gosh." She shivered and he put an arm around her
shoulders.
Perfect, he'd decided. He had Dorothy call the agent and
pay three months rent in advance.
Glancing at his watch, he sipped beer from a can. Anxiety
had dried his throat. It had begun to happen.
Had the idea come to him like a light going on in one of
those balloons of comic character expressions, or had it seethed and festered
like garbage creating methane gas? He would never be certain.
He was not even sure whether or not he had asked her to
come with him to Washington. Had it simply occurred, a natural event like
sunrise or rain? There she was, crunched close beside him in his car heading
east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, her hand on his inner thigh.
"We'll have one hell of a time, Dot," he had
said.
"Great."
Nor did he have any clear idea how she would fit into his
life, barren now, shorn of family and self-respect. Half-woman, half-child, she
might be a surrogate family for him, a comfort without the pressure of Jane's
probing and intellectualizing, a mere child to be stroked and petted.
He was ashamed at showing her the untidiness of his
apartment, such an obvious reflection of his inner life, but she went to work
without a word and by the time they were ready for bed, she had made it cleaner
and more orderly than Jane had ever done.
"Do you like it here?" he asked after they made
love that first night in the apartment together. Where Jane had been
indifferent and sometimes hostile to their sex life, Dorothy was eager,
deliciously wanton.
"I love this," she told him.
"And me?"
"I think you're the greatest, Jason."
The greatest? It was certainly coincidental that she had
dropped into his life at the moment of his most profound anguish. A heavenly
gift, he decided, toying with thoughts of fate and the
bureaucrat's caution showing. It was, they both knew, a detective's option in a
suicide.
"I forgot."
"All orifices?"
"Might as well," she said. "I know it's
extra work, Dr. Benton."
"Nothing lost in going with your instincts,
Fiona."
"At least we'll have the information, just in
case." Not wanting to ring off just yet, she volunteered information.
"Next of kin probably won't claim the body. It looks like she's a
candidate for burning."
"Sad," he said.
"Cheaper, too," she said coldly.
He seemed to detect her depression, despite her efforts to
remain professional. The conversation was quickly ended when she couldn't think
of anything more to say.
Feeling alone again, she threw herself on the bed. The
sheets were cold, even where his indentation had been made.
"Fool," she cried. "Dying for a man..."
At least Dorothy was safe from them forever.
IV
Jason Martin sat in his parked car on Cathedral Avenue
across the street from the townhouse in which he had rented the ground floor
apartment. The upper floors were deserted. The house was owned by a foreign
service officer on temporary duty in Malaysia, a stroke of luck.
He had looked very carefully for the apartment, which had
to satisfy a variety of conditions: total privacy, centrally located on a quiet
off street, roomy and attractive. Above all, it had to appear "safe."
"But why do we need another place?" Dorothy
asked. He still had his old apartment on Capitol Hill.
"You'll see."
"Gosh. It's pretty. Like a hideaway."
"You got it. A place to hide. Just trust me, baby.
You've got to trust me. It's all for us. You'll see."
"I love it," she said. "And we'll fix it up
all in white. Real pretty."
"Do whatever you want. It's your place," he said,
looking out the rear window. The narrow yard stretched out to a chain-link
fence, beyond which was a deep ravine which fell sharply to Rock Creek Parkway.
They were a stone's throw from Calvert Street and the high stone bridge.
"Look how high," she said, crouching beside him
at the kitchen window. She pressed her cheek against the pane.
"They call it suicide bridge. Lots have gone over. I
did a story on it once."
"Gosh." She shivered and he put an arm around her
shoulders.
Perfect, he'd decided. He had Dorothy call the agent and
pay three months rent in advance.
Glancing at his watch, he sipped beer from a can. Anxiety
had dried his throat. It had begun to happen.
Had the idea come to him like a light going on in one of
those balloons of comic character expressions, or had it seethed and festered
like garbage creating methane gas? He would never be certain.
He was not even sure whether or not he had asked her to
come with him to Washington. Had it simply occurred, a natural event like
sunrise or rain? There she was, crunched close beside him in his car heading
east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, her hand on his inner thigh.
"We'll have one hell of a time, Dot," he had
said.
"Great."
Nor did he have any clear idea how she would fit into his
life, barren now, shorn of family and self-respect. Half-woman, half-child, she
might be a surrogate family for him, a comfort without the pressure of Jane's
probing and intellectualizing, a mere child to be stroked and petted.
He was ashamed at showing her the untidiness of his
apartment, such an obvious reflection of his inner life, but she went to work
without a word and by the time they were ready for bed, she had made it cleaner
and more orderly than Jane had ever done.
"Do you like it here?" he asked after they made
love that first night in the apartment together. Where Jane had been
indifferent and sometimes hostile to their sex life, Dorothy was eager,
deliciously wanton.
"I love this," she told him.
"And me?"
"I think you're the greatest, Jason."
The greatest? It was certainly coincidental that she had
dropped into his life at the moment of his most profound anguish. A heavenly
gift, he decided, toying with thoughts of fate and the