The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death by Charlie Huston Page B
Authors: Charlie Huston
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tongue inside out and punched a hole in the bottom of his stomach. Goes without saying it took the whole back of his head off. Everything behind the ears.
He rapped his knuckle on the wall opposite the bed.
—Created so much pressure in his sinuses, his eyes popped out. We found one of them over here.
I looked through the open door that led to the master bath. Blood spackled the white tile and porcelain and bath towels. My reflection in the mirror over the twin sinks was glazed with dried streaks of red. Beyond, through a door at the far end of the bathroom, and let me just say that it was a really big fucking bathroom, I could see more blood spattering the carpet, chair and desk in what looked to be a small den. Small by the standards of this house, that is.
But those rooms were nothing compared with the bedroom. The bed-roomlooked painted in blood, but not well painted, mind you. Painted, in point of fact, by a collection of one-armed troglodytes employing bundles of reeds rather than brushes and rollers. Painted in dripping and splotchy reds, maroons and purples punctuated by bits and clots of gray and white and black, and the occasional twisted knot of tendon.
—This is unfuckingbelievable.
Gabe and the deputy looked at me.
I held out my arms, bugging my eyes.
—What? Am I wrong? I mean, this is unfuckingreal. This is. Water in the mouth? Water in the mouth gets you this? Myfuckinggod.
The deputy looked at Gabe.
—Where'd you find him?
Gabe picked at something imbedded in the wall, his fingernails rimmed with dry yellow paint.
—Po Sin knows him.
—You tell him about the pipe bomb?
Gabe took a Leatherman from the nylon case on his belt and unfolded it into pliers.
—Be my guest.
The deputy put his hands on his hips.
—Guy was ex-military
He looked at Gabe.
—Right?
Gabe closed the tips of the pliers over whatever was in the wall.
—I think so, yeah.
The deputy looked back at me.
—OK, ex-military guy wanted to off himself. So he made a pipe bomb.
I put my hand to my forehead.
—No.
—Yeah. And to do it, what he did was, he sat on it. And I don't mean sat on it, I mean he
sat
on it. Full insertion.
I put my other hand on my forehead.
—Oh no.
He nodded.
—Yeah. Pipe bomb in the ass. And, here we go, he does this while seated on his water bed.
—Oh shit.
—You'd think. But here's what happened. The, what, the
internal dynamics
of a bomb in the rectal passage were such that the force of the explosion went straight up. Not only did the bed not burst, but by giving slightly while still offering resistance, it helped to focus the blast upward. Thing went off, it scoured his viscera, guts, lungs, everything, shot them up through his head and out the top of his skull. Like a fountain. The whole room got sprayed, but other than looking a little bloated, and, you know, his head being gone from the eyebrows up, he was intact. And the bed was peachy.
He made pistol fingers and pointed at me.
—That was a fucking mess.
Gabe twisted the pliers and pulled something free of the wall and inspected it.
—Yeah. It was a big job.
He dropped the object in his palm and walked to the deputy, folding the Leatherman away.
—You need this for anything?
I walked over and looked at the large silver-filled molar he was showing the deputy.
The deputy shook his head.
—No. We finished in here. No way to fake a scene like this. Don't need teeth in the wall to tell us what happened. He made it easy. Note. All that.
I walked to the door and looked down the hall. I could see Po Sin on the couch next to the girl who'd let us in. The two of them going over papers on a clipboard, the girl signing her name. Po Sin taking a travel pack of Kleenex from his breast pocket and handing it to her as she set the clipboard aside and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
I looked back in the room.
—So why'd he do it?
The deputy looked at me.
—Brain tumor.
He pointed at what had been a head, now
He rapped his knuckle on the wall opposite the bed.
—Created so much pressure in his sinuses, his eyes popped out. We found one of them over here.
I looked through the open door that led to the master bath. Blood spackled the white tile and porcelain and bath towels. My reflection in the mirror over the twin sinks was glazed with dried streaks of red. Beyond, through a door at the far end of the bathroom, and let me just say that it was a really big fucking bathroom, I could see more blood spattering the carpet, chair and desk in what looked to be a small den. Small by the standards of this house, that is.
But those rooms were nothing compared with the bedroom. The bed-roomlooked painted in blood, but not well painted, mind you. Painted, in point of fact, by a collection of one-armed troglodytes employing bundles of reeds rather than brushes and rollers. Painted in dripping and splotchy reds, maroons and purples punctuated by bits and clots of gray and white and black, and the occasional twisted knot of tendon.
—This is unfuckingbelievable.
Gabe and the deputy looked at me.
I held out my arms, bugging my eyes.
—What? Am I wrong? I mean, this is unfuckingreal. This is. Water in the mouth? Water in the mouth gets you this? Myfuckinggod.
The deputy looked at Gabe.
—Where'd you find him?
Gabe picked at something imbedded in the wall, his fingernails rimmed with dry yellow paint.
—Po Sin knows him.
—You tell him about the pipe bomb?
Gabe took a Leatherman from the nylon case on his belt and unfolded it into pliers.
—Be my guest.
The deputy put his hands on his hips.
—Guy was ex-military
He looked at Gabe.
—Right?
Gabe closed the tips of the pliers over whatever was in the wall.
—I think so, yeah.
The deputy looked back at me.
—OK, ex-military guy wanted to off himself. So he made a pipe bomb.
I put my hand to my forehead.
—No.
—Yeah. And to do it, what he did was, he sat on it. And I don't mean sat on it, I mean he
sat
on it. Full insertion.
I put my other hand on my forehead.
—Oh no.
He nodded.
—Yeah. Pipe bomb in the ass. And, here we go, he does this while seated on his water bed.
—Oh shit.
—You'd think. But here's what happened. The, what, the
internal dynamics
of a bomb in the rectal passage were such that the force of the explosion went straight up. Not only did the bed not burst, but by giving slightly while still offering resistance, it helped to focus the blast upward. Thing went off, it scoured his viscera, guts, lungs, everything, shot them up through his head and out the top of his skull. Like a fountain. The whole room got sprayed, but other than looking a little bloated, and, you know, his head being gone from the eyebrows up, he was intact. And the bed was peachy.
He made pistol fingers and pointed at me.
—That was a fucking mess.
Gabe twisted the pliers and pulled something free of the wall and inspected it.
—Yeah. It was a big job.
He dropped the object in his palm and walked to the deputy, folding the Leatherman away.
—You need this for anything?
I walked over and looked at the large silver-filled molar he was showing the deputy.
The deputy shook his head.
—No. We finished in here. No way to fake a scene like this. Don't need teeth in the wall to tell us what happened. He made it easy. Note. All that.
I walked to the door and looked down the hall. I could see Po Sin on the couch next to the girl who'd let us in. The two of them going over papers on a clipboard, the girl signing her name. Po Sin taking a travel pack of Kleenex from his breast pocket and handing it to her as she set the clipboard aside and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
I looked back in the room.
—So why'd he do it?
The deputy looked at me.
—Brain tumor.
He pointed at what had been a head, now
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