Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith hears a tale from his father’s checkered history with the Capital City Police Department.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP274 - Sgt. Smith in Model Behaviour, Part 1 of 1
(soft music) ♪ Some days glue me my hours are slumberless ♪ ♪ Dear is the shadows I live with by nonetheless ♪ ♪ Little white flowers will never awaken you ♪ ♪ Not where the bright culture's all I'm taking you ♪ ♪ Angels have no fire ever turning you ♪ ♪ Would they be angry if I sort of join in you ♪ ♪ Oh, someday ♪ - Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 274. This evening we present Sergeant Smith in Model Behavior, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Dead Kitchen Radio. - Hi, I'm Keith Ariadekendo, international best-selling and award-winning author of over 40 novels, as well as comic books, short stories, novellas, and more. Also an editor, currently hiring out through creditorial, musician, currently percussionist for the boogie nights, and a whole lot more. Hear me talk about my writing and my life, and also do readings for my work on my twice-monthly podcast, Dead Kitchen Radio, part of the Chronic Rift Network. For more information, go to chronicriff.com, or to deadkitchenradio.media.com. (upbeat music) - FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith, here's a tale from his father's checkered history with the Capital City Police Department. Sergeant Smith N. Model Behavior, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. (upbeat music) (upbeat music) It was a Sunday, and Mulligan was dabbing at his plate's last smudge of Hollandaise sauce with his final sliver of English muffin. He leaned back from the square oak table, the same he'd grown up leaving chocolate milk rings on, and burped. His mute father grimaced and pointed to a yellow blob that escaped his son's fork and landed on the unzipped hoodie he insisted on all his wearing. Yeah, yeah, replied Mulligan as he rubbed at the stain. Listen, Dad, not that I'm complaining, but you cook for me when you have a favorite ask. So ask. The gray-haired former police sergeant let out a lungful of air, and nodded. Rising with a creak from the thrice-reupholstered kitchen chair, the old man moved down the short wood-paneled hallway that led to his bedroom. After a moment of shelf-shuffling and drawer slamming, he returned with a cassette tape and a rectangular player consisting of a transparent flip-out door bookended by a pair of black speakers. With a fast-moving bick pen, the Elder Smith scrawled a short preface on his always-near pad of paper. The note read, "Capital City wasn't in great shape in '89." It was the only warning he provided, but it was clue enough to the younger Smith. He knew his father had regularly carried a pocket recorder during the era to capture witness statements. The method saved on hand-cramping when tonguelessly attempting to convey information to his fellow officers. Except for a very few, however, those cassettes had been destroyed at his father's retirement. Mulligan's belly felt suddenly heavy as the play button was pressed. The voice was a woman's, high-pitched, but comfortable speaking with a cop. It's Doreen, but listen, I was washing my panties at the wash a teary-on Danforth, maybe an hour ago, so 10 p.m.ish, and this blonde came in wearing a Capitol University jacket and a walk-wind so loud it could frighten an Amish village off their land. She druts past me with a pink plastic laundry basket piled high with her frilies and a stack of textbooks, and I noticed she's wearing jewelry at a goddamn wash a teary-er. Really, it was nothing too over the top. Classy stuff, but, you know, girlish. It was a golden music note on her neck that would get you at least a hundred bucks in any of the downtown pawn shops, and a bracelet chunky enough to club a seal. Anyhow, she picks the machine at the end to dump her clothes into, then she sits up on the counter and starts digging through one of her books. I mean, not in a board kind of way. She was seriously tucking in. Thing is, there's this guy in a white sweater with a blue zigzag pattern, sort of a Charlie Brown style, but thinner, and around his collar instead of his stomach. His teeth were perfect. I'd be willing to bet he had his hair done earlier today, and not cheaply either. Their conversation started about math. He was maybe 25 to her 18 and 19, and I guess he'd been through the same accountant course. I tuned it all out until he said, "On done my laundry, too, and it looks like a lot of stuff. "Could I drive you home?" Well, there was one car in the parking lot. A cherry red Corvette with windows as black as a blind guy sunglasses. She looked impressed, and I couldn't believe it. Before she went through the door with him, I put myself in her path. I don't think that's the best idea, hun. I said, "She looked my little black dress over, "and I know she was thinking, "Jesus, this woman dresses like a whore." Hell, I almost blurted. "That's because I am a whore, bitch, "but one of us had to maintain some manners." She didn't actually say anything to me. She just kept talking to the guy, told him she was down the road at the gardens, and how she really appreciated it. Now, I know you're thinking, "Who was this street walker to judge "who this girl wants to climb in the sack with?" But that ain't it. The woman cleared her throat, and the tape reported a lighter being struck twice, then igniting. She continued. I don't know how long you'd been haunting the place, but I'm sure he noticed the same thing I did. A good looking but slightly overwhelmed girl folding clothes with no wedding band on. Now, what's a guy with that much expensive cologne on doing hanging around a laundromat after dusk? Waiting to play night? Hell no. I can't prove it, but that guy was either a rapist or an axe murderer. Worst, though, is I know cause. You getting that pretty moving box, and you really don't have any room to maneuver. A lock can happen in that tiny space before you can do anything about it. Hey, maybe I'm just being an idiot, but the news is always yammering about those missing blondes. Though the tape kept winding, there was a pause in the dialogue as a pencil scratched across paper. "Yeah, actually," said the woman after reading an unseen request. "You're lucky I made it a professional habit to memorize license numbers." There was a jettering shift in the audio then, and following a series of clicks, a man's voice filled the speakers. Mulligan recognized it to be that of Gus Kramer, his father's former partner. "You sure about the lawyer?" "Okay, in that case, why don't you tell us what you intended to do with Miss Harrison once you knocked her out?" The tape had ground on, but there was a deep silence before the response came. "Yeah, sure, guys. Why not?" was the eventual reply. Despite the delay, the man's tone was cool and clear. "She was the fifth. You find the rest back at my house. The basement will be cold when you enter. I like how, uh, pert it makes them, but I really keep it that way to slow the reaction. I built a tank and dad's old workshop. Well, I had it built for me. I said I needed an incredibly strong, giant aquarium. There's two tubes on either side. Are you familiar with casting resin at all? You mix two chemicals together and the goo hardens to something almost like glass. Sometimes it booths in the mall. You can buy a tarantula in what looks like clear plastic. Basically the same thing. My first stab at a diorama was a failure. I started by dumping too much in and I didn't realize how hot the process would get. At her hips she was screaming in agony. The whole place smelled like flame and chicken. I panicked a bit and finished filling the tank twice as quick. Her thrashing did a surprisingly good job of mixing things and she was firmly stuck when the liquid stopped her bawling. The end product was terrible because the resin cracked and went yellow from the heat. But she was good training. I rode away for industrial stuff which is way cooler. And number two taught me to do it in stages. She fought forever though. And I ended up with something that looked like a woman curled up in the fetal position at the top of a box, which isn't exactly sexy. With number three I kept her unconscious till the bottom layer had already set. Said she had the use of the rest of her body, but her feet were pinned in place. From there it climbed a few inches of resin at a time with a mix that allowed it to set as slowly as possible. Of course she wanted to remain alive so she stretched every muscle with her back arched and face upturned to try to get that last breath. That definitely turned out sexy. Poor as beautiful as well actually. She showed me about the value of props. The national always be my naughty French maid. I had a school scene in mind for number five. I had a desk and a plaid skirt at home waiting for her. Nothing more though. I prefer them topless. I thought I could strap her to the chair beneath the tartan so that she could still move her arms a bit and provide the randomness that's really necessary for a life like scene. Wouldn't it be great if I could convince her to keep just one hand raised? I was so excited to see my beautiful liquid glass slide past her cherry lip gloss. The elder Smith stopped the tape and his son sighed. He knew the case well enough and that the man the press had dubbed the cube killer was long dead from a sharpened prison house toothbrush. "I was wrong," said the younger man. You also cooked before a funeral. To the victim, reaching into his pocket, the retiree retrieved a newspaper obituary for one Doreen Mitchell, mother of three. It indicated that viewings would begin Monday evening and both Smith's wondered if the accompanying photo had struck many of those who habitually trawled the back page column as inappropriate. Still, whatever the cut of her dress, the ferocity of the woman's smile was inescapable. Mulligan nodded, considering his words. Finally, he said, I'll get my suit pressed in the morning. (clicking) (dramatic music) Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. But be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the free sound project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. (dramatic music) ♪ One day a gloomy miles are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ (dramatic music) (dramatic music) (clicking) (clicking)