“Where did the bodies come from?” Bobby said, expression still fixed with awe. “Are they Ed’s?”
“Well, not exactly,” George said.
Edmund Mullroy wasn’t your average garbage man. His job of collecting the town’s rubbish once a week, along with the slaughterhouse’s, was his bread and butter, his legitimate work. But Edmund was also involved in more sinister activities.
He collected — and disposed of — dead bodies. The victims of the many serial killers living in the nearby city, and the one lone murderer in town: Tony Fisher.
The killers would call Edmund any time, day or night (usually night) and then he would go to their homes, or some other designated drop-off location, and pick up the rubbish bags containing body parts or, in the case of the slightly squeamish, whole bodies. Then he would take the bodies back to his rubbish tip, where they would be destroyed, no questions asked. Because as long as the means was legal, it was Edmund’s right to destroy the rubbish as he saw fit. So no one batted an eye whenever Edmund lit his fires. They just didn’t realise what else was being destroyed along with the slaughterhouse refuse.
George wasn’t sure of the exact figure, but from talking with Tony, George estimated Edmund serviced close to a hundred killers in the nearby city, those who realised that disposing of bodies the old fashioned way, à la John Wayne Gacy, was too risky and always led to being caught.
George didn’t approve of his brother’s killer ways, but he wasn’t about to turn Tony over to the cops. This was his brother he was talking about, his own flesh and blood.Tony had practically raised George after their mother died when George was eight and his father sunk deeper into the bottle. Still, he’d had many long talks with his brother about why he felt the need to kill people; had even begged him to stop, but like a gambling or drug addict, he couldn’t, despite promises he would.
So George kept quiet about his brother’s nefarious activities. But really, what the fuck business was it of his, anyway? People would always kill one another — it was the human way. What would locking up one more achieve in the grand scheme of things?
George figured Edmund must have a similar philosophy — why else would he have agreed to help Tony (as well as all the other killers) when Tony approached him during a routine collection at the slaughterhouse seven years ago? But after what George had heard — or thought he had heard — tonight, maybe Edmund had a more personal reason to help out Tony and the rest of the murderers.
George learned of the arrangement some time later when Tony spilled his guts one night after they had emptied a bottle of J&B. How Edmund would come and collect Tony’s “dirty laundry” (the code word for a dead body) in exchange for a small cash payment. For that little extra money, the murderer would be alleviated from the hassles of getting rid of the body, as well as have peace of mind that the evidence would be destroyed.
George had to admit, as gruesome as the whole business was, it seemed like a good deal.
Apparently Tony had heard about Edmund’s business through “friends” and thought it a great idea. According to George’s brother, Edmund had been running his successful side venture for close to thirty years, and as far as George knew, the cops had no idea what was going on.
George had promised Tony he would keep quiet about Edmund’s side business, and until tonight he had held true to that promise.
George loved his brother, but there was no way in hell he was going to see his only child follow in Tony’s footsteps.
He was going to show Bobby the reality of murder, what dead, mutilated human remains looked and smelled like. Bobby needed to realise the consequences of such murderous impulses. He needed to be shocked out of wanting to rip the heads off birds and slice open the bellies of cats.
“Throw Mojo into that pit,” George said to Bobby, pointing to the closest neighbouring pit. His mouth was beginning to taste foul, like there was a thick layer of mould on his tongue.
Bobby hurled the rubbish bag into the hole. “Goodbye Mojo.” He turned to George and said, “Should we say a prayer?”
George spat on the ground. “No, we haven’t got time,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The real reason I brought you out here, is to show you what a dead body looks like.”
A light clicked on in Bobby’s eyes. “Yeah?”
George sighed heavily. “Don’t look so goddamned excited about it. Death and murder isn’t something to be excited about. It ain’t cool. Killing someone isn’t fun. It’s messy and nasty and wrong. Just like killing Mojo was wrong.”
“But it was fun,” Bobby said, softly, and started rubbing his bottom. There was probably a nice bruise on his cheeks by now.
George gazed hard at Bobby. (“There’s nothing wrong with your son, Mr. Fisher. He’s a normal, healthy boy. In fact, he’s bright for his age. He’s just…inordinately quiet, that’s all.”). “You stop that kind of thinking right now. I’m going to show you just how ugly death is. By the time we get home, you’re never going to want to see another dead human ever again. Got me?”
Bobby nodded reluctantly.
“Good. Okay, wait here.” George turned to the pit. His stomach did flip-flops at the thought of hopping down into that mess to retrieve the rubbish bags.
He was used to blood and bone, but being elbow-deep in dead cows and pigs was a world away from dead human body parts.
Just remember, this is to help Bobby.
Instead of hopping down straightaway, George sat on the edge of the pit, legs dangling, like someone testing the waters before jumping into a pool. Finally, he took the plunge and stepped down.
The smell, already strong and caustic, hit him like a speeding locomotive: a combination of cooked meat, old flesh and other foul odours that George didn’t want to think about. As it was he struggled to keep down the two hotdogs and three beers he had had tonight for dinner.
He stepped over animal remains. The lumpy rubbish bags underneath made it difficult to get a steady footing. Once he had steadied himself, George bent down and seized one of the rubbish bags near the top of the pile. He yanked it free.
Whatever was inside the green rubbish bag was heavy and bulky, and strained the bag to almost breaking point. Blood, looking dark purple, sloshed around inside the bag as George started to heft the human remains out of the pit. He glanced up at Bobby. He was looking down at George with wild anticipation.
You’re gonna see what death really looks like, kid. Up close and personal. Ugly, filthy, smelly…
The grumble of a van’s engine was like a knife slicing up George’s spine.
His body went cold.
“It’s Edmund. Hide!” he barked.
“Why? It’s just old Ed,” Bobby remarked.
“We’re breaking and entering, remember? It’s against the law. He won’t be too happy if he finds us here. So hide!”
“But…”
“Hide, dammit!”
“Where?”
George, his mind drowning in panic (I didn’t even hear the gates!), struggled to think of an answer. “Behind one of the rubbish piles,” was all he could offer his son. “Go, hurry, I’ll be right behind you.”
Bobby shrugged, turned, and was gone.
George dropped the rubbish bag, reached up and, resting his hands on the rim of the pit, started hoisting himself up. But as his feet left the floor of dead things, his right foot slipped, he lost his grip, and he fell backwards. He landed on an uncomfortable and wet bed of both hard and squishy body parts. “Fuck,” he whined.
Quickly picking himself up, he gripped the edge of the pit again and, with the sound of the van getting louder by the second, eased his head up. He caught a glimpse of headlights pushing through the night. He popped his head back down.