Foot in the Trash Can, Body in the Dumpster

Mystery Fiction by Lee Mullins

I am Detective Terrence Jackson, Badge No. 5684, 17th District, Philadelphia Police Department. I like my coffee black, my donuts chocolate, and my cases solved. Most murders in Philadelphia are the result of “stupid arguments over stupid things.” My job is usually investigating the aftermath of this stupid shit. Who shot who on Haverford Avenue? Which baby daddy threatened his ex over by the park? I know the neighborhood so have a better than average percentage at getting to the bottom of this stuff. But July was a bitch. Young Black men with arrest records splattered across the sidewalks by other young Black men with semi-automatic handguns is grotesque but grimly normal. We get that all the time. But in July we got white people body parts all over West Philadelphia and not even near the colleges or the golf course. Weird fucking shit.

The first showed up with a call from my old friend Joe Cooper. Joe was one of my circle in high school, one of the people that helped me survive my stupid years. We spent a lot of time in those days trying to figure out what we wanted to do when we grew up. I was easy, I was going to have a pro-football career, and being a cop was my solid back up plan. Joey wanted to make movies. Could always quote any movie made in the last 50 years. But he never had the silver tongue it would take to make it in Hollywood. When the old Fox theatre went up for sale, we all decided his Plan B was owning a movie theatre. He and a couple of us completely gutted and redid the place, renamed it the Black Fox, and he's been doing fine business since.

He was really unhappy to find a foot in a shoe in one of his trash cans. “Man, you gotta get over here right now. This foot is stinkin' up my place.”

I called in the foot to the medical examiner's office and went over to see what was up. Joey was right. It did stink. But it stunk of embalming fluid rather than old fashioned dead body. Not a good smell with aging popcorn. The foot was in a black sock and a black Oxford. When I examined it, I realized that it was the foot of an old white guy—what little of the skin I could see poking past the sock was pale pink and kinda wrinkled.

“One of my ticket takers, Tonya, was pulling trash at the end of her shift, and saw it when she pulled off the lid of the trash receptacle,” said Joey as we peered down in the garbage bin. “She screamed and somebody came and got me.” Joey had put Tonya in his office to recover. We found her watching Flintstones reruns. I got her details and did a quick interview with her. She didn't know anything beyond that there was some foot in a black lace up going to church shoe in the trash when she went to pull it at about 2:45 in the afternoon. The matinees had just finished and this bin was in the hall, could've been used by any one in any of the four theaters. I asked her about the crowd and it was pretty typical for a Friday afternoon, some families, some groups of friends, only a few people on dates, and a bunch of people by themselves. I also inquired if she had seen any white people. She said just a couple of kids who were part of a big birthday party group. I couldn't imagine what a white seven year old would be doing with a dead man's foot. But then I didn't have a clue what any of the fine Black Fox theater goers would be doing with the foot either. After the interview, Joey sent Tonya home with a large Hershey bar. His theory is that you can survive anything with chocolate. I could have used a lot more chocolate.

That Sunday, we got calls from three churches reporting body parts found in the trash including a call from St. Alfred's where my sister teaches pre-school. Nobody had seen any thing unusual there either. Monday they found a penis in the trash outside the zoo. I just about lost my lunch when I saw it. Shriveled old white man's dick baking in the 95 degree heat of a July Monday afternoon. Dr. Edith Jones, sorority ice queen of the Philly ME's office, didn't have a clue about what was going on. The guys on the homicide squad were busy chasing real murderers, too busy to deal with practitioners of the fine Philadelphia art of body snatching or whatever was happening. Most of the guys in the 17th were on vacation. This all left me trying to figure something out.

As the dick stunk of embalming fluid like some of the other body parts that had been found, I started calling people I knew in the funeral industry. First I tried Claw, a buddy from high school and a med student studying pathology. No answer. Then I tried his uncle Bert, who ran a funeral home. Got an answering machine message saying that Jordan Mortuary was closed until August 1, giving a number to call in case of emergencies. I dropped an e-mail note to Emilee, who was Claw's wife, my ex-girlfriend, and an anthropologist. I had hope for a second until I realized that she had an automatic vacation response on her e-mail. She, Claw, his uncle and everybody else in Philadelphia were probably at the Jersey shore gettin' some rays while I was stuck in an ancient precinct house with a lousy air conditioner. It was so damn hot the chocolate icing on my donuts was just melting into the package before I could get 'em to the office. I briefly considered calling Claw's friend, Elvis the drag queen assistant coroner from East Chester. But I am an old school homophobe. Half my vocab in high school was gay this and fuckin' fag that. I’d learned to mind my manners since then, but I was not desperate enough to call Elvis.

Wednesday, the rumor mill reported a dead white guy in a dumpster in North Philly. He was no where near Temple University, my alma mater and the only place white people usually hang out. I had nothing going on in West Philly and no clue what to do about my body parts so I went downtown to check him out. He was older than most college students but didn't look like a professor. Expensive haircut and a couple of gold earrings. He would have been sharp if he had not been sliming up the morgue table.

Ice Queen nodded when she came in. “White male, 35-40 years old, probably Irish or English background, found behind the Beer Barn at Broad and 40th, HIV+.”

“Did he die of AIDS?” I asked.

“No. Looks like he tumbled from a height, maybe a hill or set of stairs, and broke his neck.”

“Murder?”

“Hard to know.”

“Has he been embalmed?”

“Yes, he has,” replied Dr. Jones, knowing what I was asking, “Giving us another anonymous Caucasian to identify.”

I looked through his effects including a well cut Italian suit, a pink striped shirt and a pink and purple tie. I took down the details of any tag that I could find. I also wanted to check the obits as the guy obviously had money and somebody might have stuck some kind of notice in the paper of a funeral or a death. I knew Elvis might have some lead on who he was. He fit every stereotype I had of a well-heeled gay guy and Elvis was well-connected in the community, but I still didn't call.

I popped my head into Dr. Jones's office before I left and said I would try to trace tags and obits if I had some time. She actually smiled at this and said thank you. She then mentioned something about a Duke Ellington style retro band on the Pier. I ignored this sort of invitation. Jones was an attractive, intelligent woman but had too much formaldehyde in her veins for my taste. I was soon wishing I had taken her up on her invitation. At least I would have had some music to look forward to. I spent all of Thursday walking around in 97 degree heat with 98 percent humidity interviewing the finer merchants of Philadelphia. Some of them knew the names on the tags but none of them stocked them in the stores. Only conclusion I came to by the end of the day was that the guy had probably shopped in New York.

At 4:30pm things got worse. The 17th includes one block of river front, the least desirable part of the Schuykill, and a bend in the river where the dead bodies show up. We get suicides, mobsters from South Philly, and occasionally young kids who fell in the river. I was surprised when somebody called in a young guy with bullet holes in him. Perpetrators of stupid shit usually just leave their victims lying in the street.

Jones was there when I got there.

“Deceased is an 18 to 20 year old Black male with eight bullets and a bunch of mortician's stitches in him. Has been in the water for three to four days.”

I stared at the corpse. Something was really strange about the bullet holes. They looked neat. “Was he shot before or after death?” I asked.

“Good question,” said Jones. “I need to run some tests, but my first guess is that he was shot after death. The bullet holes don't look like they produced a lot of blood. His body was probably dumped in the river to cover up the exact timing.”

“Fuckin' weird shit goin' on,” I said. Jones did not contradict me.

He had been a good looking kid in good shape, dressed in a blue blazer and tan slacks. Could have been an athlete. Could even have been a football player, he had the shoulders for it. With Jones's permission, I went systematically through all his stuff. His socks of all things looked really familiar. They had an ugly orange and green tag on them, like the Irish flag. They had to be school socks. No other reason for such a sartorial travesty. I knew that was going to bug me until I figured it out. I was familiar with every team in the city from my days playing.

It came to me that night as I was watching Starsky and Hutch reruns. St. Bridget's of East Chester. Most Irish church in all of the Philadelphia area–which was saying something. Lotsa Irish in Philly. I Googled the church and recent funerals. Javon Hightower, well known tight end of the St. Bridget's Lions, had died of complications of an enlarged heart after a summer practice session on one of the killer days we had been having. What the fuck were the coaches thinking? I called Jones to let her know that I had a tentative ID of the body. So Friday morning, I gave in and called Elvis. Something was rotten in the county of East Chester.

He answered his phone with “Haallloooo gorgeous!”

I ignored this greeting. “Hey Elvis, this is Terrence Jackson from the Philly PD. I got two stiffs and a bunch of dead body parts that I was hoping you could answer some questions about.”

“And here I was hoping that you would want to talk about live body parts.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “I'm in Asbury Park housesitting for a friend and waiting for a plumber. That hurricane to end all hurricanes, Sandy the uber bitch, trashed his pipes. You got photos you can show me?”

“Sure,” I said, “When you getting back to town?”

“Why don't you come out here? You know you want some Jersey shore right now.”

He was right about that. Philadelphia was getting damn stinky. And for all of my homophobic tendencies, the idea of Asbury Park Beach actually sounded kind of fun.

“K,” I said, “I can be there in a couple of hours.” I got his address, agreed to bring my swimsuit, and hung up with a “Later.” I made a quick trip to University Avenue to the morgue to find the clearest shots I could of the various nasty bits we had been finding around town. One of the ME flunkies said that Jones had matched some of the body parts with each other, useful information that I noted down. Then I headed north to the beach in my 1976 Monte Carlo with the windows wide open, dreaming of the joys of sun, sand and moldering corpses.

I got to Asbury Park about 3:00pm. Elvis was in a renovated Victorian with purple trim a couple of blocks from the beach.

“Halloooo!” he said as he opened the door. This seemed to be his normal greeting. I had to admit, he looked pretty good. The Jersey Shore had worked its magic and he was a nice nut brown.

“Wha's up?” I said. He gave me a lingering glance and looked like he was about to make some snippy comment but was smart enough to just say, “I got some beers in the fridge.” That sounded good but I refused. Said I was on duty but that he should feel free to have one.

We sat down at a sunny kitchen table, Elvis plopped down a bottle of some fancy European beer for himself, and I pulled out my folder of death. I handed him them one at a time. They looked out of place against the red checked table cloth.

He immediately identified the gay guy. “Keith Hendrix, friend of friends, major New York asshole. According to rumor, he came down to Philly to let his ex know that he was HIV+ and ended up down a very long set of stairs. Roofies were probably involved. I suggested murder charges but of course old man Higgenbothum said they would just be a waste of tax payer money and ruled the death accidental.” Seymour Higgenbothum was the Chief Coroner of East Chester and worst coroner ever. He once identified a 15-year old burn victim as a 47-year old.

Elvis continued, “Came into the East Chester Coroner's Office just before I left for vacation. Was supposed to be cremated after his funeral last week.”

I said nothing, but began to think just maybe we could figure this out. I handed him Javon's picture. “Don't know him,” he said. “Has our friend Diva Edie figured out yet why they shot him after death?”

I stifled a grin. He had the right handle on the fate of Javon and on Dr. Jones. “Nope,” I said. “That is why I am forced to be here at the beach when it is 95 in Center City.”

Elvis gave me puppy eyes. “Poooor baby.” I dropped my poker face just enough to put one of my cards on the table. “I called you up because he died of a heart attack after a summer practice session for the St. Bridget's football. He's East Chester too. Javon Hightower.” Elvis muttered “asshole coach,” but I didn't give him a chance to say anything else. I just started putting random shots of our dead white people in front of him. He sorted them into two piles and then began to sort within the piles. As Jones had figured out from DNA samples, he put the old white guy's foot with the shriveled dick we had found.

“Alfred somebody,” he said, “Came in just before I went on vacation, maybe 70. Smoker who died of lung cancer. Think he was due to be cremated as well.”

“You think we got a body snatching ring going?” I asked.

“Like the goons in Jersey who stole Alistair Cooke's body?” he asked in turn.

“Yup.”

“Could be. Good money in organ sales. Someone is always needing new parts and there are always chop shops popping up willing to supply 'em.” He tapped Keith's picture, “Somebody could've rejected Keith because was HIV+ or gay or both. But Javon was in great shape. Why would anyone reject his body?”

“Racism?” I replied. It was a question I had been asking myself as well. “But if it is white racist ring of snatchers, and Higgenbothum is involved, how'd they drop bodies in West Philly without being noticed?” I'd seen Higgenbothum on TV occasionally. “Higgenbothum is so white that he makes Anderson Cooper look like a person of color.”

Elvis grinned for a moment and then went back to the pictures. “Claw went on vacation just before I did, so didn't deal with any of these guys. Besides you don't not notice a 6'5 guy with a claw hand.”

He was right and I relaxed a little. I liked Claw even if he had kind of stolen The Only Woman I Could Ever Love. “Any other people of color in your office?” I asked.

“Only Tom Smith, the Zombie.”

“He black?”

“More like grey. He works the night shift and doesn't get much sun. But he is really average looking. Not tall, not short, not dark, not light, not good looking, not a dog.”

I thought back on the tapes that I had watched. Such a person could have easily been in the crowds we looked at. “If we took you to the ME's office, you think you could identify him from surveillance camera footage?”

“Might be able to.”

A clock struck 5:00pm. We had been staring at photos for two hours.

“You off duty yet?” asked Elvis.

I shook my head and took out my appointment book. “When you getting back to the city?”

“Wednesday,” he answered.

“Can you come by University Avenue on Wednesday afternoon?”

“Sure, how about 3:30pm?”

“Fine,” I said, noting the time and giving him the room number.

I snapped the book shut, collected my photographs, and put everything away. Then I let myself smile. “Now I'm off duty. And I'll take that beer.”

Elvis swapped out his coroner mode for his drag queen persona. “Oooh, and what kind would you like?”

“American?” I asked, knowing it was a futile request.

“I can give you a nice Czech pilsner,” he said. I rolled my eyes but accepted the bottle. It was cold and not bad.

We shot the shit for a while and then headed out to the beach. We walked the couple of blocks to Asbury Park Beach, gayest beach on the Jersey Shore. Well toned men in pairs and groups, with occasional straight pairs and family groups sprinkled in, were spread out on blankets and playing in the water as far as the eye could see.

“You know,” I said, “that you are taking the biggest homophobe in West Philly to a gay beach.”

Elvis looked up from smearing lotion on himself. “You the kinda homophobe who finds the idea of male-male sex utterly revolting or the kind that was intrigued but horrified that you found it intriguing?”

Elvis is not a stupid guy. I didn't answer for a while. “Second,” I finally said, and immediately headed to the water. I am not a great swimmer but I love playing in the surf and jumping waves. Elvis swam like a dolphin, diving through the biggest waves with ease. His arms reminded me of Emilee's, sleek and strong.

We played until dusk then grabbed some beers and burgers at the Stone Pony. As Elvis said, any guy who drove a 1970s Chevy had to go pay homage to the home of the Boss. Afterwards, we walked along the moonlit boardwalk, all nice and rebuilt after Sandy.

“Okay,” said Elvis finally, after we had talked sports and work and family for a bunch of hours, “Which team do you play for?”

I smiled, “Not much of a playa of any kind.”

“Nobody?” said Elvis with surprise in his voice.

“Emilee Harrington was my first and only girlfriend. Always think of her as the only woman I could ever love.”

“That girl is fabulous!” he replied. “Best arms north of Michelle O's. What happened?”

“I was captain of the football team, she was captain of the women's basketball team. We had a great but very innocent year together. Then I broke up with her when I went away to college. She started seeing Claw, probably got pregnant prom night, and they got married.”

Elvis grinned, “And thus the lovely Anastasia was born.”

“Yeah,” I said, “A fabulous kid but such a woulda, coulda, shoulda sort of reminder to me.”

In response, Elvis ran his hand slowly across my back. I didn't object.

* * *

The next Wednesday, I met Elvis for a late lunch. I hadn't seen him since breakfast Sunday. I wasn't sure what the fuck had happened. Or what was going to happen. But doing the consenting adult thang was not half bad. And he still looked good even when sitting the other side of a formica table at one of Philadelphia's finest diner dumps. Not a lot of people can pull off florescent lights. He of course flirted and fished for compliments.

“Don't you love my new jacket? Got it on the boardwalk. Perfect summer weight and I think the blue does wonders for my eyes.

I ignored him and talked about the case. “So why would someone like Higgenbothum sell body parts? He's gotta be making a decent salary.”

“Higgenbothum never met a dollar that he didn't think should be his,” answered Elvis. “He also likes pretty toys like the new Mercedes he just got. Not the least bit boxy, all designer curves.”

“Maybe an E-class,” I said. “Nice car. Does Smith show any signs of money?”

Elvis eyes squinted for a minute, probably trying to remember what he knew about the nothing that was Tom Smith. “He did just purchase a decent used Cadillac. Great maroon color, nice leather seats. And he has stopped complaining all the time about his credit cards.”

“So money is probably the motive. But why all the body parts in the dumpsters?”

“ Another case of West Philly getting dumped on?” asked Elvis, only half joking.

I glanced up and saw a clock. It was time to play with the Ice Queen.

Soon Elvis, Jones, a video tech and me sat in a dark conference room looking at tape, playing spot Tom Smith. Elvis found him at Joe's movie theater. Then Jones saw him in one of the church tapes, and Elvis and I spotted him in another church tape at almost the same time.

“Okay,” said Jones, “Detective Jackson, do you agree that we have enough to bring in Mr. Smith for questioning?”

I nodded.

She went on, “We need more, though, on Coroner Higgenbothum.”

“We should have enough for a warrant,” I said.

Jones agreed and then asked, “Dr. O'Brian would you be willing to wear a wire?” It took me a second to realize that she was talking about Elvis.

“Ooh,” he said, “Of course, so exciting.” I could tell Jones was irritated by him and that he was having way too much fun poking at her.

I changed the subject to avoid a cat fight. “When were you thinking we should do the operation? I can get a warrant by Friday.”

“Do you and Coroner Higgenbothum work on Monday?” she asked.

Elvis nodded and we made plans. I wasn't sure what we would find but I agreed to arrange a surveillance truck and for me to be on the truck. I found I didn't like the idea of Elvis being there by himself at all.

* * *

After weeks of clear scorching days, Monday dawned grey and wet. By the time we got Elvis wired up and delivered to work, rain was coming down in buckets. Good day not to be noticed, but I had no idea how the sound equipment would work in this crap.

It was a day of hell, both incredibly tense and deeply boring. Me, two techs and a sergeant from Citywide Vice sat all day in the smallest surveillance vehicle owned by the Philly PD, a tiny van with Vigilante Plumbing on the side. Somehow the powers that be decided that body snatching was a vice. Don't ask me. We watched screens that looked like the tiny black and white TV we had when I was a kid. My family have always been late adopters. Found out the sergeant was named Frankie Pizzaro and grew up in South Philly, and that both of the tech guys were named Dave and went to high school together. Only difference I could see between 'em was that one was white and one was Asian.

We could hear Elvis joking away all day, chatting about bodies to anyone who wandered by him. He had agreed to bring up the topic of Keith Hendrix and the dead white people's body parts when he could. By the end of the afternoon, I was ready to give up. He and Higgenbothum had not even been in the same room. But about 4:30pm, our little screens showed Higgenbothum walking into the room where Elvis was working.

Elvis grabbed the chance. “I heard they found found Keith Hendrix's body in a dumpster in North Philly. I thought he was dead, dusted and buried.”

Higgenbothum sounded kind of taken aback but just said, “What are you talking about?” Couldn't tell if he was surprised that Hendrix's body had turned up in a dumpster or that Elvis was talking about it to him. Elvis, being Elvis, upped the stakes in the game.

“I hear that there are bodies and body parts are all over Philly. You guys never let me have any of the fun!”

“What the fuck has that worm Smith been telling you?” replied Higgenbothum in something near a yell.

“Tom Smith the Zombie? Oh no, he hasn't said anything. That man has no personality. I've met goldfish with more conversational ability than him.”

White Dave said, “Higgenbothum's gone back in his room.” My stomach clenched. Higgenbothum should be out there screaming at Elvis at this point, not in his office, except of course if he went to get a...

“Gun!” said white Dave.

Me, Frankie and Asian Dave were out of the van in a split second. I was the first to make it to the back door Elvis had left open for us.

I heard a shot just as we were going in. The bang rang through the halls and visions of dead Elvis flashed into my mind. The cop in me wanted to keep Higgenbothum alive to answer questions about the dead white body parts. The whatever the hell I was to Elvis wanted to blast the fucker to smithereens. The football player in me solved the issue with a flying tackle. In my time, I was known as the only quarterback in Philly who could force a fumble. I hit Higgenbothum from behind and sent the gun skittering across the ground. By the time he blinked, he had four guns pointed at him. Mine, Frankie and Dave's, and, his own gun. Bless his bleeding drag queen's heart, Elvis had retrieved it after it been knocked away when I tackled Higgenbothum. Quick receivers are a wonderful thing.

“Oooh, my hero,” said Elvis, sounding okay but looking kind of pale and obviously bleeding from his left arm.

We called in the incident and a clean up squad came and arrested Higgenbothum. Frankie and the Daves went to fill out the paperwork on the bust. I went to the hospital with Elvis. They took one look at him and took him away to dig the bullet out and stitch him up. Hospitals around here know how to deal with gunshot wounds.

I finally got to see him a couple of hours later, lying in a bed in a recovery room.

“Hey hero,” he kind of croaked.

“Nice job getting that gun,” I said, “Wish all my receivers were as quick as you.”

“I needed to be quick to get away from galoots like you,” he said, and then he winked. “Of course, these days, I find myself running towards galoots. What is the world coming to?”

“Suckaaaahhh,” I said, and left it at that.

I am Detective Terrence Jackson, Badge No. 5684, 17th District, Philadelphia Police Department. I like my coffee black, my donuts chocolate, my cases solved, and my...companion...a smart ass drag queen coroner. Who knew?

Acknowledgements

This piece is dedicate to the memory officers lost in the line of duty including Philadelphia Detective Anthony Johnson, a West Philadelphia native who died on duty while arresting a suspect. I have given his badge number to Det. Jackson. Thanks also to Ruth Toulson, my guru of death, and the editors for their very helpful comments. All mistakes, however, are my own.

Other work by Lee Mullins is available in Death on a Cold Night at http://elm-books.com