Man of Flies

MAN OF FLIES

Monday

Phil angrily stared down at his desk, at the pool of light with papers strewn about as if the files, notes pertaining to the cases he was working on, were somehow withholding the solution. It was late, and he was tired. He was frustrated. The office was empty. Allen had headed home. He corrected himself. Allen went to his motel room. Like himself, his marriage had fallen apart. This was Allen’s second, and he seemed to be taking it better than the last time. The receptionist had left at 3 to go to a dentist’s appointment.

Phil was a sizable man. Slightly over six feet and heavy. He wore a button collar shirt uncomfortably tucked into jeans. His wife had bought his clothes for him. He rarely noticed. It wasn’t important to him. Now, of course, she was gone, and his clothes were starting to look a little tired, a little worn.

He leaned back, arms behind his head, and groaned. He had been sitting for several hours.

The case had come in early that morning. It was a favour for a friend. A former client, so more of an acquaintance, but it was a corporate gig. They usually were the best. They paid well and, more often than not, were fairly straightforward. This case was a two-parter. The first part was to find a man, and the second part was to find out who he was working for. The first part should be fairly easy. The second may be harder but not impossible. He hadn’t talked to Allen about it yet. If he ran into any trouble, he would call in Allen and his nose, but for now, he would go it alone.

He had made several calls and got a few emails back bearing slivers of the puzzle that was confounding him. It would have, should have been a simple matter, and it was a favour, as well. It’s always the ones you do for a friend, to help out that turn into the nightmare cases. No good deed goes unpunished.

He sat forward, hands flat on his desk.

“I need a drink,” he said to the empty room. He looked at the mess in front of him. He knew somewhere in all this was an answer. Maybe not the neat answer he would like, but an answer was there. He closed his laptop, stacked the papers in a loose order and put them in a file folder, then he stood and put the folder in the cabinet behind him.

He flipped off his desk lamp and stepped from a dark room. He grabbed his coat, flipped off the office light and left.

The building had an old elevator. The slowest thing he had ever ridden in. It creaked and groaned and occasionally dropped several inches. He walked past it and took the stairs. It was only two floors, after all.

As he walked, he thought about the case. He wished he had his partner’s intuition. If he had, he might have already wrapped it up. He chuckled as he pushed out into the night. Allen was exceptional. He seemed to feel where the answer was and how to get to it.

On the cement steps, he paused and pulled out a pack of gum. He pulled out a stick, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. He enjoyed chewing gum, but it annoyed Allen, so he tried not to be around him.

The night air was cool, and the forecast was for snow. Ya, it felt that way. There was a crispness in his nose. He couldn’t help himself. The first snow always made him feel like a bit of a kid and all the excitement it brought. A noise from above him and to the left made him look up.

It was a crow. He stared at it. It looked down on him. He couldn’t remember seeing a crow in the city. And did they come out at night? Did they? He guessed they had to be somewhere. They watched each other as Phil turned and walked down the street to find a bar. No hurry to get to his apartment. There wasn’t anyone waiting for him. Maybe a couple of drinks.

The next morning Phil was in the office early. He had slept little, nor had he slept well. He had had his couple of drinks, then had gone back to his apartment. It was as quiet and as silent, as he had feared. He sat and flipped the tv on. He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and he was wrong. A few minutes after sitting with some movie on TV, he was asleep.

His dreams were nothing new. The last few months, he had spent his night running and being chased. Allen had said it was stress, but Phil had had stress dreams, and these felt different, more urgent and more real.

He woke in his chair with the sun just coming up. The tv had another movie on. He switched it off and went to have a shower. He felt like shit. His back was stiff, and he realized just how tired he was. When he got out of the shower, the coffee machine had finished percolating. He filled his travel mug with strong black coffee and went out of his apartment, locking the door.

The office he shared with Allen was several blocks from where his new apartment. He was fortunate. He caught a cab and was in front of his office in a few minutes without having to walk much.

Allen and Phil also shared a receptionist. She was an ok person, but it was obvious she didn’t like her job much. She looked for any excuse to dodge work. Allen had been searching for a replacement but hadn’t found anyone yet. He was particularly frustrated by her notes. Her handwriting was terrible and, more often than not, unintelligible.

Phil unlocked the office door and flipped the lights on. He was the first in this morning. That was a ‘never before’ event. He smiled at what Allen would likely say about that, or maybe he’d leave it alone knowing the difficult circumstances Phil was going through. Oddly enough, Allen’s situation wasn’t much better, but somehow Allen was handling it better than Phil. Phil guessed it was because this was Allen’s second marriage and had already gone through his once before.

Phil went into his office and left the door open. He wanted to see Allen’s face.

Phil ran through the details he had on the case he was working. A few of his calls and emails from yesterday had returned with some additional information, but nothing concrete. He was starting to think he would have to bring Allen in on the case after all.

Phil went online and started following threads.

He looked up when he realized he was hungry. He checked his watch. It was already 1 pm.

After lunch, and Allen, nor Stella, hadn’t come in.

Phil couldn’t remember Allen saying anything about being out, but he was on another case, so maybe.

Phil dismissed it and decided to go for lunch.

Phil locked the door to the office and went down to the street. He stepped out onto the sidewalk. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to eat—his exhaustion clouding his brain. A cab rolled by, and he haled it. He decided a nap was what he needed, maybe an hour and things would clear themselves.

He got back to his apartment. He took off his coat and shoes and stretched out on top of the bed.

When he woke, his mouth was dry. He went to the kitchen and had a glass of water. He was surprised to see it was dark out.

“Fuck.” How long had he slept? It was nearly 6. How could he have slept for that long?

He went to the washroom and washed his face. He had to admit he felt better, but he was going to have a hard time falling asleep tonight.

He checked his email on his phone. One email he had sent out yesterday had been to a man who helped out, occasionally. He worked in an insurance office. However, he seemed to have far more ‘shady’ sources than legit. He wasn’t someone he or Allen called upon often. His price was always high, but the information was always reliable, so he was worth it.

He had replied. He had found where that man Phil was looking for would be later this evening.

Tuesday

Phil had spent 4 hours waiting. He was outside a small apartment building. The email he had received from his source told him the man he was searching for would be in this building and would be leaving sometime after 6. He had raced over, grabbing a cab, getting out a couple of blocks away and walking the rest of the way using back allies. Even rushing around getting what he needed and the trip over, he hadn’t been in place until 8. He was sure of the information because he was sure of the source. However, it had been 4 hours, and he was starting to wonder if this would be the first time his man was wrong or had Phil just been too late and had missed him? That would suck. He had spent the money. Non-refundable, of course, and he may have to pay it again. The profit on this job was shrinking. Phil cursed himself. Allen would be pissed.

Phil had been excited. It was a good piece of information, and with it, he felt he could wrap up this case. And Allen wouldn’t have needed to be concerned about it. Another finished case to bill, even with the expensive bit of info Phil had purchased. Phil had felt good. But now, the good feeling was slipping away.

He decided he would give it another half an hour and then pack it in. He needed to warm up and have a coffee. Maybe some food. He started to think about getting food and started to wonder if even staying another half an hour was worth it. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe the information was wrong or out of date, and Phil hadn’t missed him at all. Maybe it was time to go for a burger at a place over on 6 Th. He liked their burgers. Maybe he’d have a beer instead of a coffee. It wasn’t late after all. What...a little after 11?

Yes, that was what he was going to do. With his shoulder, he pushed off the wall and turned to head down the alley he was standing in when the front door of the building opened, and there he was. The man he was searching for.

He wasn’t a tall man, 5’ 8” or maybe 5’ 10” slim, dark hair pushed back and a thin face. His eyes were set back from his face, and he looked a bit older than the photo Phil had in a folder back at his desk, maybe 30 or even 35. The man paused to light a smoke and turned to his left, and walked with a purposeful stride through the cloud of smoke. It swirled around him as he went down the street. Phil followed.

He knew he should have called in Allen. To follow someone like this was difficult. With Allen, they could have switched off, so it wasn’t one guy following. On this quiet street, it would be very easy to get spotted. Phil walked along as casually as possible.

The man he was following didn’t turn around, didn’t look about at all. He seemed very intent on where he was going as if he was late for an appointment.

He moved quickly to the end of the street and turned right, disappearing from view. Phil hurried to the corner, then peeked around it. The man was already halfway down the block, walking fast, nearly running.

For a minute, Phil thought the man had seen him and was running, but after following him for a bit, he saw the man half run, half walk and constantly glancing at his watch, but he never looked back. Phil kept pace, wondering what sort of appointment at this time of night would enlist this kind of behaviour. It was nearing midnight. It could only be illegal and therefore clandestine. This may be the big break Phil had been waiting for. Finding the man was only the first part of the job. The other was to find out who he was working for. This could be it. The meeting that would wrap the case up. Phil got excited.

Phil hurried forward now, more than ever determined not to lose him.

Ahead, the rushing man looked down at his watch and bumped into a woman standing, talking on her phone. The phone flew from her hand as she toppled over. He stopped to help, then a sort of panic seemed to take him, and he ran. The woman on the ground swore at him as she picked herself up and reached for her phone.

Phil ran past her, and she swore at him, but he didn’t stop. Ahead, the man had slowed. He was no longer running but walking fast. Phil had to run a couple of paces to keep him in sight.

Suddenly he disappeared. Phil strained to see him. He quickened his pace. Then he saw the alley. At the edge, he paused. Then he looked around the corner. The man was standing in the middle of the alley, walking slowly, no longer looking at his watch now he was scanning the alley.

With quick glances, Phil got a sense of the alley. There wasn’t much for cover—one large metal garage bin halfway between the man and the end of the alley where Phil stood.

Moving quietly, Phil crept along the wall toward the bin. The man seemed very engrossed in his search and probably wouldn’t notice Phil’s movement, thinking it was street noise coming from behind him.

Once at the metal bin, Phil cautiously looked around the edge. The man was still walking slowly. Phil glanced at his watch. It was midnight. When he looked back, the man was standing beside a large, very shiny black car that had driven from a cross alley, a cross alley Phil hadn’t seen. For a minute, Phil stared. He hadn’t seen a cross alley, had he? He was sure he had walked down this alley at some time or the other and couldn’t remember a cross alley.

Phil felt like he was dreaming. The unrealness of the whole scene made him question what he was seeing, made him wonder if he had somehow fallen asleep outside the man’s building and was dreaming all this.

As Phil watched the black car’s back door opened, a tall thin man unfolded from the back seat. He smiled the predatory smile of a used car salesman ready to make a deal.

Phil watched the two men as they talked. The smile broadened as they shook hands.

Phil saw behind the tall man in the suit, another man formed, taking shape like a low rez photo slowly increasing in resolution a dot at a time. When he was fully realized, this man was as tall as the man in the suit, but he was all in black and wore a large brim black hat that hid much of the man’s face. He was grinning with a wide bright grin. He held a large black book.

There was a deal going down here, but it wasn’t for drugs as Phil had first thought, nor was it a meeting with the man’s contact. This was something altogether different. Something Phil had no idea about.

Absently Phil waved his hands at the black flies which were starting to swarm around him, coming he assumed from the garbage in the bin he was crouched behind.

Suddenly the man in the suit looked straight at Phil, looked straight into his eyes. Phil flinched and ducked back behind the bin.

Beside him, the flies were thick. They swirled buzzing and spiralled up more and more of them and as he watched they formed, came together and made at first the silhouette of a man then as more flies gathered the man became more solid till a man stood there smiling down at Phil.

“Mr. Hammett? So nice to make your acquaintance.” the man said. He wore a black suit and a large black hat that shaded the upper part of his face. He was smiling hugely. Phil crouched there looking at the man who had appeared formed of flies!

He must be dreaming. Pulling his eyes away from the man in front of him, he cautiously looked around the edge of the bin and saw all three of the men standing there were now looking his way.

“Phil. why don’t you come and join us?” The tall man in the suit said and waved cheerfully. “Mr. July, please invite Mr. Hammett to join us.”

“Mr. Hammett, the Judge extends his invitation. Please come with me” and the man made of flies stepped forward and grasped Phil by the arm. He was intensely strong. At the touch, Phil started. He swung a massive haymaker punch at the man’s face. It never seemed to connect, at least not with a face. It was like punching through a swarm of bugs. His momentum carried Phil forward, and he fell face forward on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet and ran. He had only run a couple of paces when the man in the hat appeared in front of him, all buzzing flies and grinning like this was the greatest joke in the world. Phil pulled up short, then without deciding to, Phil pulled his 9 mm out and aimed at the center-mass of the man in front of him. The man continued to smile. Phil pulled the trigger, the man flew backward, arms were thrown wide. Later Phil would remember the hat, and the smile never left the man.

The man fell backward, but he exploded into black flies that swarmed away into the air when he hit the pavement.

For a second, Phil looked at the spot where a body should have been, then he looked back down the alley.

The three men continued looking at him. They were all smiling.

Phil raced out of the alley and down the street.

Wednesday

In a motel room, a thin strip of blazingly bright sunlight cut a white hotline from the curtains, which were not perfectly closed, across the carpet, the bed and the shins of the man who lay in the otherwise pitch-black room. The man was fully dressed. He even had his shoes on. He was asleep. His chest rose and fell shallowly.

Slowly the crisp white line slid minute by minute, hour by hour, upward to the man’s waist, then chest to the man’s neck where it faded, burned orange for a brief time and vanished, leaving the room and the man in complete darkness.

The phone rang. He reached for it, knowing it was bad news.

“Mr. Allen Cole?” The voice on the other end was crisp and professional.

“Yes.”

“My name is Constable Kowalski from Division 51. Could you come to the station to answer some questions?”

“What’s this about?”

“We have an ongoing investigation. It involves your partner. Maybe you can help clear up a few things.”

“It’s late,” Allen said for no good reason, already knowing he was going.

“Yes, it’s rather urgent.”

“Fine.. k. Give a half an hour.”

“Fine.”

And the phone went dead.

With a heavy sign, the man rolled over and sat up, his shoes on the carpet. He sat for a time, breathing. Then with another sigh and a small groan, he stood. He swayed slightly and rubbed his face with both his hands. Then he turned. Grabbed his puffy dark blue down-filled coat and left the motel room.

Allen Cole was an average man of average height with an average face. He was so average no one seemed to remember him if they did. The description was useless. It served him well in his work. He was an investigator, a good one. He had a feel for it. Not everyone could do what he did. He knew if he followed his gut, he’d be ok. He had to trust. Usually, the problem could be solved with perspective. Like so many things in life, if he could change his and see things from another’s perspective, he could find the solution.

Allen stepped into the street. It was cold. Not winter cold, but cold enough. He should be hungry. He hadn’t really eaten for a couple of days.

He stood in front of the motel and thought about eating. Nothing sounded good. Coffee sounded ok. He decided he’d start there. Get a coffee and then get something to eat, then he’d go to the station. There was time for that surly. He turned left and headed downtown.

Thursday

When he got to the police station, he had been led down to a cell where Phil was being kept. Phil didn’t lookup. He didn’t and hadn’t responded to anyone. Allen talked to him for a while, but it was obvious something massive had happened to him, and he would be no help. Allen would have to find out what happened on his own.

Allen had read the witness report.

The witness had been out walking his dog across the street from the alley and had looked up to see Phil shoot another man. The witness described the man as very tall and thin in a black suit with a large-brimmed black hat. He had seen Phil pull his gun out and fire. Had seen the muzzle flash and had watched the man fall backward. From his angle, he hadn’t seen the body hit the ground. The witness said there was a car between him and where the body would have fallen.

He then saw Phil run down the street away from the alley. The witness had immediately called the cops and later had picked Phil out of a lineup.

Phil’s gun, taken from Phil’s hand when he was arrested, had been fired recently, and a single round was spent. Phil had been found a few blocks away, huddled in the corner of a convenience store near the freezers.

The cashier had thought he was being robbed. Phil had come running in holding his gun but had run straight past the cashier and had sat down at the back and started mumbling. The cashier called the police.

Allen had retraced Phil’s steps as best as he could. He had read through the case file Phil was working on and read Phil’s notes. It all looked straight forward. Nothing would suggest the night would end the way it had.

It wasn’t making sense. Nothing was adding up. He was following his gut, but this was a big but, where his gut was leading didn’t make sense. And with every passing hour, it made even less sense if that were possible.

The thing about 3 am in the city is it’s the same in every city. Not dead, but quiet. It’s the quietest time in the life of a city. The streets are empty of everyone except cabs and garbage trucks. It’s a time when the random odd people stand out, no longer lost in the crowd but revealed in the lack of cover.

To find yourself walking on a city street at 3 am, some extraordinary event has either pushed out very early or very late.

Allen was out very late, and he was tired. He needed a shave, hell he needed a shower. The coffee had helped a bit at the time. Now it sat like acid in his stomach. He should have eaten something before going to the station, but nothing on the diner’s menu seemed like something he wanted to eat, so he had paid for his coffee and had left.

He shoved his hands in his jeans as he huddled against the light snow. He refused to own a trench coat. It was such a cliche. His dark blue down-filled coat was warm, but an unfriendly bouncer at a bar two nights ago had left him with a good-sized bruise on his shoulder and a tear in his coat that disgorged small white feathers as he walked. He left a trail like little white footprints that blended with the fresh snow briefly until the snowflakes melted and the feathers stood stark against the wet pavement.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets. He thought of his friend sitting in a cell. He had to help him. Absently he thought, Tomorrow he would have to buy some gloves.

The alley he walked, he had walked many times, up and down for several blocks in either direction for the last 2 hours. He was looking for something. He had a sense of it. The thing he searched for. He had a feeling of its weight in the world, it’s space it occupied. It was small but weighed a great deal.

He knew exactly what he was looking for, but he had a feeling he was looking for something else as well. Something that would make sense of this whole event and free his friend. He had no idea what that would be, but he was sure that here was where he’d find it. This is where everything had gone horribly wrong.

It was here. It was in this alley. He walked with his head down, scanning. He got to the end of the street, turned and started back again.

Suddenly the weight of the night crashed down on him. He stopped walking. He looked up at the dark sky. The snow came falling down. His eyelashes fluttered as snowflakes landed gently on them. Like a child, he stuck out his tongue, tasting the snow. He swayed.

After a minute or maybe several, he closed his eyes then looked down. He rubbed his face, wiping the damp, rubbed his eyes.

“I need to sleep,” he thought.

He looked down. There, where the pavement met masonry. In a corner was what he sought all these hours. He bent down, a puff of feathers floated around him as he bent and picked up the small piece of brass that held so much weight in the world.

He brought it up to hold it in the light, to look at it closely. It was what he had sought. It was a casing from a 9 mm bullet. And it had carried the bullet that had killed a man.

With the casing in his fingers, he looked over the case, trying to look at it like any other case, to review what he knew and look for what he didn’t.

He knew the killer, knew who had pulled the trigger. Knew him well. That man was his friend and partner for 15 years, Phillip Hammett. He was in custody, charged with murder. There was a witness, and Phil had been arrested holding a gun, but Phil was in a cell and would be heading for a padded room. He wasn’t talking, but when he did, he kept talking about flies or, more precisely, men made of flies. He wasn’t making sense. He seemed to be in shock, or maybe something a lot worse.

The question now. The one he needed to answer was who was the man who had been killed. Usually, dead men stay put, are easy to find if left to their own devices, but this dead man didn’t want to be found, it seemed.

Allen dropped the shell casing in a small plastic bag and put it in his breast pocket.

He stood, white feathers floating about him.

He went back to the police station where Phil was being held. Maybe Phil was clearer, and Allen could get some answers.

Friday

The cops were being very accommodating. Over the years, Allen had helped them out, off the record, of course.

The holding cell Phil was in was one of four in a separate locked room. The door to the room could only be opened by someone outside the room, and Phil was behind locked bars. He was the only one in the cells. Allen went in and heard the door click shut behind him with a loud chunk. He pulled a plastic chair from the wall and placed it in front of Phil’s cell; he sat.

“Phil, you gotta help me. I’m at a dead end. I can’t make sense of any of this.”

Phil said nothing, just rocked back and forth, mumbling.

After a time, Allen looked down and put his head in his hands. He had been sitting in the hard plastic chair for a couple of hours talking, questioning, pleading with Phil, and he was getting nowhere. At one point, he had looked up, stared at Allen, his eyes wide, their whites showing and screamed about men made of flies and a black car that had driven out of the wall. Allen stared, mouth agape.

Finally, Allen stood and put the chair back against the wall where he had found it. He looked through the bars at his friend. He knew now Phil could not help him. He wasn’t even sure Phil was in there anymore.

“I’ll see you, buddy. You just hang in there. I’ll find out what the hell’s going on.” Allen paused, looking in the cell. His friend sat on his bunk rocking. Absently Allen waved at a fly. He turned and pressed the buzzer on the door to be let out.

Then he heard a sound. First, it was a buzzing mixed with a violent scuffling sound and then a gurgling cry. Allen spun around and ran the few paces back to the cell bars.

At first, Allen couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.

Phil was struggling, his feet dangling off the ground, his hands tearing at the black hands wrapped around his neck. They held him up and were strangling him. He flailed about wildly, but to no avail. The hands were long, and the man who held Phil was very tall, very thin, dressed in black. He wore a large-brimmed black hat and was smiling.

As Allen watched, the man in the hat turned to look at Allen, and his smile widened. Never letting go of Phil. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Behind Allen, he heard the main door being unlocked and a cop, keys rattling, running in. Allen banged on the bars as Phil’s fighting slowed and became weaker until they stopped. Then with a final jerk, Phil hung there unmoving, suspended, his legs dangled ragdoll-like.

The cop was pulled at his keys, looking for the one for Phil’s cell. Phil fell to the ground as the man in the hat disintegrated into hundreds of flies that flew about in a black swarm and then fell to the floor.

The cop got the cell open, and Phil lay dead on the floor surrounded by hundreds of dead black flies.

Saturday

Several hours later, Allen sat in his office with the door open, looking across to Phil’s office’s closed door. The case had been dropped. With no victim and the perp, obviously mentally unstable, having committed suicide while in custody. The ‘how’ he had committed suicide was not mentioned. The confession was written off as ravings. The witness, it was decided, was unreliable and mistaken.

Allen was confused and angry at Phil. They had been friends for 40 years. They had gone through school, marriage, divorce, always together. It made no sense. Why hadn’t he come to Allen? Why didn’t he ask for help?

What Allen saw in the holding cell felt like a dream. The counsellor he saw explained what he saw was a coping mechanism to protect him from his close friend’s suicide. He couldn’t reconcile the man of flies’ image and what the official report said had happened.

He had walked home after. Questions had been asked repeatedly, questions he could not answer. Phil was gone. Those words did not make sense to him. He had stopped in front of the building where their office was looking for the key. He had looked around and had seen, across the street partially hidden in a shadow, stood two men. He was sure; he felt they were watching him. They were both dressed in black suits. They were very tall. Both wore large brimmed hats, and they were smiling. They brought to mind evangelist preachers from some horror movie. Their teeth nearly shone in the dark. It gave them the appearance of grinning skulls.

A cab drove past between them. Allen turned and started up the steps, then he paused and looked back. The two men were gone, but Allen, in the cab’s headlights, had seen their faces for a flash. Of course, it was his grieving mind, but neither of them had eyes under those black hats.