A collaborative post between TNY & Kentsukan
1:15 PM
Queens, New York
Philip was washed in a hesitant, smelly sweat, and it dampened his palms along with his face. His rosy lips were pursed forward and his posture was nervous; he leaned against the black, hedged fences of the brownstone he stood before. His blue, converse clad left foot was lifted above the other on the gate-lip and bounced with all the anxious energy he had bottled up. He’d purchased a bowie knife at a hunting shop along the way and now had it tucked under his Stuyvesant hoodie which he’d picked up from home. His froggy hands were shoved in the front pockets, Dennis noticed him instantly, and recognized how suspicious he was. It was a moment of truth.
Dennis was wholly exhilarated. He stopped off at his home before coming up to Queens. He wore plain clothes with a Brixton cap. He had a realistic auburn wig on under the hat and he used a cane. When Dennis realized this would be done in a residential neighborhood, he made sure it would be impossible to accurately ID him; he even walked with a limp. ”Witnesses,” Dennis remembered something JL said, ”is the detectives best investigative tool.” In his right coat pocket, the .22 he’d taken from his office earlier was wrapped in a plastic bag.
Dennis shambled up to Philip, stood next to him, facing the house. Philip seemed undisturbed by Dennis’ precautions, as if he understood. Or, perhaps he was too focused, the rush of bloodlust crawling through his veins. Dennis handed the pistol over, and without a word Philip took the weapon and stepped off the curb and out into the street. He calmly walked through the drive way and around to the back yard.
Dennis watched the boy with a façade of calmness which so perfectly masked his desperate expectations, and the excited anxiety.
Philip entered the home through the back door, it was inexplicably open. He took the recently cleaned weapon in his right hand and thrust it into the back of the modestly dressed mother who’s cheeks were freshly dry of the tears she’d shed all day over her missing daughter. She hadn’t received the deafening call, not yet, Philip could tell. As the hard metal pressed against her soft, linen linned flesh Philip wrapped his left hand around her mouth. She let out a squeal, but Philip was able to calm her by pressing the gun further against her, brandishing his power, and shush-ing her.
“I need you to be as quiet as a mouse,” Philip said, his soft, cracking voice bouncing lightly off of the tiled walls of the kitchen. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I need you to show me where your husband is.” The woman, whose name was Miranda, shook her head, trying to say that her husband wasn’t home. Philip brought the tiny pistol up her head and pressed it hard against her skull; he slowly pulled back the hammer, and it clicked into place. Miranda was moving by then. Philip found a dish towel and made her bite down on it as he held it from behind, gagging her. The two walked up the stairs and began down a short corridor.
Dennis then approached the house, he’d given the boy a minute, that should have been enough to get everything started. Dennis took the same route Philip did, carefully approaching the backdoor as he got nearer. His cane was held under his arm as he dropped the manufactured limp. He looked at the pile of vegetables stacked on the marbled island countertop at the center of the kitchen. Celery, leek, iceburg, onions, and tomatoes. He noted the hastiness in their chopping and a napkin nearby with drops of blood on it.
Philip and Miranda entered the room of her daughter slowly, fresh tears streaming down her face. Frank, her husband, was slouched on a chair looking at pictures. Miranda sniffled and Frank turned around. He looked on in horror at his wife’s bound form. The barrel of the pistol peeked from behind Miranda’s hair and glistened in the afternoon sun. The window of the room looked out on the front lawn, Philip’s mind was racing, he didn’t notice that Dennis was gone. Frank raised his hands, his face was hurt, confused, “Please… please don’t do this.” He said.
Philip was biting his lip, his face was hidden under his hood, and he sweat just as much now as he had before. For a moment he lost himself, he wasn’t sure what he was doing, it was as if he blacked out. But he remained standing. His eyes glazed and everything around him was in a fog.
Dennis found the stairs and peered up them, he heard distant voices; it was time. He climbed the steps calmly, reached the top with the satisfaction of Philip’s shadow cast along the hall. He smiled.
“Your daughter,” Philip began as he came-to, “she’s dead.” Miranda slumped to the floor in a heap as she cried harder and harder, the strength falling away from her. Philip was revealed, his gun thrust out in front of him, and Frank recoiled. He knew Philip, so did his wife.
“You,” Frank began, his eyes brimming with tears, a foul anger rising to the surface. Philip dropped his gun to his hip, still focused on Franks body. Dennis appeared in the hall behind Phillip, which got Frank’s attention. He glanced at the strange man in the hall in confusion.
Dennis’ eyes reflected the warm sunlight brilliantly, and he almost cried himself. This was something he’d wanted for so long, and here it was, finally. “This is our Becoming,” Dennis said quietly. And with that, Philip began shooting. Three shots rang out in the small neighborhood, each bullet hitting Frank somewhere. Two of the bullets drilled into Frank’s midsection, each hitting vital organs. One went through Frank’s arm and then the window behind him. As Frank slumped to the ground Miranda cried out, a shrill sound which pierced the last bit of quietness left in the neighborhood. Philip brought the barrel to Miranda’s head and pulled the trigger, forcing her lifeless body to the ground. Her blood pooled around her and soon met with that of her husband’s. Philip fired another bullet at Frank, just in case. He turned, a thin line of blood splattered across his face, and smiled at Dennis. “Well done,” the Butcher remarked.
7:55 PM
Manhattan, New York
This time, Robert had made an effort to drive to Dr. Shavleson's house. Not only did he not want to arrive smelling strange, but the Trockenbeerenauslese needed to be kept cold. If he didn't get the extra block closer to the apartment building in the next ten minutes, however, he would simply get out of his car and walk. He should have been used to traffic on New York's scale, but it still irritated him that to crawl an inch it took an exorbitant amount of his time. In Texas, people would just go on the shoulder or the Texas offramp; the green space on the side of the road. Punctuality preceded any sweat droplets that he would excrete in the consequential walk. At the very least, he had the clothes to hide it. He wore an all black three piece suit, shoes shinned to a polish, nails manicured and clean, and hair cut. It almost made him feel like how orderly he kept himself while he was working. He had also took a shower to soothe himself from today's earlier migraine, along with some cold water and honey for his throat. And to make sure not a scrap of food was left, he had starved himself of any snacks. Fortunately he did not eat lunch earlier that day, so he would be able to eat everything. Perhaps anything. "Finally," Robert sighed in relief, "they're moving." It took them three minutes, but patience was key to traffic here. A philosophy he found hard to follow.
Indeed, Dr. Shavleson was a man of taste, and his field of psychology was booming, if the outside of his apartment building meant something. Robert did not have time to gawk, as he wanted to arrive five minutes early to their dinner. The paper he kept in his pocket with the address said he was high up on the fifty-seventh floor. At least he wasn't afraid of heights. He smiled politely and nodded at the doorman as he walked into the lobby. The elevator was quick on its descent and ascent, and the layout of the building was not confusing. He stopped at the door, adjusted his tie, and nodded in approval that the wine was appropriately cool. After another monent's hesitation, he knocked a few times on the door, took a deep breath, and sighed deeply. It was just one dinner, a casual, social occasion. And hopefully it would stay only that. He was not obligated to tell Dr. Shavleson anything, but at the very least he would be polite. Robert admitted he could be poor in social situations, but he would let no one ever accuse him of being unjustly impolite.
Dennis had a coolness in his eye, a satisfied calmness, as he double washed the medium sized livers in a clear bowl in the sink. His kitchen was perfect, as his father would have wanted, with a side room for butchery (strictly legal game there). The apartment was alive with a cool jazz, a distinguished ear would attribute it to Mingus. The abrupt trumpet chords blasted across his sunken living room and into the neoclassical hallway which led to the decked out kitchen.
Dennis ground the livers several times and sent the mixture into a food processor with seasoning and cognac. The pate was then put into a long pan atop a cookie sheet, and then put into the oven at 250°. After he put the rack in he removed the other rack he had in there which housed a thin crispy baguette heating under a cloth. Removing the cloth revealed the crispy, simmering, seasoned top of the bread, and it was all Dennis could do to not drool. That’s when the knocks came. Dennis lifted his white head into the air and sniffed, past the fragrant air of seasonings and spices, and into the hallway; he could smell fear, naivete, an interlooping destiny. It was Robert Bishop at the door.
Dennis opened the door with a smile on his face. He wore a dark brown wool suit, finely crafted in London. His shoes were olive green pennyloafers, which went beautifully with the verdant colored tie he wore. His shirt was a plain white while the vest atop that was a chocolate brown with caramel pinstripes. “Dr. Bishop, please come in.” Dennis extended his hand behind him toward the living room. A hallway lead to the left which was far more simple than the one to the right, with it’s arches and columns. Beyond the living room was an enclosed section of balcony, and then an extended patio. It was all very lavish, just as Dennis had always wanted.
"Thank you. I brought you something, as thanks for your invitation. I hope you drink wine." Robert had stepped from the inside with a bow of his head, then took a moment to appreciate his new surroundings, although he did not recognize the music beyond its genre. The fragrance of the food hit him as soon as he was fully inside the apartment. His brows twitched in concentration, and he sniffed again. "Is that liver? Regardless of whether I am wrong or right, it smells delicious." A number of questions were now in his head now that he was inside. The décor, the music, even his suit all seemed choreographed together, as if it was penned out by a designer. No, that was not an accurate metaphor. A colorful, detailed, and well thought out puzzle, all the pieces tight and snug in their correct places. That sounded much more like it. "Did you hire someone to design your home? Do you have a maid service? I myself use one, but they never do this thorough a job. I am a little envious, Dr. Shavleson." Somehow, in some corner of his mind, this was all too... Perfect. It felt like it would be a crime to let a hair fall on the floor, or a painting be slightly slanted. Robert was familiar with the type of personality reflected by Dr. Shavleson's home. All medical students exhibited it. Perfectionistic, organized, and an observance of some sort of order. He took this on a different level, however, to the point where it may be over line or borderline obsessive-compulsive. A curse inflicted upon many in history, used to achieve fame and seal the sufferer's fate.
But to what end?
Robert shook his head. He was not a psychologist, these were just guesses. The thought would haunt him for the rest of the night. Who was obsessive now, a dry voice asked in his mind. He ignored it.
Dennis took the bottle at the first chance he could, eyed the label curiously under the dim light. He nodded once he realized the excellency of the brand and year. And then Robert impressed him even more, he noticed what he was cooking. A keen nose on this one, eh?. “Yes, liver pate, to be specific. I wanted to keep this a light, affable meal, while still filling.”
Robert took a few glances of the apartment, the parts he could see anyway, as Dennis carefully eyed him all the while. Then he asked about the design, something Dennis foresaw. “No, I designed most of it myself. I’m a bit of an artist, I got into architecture and interior design modeling about half a decade ago. A lot of this is courtesy to the money I made off of some of my more popular designs. And as for the cleanliness, there is no reason to be envious: I’m hardly ever here, you see. I spend a lot of time traveling, and I tend to my father’s old farm; mostly as a manager, mind you. So I don’t have much time to make it dirty. Aside from the kitchen, it can get a little messy in there.” Dennis’ blue orbs glinted in the dim light, he smirked and he felt as if he were emanating evil, pure chaos. “Please, make your way to the dining table,” Dennis said as he pointed to the glass enclosure on the other side of the living room. There was a long dining table there, only one half housed table settings and hors d’œuvre, such as tomato bruschetta, baked sausage link pastries, and tea. A beautiful candelabra was mounted at the center, fully lit. “I’ll be with you momentarily.” And with that Dennis retreated into the kitchen, where he began cutting into the baguette and dicing more tomatoes.
Dr. Shavleson's answer was not comforting in the obsessive aspect. In some ways, it was worse. And did he just get smirked at? Still, Robert nodded his head. "You have a talent for it. Are you self taught? Or did you attend school for it? I don't remember seeing design on your curriculum vitae." His stomach rumbled at the appetizers: interior decorator, architecture, psychologist, and now the title of chef was added into the talents of Dr. Shavleson. "Would you care for some tea?" Robert turned his head and called out in the direction of the kitchen while pouring himself a little. He lifted the teacup and sniffed; he was not familiar with tea, but it smelled pleasant, and when he took a sip, it tasted pleasant.
“Yes!” Dennis called over his shoulder as he washed his hands. He then gently placed a tray of artfully diced tomatoes into the refrigerator to cool. The sumptuous Trockenbeerenauslese was tossed into a newly filled ice bucket, then cozily set into a stainless steel ice bucket transporter.
While the appetizers looked delectable, he did not wish to gorge while his host was working. And so he picked up one bruschetta and ate it slowly, nodding his head in approval after he swallowed. "I also do hope you will not mind when I assist you in cleaning these dishes." Robert's tone was nonchalant as he poured a second cup for his host. He placed it where the coffee cup would normally go, on Dr. Shavleson's area. "And you do not mind that I leave the tea on your side of the table?"
Dennis entered the room as Robert finished his inquiry. Such a pleasant, respectful boy.
“That’s quite fine, yes.” He rolled the ice bucket over to their corner of the table, gestured for Robert to sit, and took his own seat. “I must say, Dr. Bishop, that bottle you brought is quite exquisite. I hope you didn’t feel too impressed into bringing something so special. I almost feel as if I’m not worthy.” He sipped the delicate ginseng and then decided to make himself clear, “almost”.
"You are too kind, but I think it's only fair considering what you have made for dinner this evening." Robert sat after Dr. Shavleson took his place, and folded his hands over the other before reaching out for his drink. "Though I am not sure you heard my other question before you sat down. Did you study design formally, or informally?" Robert almost felt bad for asking the question twice, but if he wasn't heard, he wasn't heard, so he had to repeat himself to be sure. It was Dr. Shavleson's choice to answer or not to answer, after all.
Dennis felt a tick, somewhere at the back of his neck. Was this dangerous information to reveal. He’d learned about most of his artistic skill while hopping around europe. If he mentioned that, he might as well reveal his whole life story. Being such a… “popular” figure had it’s disadvantages, not being able to brag all the time happened to be one.
“Mostly informally. I began studying structures and doodling when I was about ten, but I realized I had a talent right at the tail end of adolescence. You could imagine how happy that made me.” Dennis looked off into the darkening night air, hanging over the city below. The darkness seemed to fight with the light of the city, there was a line, a plane of white light, where the two forces met. It was an event horizon of the soul, for Dennis. Something happened in him then, something clear and impactful but almost unseeable. What it was, in reality, was a sense of placement. He was the inky black sky, descending on the city, and no matter how many lights the heroes held, darkness would always come.
Dennis grabbed one of the sausage link pastries, which he called pretentious pigs-in-a-blanket, and took a bite, it was perfect. The dough was a yellowish, golden color, and it flaked with a satisfying crunch. “Was it hard getting here?” Dennis asked, abruptly, breaking the lengthening silence.
"Not in particular, besides the usual traffic. Your assistant provided excellent directions, along with Google Maps." Robert's eyes followed the sausage pad try's final journey from basket to its consumer while he answered. The moment that had happened in Dr. Shavleson's mind was lost on Robert, who was currently mulling over his immediate surroundings. The house did have a lovely view, even if the sun was blocked by the jungle of buildings surrounding them. He then followed Dr. Shavleson's actions by picking up a sausage pastry for himself and eating, chewing slowly and trying to concentrate on the smoke of the meat. He had hoped and believed his tongue was not going dull (yet), otherwise a great source of pleasure would have been gone from his life.
“Pork, beef, lamb sausages. Isn’t that exquisite? It’s such a simple sort of food. Wrap it in dough and you suddenly have something else, something not only filling, but delicious.” Dennis was almost speaking to himself, as he held the appetizer up to his eye level. He thought of the truest contents of the sausage, human blood. Wrap it up in animal meat, hand it out on a silver platter, and suddenly it appeared to be something else, something not only delicious, but fiendish.
Dennis brought the appetizer down and glanced at Robert, bringing him into the conversation, “How are they? Moreover, how do you like the bruschetta? I was a bit worried, because it was something I’d never made before.”
Robert looked at the sausage in mild surprise upon being told of its composition. "I've eaten plenty of pork sausage and cow sausage, even pork and cow sausage, but I've never had a lamb sausage, much less a lamb-cow-pig one. I would normally be concerned with the lamb's fat content, but it's generally higher than a grown sheep. And the bruschetta is delicious, you have nothing to worry over. I am actually surprised you have never made it before until this dinner."
“That’s good to hear!” Dennis exclaimed, then took another sip of his tea. He wanted to address the elephant. “I have to say, Robert, I’m happy to see that you’ve enjoyed everything so far. I’m always a little worried about how my patients will feel about these dinner dates, no matter how many times I’ve done it. People tend to feel like it’s unprofessional. I see it as an opportunity to break the constraints of the blasted armchair, and the confounding power structure so prevalent in therapy. You’ll find that I’m mostly unorthodox in my practice, but generally effective.” Dennis took another sip, placed the cup down, glanced over the table, “Perhaps you had your own reservations?” he said in a half question.
Robert's face became neutral at the question. He lifted his tea cup, took a few sips, and set it down before he answered. "Admittedly yes, I do. I do think this is unprofessional. I can see how the power structure could interfere with your work, but don't you ever worry about your doctor-patient relationship to be too personal? Has it ever happened? But this is your realm of medicine. Perhaps I would be more understanding if I had 'patients' who were alive." Dr. Shavleson wanted to do what? How could he hope to break the power structure when he himself seemed to be so structured? His very words sounded oxymoronic when contrasted with the personality shown around his home, clothes, even the very food they were eating: this was no farmer's spread. Did Dr. Shavleson wish to escape his conservative, rustic roots? He almost sounded like an idealist. Perhaps he was one.
Dennis looked back at the inky landscape as he pondered the question, blankly. He thought about Philip, about what they’d just gone through.
Only hours ago, Philip’s blood seeped from Dennis’ gloved hand to his forearm and elbow. As Dennis, clad in an oldman costume, ebony cane clutched under his armpit, red wig tucked under his cap, had worked Philip into a sitting position, only moments after slitting his wrist with the convenient bowie knife the poor boy had bought. It lay at the side, Philip was woefully unconscious for this portion, it was harder than Dennis thought to get him to be a sacrifice. In the end it took a quick elbow lock and a sudden chest compression to get the boy weakened enough to slice his wrists, from inner forearm to the wrist. Each combative motion was done with such grace, such gentility, that there would be no bruises. The only issue that Dennis saw, and it was an unfortunate side effect of the way he needed to complete the motion, some of Philips blood had spilled on his own back. That would look suspicious to a good investigator, which J.L would certainly send.
The boy sat, pale, head drooped, near the closet door of Mr and Mrs. Jenkins’ bedroom. Dennis rose from his crouched position over the boy and looked at his blood soaked gloves. He removed a plastic bag from his back pocket, something he found invaluable on trips of this nature, mostly to keep strange evidence from appearing where it need not. The gloves went into the bag and the bag safely on the floor. Dennis grabbed a tie from the closet, thanking Mr. Jenkins for having one of his own, making this process a lot easier. He tied the piece of fabric into a noose and slid it over Philip’s head. He then tied the tie to the inside of the closet door knob. A slight off balancing of the boys sitting position and he was suddenly being asphyxiated. Dennis left after that, taking the plastic bag encasing his bloody gloves with him. He climbed over the back fence of the house, into another person’s back yard, whose house was luckily unoccupied. He heard sirens off in the distance and silently applauded his own timing.
He hadn’t thought much about it since it happened. Most of it rang out in his head now, but he was able to kept it back. Dennis came back to Robert’s question. “It has happened, I won’t deny that. But I’ve found that things like that tend to happen when you work with unstable people in a personal manner. A lot of my patients are obsessive, but lots of other doctors have to deal with the same problems, and I’d argue that they might have harder problems than me. Perhaps, without the structure guiding the therapy, healing will happen faster, and obsessive outbursts reduced. That’s why I’m doing it. Someone has to, eh?”
How many people said 'Someone has to' before they performed something unethical? It was an interesting question in his mind. There was a joke in medical school that the student who could precisely calculate how much blood was spilt at the American Civil War should earn his medical degree and leave. A philosopher should be handed a Ph. D in ethics, in that case, if he or she could calculate how many times that phrase was uttered in the history of medical malpractice. True, medical ethics could be--were--restraining. But those rules existed for a reason. Rules that had been long established, tried and tested, and proven necessary by "medicine" gone wrong. Dr. Shavleson may have had his reasons, but Robert wasn't entirely sure of what they were. Too many things had been written off as for the good of the patient, when in reality more insidious reasons were the truth. So what was Dr. Shavleson's truth? It was hard to say. The man likely had his own issues to deal with.
Dennis finished his tea, ate the rest of his blanketed pig, “Mmhhm, eating truly is one of the greatest pleasures in life, isn’t it?”
"It certainly is, at least one of them, I agree." Robert nodded his head while reaching for a sausage roll and taking a bite. He chewed and swallowed before he spoke again; he may have eaten more of these if just for the pastry bread. "Man cannot live on bread alone. He must have some sort of variety in his diet. And considering the other pleasures in life that can be dabbled into, food is more mild."
Dennis’ eyes nearly glinted at Roberts words, they were too true, too true. “Yes, yes; I’ve found that as well.” Dennis went on to explain a little about the material nature of the culinary arts while combining the transcendence of art and beauty. He spoke a little on his intense interest in that dichotomy, and then excused himself to check on the things in the kitchen. A delectable stew sat on the stove top, just finishing it’s final lap, and the pate was already exuding it’s strong aroma. The stew was dumped into a beautiful mosaic bowl, and that onto a serving cart. Half of the freshly baked bread was put into a basket, then onto the serving cart along with the bowl. Dennis wheeled the stew in, placed soup bowls from under the cart on both table settings, and then served the brownish opaque liquid. There were all sorts of vegetables, along with potatoes, and beef cuts. He sat back down, put the bread basket between himself and Robert.
“Beef stew with summer vegetables. Please, tell me what you think.” He waited for Robert to eat first.
Beef stew seemed almost disappointing considering the dishes that had preceded it, but food's appearance did not equate to its taste. It seemed that Dr. Shavleson planned on serving a full course dinner, and Robert was now glad he starved himself. He skewered a beef chunk with an appraising eye before consuming it, focusing on the tenderness and the gravy. "Is this chuck?" He asked, after swallowing, "I'm simply curious. If there is one thing I am particular about in regards to food, Dr. Shavleson, it is beef. And this tastes superb. My problem with some stews is that they try to cover up the beef with herbs and vegetables. In this case, they only compliment the gravy and beef." He toasted a spoonful at Dr. Shavleson before eating it. The potatoes were also in agreeable chunks: not too large to take up space where there could have been beef or gravy, and not too small so that they turned to mush. "Were these potatoes seasoned?"
Dennis smiled, then shrugged his shoulders at Robert’s question, “Sure,” he said with a smirk. “Basil, and salt & pepper, pre-panfried with extra virgin olive oil. The beef is shoulder roast, braised in a medley of mushrooms and rosemary. The delectable remnants of that were mixed with wine then made into the foundation of the gravy.” Dennis took his own bite, savored the bloody beauty. He swallowed then stood, crossed to the gifted wine, popped the cork. “You have an uncannily accute tongue, Dr. Bishop. I find myself feeling envy, perhaps even jealousy.” Dennis said this with exacting purpose, but exhibiting nothing else other than affable familiarity; he poured wine into the wine glass before Robert, then went over to his side to pour. He placed the bottle on the table, then sat. He lifted his glass to his nose, sniffed with pleasure, swished the wine a little then sniffed again. Dennis then lifted the glass to meet Roberts over the wine bottle and appetizer trays.
"It's not so much an acute tongue as it is a lifetime relationship with beef." Robert had reached forward with his own glass to meet the wine halfway, so Dr. Shavleson did not need to reach so far. "Steaks, stews, many dishes. My family loved that which cows made. The best of which were seasoned with a little pepper, absolutely no pressing down on the meat as it cooked, and the natural juices did the rest: Simple and complimentary. The best of beef dishes and gravies are created this way." He sniffed his own wine before glancing over at host. "Do you enjoy wine often, Dr. Shavleson?"
“Yes,” Dennis responded right before tipping the glass to his mouth, tasting the sweet punch of it, the incandescent aroma, wafting somewhere above the grape swamp. “Botrytized grapes are a true delicacy. I buy wines like these whenever I get the time. Virginia is doing some unbelievable things. This is such a wonderful treat, Robert, thank you again.” Dennis separated a chunk of meat, lifted it onto a spoon with a helping of potato and broth, and took another thrilling bite. Dennis couldn’t help but shake his head, eyes closed, and he thought briefly on how he could make long-pig taste, or even look, anything like beef.
The soup was eaten in a casual fervor as Robert questioned Dennis about his hosted events. Dennis had people over as often as he could. He admitted that his availability had declined after he began working with some government agencies, as well as delivering talks and lectures in colleges all over the country. This was a good year for him after his new book debuted. “The Psychology in our Genes” was co-written with geneticist Bruce Lahn. Dennis had the pleasure of visiting China for a few months in order to collaborate. He was not wanting of pigs there, either. After that followed a short discussion about the book which was interrupted by the dinging of a bell in the kitchen.
“There are some times, Dr. Bishop, when I wish I truly did have a cooking team working for me. Pesky situations like this are one of those. Please excuse me, I’ll be right back with the main course.” Dennis lifted himself from the chair, placed the mosaic soup bowl on the table, and wheeled the cart back into the kitchen. The baguette was sliced, painted with a garlic butter sauce, then topped with the aromatic pate. A cilantro aioli was artfully squeezed onto the plate, accompanied by the beautifully decorated tomatoes from earlier along with two wonderfully grilled asparagus stalks. This was the case for both plates, they were placed on the cart along with a tray of exotic cheeses and a grater. This was wheeled back into the dining room. The plates were set, and Dennis sat, the cart directly near the table and easily accessible.
“You may choose any of the cheeses here for a special addition to the liver pate.” Dennis said as he began to pour wine for the two again. There were four hunks all labeled. First there was Abondance, then Parmigano. Under those were Stilton and Manchego. As Dennis stared at Robert, awaiting his response to the food, a phone rang out from somewhere deep in the Butchers lair. It bounced off of the walls and glass and struck Dennis. He was expecting a call from the FBI at some point during the night, so it was no surprise. “Excuse me,” He politely said as he stood from the chair, placing the napkin on his lap onto the table. He crossed over to the wireless receiver atop a large entertainment console and picked it up. “Hello?”
He listened intently to the other end, glancing at Robert every once in a while. It was J.L, he was a little annoyed since Dennis had purposefully turned off his cell, forcing him to call his home. J.L mentioned Philip, Dennis grimaced. He explained the crime scene, as Dennis expected, and mentioned that he would like to speak with Dennis about Philip. What Dennis did not expect was for J.L to ask Dennis to head to the scene, help the FBI with an analysis. He’d helped in the past with crime scene analysis and profiles, but he had no idea J.L was this desperate. Dennis agreed, “I was about to sit down to dinner with a guest, but I can make it.”
J.L asked who the guest was, and Dennis received a glimpse into the future. The transformative fires of trauma and madness would meld these two together, and this was the opportunity to strike the match. “Robert Bishop,” Dennis responded. J.L asked if he could ask Dr. Bishop to come along, he had almost no one to spare. “Hold on,” Dennis said into the receiver, looked over at Robert. “J.L Carney is asking for your assistance on a case. He needs an ME he can trust on scene and he can’t spare anyone else. What do you say?”
