Duval Dirtbag
Murder on the Base
Ch 31 - Bad Karma (Stall # 3 Home of # 2)
Michael’s day began uneventfully. He checked all the S’s (Shit, Shower and Shave) off of his morning routine in the community bathroom of the barracks he shared with his Pack. It was amusing to him that he felt so comfortable showering with and audibly using the bathroom around the women of the Pack, but not Bill. With Bill, he still preferred to keep his privacy.
Michael’s father would have liked for people to believe that he never even had to use the restroom. He would have preferred to have had a soundproof, odor proof vault where he could do his private business. Michael tried to emulate that as much as possible. It was difficult, to be sure, to do so in college with the community bathrooms in the dorm. He’d tried to go when no one else was in there, or they were showering so at least there was a muffling of his noises.
However, one day the unspoken rules were written on the stall wall. Who knows what instrument was used, but in clear handmade scratchings the wall read, “STALL # 3 HOME OF # 2”.
Well, there it is, Michael thought.
But here, on base, things were different. The Rakiri, when walking around doing their daily duties, wore the Shil’vati standard Army Combat Uniform and, to Michael, blended in with his idea of what officers in the military looked like. However, in the bathroom, with their clothes off, they were human-sized but dog-shaped enough that he could block off their sentience for just long enough to get his business done.
I mean, Ssgt Remington passing by me with a bright red rocket, giving a casual “Good morning” was jarring; but that was the cost of doing business, Michael figured.
Michael had done lots of naked things in front of his pets in the past, it couldn’t be helped. Amongst dogs and babies, privacy was not a shared value.
Michael took his turn. Bill took his. They got their business done in shifts and both in time to get to work, mostly. Today, Bill was dragging.
“Bro, we gotta get moving.” Michael urged Bill.
Bill rolled grumpily.
“Ok dude, I don’t know what the repercussions for not going to duty are exactly, but-“
Bill cut him off in a pillow-muffled growl, “I do.” He turned his head so as to be heard better. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with the consequences. See you later, dude.”
“See ya,” Michael saluted sloppily and left the barracks.
***
“So what’s going on with you two and Bill?” Linnet asked as she, Harley and Fala were getting ready in the community bathroom. “I thought things were going well and then,” she cracked the door to make sure Bill wasn’t also on his way to the bathroom but still spoke in a more hushed tone. “Then poof, you all aren’t, uh, commingling as it were.”
Harley mumbled through toothpaste-foamed teeth, “Fala’s over it.”
Linnet applied deodorant powder to herself and scoffed, “Fala’s over it?”
Fala flushed the toilet in reply. She came out of the stall looking at Linnet through heavy lids, “Do you remember us moving Bill’s stuff to the base?”
Linnet stood in front of the mirror, in line with the other two Rakiri. “Yes.”
“Do you remember the disproportionate number of boxes that Bill had?” Fala began to wash her hands.
“Yes.”
“What does that tell you about a person?” Fala asked rhetorically.
Linnet shrugged her shoulders and tilted her head, “I don’t know, he’s got a lot of stuff? He’s older so he’s got more stuff?”
Fala turned from washing her hands to look directly at Linnet. “Recall that I am a Rakiri Noble. I come from a House humbled by the Shil’vati invasion. Yet, I do not get to carry my banner. I have you all with me, but you’re not my subjects.” Harley and Linnet lowered their heads in practiced deference. “Per se.”
“What does that have to do with Bill?” Linnet pursued.
“A man like Bill,” Fala said with an aristocratic air, “who cannot let go of his ‘stuff’ cannot let go of his past. He’s living in the past.” She dried her hands and straightened her uniform into the proper place. “A man who is living in the past will not be able to see the possible futures he could have.”
Linnet asked skeptically, “Are you saying that he’s below you?”
Fala grumbled audibly, “Not that, but I don’t see someone of my status having an ongoing relationship with a man who lives in the past is all.”
“But he didn’t do anything?”
“He doesn’t have to do anything. He just is.”
Linnet flattened her expression at Fala.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Fala rolled her eyes at Linnet. “Don’t look at me like that! You ought to take a good hard look at where you think you and that Michael will end up before you keep on cavorting with him.”
Linnet squinted at Fala then at herself in the mirror. Her expression softened. She chuffed air through her nose and walked out of the bathroom with the other Rakiri women.
***
It was still cool in the morning, which was quickly making it Michael’s favorite time of the day. The afternoons got oppressively hot, and who could stand to stay awake long enough for it to get cool in the evening? He could smell the saltwater of the St. John’s, the intercoastal, and the Atlantic beyond that. It had taken him a year to get used to the heat. When he’d first moved to Florida, stepping outside of his house would cause him to be instantly drenched with sweat. An aura of moisture enveloped him until he got inside, where it was usually frigid enough that some people brought light sweaters to wear at work.
Michael had anticipated seeing Drill Sergeants marching Privates along the inside border of the base’s walls, like one might see in military movies. He knew it happened sometime, but it was much more likely to happen earlier in the morning than he’d had to go to work. That was another college memory that popped in his head, being awoken by the ROTC some mornings when they’d march and yell when passing his dorm room window. A lot of memories on this walk, Michael thought, is this what it means when people take a walk to clear their heads? The practicality of that notion wasn’t something that Michael had experienced for himself. Walking was for the birds. Well, flying was, but…like, it’s an expression, ok Brain? He fussed at himself.
His internal struggle was halted when he saw the gathering happening at the building that housed his office. The structure held a handful of administrative offices; though it had the same metallic purple brick-like architecture of most things Shil’vati, Michael had come to think of it as a tape dispenser. A lot of red tape seemed to be doled out from his building. That was metaphorical tape of course, actual tape was holding the doors to the building closed. When that was blocked, he changed tack and headed to where the other folks were going.
He had a feeling he wasn’t welcome but no one seemed to notice him. There were four or five Shil’vati officers standing around another officer who was on the ground. Amongst them was Joph’rena. Michael didn’t have to get too close to the body on the ground to know that that poor soul was dead. It didn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure that out.
For some reason, this scene reminded Michael of his father. Watching someone you love go from a living being to not in a period of a few short months is jarring. Seeing a dead body wasn’t yet a natural part of his life. He’d seen several people die firsthand, but they were gone in a flash. He’d never watched the clean up. With his father, it was six months of clean up; professionals surrounded his body, trying to force it to work for its best interests. Cancer doesn’t care. Cancer cares about Cancer. He thought about how his mother would recall stories regarding his father’s treatment for him; Michael was only fifteen at the time and too naive to etch the details into his brain. However, his mother reasoned that the medical professionals who treated Michael’s father knew they were just going through the motions. Similarly, there was no saving this poor dead Shil’vati. Dead on an alien planet. Dead surrounded by family. Death wasn’t something that Michael could get himself to celebrate. Surely some of Earth’s people would be happy to hear that a Shil’vati invader had perished. Michael disagreed. None of the Shil’vati, as individuals, deserved random death in a back alley.
Michael watched numbly as Joph’rena grabbed the hilt of a knife that stuck out from the body. It didn’t come out cleanly. She had to ask another officer to put a boot near where the tip was buried to keep the body steady. She wrenched the knife back and forth a bit before giving it the final tug that released it. Now freed from the body, Joph’rena thanked the officer who’d helped her and looked around at the other officers around her. It was then that she looked beyond them to see Michael.
He felt his guts gird up inside of him when their eyes met. I didn’t do this! Why do I feel like I need to defend myself? Or is that still my gut reaction when Joph’rena looks at me? His stirring continued as she was handed a plastic bag to contain the weapon. Closing it, she walked toward Michael. The blood had mostly dried on the blade, but some that had been pooling was disturbed when she’d forcibly removed it. That blood smeared the sides of the bag. Contained, Joph’rena held the blade up and looked at the hilt. “Hello there, Michael.” She held the knife, hilt side forward toward him. “This symbol mean anything to you?” She fingered the end cap.
Michael frowned at her but looked anyway. “It looks like a snowflake to me.”
“Mean anything?”
Michael’s eyes widened, “Not a clue.” He held his hands up as if to further distance himself from an obvious murder weapon.
“Calm down big guy,” Joph’rena eased placatingly, “I know you didn’t do this.”
Suddenly offended by her words and her tone, Michael answered curtly with a single word, “Neat.”
She looked at the snowflake symbol curiously, “You don’t have the strength to dig a knife like this into bone.”
“Thanks.” Michael replied flatly. “I don’t even know what kind of knife that is. Looks kinda like the kind of thing Rambo had, but it’s smaller.”
Joph’rena tweaked her tusk, “Rambo?”
“It’s a movie. Series of movies.” He corrected himself, “Well, maybe I’m thinking of Crocodile Dundee.”
“Ok Movie Man, your expertise here has been noted.” Jophrena brushed him off, “We’re going to be looking around and inside your office building today. Looks like you get the day off.”
Michael watched with morbid curiosity as two of the officers lifted the body and the other two held open a large bag; they performed a well-choreographed dance of dead body removal behind Joph’rena. “Yeah, thanks for that, I guess.” Joph’rena turned away from Michael to follow the other officers. More questions lurked in his mind, but he didn’t feel like pushing his luck; she didn’t think it was him, which was enough for him. There was a shiny, slick spot where the officer’s body had lain.
Michael turned away from the scene and started walking back to the barracks. His mind went back to his father. In his mind’s eye, he remembered being told that if he had any last words for his father, he needed to go tell him now. Dad can probably still hear you. Michael was 15. He didn’t have any last words to say. He didn’t have any first words. He had even fewer words when he saw his father for the last time. He’d counted how many tubes were going into his father’s still, swollen body. He’d promised himself at the time to remember. He didn’t now. Shame colored his face as he walked.
Michael had put his fathers hand into his own. They were turgid with fluid; heavy but lifeless. Memory Michael’s young eyes filled with tears. The finality of death was not something he was ready for at the time; as if I’m ready for it yet now, he thought in rueful reflection as tears fell freely from his cheeks now. Young Michael had been hopeful that his father would have recovered from his illness: renal cancer. “I mean, we’ve all got two kidneys, right?” Young Michael had reasoned when his mother had told him the diagnosis. His innocent belief had kept her from telling him that it was terminal. She’d prayed, perhaps, that if he’d had hope, maybe there was hope.
There was not.
Having confronted death one more time, Michael mourned his father. Mourned this murdered Shil’vati officer. Mourned for their family, wherever they were.
Taking a deep breath, Michael wiped his eyes with the collar of his shirt and stepped back into the barracks. He sniffled sharply before he opened his and Bill’s door. Bill had sat up in his bed; he’d leaned forward to stretch his back. He straightened up and turned his head as far as he could in one direction then turned his head in the opposite saying to Michael, “Who knew a threesome could leave you with such a crick in the neck?”
“Fuck me.” Michael buried his face in his hands and put his stuff down on his bed.
Bill snickered, “Nah, I’m good.” He gingerly rolled his shoulders forward and backward. “What’s up? Why aren’t you in the office?”
Michael sat down with his legs crossed on his bed. “Someone was killed behind our office.”
“Do you know who?”
Michael shrugged, “No, no one we’ve talked to. Nothing too unique that I could see from what I saw that would help me identify them.”
Bill’s interest was piqued, “So you saw the body. Anything else?”
“Meh,” Michael shuffled through his work bag and grabbed his phone, “there was a knife stuck pretty good into their neck.”
“What kind of knife?”
“Fuck if I know, like, you remember Crocodile Dundee?”
Bill drawled into a caricature, “That’s nawt a knoyfe.”
“Yeah, like, but, smaller?” Michael reckoned.
“So a KBAR.” Bill confirmed.
“Sure.” Michael agreed unknowingly, “it had a snowflake on the hilt.”
Bill straightened up, “A snowflake?”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess it wasn’t the hilt. It was like, the ‘buttcap’?”
“The pommel.”
“Yeah, sure.” Michael answered without looking up from his bag.
“You sure it was a snowflake? How do you know it was a snowflake? Did it have like, points to it?”
“Yeah, like, six or eight, I don’t know.”
Bill asked as serious as death, “Was it six? Or was it eight?”
Michael shrugged until he saw the look on Bill’s face, “I really don’t know.”
Bill grabbed his phone and dialed up an image. He thrust his phone out to Michael. “Did it look like this?”
Michael took the phone from Bill and made sure his glasses were on straight. What he saw didn’t look like a snowflake at all. It looked more like a sun with eight rays coming out of it. Michael admitted, “Yeah, it looked a lot like that.” Looking up, he asked, “How did you know?”
“Bad Karma.” Bill named aloud.
“That the name of the symbol?”
Bill looked Michael in the eye, “No, the symbol is the sun on the Filipino flag. Bad Karma is what I called my KBAR.”