Halloween Fiction

Mr. Brysbank’s Gift to You

Be careful how you wear it, use it, or re-gift it

“You are, or were, Mr. Brysbank’s — ?

“His valet, sir. Twenty-three years. This does look grim, doesn’t it, Detectives?”

“You might say that.” The skinny one with the shiny forehead nodded and kept nodding.

I glanced at his nametag. C. Glones.

“Just the two of you with the staff in that 4,000 square foot suite?” he continued.

“Mr. Brysbank and myself only, Sir. Starting about six months ago, the staff started leaving, one after another. The last one … ten, no, eleven days ago.”

The fat detective leaned his belly into the table he sat at. “It couldn’t have been the pay,” he mused. “Their employer was a billionaire. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Morrison?”

“That’s fairly common knowledge, Detective — ”

He filled the pause with his name. “I’m Carmichael. James, the first name.

“Yes, Detective Carmichael, he paid his staff — his housekeeper, his chef, the kitchen help, and me — handsomely.”

“Handsomely,” Detective Glones repeated, returning from the water cooler with a filled paper cup which he placed in front of me. “Y’know, what isn’t such common knowledge is the fact that you — you, Mr. Morrison — are the sole beneficiary of over two-billion dollars in cash, stocks, bonds, and real estate. Were you aware of that?”

“I’m not surprised. He promised he would take good care of me.”

“But you didn’t know the particulars.”

“No, Sir.”

“Since the staff was paid so handsomely, what drove them off?”

I downed the water, crumpled the cup, and held it out to Glones. “Should give you some dandy DNA.”

“You’ve been watching too much Dateline.” He didn’t take it. He watched me put it on the table in front of me before he finished, “Go on. What drove them off?”

“A string of bizarre incidents beginning seven months ago. Back then Mr. Brysbank possessed all his limbs — was in fact, known for his tennis skills.”

“Yes … the incidents?”

“He called me to his room, early morning. Sounding frantic. A lower quadrant of his sheet was … slightly bloodied. He was in some pain. Not overly. I pulled back the sheet. The pinky toe of his right foot was, had been, removed. He’d woken to it after a dream.”

“A dream. Go on.”

“The following morning, a similar incident occurred, only to his left foot. T’was after another, he insisted, unremembered, dream. In both cases, after the initial blood and pain, his recovery time was rapid. He was able to continue with his daily routine.”

“His daily routine.” Detective Carmichael flipped a page on his spiral notebook.

“Yes,” I said, “and we can talk about that, of course, but first you’ll want to know I summoned Mr. Brysbank’s personal physician, after this and of course the subsequent incidences. Dr. Hart, his name.” I spelled it. “H-A-R-T. I tell you this because Dr. Hart would have approached the bizarre nature of each occurrence from his medical perspective, which would include, I’m sure, the record of his consultations with his colleagues.”

“There would have been need for consultants?”

“Oh, yes. As well as some quite prominent doctors in the field of psychiatry. And two religious authorities, one a Catholic priest, retired.”

“Um…” Detective Carmichael stopped writing; he held up a hand to silence me and took a moment to inspect his recording device, and I presumed, the tiny dot of green light beside each of the three video cameras variously placed near the ceiling and trained on me. They were there to capture every prolonged pause, every involuntary flutter of my eyelashes, the wringing of my hands, which likely didn’t occur, and gnawing at the insides of my cheeks — as much to keep me from laughing outright at some of their antics.

Replacing the recording device to the table, he turned back to me.

“Mr. Morrison, why would there be any reason for a doctor to consult with all those experts?”

“Well, Detective, I gave you the name of the primary expert, Dr. Hart. I assume you can subpoena — is that the word?”

“It’ll do, Mr. Morrison.”

“ — can subpoena his and the others’ records.”

“And where does Dr. Hart practice medicine?”

“Dr. Hart died not long ago. I read his obituary. It’s long and rather detailed. You can get that from the news service archives.”

“How convenient,” Detective Glones chimed in, “his death, I mean.”

“Beg your pardon.”

“Never mind. But on the mornings you summoned Dr. Hart, did he share with you his medical observations of the … the snipping incidents?”

“Yes, he did, Detective. Not just to me, but to Mr. Brysbank as well. But it was because of their nature that I suggested you subpoena his and his colleagues’ and consultants’ records.”

Glones was clearly getting impatient. “Noted, Mr. Morrison. Would you kindly tell us, though, what Dr. Hart told you about the nature of the snippings?”

“Certainly. But your insistence on calling them snippings might pre-color your understanding of Dr. Hart’s observations.”

“Suppose you leave my insistence out of this, Mr. Morrison.”

“Curtiss, why don’t we just hear him out,” Carmichael offered.

Glomes headed to the door. “I’m getting a coke.” He closed the door a little too hard.

“A long day,” said Carmichael, glancing over at the door. “So what, exactly, were the observations Dr. Hart shared with you?”

“Well, I’m sure he covered this more completely in his notes, but basically he told us that the severances were unlike any he had ever witnessed; those made by surgical procedures or as the result of accidents.”

“You saw the … severances. What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“As nearly as he could explain to me, Detective, it was as though the toe had never belonged there. The small amount of blood was inconsistent with that kind of injury. No scabbing. No puckering of the skin. The surface was perfectly smooth.”

“Like it had occurred years ago.”

“Like it had never occurred at all. Like the toe never belonged there. More like, he told me, a genetic malformation. Like he’d been born without those toes.”

“And that’s why he consulted with other doctors?”

“If not at that point, then certainly after the right arm was severed, just below the elbow. The same instant healing. The doctor estimated about a quarter-cup of blood loss. No scabbing, no scarring — ”

“But the Doctor surely sent him to the hospital for that?”

I shook my head. “Why would he? The doctor arrived to see Mr. Brysbank sitting in his lounge chair, clearly not a man in shock. A little baffled. Quite angry, initially, but not in shock.”

“The doctor is obligated to report any suspicions of wrongdoing to the proper authorities.” He sounded like he was reading from a prepared script. “Did he do this, Mr. Morrison?”

“You would know that, Detective. But I can assume he wouldn’t have. You see, Mr. Brysbank was a very private person, with very loyal, well-paid employees; yes, including Dr. Hart. I assure you, if this had been any medical emergency, Dr. Hart would have overridden his employer’s need for privacy. But under the circumstances, Dr. Hart’s visit was as routine as ministering to an ingrown toenail.

“Phew!” Carmichael webbed his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. His belly mass shifted to the side. “You understand, don’t you, Mr. Morrison,” he said, staring down his nose at me, “why Detective Glones and I think this is just so much bullshit?” He straightened up again, never removing his eyes from mine, and leaned in toward me, letting out a long, noisy sigh. “Okay, so he had his doctor in his pocket through two minor toe-snippings — sorry, I don’t want to pre-color anything — and one major severance.”

“I do understand your disbelief, Detective.”

“But after the … severance — damn! snipping was such a convenient word — but the severance of his right leg, at, I believe, mid-thigh, there was still no hospitalization, and the doctor still did not feel obligated to notify us?”

“For the same reasons.” I watched as a kind of weary disgust washed over his face. “Detective Carmichael, I can save us a lot of time by telling you that the same events occurred with the severance of his second arm and second leg.”

“What did I miss?” the now perkier Detective Glones asked, entering with two bottled cokes braced to his chest by his left arm, and toasting us with his own, held high in his right hand. “Have we finished with the nonsense, gentlemen?”

“Only compounded it, Curtiss. You’ll have to catch up on your own time with the tapes.”

Glones put his own coke on the table and freed the imprisoned ones from his arm, holding one out to each of us. “So, he didn’t…” he addressed his partner in exaggerated confidentiality before turning to me. “You didn’t — unburden yourself? You know, as hard as you’re trying to hide it, Mr. Morrison, it’s eating you up inside.”

“Curtiss !…”

He shrugged off his partner’s warning and brought his face and his warm, oddly chocolatey, exhale to within inches of me. “C’mon, you know it is. I gotta hand it to you, though. You’re holding the lid on it mighty tight. But you can’t keep it up. People aren’t made that way.”

“Curtiss, that’s enough! Mr. Morrison came in of his own accord. He’s been very helpful in answering our questions. He’s not under arrest, not even a person of interest yet.”

He was of course lying about that. I had suspected for some time they were playing a modified version of the good-cop-bad-cop scenario with me. Each had been developing role-credibility from the beginning. Once the signal was given, Detective Glones left the room. His return marked the testing-the-water phase.

While Detective Glones begrudgingly took to a chair and nursed his coke, Detective Carmichael proceeded, with an ingratiating smile that said, take him with a grain of salt.

“I remember something you said earlier. Let me find it.” The recorder made chipmunk sounds as he reversed it to a place he had marked earlier. “Here it is.” He turned it on.

“In both cases, after the initial blood and pain, his recovery time was rapid. He was able to continue with his daily routine.”

He stopped the recorder, then fast-forwarded it and pushed record. “Of course, you were about to tell us, before the conversation took a sharp left turn, what his daily routine was. Now, this was back when he had only suffered the loss of his two pinkies.”

“The routine was the same from the very beginning. And until the very end. Arriving at Brysbank, Inc., nine AM sharp, only with a noticeable limp. Back home at five.”

“When your duty would resume.”

“Resume? Oh, my no. I was at Mr. Brysbank’s side throughout the day.”

“Interesting.” Carmichael’s pudgy, pen-clutching fist stopped skimming across the notebook. “Too bad you weren’t Johnny-on-the-spot the moment those unfortunate incidents took place.” He cocked his head. “Or were you?”

Was he becoming the bad cop? His partner’s eyes locked on him, then they swung to me.

I looked from one to the other. “Did you think I slept with my employer, Detectives?”

“I’m not judging, Mr. Morrison. So, you’d come home at five. What then?”

“Always the same people when we pulled up at the high-rise. John, the doorman. Henry, the beggar.”

Glones choked on his coke, recovered. “He had a name? This beggar?”

“We all have names, Detective Glones. Henry, his mat and basket were parked at the same spot, more or less daily, for some five years.”

Detective Glones yawned and pulled his sleeve across the face of his watch. “I see. So it’s, ‘Here’s a buck, Hank, now off with you.’”

“Henry, never Hank. And more like a twenty. Around holidays or when the weather was bad, an occasional fifty or a hundred.”

“Good ol’ Mr. Brysbank, taking care of his people.”

I was waiting at the end of his gibe. “Henry tried to take care of Mr. Brysbank as well.”

“Wait. Wait.” Glones blinked madly, as though his eyelids were an outward expression of a mild synaptic explosion in his brain. “A beggar taking care of a billionaire?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said. Detectives, if I may … civilized society has always impressed on our hearts that it’s more blessed to give than to receive. It greases the social cogs. Makes society run smoother. But what if you possess so much that giving is of no consequence? As a giver, do your blessings keep piling up, like dead, dried autumn leaves? Apparently, Henry felt he could rake away some of those leaves.”

“What?” Glones asked.

“You see, even at the beginning, Henry insisted that Mr. Brysbank accept the pencil he removed from his basket.”

“Transactional incentivism,” said Carmichael.

“Jim, is this taking us anywhere?” Glones asked his fingernails.

“Well, I find it interesting, Curtiss if it takes us where I think it will.”

“Oh, I assure you, Detectives,” I said, “it’ll take you far beyond anything you’ll ever imagine.”

“I get it,” Glones said, shaking his head. “the larger the value of the incentive, the more money Mr. Brysbank was subtly guilted to give.”

“Except that it was reversed,” I said. “Mr. Brysbank’s donation came first. Henry’s gift, introduced from his covered basket, and appropriately wrapped — a little wet from his contact — followed.”

“Big whoop! So Brysbank sees the wrapped gift and donates accordingly.”

“You just don’t get it, Curtiss,” said Carmichael. “It’s Henry who’s been guilted by Brysbank’s generosity.”

“It’s your investigation, gentlemen, but you’re both a little wide of the mark. The first wrapped gift that Henry gave Mr. Brysbank came on the Wednesday evening before the long Thanksgiving break.

“And what was that gift?” asked Carmichael.

“Consistent with Henry’s station in life, it was a dime-store valued manicure set. Clippers, a file, scissors, and the like. Nothing special.”

Carmichael’s brows arced. “Now, that’s interesting.”

Glones cocked his head at him.

I smiled. “That’s right. Three days later, Saturday morning witnessed the first toe incident. I suppose it could be a coincidence.”

“Or a clue. Coincidences are for — ”

We waited for Glones to finish, and when he didn’t, Carmichael asked me about the second wrapped gift.

“That one came a few days before Christmas. Mr. Brysbank reluctantly accepted it — thinking it to be a token gift, he later explained to me. He opened it upstairs.”

I paused. Carmichael stared up at me. Glones turned, too.

“What?” Glones asked.

“The token Mr. Brysbank dangled from his fingertips was a gold Bulgari wristwatch.”

“I’ve heard of those,” Glones said. “Obviously, a knock off.”

“Appraised by a jeweler Mr. Brysbank did business with, it was valued at $7,000.”

“Stolen!”

“Perhaps. I don’t think so, but perhaps. But to the point, Mr. Brysbank returned it to Henry a few days later. Henry was patently hurt by the gesture. I stole a glance at him. His eyes were tearing up.”

Carmichael leaned in toward me. “Manicure kit … toes. Bulgari wrist watch …”

“Yes, detectives, two days before his left arm removed itself.”

“Was removed!” Glones spat out.

“Whatever,” Carmichael said. “And let me guess, Mr. Morrison … the next gift was a pair of trousers?”

“Armani.”

Carmichael webbed his pudgy fingers on the table. “We saw both parts of the corpse, Mr. Morrison. Please tell us how it progressed from two pinky toes to arms, one after the other, and then both legs. Then — then to last night’s final … um, separation.”

Detectives Glones and Carmichael stared at me, waiting.

“Last night’s gift — the wrapping only slightly marred by the slight residual wetness where the strings crossed — was a charming little vial of French perfume, round like a little ball. Flattened at the bottom so it could stand. And of course, at the top end, a corked stopper. All very beautiful. And the fragrance … divine. The final, living essence — ”

Carmichael shot up straight and stiff, interrupting my thought. “A final living essence that can only be breathed in after the stopper is removed!”

I was momentarily stunned by the detective’s eloquence and must have shown it. I recovered though and told him, as drolly as I could, “That would seem to follow, detective.”

“And still I’m confused, Mr. Morrison — ”

“Well, I’m not, Jim. I think we have a murderer to pick up.” said Glones.

“Maybe … but humor me, Curtiss. Mr. Morrison, you mentioned the wetness of the wrapping where the strings crossed. And I believe you mentioned it, in passing, once before. Were … were Henry’s hands wet?”

“Oh, no … Henry had no hands, no arms.”

“What!” Glones shouted.

Detective Carmichael just stared, a tiny smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Go ahead,” he said at last, through his smile.

“You are right, Detectives,” I said. “Henry had no arms … nor did he have legs.”

There was a collective gasp.

“In fact, when I pushed Mr. Brysbank’s wheelchair to the door, and I accepted Henry’s gift for him, I thought to myself how amazing Mr. Brysbank’s resemblance was to his father.

Thank you for reading my Halloween gift to you.

-JS