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FICTION

Parts

They nodded and walked away.

There was little more they could ask you. You’d told them everything you could about Dean, for what little time you had known him. They’d asked their many questions, two or three times, in different ways. That’s what cops do. And you’d answered their many questions, two or three times, in the same way, standing there in your entryway.

Yea, it all really sucks. Bad things happen to good people. You get that.

But, deep down, you’re still furious. Furious, that the clothes dryer in your basement still sits as a useless metal and plastic box full of useless metal and plastic parts, waiting for — what, an idler pulley, whateverthehell that is? And with Christmas a week away, who is going to fix it anytime soon? Seriously?

Dean, the repair guy in saggy blue jeans, a tight Mötley Crüe T-shirt, and grease-stained work jacket, said that the idler pulley was the only part he needed in order to fix the dryer. Once the part was delivered and he came back to install it, the dryer would be “right as rain.”

But then: nothing. Two weeks of nothing.

Then, it was all over the news.

And then, the police came.

You’d described him to the police as clearly as you could, remembering from Forensic Files and other crime shows about how cops always liked extra details. Like the black tool bag, the scuzzy-looking work laptop, and that blue H.A.P. ball cap that he’d smashed down a few times over thick dark hair. Like it was a nervous tick.

“A what blue ball cap?” they’d pressed.

“A blue ball cap. With ‘H.A.P.’ printed on it. You know, the company logo?” You’d paused in thought, then offered: “The hat had a white bill. Smudged.”

You were just trying to be helpful. But the police had looked at you as if they’d expected a little more. Like, what your relationship had been with the guy. Explaining it all to them was going to be a pain, but you gave it a go.

“OK. I called my home appliance warranty company — you know, P.H.A., Professional Home Appliances, Inc.? — who then must’ve called the service provider company — H.A.P., Home Appliance Professionals — who sent out a repairman — Dean, that guy — to fix my dryer. Damn thing was making quite a ruckus. Loud as hell. Wouldn’t run for longer than five minutes at a time before shutting off.”

You’d paused. The police blank-stared. You’d continued.

“After Dean diagnosed the problem — ‘needs an idler pulley,’ he said, whateverthehell that is — then he called it in to the warranty company. Then the warranty company was gonna order the part and then ship it to the repair company. That’s how it works. Pretty stupid, right? Then when the repair company received it, Dean said somebody in his home office named Mary Elizabeth would call to confirm the next repair appointment.”

Right then the police had looked at each other. The younger one had asked, “You’re sure about the name? The woman, Mary Elizabeth?”

“Yea. No doubt,” you’d replied without a pause. “Mary Elizabeth. He said she was cute, but that she talked too much. Weird. No idea why he said that.” Then you’d thought a little more and added, “It’s a name that sticks with you: Mary Elizabeth. It did with me, anyway.”

“Okay,” the younger, talkative officer had said, “go on.”

“Yea. Right. Then, Dean said after she scheduled with me, that he was gonna pop back on over here and install it. ‘Lickety split!’ he said. ‘Just like that! Piece of cake!’” The memory of how Dean described his repairman superpowers started to tick you off. “‘You’ll never have to go to a laundromat to dry your clothes again!’ he said. He was super confident.”

“Sir, are there any more details about him that you can share with us? About what he said? His appearance? His demeanor?”

You’d paused a beat or two. Then, the scene unrolled again before your eyes. “Heh …” You couldn’t help but chuckle and shake your head in resignation.

“Something funny, sir?”

“Ironic, more like. Dean was so confident that day, a couple weeks ago Thursday it was. In fact, he said he was confident — ‘as sure as the Ravens will lose to the Steelers this weekend’— that the replacement part would come ‘in no time!’ That was, like, two weeks ago.”

And Dean had been right: the part had been delivered in no time! On the very next day, in fact. That Friday, two weeks ago. “But then: nothing,” you’d continued. “No call from Mary Elizabeth to schedule.” And you’d started feeling ticked off all over again.

“Ya know,” from the older officer, the quieter of the two, “the Ravens lost to the Steelers. In Baltimore, too. ‘Was a close one.”

“Tell me about it,” you’d groused. “Just like he said. And that part was delivered, too. I knew it was. The other company — that warranty outfit — they emailed me. Said to call the repair company and schedule an appointment for the installation. But that Mary Elizabeth, she was supposed to call me. Never did. So I called, left a message. Coupla times.”

You’d explained — maybe in too much detail, but boy what a story this was — that as of last week, none of your calls had ever been returned. “So this week, I was gonna rip’em a new one, ya know? I was so ticked off. But my calls wouldn’t go through. So weird! Didn’t even kick over to voicemail. Instead, I got this message, something like: ‘The number you have dialed is not set up to receive calls.’”

What Dean hadn’t bothered to mention to you was that his company, H.A.P., would essentially disappear from the face of the earth. Go poof. Cease to be. As far as you could tell from the phone call, that’s what had happened. So weird!

And then you’d heard the news story.

“It was like The Twilight Zone,” you’d continued, “and that’s just not how these things are supposed to happen, right? The employees at appliance repair companies don’t all just up and get carved up, right?” Then you’d winced, wished you hadn’t said it quite that way. But how else to say it?

The younger cop had written something down, then had said: “Sir, what day exactly was this, when you first heard that different message on their phone line?”

You’d stopped, deep in thought. “Musta been — what, three days ago, Tuesday?”

The cops had looked at each other again, then back at you.

“Are you certain, sir?” from the older cop, rather forcefully.

You’d paused, thought carefully. “Yes, officer.” Another long pause. “Man. It was all so close to being fixed. My dryer. Dean said so. I was counting the days.” You’d clenched your fists. “With Christmas practically here, it’ll be a cold day in hell before it gets repaired.”

***

Dean had said, and you had believed. After replacing the idler pulley, all would be “right as rain.” You clearly remember him using that turn of phrase, too. It plucked at your memory of a scene from The Matrix, that scene with Keanu Reeves and the Oracle, the old lady who gives him a cookie. That particular line in that particular scene always struck you as the worst kind of ominous. It was even more so now, coming from Dean.

In that movie, Keanu Reeves was trying to believe that he’d regain some control over his own life.

And so too you, right now, are trying to believe that you’ll regain some control over your own life.

Here’s to hoping.

So, you were getting jerked around by the appliance repair company, but in a really strange way. Had H.A.P. gone bankrupt or something?

Three days ago, you called the home appliance warranty company. You spoke with an outsourced phone-bank customer service rep. And he had put you on hold, tried calling H.A.P. But not even he could summon a word from H.A.P.

“How very strange is that, Mister Cox,” said the guy who called himself Richard at the home warranty company. He continued, in his tenor Mumbai voice: “Sir, I cannot reach H.A.P. on the telephone. I will send an email to them, sir. We truly apologize for your inconvenience, Mister Cox.”

“I understand,” you replied, restrained. “But, didn’t you say before that the idler pulley had already been delivered to them? Over a week ago?”

“Um, yes, Mister Cox. Even though the worldwide pandemic has caused some supply-chain problems, don’t you know, sir: the idler pulley was available, in our New Jersey warehouse. We shipped the part out immediately, sir, with the overnight shipping. The idler pulley, it was delivered to the H.A.P. company in Maryland on Friday, over one week ago. The H.A.P. office is in Bowie, Maryland, so it is not very far from your house, sir.”

You cringed at his mispronunciation of Bowie — it’s not like David Bowie, it’s like Boo-wee. But you didn’t bother to correct him.

“And sir, don’t you know: we have an electronic signature of receipt, from … um … a Mary Elizabeth Goode.”

Dead silence from you as you processed. Counted to ten. Sighed.

“Again, Mister Cox, allow me to say: we truly apologize for your inconvenience. We at P.H.A. are working to get you a new service provider, and we will ship to them the same part. When we have confirmation of the new service provider, we will contact you by email immediately, sir, with a new appointment date. The new company will repair your clothes dryer, sir.”

“Right as rain,” you mumbled.

“Ah, pardon me, sir?” Richard chirped.

“Oh, ’scuse me, nothing.”

“Um, alrighty then, and a good day to you, Mister Cox.”

And so you thanked Richard as politely as possible and hung up.

Then you fumed. Started wondering. Wondering what Richard’s real name was. Whether he lived in a small bungalow in Mumbai or in a high-rise deathtrap. Whether he worked in a centralized call center or — more likely, with post-pandemic remote everything — if he struggled to answer his service calls from his home on an outdated laptop with an aftermarket headset, its rudimentary noise-canceling feature unable to mask the cries of his infant child being nursed by his wife in their single bedroom. Whether he had his own washer and dryer.

The godforsaken electric dryer. Will you ever be free from lugging wet laundry and tons of quarters to and from the laundromat, every weekend, just to get your undies and socks and pants and work shirts cleaned and dried and folded?

It was weird enough having that H.A.P. company simply disappear off the face of the earth. Even more messed up: it happening right before Christmas. It had taken you lots of effort to not chew Richard’s head off about the whole thing. You could’ve leaned into it. Could’ve said: “How did you not know that the company was screwed up?” If you’d have said that, perhaps Richard would’ve confessed to you that, in the same week, several of their other Maryland customers had also filed complaints that H.A.P. was not responding to emails or voicemails and was missing scheduled repair visits.

***

But you hadn’t leaned in, and so Richard hadn’t confessed. You had only figured out the extent of the situation later on, from the news stories and from the cops. They’d said that they were questioning you “along with some other recent customers of the suspect.”

“The suspect,” you’d parroted sarcastically.

“Yes, sir,” from the talkative officer. “We’re trying to determine if any recent customers could also be targets of the suspect. He’s still at large.”

When the police had said that, your eyes had widened and a shiver had tunneled from the base of your skull to your guts. It must have shown on your face. You’d struggled not to crap your pants.

“Just so you know, sir, we’ll post a patrolman outside your house in a marked police cruiser, to provide you protection. At least for the next forty-eight hours.”

You’d gaped at them. Swallowed. “Uh, yea. Well, okay then.” It was all you could say.

“Was there anything else conspicuous about him?” from the older, quieter cop.

You’d closed your eyes. Yes. The only really conspicuous thing about Dean was something you hadn’t thought of at first. At least, not thought of as a threat. When the cops had asked about any indication of “a weapon on his person,” at first you’d said no. But you’d finally recalled that, yes, you’d seen a medium-sized, folding hunting knife on his utility belt. Their question had thrown you off a little at first, since you wouldn’t have considered that a weapon.

“It was just a hunting knife.”

“You’re sure, sir?”

“Well, I actually happen to know hunting knives.” Getting flustered, trying to keep your cool, you’d paused, feigned deep thought, collected yourself. Then you’d said: “It was in a knife holster, a brown leather holster with a leather button strap holding it in. I have one just like it. With that type of holster. For gutting fish.”

“Do you fish a lot, sir?”

“When I can,” you’d offered. “Kinda wish I could be out on the South River right now, to be honest.”

“And how big would you say it was? The knife blade?” They’d probed. Boy had they probed.

“Like I said: I have one just like it. Six inches.”

And then an image had flashed up and you’d chuckled, hard. Got cold stares in reply.

“Sir, is there something you feel the need to tell us?”

“Heh —” Well, they had asked. “The guy, Dean, when he was squatting down, facing the dryer …”

“Repairman butt crack?” from the old cop, deadpan.

You’d gasped for air, making every effort to not spit laughter in their faces.

“It — it was the hairiest damn repairman butt-crack I’ve ever seen! The guy was a Neanderthal!”

Deadpan: “Yes, that’s what we’re investigating, sir. In a manner of speaking.”

Awkward silence.

“Sir,” started the junior cop, “just to be absolutely clear: the suspect’s whereabouts are unknown at this time. There are no other missing persons involved with this case besides the four to date.”

“Four?” That shiver again.

“Yes … um, well,” interrupted the older cop, whose piercing glance at the junior officer was returned sheepishly. “Well, the original news reports of two missing persons, Mary Elizabeth Goode and one other employee, don’t take into account two more” — another look, officer to officer, returned with a shrug — “one of whom was the suspect’s estranged wife.” And then, between the cops, younger to older: “This guy needs to know. He’ll find out soon enough anyway from the news. It’s probably breaking on tonight’s News at Ten, right?”

“What the …” you’d stuttered. That shiver again, tunneling down into your guts.

“Sir,” soothed the older cop, “as we said, there will be a 24-hour watch on your home for the next few days. We’ll keep you posted. By text, if you like. We have your number, of course. Hey, we’ll give you the cell number of the officer in the black-and-white posted out front, too.”

A blank stare is all you could manage.

“You have nothing to be concerned about, sir,” from the old cop. “We’ll keep you safe.”

“Yea,” from the young cop, “like what you said earlier, sir. ‘Right as rain.’”

After another blank-stare pause, you’d offered up: “Those four folks. They weren’t safe.”

“Our department’s finest will be protecting you, sir. You’ll be safe. Enjoy the holidays.”

They nodded and walked away.

***

You turn back into your entryway, close the front door, lean forward, rest your forehead on the door’s cool hardwood surface.

By now, you’ve calmed down a little.

Yea, it all really sucks. Bad things happen to good people. You get that.

But, deep down, you’re still furious. Furious, that the authorities are invading your life on account of Dean, “the suspect.”

The cops are really getting under your skin. Sure, they said that they’re watching out for you, protecting you. After all, you are one of “the suspect’s” last known contacts. They knew this from the disappeared company’s phone call records (which they were able to subpoena after the incident). They knew this from cell tower pings (which they’d also subpoenaed, for corroboration). They knew this from your own phone records (which they’d subpoenaed this morning before their visit to you).

Why the hell do they need to dig through your phone records? You told them everything they needed to know, even reminded them that Dean had called your cell when he was in transit. He’d said he was about twenty minutes out. He’d arrived in only fifteen, at around eight thirty, that Thursday morning two weeks ago. You remembered the time because eight thirty still stung. That’s when your wife would have left for work, had she still been around.

There’s no way that they really need to subpoena your cell phone records, to dig around into your private life. You told them everything they wanted to know!

It always starts like that, doesn’t it? With the best of intentions? It starts with the phone records. Then, somehow, something keys them in, and they end up taking your laptop into evidence, “for the ongoing investigation” they’ll say. Then the authorities won’t stop. They’ll dig. They’ll pry. They’ll pull that thread. They’ll get their fingers into every nook and cranny of your life. “Sir, we’re only doing this for your own protection,” they’ll say.

And, when you least expect it, they’ll decide that not only “the suspect,” but you, are the criminal.

“Oh, sir,” they’ll say, “we’re sorry to intrude, but sir, we see that you used to spend a lot of time on certain … certain websites. We’re seeing suspicious activity coming up, starting about two years ago.”

“Suspicious activity?” You’ll feign ignorance.

“Yessir, and it seems to have lasted for about six months.”

“Two years ago? Yea, my wife. Former wife. That’s when she cheated on me and left me, with my neighbor. The asshole. Left right before Christmas, the bitch.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure that was a tough time.” They will sound so understanding.

“You have no idea.” You’ll pause, dripping with agitation, and then shudder, because you’ll be on to them.

“Sir, while this is a free country, we feel it necessary to tell you that your viewing of a few of those websites in your browser history could constitute a felony in the State of Maryland, due to the content and the ages of the — um, actors — in those videos.”

Oh, you’ll defend yourself. Fiercely. “C’mon, officers! In your deep dark investigations, you should have noticed that I didn’t dwell on those sites! They came up by accident! It was clickbait! The pop-up windows screwed with my laptop! Damn site gave my laptop a virus! I did not do anything wrong!”

“Sir” — they’ll now come in for the kill — “you know what they do to many of those child porn stars, don’t you?”

You’ll stand mute.

“Did you know, sir,” the officer will say, “they often find those child porn stars dead. Their bodies dismembered. Body parts tossed into shallow graves in the outskirts of whatever big city you can think of: El Porno, Mexico, or Baliporn, India, or Pornville, U.S.A.”

You’ll remain silent, cringing deep inside. That same shiver will flare again, from the base of your brain down to your guts.

“Sir, it’s people like you who are killing innocent children all over the world,” they’ll say.

“I didn’t watch anything!” you’ll insist. You’ll grip your fists hard. You’ll grind your teeth. “I didn’t, dammit! It was clickbait!”

“Sir, and there were those other visits you made, on the dark web. Some sites that we’d like to ask you about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Weapons and knives, sir.” They’ll stare. “Methods.”

“I can totally explain that!” You’ll go on, after a deep breath: “I’m taking up deer hunting, guys. Need to know how to skin and prep a deer.”

They’ll then catch you off guard. “Sir, where did you say your wife is?”

You’ll pause a little too long, look around, brace against that shiver as again it shoots down deep. Then you’ll say quietly, “She’s gone. Gone off. With my asshole neighbor. I do not know where.”

“And when did she leave, sir? Was that after the child porn, or after the dark web searches on dismembering carcasses?”

“What are you saying?” you’ll shout. You’ll clench your fists hard.

And they’ll keep looking at you, and you’ll get real ticked off, then bellow right into their faces: “C’mon, officers! It’s a free country! I didn’t do anything! I have my rights!”

“Tell that to the judge,” they’ll say, as they cart your ass off.

***

That’s about how it will go.

But they will have no idea. No concept. Of how you’d suffered.

You lost her. Never saw it coming. Seven years, down the drain. With your neighbor, no less.

But they will have no idea. No concept. Of how you’d repented.

Your thirst. Thirst fueled by her adultery. Desperate times? Desperate measures. Your web searches of porn for escape, for guilty pleasure that freed you only for mere moments at a time from the shame and sadness she and he had piled onto you. And that guilty pleasure, it only deepened your shame and sadness.

Then, your fury. Fury as the cuckold. Your searches on the dark web for clever means of murder. How to plan. What you’d need. What kind of hunting knife works best for dismembering a body (or bodies, you weren’t sure yet). Which knife most easily cuts through sinews and works apart the large joints. And stays sharp, real sharp. Whatever is the easiest way to render a corpse into worn out disposable parts.

You believe deep down that you had left all that behind. Months ago. Confession. Counseling. Compassion.

At least you’re not the guy who carried through with it. Who disappeared people. Who, as was reported eventually, had dismembered his four victims, including his wife and her lover, with a hunting knife. Had strewn their body parts over a dug-out portion of his unfinished basement. Had covered them with a thin layer of quick-dry cement. Had failed to make your electric dryer “right as rain.”

You repented long ago for your sins real and imagined. Sins from sorrow and weakness and pain. You did hard time in the misery of your regret. At least, by now, you’ve regained some self-restraint. Some self-respect. Some little dignity.

But the police will have no idea. They will just lump you in with all the other reprehensibles. The perverts. The “suspects.” With all the other Deans, who promise to repair appliances with new parts but instead bury the broken parts of disrepaired lives.

Is that what lies in store, all for want of an idler arm — whateverthehell that is?

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Mark Paalman is a short story author and a PhD biochemist. Following a 26-year career as editor and publisher of academic journals, he now supervises a research integrity investigation team. He and his dear wife have raised three wonderful children who are on the cusp of entering and leaving university. “Parts” is his first published work of fiction.

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Image: laundry room by Amanda DeVries, CC BY 2.0, via Flickr.com. Modified by Veronica McDonald.