Before he went to the bank, Byron made a stop by the police station. The station looked every bit as passed on as the rest of the town. Faded, dilapidated wood. Dirty windows with cracked glass. Vague feelings of the rot of hard decadence.
The secretary behind the front desk watched Byron enter with a blank expression and dull eyes. She was wearing a formless grey blouse and had her hair in a bun. She didn’t say anything to Byron as he walked in.
Byron was conscious of the weight of the pistol in his coat pocket. He pulled his wallet out and from it pulled an identification card. He put it down in front of the secretary.
“Hello, miss. My name is Byron Grayce and I’m an insurance claims investigator for American Life. I’m looking into a large made on behalf of the late wife of Mr. Howard Welles, and I just need to take a look at the autopsy report to verify the cause and conditions of death.” He put all the charm he had into his smile and expression.
The secretary snuffed her nose and walked away.
Byron shrugged and looked around him, found a small bench to sit on, and took a seat to wait. He didn’t know what it was about this town, but the only person who looked like their dog hadn’t just died was the woman whose husband had just died. He’d be glad to get the hell out of this place as soon as he was done, but he had the sinking feeling that the man tied up in his tub suggested nothing was going to go quite like he intended.
A bear of a man walked back into the front office with the secretary. He towered over Byron by half a foot at least, and each leg looked as if it were built from the trunk of an oak tree. He strode with a confident menace, like a jungle cat on the hunt. His muscles were tightly wound and tense and he seemed ready to explode at any moment. The sheriff, judging by his uniform, planted himself directly in front of Byron and cracked his neck loudly without taking his hands out of his pockets.
The private investigator remained seating, though he had to crane his neck to keep the sheriff’s gaze.
“Sheila says you’re looking into a death in my town.” The sheriff’s voice was rough, less of a voice than a growl. “I don’t particular like outsider’s looking into town business.”
Then Byron stood and held out his hand. “Oh, no, no, sir. There’s definitely been some misunderstanding. My name is Byron Grayce. I’m here at the behest of American Life to verify the merits of a claim made by the wife of the late Mr. Howard Welles.” He smiled broadly, but the sheriff didn’t even glance down at his hand.
Clearing his throat and putting his hand down, he continued, “Hmm, yes, well, as I was saying to your receptionist, Sheila I believe, I would like to request a copy of the autopsy report on Mr. Welles simply to verify the allegations made in Mrs. Welles’ rather large claim.”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said, with a click of his tongue, “that’s what Sheila said you said.”
“Well, then, I’m… I’m not sure what the problem is, sheriff.”
“The problem is that we have a way that we like doing things here, and you ain’t exactly part of what we do here.”
“Well, sheriff, I’m not exactly looking to do anything here at all. I just need to verify the cause and condition of the man’s death.”
In the background, Sheila stood with her eyes cast downwards, waiting timidly behind the sheriff.
“Cardiac arrest,” the sheriff spat.
It was such a shock to hear an actual answer, that Byron didn’t register it at first. “Excuse me?”
“You ain’t much of an insurance agent if you don’t know what a heart attack is.”
“No, I know what one is. You’re saying Mr. Welles died of a heart attack? Where?”
At this, the sheriff made a swift move and grabbed his shirt and pulled him in close. “You’re starting to get on my nerves a little bit, boy.”
The charm dropped out of Byron’s face and a darkness fell over his eyes and countenance. It was such a sudden shift in demeanor that the sheriff took a half step back out of surprise. “Sheriff,” Byron said, “you’ll want to take your hands off my shirt.”
The surprise wasn’t enough to shake the sheriff’s confidence for more than a moment, and he quickly regained his dominant posture, but he did let go of the investigator’s shirt. “He was at work. Now get your ass out of my station before I throw it in a cell.”
Outside, Byron lit himself a cigarette and gave himself a moment. He turned back and found the sheriff gone, but the receptionist was still watching him with that empty look.
******
It took Byron longer than he thought it would to find the bank. The streets curved and wound heavily, not unlike the mountain path he’d taken on his way, and he found himself losing his way more often than not. No matter what street he took, it seemed to take him always away from the address he’d be given by the front desk of his motel, and he ended up in dark alleys or in front of dilapidated warehouses and store fronts. The private investigator had nearly given up on the directions he had when he made a turn to head back where he came from and found himself pulling up to the front entrance of the bank. He
Inside, he found himself in a wide, glamorous room, with long rows of velvet ropes leading to unmanned teller stations. Tall, white columns littered the lobby, detailed with ornate and esoteric designs that seemed to shift subtly before Byron’s eyes. A great lounge area sat off to the side of the entryway, filled with crimson couches thick with padding and coffee tables covered in magazines. It was the lobby meant for a bank that sees a thousand persons an hour and it was completely empty except for one blank faced teller, idly flipping through a magazine she had clearly read before.
Byron wound himself through the path of velvet rope and stepped up to the teller, who didn’t look up until he spoke. He was in a bad enough mood and didn’t bother with the charm. “I need to speak with someone in charge here.” The teller looked at him and then looked back down to the magazine.
Byron slammed his hand down onto the table in front of her. “Hey. Manager. Now.”
Behind him, a voice. “May I help you, sir?”
Byron spun quickly, surprised by the unexpected voice. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the lobby, hadn’t heard anyone enter. Behind him was a small, middle aged man with thin hair and a receding hairline. He wore an expensive looking suit that did not fit him well, as though his arms and neck had shrunk, and a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. The old banker’s expression belied a mild curiosity and an unflappable calm.
“Jesus, you snuck up quick.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been told that I do that, sir. How may I help you?”
Byron stuck his hand out. “My name is Byron—”
The man nodded. “Grayce, yes. You are an insurance fraud investigator verifying a claim made by Mrs. Virginia Welles in regards to the death of her husband.”
“I guess information travels fast in a small town like this.”
“Yes,” the banker said. “It does, Mr. Grayce.”
“Well, in that case, Mr… I’m sorry; I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Anderson.”
“Well, Mr. Anderson, I was hoping there was somewhere we could talk in private.”
Mr. Anderson nodded again and gestured for Byron to follow him. Mr. Anderson took him to a large, luxuriously but not ostentatiously decorated office, one that mimicked the grandeur of the front lobby. The desk was wide and dark, but it was empty of anything that might be considered personal. There were no pictures of family, no baubles or awards or anything at all but a small computer, some pens, and a paperweight. The walls were similarly bare of anything but a Monet print that Byron was fairly certain Mr. Anderson did not choose himself.
“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Grayce?”
“Whiskey, if you have it.”
Mr. Anderson walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He poured them each a drink and served it without ice.
Sitting now behind his desk, Mr. Anderson’s affect had lost all evidence of interest, but he breathed deeply and said, “Now, Mr. Grayce. If you please. How may I assist you?”
Byron leaned forward. “Well, Mr. Anderson, as you know, I’m just doing a mandatory investigation into the claim Mrs. Welles has filed with us at American Life upon the death of her husband. During that investigation, I’ve discovered something of an irregularity in Howard Welles’ finances. Namely, Mr. Welles’ had begun logging a monthly withdrawal of 1100 dollars on the first of every month for the past five months. However, other than being logged in his personal finances as a withdrawal, all other evidence, cashed checks, receipts, bank records, is missing from the files. There is no marking for what it was for, simply a notation for a withdrawal of 1100 dollars. I’m trying to figure out what he was using the money for. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“May I please see your credentials, Mr. Grayce?”
Byron pulled them out of his wallet and handed them over. He’d had them made by a former friend in the police department who’d gone on to be an investigator for American Life and who had owed Byron a rather large favor, so Byron was not concerned with them not passing any sort of inspection shy of directly contacting American Life.
The banker took them and looked them over rather thoroughly, and then began looking something up on his computer. After a moment, he turned back to Byron. “Yes, well, unfortunately, for access to those particular records, I will need a signed and notarized document allowing you access to them from Mrs. Welles which has not been filed with us yet. Do you have such a document?”
Byron Grayce did not. “Absolutely, yes, umm, I have one on me somewhere. Is it not…” Byron grabbed for the document he had handed Mr. Anderson and, in doing so, knocked over the glass of scotch in front of the banker and spilled it into his lap.
The banker finally showed a great deal of energy and sprung to his feet. He swore and stormed out of the room, running towards the nearest bathroom.
As Mr. Anderson did this, Byron quickly hopped behind the desk, and took a look at the computer monitor. There was nothing on the screen about the finances or account of Mr. and Mrs. Welles, but it was logged in, so Byron quickly found the search function and pulled up the appropriate account. He quickly scanned through the records of the previous months, and found that the withdrawals were checks written on the first of the month to Sunset Realty. Byron quickly exited out back to the main screen and left.
He heard Mr. Anderson calling for him as he walked out of the lobby.
******
Information gave him the listing for Sunset Realty. He was surprised to find that the company was based much farther upstate and had no presence in town. Probably for this reason, he found them much more helpful over the phone. He gave them his line about the insurance investigation and then gave him an address, which is all they really had anyway. The address was not too far from his motel, thankfully. He made a second call to Mrs. Welles but she wasn’t available. He left a message with the butler to have her call him when she had a chance.
The address turned out to be a warehouse in an area even more rundown than the rest of the town, as if the inevitable creep of decay had claimed this place for itself and for no other. Looking at the graffiti blasted, emptied husks of buildings, Byron could tell what this whole town would eventually become, rotted from the inside out like a corpse.
He did a once around the building, his shoes crunching over gravel and broken glass, but it was just a large, decayed warehouse, marked and marred, with broken and boarded up windows set up high on the wall, a small dock for trucks to drop off goods with a metal roll-up padlocked into the concrete. The whole place smelled of piss and body order and rot, and Byron found a trash bin where homeless had been burning fires for heat.
The only entrance beyond the dock was a small door next to the dock and when Byron took a look at it, he found it forced open. The gun was in his hand before he thought to put it there. He nudged the door open with his foot, and slunk inside.
What he found inside sent a chill through his bones.
The inside of the warehouse was set up like some kind of laboratory, cobbled together from bits and pieces of equipment that had faded long from glory. Rusted operating tables and medical equipment setup in what was a mockery of a hospital room. The over head lights were turned on, and the bright glare simply made the equipment more hideous. There were large banks of computer equipment and a series of monitors. Filing cabinets, like the ones in Mr. Welles’ office, but these were filled with paperwork, the files were stacked high on the tops of the cabinets, on the monitors, on the computer equipment. The only place there weren’t any files stacked up was on the operating table. On that was an eviscerated body.
The blood, as Byron could see, was everywhere. The man had been killed here, on the table. The damage to the body was too extensive for Byron to tell what it was that finally put him down, but the head was left clean, just for Byron, so that he could see that it was the man he’d left in his bathtub. The face was a picture of pure agony. It put a horror deep into Byron’s chest to see it. He breathed deep and stared at the body for a lot longer than he thought he had, but not very long indeed. Behind him he heard a voice.
“It’s shit like this is why I don’t like outsiders.”
Byron spun to see the sheriff standing in the doorway with his weapon drawn. It was a huge revolver. Byron thought the thing looked like it weighed two pounds from where he was standing. He didn’t bother raising his own pistol but he certainly didn’t drop it.
“It ain’t much, but I’m gonna need you to drop that piece, boy.”
Byron shook his head. “Nope. Don’t like the way I’m being played here, sheriff.”
The two of them didn’t speak, they just stared each other down for what seemed like all the time in the world. Byron felt beads of sweat roll down his forehead.
The sheriff nodded, finally. “Well, alright then.”
The sheriff’s gun went off in his hand. The sound was like thunder. It filled the room completely. Byron dove, though it looked like he didn’t need to, because the shot went wide. It crashed into one of the file cabinets and ripped through it like it wasn’t there. Byron swore and returned fire. His own weapon sounded like a cap gun in comparison, but his aim was considerably better, even from the ground. The first round strike the door right next to the sheriff’s head, and the second would have plugged him into the chest if he hadn’t already been moving.
The sheriff fired again, and again the shot went wide, and Byron figured his weapon was more for show than it was an actual gunfight, and firing it from the hip just made matters worse for the sheriff. Byron was already on his feet and moving, plinking shots carefully at the sheriff, but despite the size of his frame, the sheriff moved as swiftly as a hawk and where ever Byron fired, that’s where the sheriff wasn’t anymore.
Byron crouched behind the cover of the file cabinets, hoping more to hide from the sheriff’s sight than to lessen the power of the slug. He checked his own clip. Two more rounds. He’d have to make them count.
The sheriff bellowed, “You ought never have come to our town, boy.”
Byron looked around him for anything he could use. There were some blades on the ground, scalpels and a bone saw, but Byron didn’t trust his own strength against that beast of a man, even if he could get close enough. He knew the sheriff would snap his back like a twig. Byron spotted a mirror, though, and grabbed for it. He held it around the edge of the cabinets and tried to find where the sheriff was. He caught sight of him just in time to see a middle aged blonde man slit his throat with what looked to be one of those selfsame scalpels that Byron had disregarded.
“He’s dead,” the man said. “You can stand up now.”
Byron stood, cautiously, and kept his gun trained on the man in the lab coat.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Me,” the man said, incredulous, “I’m Howard Welles and this is my lab. Who are you?”
-J. Augustus
Stupendous Stories 
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