Total Immersion, page 9
“How many times did you hear the noise, Mr. Carver?” Sam asked.
Mr. Carver glanced up to the ceiling and counted to himself. “Three,” he blurted out.
Sam looked to Tommy and said, “An arm, a leg, and a head.” Then he readdressed the old man. “Why didn’t you tell the detectives when they first interviewed you?”
“They didn’t ask,” Mr. Carver said dryly. “I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Knight. I don’t want to waste my time in court over this thing. Trust me, Bernard Meyers won’t be missed by anyone. We’re all a lot better off without him. Now, I’m tired, and I think I got a touch of the flu, so if you’re finished with me, I’d like to go.”
Sam had a feeling there would be more reluctant witnesses to follow, but he didn’t want to push the old man.
Sam extended his hand. “Thank you for the time, Mr. Carver. I’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Carver smiled a near-toothless grin. “Don’t work too hard on this one.”
Tommy helped him out the front door.
Sam lifted his tablet and ended the recording function. He now had confirmation Meyers and probably Fields were murdered inside their apartments with something that could cleanly slice off a human head in a matter of seconds and sounded like an electric screwdriver as it performed its grisly task.
“Nice old man,” Tommy said, walking back into the living room. “Well, what do you think so far? Pretty freaky, huh, Sam?”
Sam nodded. “Electric screwdriver, only louder.”
“What could it be?”
“That, my friend, is the million-dollar question.” Sam said, and exited Bernard Meyers’ apartment.
thirteen
The seedy start of G Street, a mini red-light district on the eastern outskirts of downtown Chicago, was signaled by a holographic billboard of Marilyn Monroe standing in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in a red G-string with her hands cupped over her breasts. The caption read: TAKE A ROMP WITH MONROE IN SOME LIKE IT HOT . . . AND DIRTY. Next to Monroe was a holographic recreation of Betty Davis holding a giant dildo in one hand and a bullwhip in the other. Her tight panties barely covered strands of dark pubic hair, which shot out from all sides. The copy read: JOIN THAT LOVABLE BITCH OF THE SILVER SCREEN FOR A NIGHT OF FUN! FUN!! FUN!!!
Travis had just finished a double shift, and was filthy from the sewers.
With a pronounced limp, he approached an A.I.F. shop where a bright red-and-green 3-D sign proclaimed: CHICAGO’S FIRST A.I.F. HEADQUARTERS, FEATURING THE FINEST IN ADULT INTEGRATED FANTASIES.
Travis adjusted his thick bifocals and entered the shop.
The store was packed with customers. 3-D and holographic screens lined the walls. They featured everything from a vacation in Maui at the Four Seasons to a casual evening of dining and dancing with a handsome man or a beautiful woman. Total Immersion animated standees and posters offered everything from a threesome with Brad Pitt and Timothy Chalamet to a wild night of fast cars and sex with James Dean.
The newfangled high-tech store specialized in just about every human fantasy imaginable, no matter how depraved.
Travis had no interest in any of the assorted smut, and made his way over to the CUSTOM-MADE section, where a twenty-something geek dressed in an A.I.F. uniform sat at a computer station. An old woman sat across from him, carefully examining a 3-D screen in front of her.
“Here it comes, Doris,” the programmer said.
In the center of the screen, the image of a handsome young man dressed in a three-piece suit faded up. He began to blink and move; a warm smile crossed his face.
“Oh my God,” the old woman proclaimed, covering her mouth with her wrinkled hand as a tear rolled down her tightly stretched cheek. “It’s Charlie.”
“Alrighty, Doris, is that about how he looked at twenty-eight?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Wasn’t he handsome?”
“Yes, he was very handsome.”
The woman smiled as sweet memories of her long-dead husband rushed into her mind. “He was a great lover,” she whispered. “Will it feel the same?” she asked, blushing.
“Once you’re locked into the system, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Her eyes widened. “Could you make him a bit taller? Charlie always wanted to be six-foot.”
The A.I.F. employee called out toward the front of the store. “Keith, can we make him taller?”
A male voice answered back. “Taller, more hair, less hair, two dicks, two assholes. We’ll give him a third eye if she wants it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, beaming. “Will I be young in the program, too?”
“It’ll all take place from your point of view, but when you look in a mirror, you’ll see yourself at twenty.”
“I’ve been so lonely for so long,” the old woman said, her voice cracking with emotion. She pulled out a silk handkerchief from her black, Gucci leather purse and patted her eyes. “This is the most wonderful thing I could have ever imagined. Time travel in my lifetime. I’d like to order as many as possible. I don’t care what it costs.”
The programmer lit up and continued to scan in old photographs of Doris and her long-deceased husband.
Doris glanced over and smiled at Travis as he waited in line at the front counter. Travis smiled back and gave her a little wave.
An obese man whose butt crack spilled out of a pair of jeans stood off to the side, glancing through a digital book of titles. “Does Emma Stone use a vibrator in that one?” he asked the employee who sat behind the counter.
“No,” Keith answered. “But she gives a fabulous blowjob on the roof of the Empire State Building.”
The fat man shrugged and continued his search.
Keith was a sickly looking, emaciated man of twenty-nine who had taken the art of piercing to new heights. Travis once counted over thirty different pieces of metal hanging off his face. His thin hair had been dyed a midnight black, and his bangs a dark shade of blue.
Keith glanced up and spotted Travis. “Oh, hey, Travis!” he called out, flashing a warm, friendly smile. “Sorry ’bout that. Didn’t see you walk in.”
“That’s okay, Keith,” Travis answered back.
The fat man looked up from the book and said, “I’m searchin’ for some vibrator action! I could use a little help. My money’s green as his, ain’t it?”
Keith rolled his eyes, glanced over to Travis, said, “Give me just a second,” and turned his attention to the obnoxious customer. “Jennifer Lawrence takes it up the ass and uses a vibrator in a play on Silver Linings Playbook. It’s DQ-1021.”
“Perfect!”
Keith held up his finger to Travis. “I’ll be back in one sec,” he said, and quickly exited into the back room.
The fat man smiled over at Travis. “I titty-fucked Sandra Bullock just a few days ago, and last night I had a fabulous, absolutely memorable evening with Billie,” he proudly confessed. “I highly recommend her.”
“Billie Eilish?” Travis guessed.
“She’s sexy as shit. Go for DU-1456. It’s my favorite. She lets you shave her pussy while she sings ‘Bad Guy’ on the ukulele.”
Travis felt sick to his stomach as Keith approached the fat man. “Just wanted to make sure we had that one downloaded. It’s brand new. Takeout?” Keith asked.
“Who do I look like? Elon-fucking-Musk?”
Keith moved over to his screen and called up a digital blueprint of the viewing area, which dominated the entire south side of the store. The screen informed him which rooms were available, which were occupied, and exactly how long the programs had been running. He turned back to the fat man and said, “Number six.”
“Hey, buddy, don’t forget about Billie,” the fat man reminded Travis. “If that one doesn’t grab you, try SU-1138. Jane Fonda’s ass is as tight as a sixteen-year-old’s.”
Giddy with excitement, the fat man made his way over to the entrance of the viewing rooms. A revolving sign flashed WELCOME TO PARADISE as the fat man passed through the holographic turnstile and disappeared down a long hallway.
Keith called out a series of commands into his central computer and slid back over to Travis. “What a fuckin’ weirdo, huh, Travis?” he said, painting on a wide smile.
“He’s a little freaky,” Travis responded with a deep sigh.
“So, how’s Kim?”
Travis’ face lit up at the mention of her name. “Oh, she’s doin’ great. Last night we stayed home and ordered pizza and watched a movie.”
“Ah, true love. I envy you,” Keith said, nervously glancing around.
“I think she’s burning out at the hospital though. God, they work her to death,” Travis continued. “She’s too bright for that crap. Running around taking temperatures, giving shots. That’s what I keep telling her, but you know Kim. She loves to help people. She’s a saint.”
Keith grinned. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“I would,” Travis murmured.
“It’s like the universe wanted you two to be together. Fate. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, she’s my destiny,” Travis said, beaming.
Keith spoke a code into a safe under the desk. It automatically swung open, and a long drawer emerged containing a series of metal files. Keith found Travis’ name and pulled out a shiny, silver Total Immersion disc. He handed it to Travis, who dropped it into his jacket pocket.
“How’s Gwen?” Travis asked. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Keith paused for a moment and mulled over his words before answering, “She’s okay, just real busy. Don’t come down to the floor much anymore. Stays upstairs, mostly.”
“I miss her,” Travis said softly.
“I’ll be sure to tell her that.”
“Gwen’s sort of a saint, too,” Travis added. “She’s done a lot of good for a lot of people.”
Keith took a deep breath and exhaled with a phony smile. “Yep, that she has. Maybe next time you come in, she’ll be here, and you can say hi.”
“I’d like that,” Travis said, his eyes shooting down to the floor. “Well, guess I’ll be on my way then.”
“You have fun now, and don’t forget to say hi to Kim for me.”
“I won’t. Goodnight, Keith.” Travis said and made a hasty exit out of the store as another customer approached Keith.
“Are you the manager?” a middle-aged Japanese man sporting a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolex asked Keith.
“No, Google owns it, and Gwen Thompson runs the joint. I’m just a lowly worker,” Keith said, his voice not nearly as animated as it had been with Travis.
The Japanese man pulled a Total Immersion disc from his briefcase and slammed it on the desk. “Well, whoever the fuck you are, I want to lodge a complaint.”
“Lodge away.”
“Last night I rented a program from some lackey, and I specifically asked for GP-7728, which was supposed to be a quiet, lovely evening of dinner and dancing with myself and Leonardo Di Caprio, but to my horror, I ended up in a dingy motel room being sodomized by Clint Eastwood. I’m still walkin’ a little funny!”
Keith tried to contain a burst of laughter. “Why didn’t you just pull the trigger? It would have stopped the program.”
“What do you think I tried to do? Do I look like a fucking idiot? The trigger broke! I’ve already contacted my attorney, and plan on filing a lawsuit against the manufacturer of the system. Goddamn thing cost me an arm and a leg, and I end up with Clint Eastwood’s crooked dick up my ass!”
Keith thought about that and said, “Doesn’t sound so terrible, but whatever. I’m sorry for the mix-up. Let me get you GP-7728, and your next rental is on the house.”
The Japanese man thought about the offer. “Make it three?”
“You got a deal.”
“Just in case, I’ll play it here.”
Keith examined his screen. “Number fifteen.”
Keith escorted the Japanese man down the long, antiseptic, white hallway. A series of doors ran along each side of the corridor. Odd-numbered rooms on the left and even on the right. As he passed each door, Keith’s tablet played what was going on inside the programs: an orgy in room #3; a thirty-year old woman reading Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham to her long-dead four-year-old son in room #5; two men passionately French kissing, their tongues dancing under a stunning New Zealand waterfall in room #6; two white Playmates ravaging the neck and belly of a very happy Black man inside the Playboy grotto in room #9; Lady Gaga serenading a young couple inside the famed Copacabana night club in room #11; and an obese woman engaging in a steamy ménage à trois inside a shower with Katy Perry and Cher, who sang “If I Could Turn Back Time” as the woman soaped up her breasts in room #12.
As they approached room #15, the door automatically swung open and the Japanese man happily entered.
“Enjoy your date!” Keith said, and disappeared down the hallway.
The small room was just as cold as the corridor. In the center sat the familiar Total Immersion chair, the helmet hanging off a black hook. Painted against the white wall in black letters was a series of instructions that ended with: ALL EQUIPMENT IS PROFESSIONALLY CLEANED AND SANITIZED AFTER EACH USE. MEN ARE REQUIRED TO WEAR PENIS SLEEVES. THANK YOU AND ENJOY YOUR JOURNEY . . . A.I.F.
The Japanese man opened a small closet, pulled out a hanger, and quickly undressed.
Mr. Di Caprio was an utter delight, and the evening was simply enchanting.
Absolutely perfect.
fourteen
“They’ve combed this place already. The forensic guy said they were finished,” Kevin Fields’ slovenly apartment manager said as Sam and Tommy followed him down the hallway.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Sam said.
The manager wore a bright Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and a straw hat with the Corona beer label embroidered across the top. A wad of chewing tobacco was packed in his left cheek, and he carried a white cup, occasionally hocking a black loogie into the foul mug. He turned to Sam just before opening the door and said, “He was an asshole. A miserable piece of human waste who got exactly what he deserved.”
Sam got a whiff of his breath and backed off. “I’m sure he did, Mr. Gross.”
“That’s Griss. My name’s Bobby Griss, not Gross,” he snarled, and opened the door.
The apartment was unchanged as Sam glanced around the modest living space.
“They found the fucker’s head lyin’ in his lap,” Bobby added.
Sam turned to Bobby, who concentrated on dumping another wad of black goo into the cup, and asked, “Did Kevin use the back door often?”
“How the fuck should I know? Door leads to a little yard. He was only here for a couple months, and that was a couple months too long.”
Sam turned to Tommy. “Sit on the couch and face the TV.”
The last thing Tommy wanted to do was sit in the exact spot where Kevin’s life came to its gruesome end.
“Ruth said he pissed and crapped his pants, Sam.”
Bobby nearly swallowed his chew. “Holy God! I would have paid a hundred bucks to see that!”
“It’s been cleaned up,” Sam said, and pointed Tommy towards the sofa.
Tommy reluctantly complied, laying his coat down on the cushion before sitting.
“Hey, you feel like takin’ a dump, kid!?” Bobby belted out with a loud laugh, his belly rolling like a wave machine.
With Tommy in place, Sam made his way into the short hallway, which led to a single bedroom. From the hallway, Sam gazed into the living room, where all he could make out was the sofa . . . and the back of Tommy’s head.
The back door was located off the kitchen, which made it highly unlikely the killer just barged in.
Sam walked through the living room, into the kitchen, and stopped at the back door. It was evident from where Tommy sat, there was no way for someone to enter without being seen unless the killer knew the victim.
Something about the acquaintance theory didn’t sit well with Sam. For now, his working theory was that the killer had lain in wait somewhere in the apartment, waiting for his moment to strike.
Sam turned to Bobby. “Was the television on when you first entered?”
Bobby carefully weighed the question. “I’m pretty sure it was on. No, I’m positive.”
“You finished, Sam?” Tommy asked.
“Not yet.”
Sam walked back into the hallway and opened the closet door. It was large enough for a man to stand inside and hide behind some coats. Sam bent down and examined the thin carpet that lined the floor. There were bits and pieces of dry mud next to several pairs of black boots, and one pair of old tennis shoes. From the files, Sam knew the forensic team had taken samples from the closet and had scanned every inch of the place.
“There’s dirt and shit all over this joint,” Bobby commented, leaning against the wall. “Fields drove a cement truck for extra bucks. He was a fucking pig.”
Sam reentered the living room and casually asked, “Where were you on the night of the murder, Mr. Griss?”
Bobby pulled a face. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said quickly, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the guy was a creep, but I certainly had nothing to do with this fucking mess.”
Sam knew from the files that Bobby’s alibi had been cleared. He just wanted to shut him up.
Bobby nervously continued, “I can guarantee you one thing, Mr. Knight. There’s gonna be a couple hundred suspects on this one. I mean—I mean, if you’re trying to pin this bullshit on me—”
“No one’s accusing you of anything. It just seems you had a pretty healthy dislike for your tenant.”
Tommy cracked a small smile as poor, dumb Bobby started to fuddle about. “Like I said, like I told you, I-I didn’t like him, but that don’t make me no killer.”
