Brouchard and Scaife

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Brouchard commits the perfect crime of murder.

Submitted: September 19, 2009

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Submitted: September 19, 2009

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Scaife, as expected, entered the embalming room to feast upon the attributes of Mary Briggoni Downer. Brouchard, dressed in plastic gloves and white gown, surreptitiously tended his charge. Scaife lingered about her naked and frail corpse that still shouted her faded beauty. Eyes aglow, heart heaving in his double breasted New Yorker, he allowed his hands to execute double duty. Scaife’s six feet terminated in a bald soprano bordered by salt and pepper trickling around his ears to his neck.

The man in attendance, Elvis Brouchard, while overweight, carried himself well. His puffy cheeks told of countless trips to Burger King and Captain D’s. Brouchard turned to secure a new needle from the wall case. Armed with a vial of secret concoction, he approached Scaife from the rear plunging the needle deep into his torso. Brouchard forced his thumb hard against the plunger driving the full contents into his circulatory. Scaife’s astonishment registered momentarily before he became groggy. Brouchard eased the drugged body against a low cranked gurney before leveling him on the table.His work began. His window of opportunity would allow him only two hours. He worked feverishly.
Quickly, he rushed across the open breezeway winding his way through the hearses and coaches. Stumbling through the rear door, he hustled down the hall of Memphis Funeral Home. He entered the coffin room. The Downer family’s selection lay toward the front. He struggled with its enormous weight, but soon eased the large depository upon the rolling bier. With accustomed ease, he drove the coffin back through the doors into the embalming section.
He chuckled in his satisfaction. The hoist slid upon casters. With meticulous ease, he deposited Scaife in the very bottom of the case, replaced the spring, mattress, pillows. After finishing the chores upon Mary Briggoni among which he stapled the openings, he dressed her and with growing ecstatic glee, applied makeup. He took particular care to Crazy glue her eyes shut. She looked simply grand.
As he lifted the skinny woman into her bronze vault, he laughed at how nifty he had been. The pallbearers would excuse the heavy weight by the expensive receptacle.
Later at visitation, he ambled calmly about the stateroom, remarked about the quality of the merchandise, the extraordinary solemnity of the deceased, and the undying sadness of losing the loved one.
The caisson, led by a family cortege of black coaches, negotiated a winding path to the Downer tomb in Our Lady of Holy Souls Cemetery. Brouchard had made especial arrangements prior. The interior crypt lay open to receive its special prizes: one dead, -----the other who would awaken only to realize he had been incarcerated in a narrow cell forever.
That very night Brouchard returned to harvest his midnight glee. A sublime excitement swept across his whole body----front to back.
While he had indeed prospered in his funerary career, the ultimate experience had escaped him. And now here in this dead hour of blackened pitch, amid hundreds of moldering bones, Brouchard would attend upon a concert of inestimable satisfaction.
He walked slowly, yet deliberately. He had parked his limousine near the front being especially careful to park in an official space.
Leaden creeping, he became ultra snail like in his approach to the tomb. He attuned his ears because he wanted to savor each industrious scream from behind the marble. Yet even now only ten feet away he heard nothing. Perhaps his timing was perfect. He moved closer----closer. Fabian figures now moved their silhouettes through the shadows cast by the light of a full moon set to his right. He was now standing next to the solid granite. Fingertips and palms inverted to caress the smooth fabric. He moaned audibly to himself. "Yes! Yesssssss! Oh, now. Ohhhhhhh nowwwww! Yessssssss!"
An eerie groan now came to his ears. Very far off; faraway and stifled now and then in his ears. He stood silent to catch the faint moans, but silence fell heavy upon his ears. Perhaps he would not be able to hear. Perhaps he would have to go to the door, perhaps inside. He knew he had to hear----had to hear the last terror-stricken words.
Loitering no more, he descended upon his knees, so as to disappear in dark shadows. Moderately, he crawled. Circumventing a corner, he stopped suddenly.
Brouchard fastened his ear to the little window. "Yes!" He almost exclaimed aloud.
The furious vibrations within the coffin made thumps, which escaped into the inner chamber, outward through the sealed opening. Dull thumps.
Elated he eased upon the grass. As the noise became more vehement, the greater his excitement welled into his bosom. He chuckled. He could hear! To hearken more to his satisfaction, he lay perfectly still.
"Ohhhhhhh God!" the voice inside screamed.
Brouchard thought about what a tinkle brain he was, but savored the terror stricken words.
Brouchard fell into frenzy. In wild glee, he punctured the night with exhalations of his name to high hell.
"Scaife! Scaife!" he screamed aloud. Nothing. No reply. Scaife’s voice had fallen silent.
"Scaife! Scaife!" He screamed louder.
From within the confines, a torrid battle ensued. Scaife was pounding, kicking, and rocking the coffin.
Brouchard laughed aloud. He twitched and twittered. He rolled and gasped for air. Breathless, he stopped momentarily to hearken with the greatest degree of satisfaction.
Brouchard again paused holding the words as candles in the wind. Just before the wind snuffed the flame, he drank the exhortations as food for his sustenance. Each flicker flashed with a fierce light and he threw back words of ominous deliciousness. "Yes. Yes. I Scaife. Me! Me! Me! Yes, me!" He stopped still.
Another furious flailing reverberated from the inmost sanctum. Scaife did not hear.
"Scaife. Scaife! It’s me! Me!" Brouchard screamed louder.
Brouchard danced now. He pranced lewdly. Strutted provocatively. Gyrating his hips, he pelvic thrusted in circles about the tomb. He removed his shirt, slacks, and hat. "Scaife, Scaife! Hold your breath!" he chuckled continuing, "Hold your breaaaaath! Hee! Hee!" Brouchard, breathless now, relaxed. He sat against the slick, cold granulated stone to listen. He kept stone rigid still.
He could not hear a sound, not a word.
"Scaife! Scaife!" he shouted.
Needing some additional arousal, he cavorted to the front door. Securing the key, he rotated the locking mechanism. Swinging the door open, he stepped partially into the black opening. His ears yearned for movement, or sound; yet nothing.
Looking back across his shoulders, he discerned the distant car lights playing in the shadowed folds. He felt his cold buttocks twitching in the air.
"Scaife! Scaife!" he nearly screamed while silence remained.
His eyes now made a path through the gloom. Inching in tiny steps, he evoked his primal fear. A palpitating heart beat a steady staccato beneath his breast. Enveloping his naked body around the steel coffin, he called in the night to Scaife.
"Baby blue. Hey, baby blue!"
A groan of mortal terror issued clamped by the retards of his circumference. "You, Brouchard! Why? Why?"
"Oh, you tended my charges too much. You gloated in your desire to feast upon my corpses. I detest that. And for that you die!"
"Die? Die?" he questioned breathless in whispers.
"Yes, yes, you will die here!" Brouchard echoed his whispers.
II
Brouchard stayed two hours past. A complete silence engulfed the tomb. "Yes. Yes." Scaife had succumbed. "Yes, he is dead."
The next week proved exceedingly interesting. Officers came, detectives questioned, and newspersons descended. A nationwide bulletin chronicled the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Edward Scaife, prominent funeral director and owner, Lion, and former Mason.
Brouchard stayed in the middle----the thick. He enjoyed gasping, inhaling solemnly, faking sadness, and holding Mrs. Scaife’s trembling hand. He skittered about the parlors with effusive tenderness. He made especially sure his tidy steps were remarkably neat by taking care to place each foot in military decorum. He wore his best suits, purchased new ties at Dillard’s, and ordered roses for the secretary, Mrs. Wiggins.
Within a few weeks, naturally he expressed deep satisfaction to hear he would assume full charge until Scaife returned. Brouchard acquiesced gracefully by regularly bemoaning "their great loss."
Time passed and hope faded. The fliers disappeared along with the speculative chronicles.
After several years, the memories of that year sank into faint oblivion. Soon, Brouchard took Scaife’s wife to bride. He gloated in his newfound marriage. Life was perfect. He often fought back abdominal pain produced by fits of laughter.
"He! He! He! He! He! He! He! He! He!" Brouchard often retreated to a rear office to snicker and roll. Occasionally, just to be sure, and especially on his visits to inter corpses, he checked on the Downer tomb for any unusual signs.
Brouchard, of course, never forgot the fun he had that fatal night.
One beautiful spring evening when the sky had little in clouds to show, but had deep baby blue hues clear as iced glass, Brochard lingered about the tomb. This was after a particularly unattended graveside service. As shadows began a long stretch toward dusk, he re-entered the tomb to examine for a much belated rendezvous with the moldering duo.
Flashlight in hand, he approached the bier upon which Briggoni Downer and Scaife lay in a heavy bronze coffin. Thumbs flipped at the buckles. His heart rose to a potent pitch. Clasps undone, he labored to lift the lid. Despite moisture-laden rust, the lid budged. Shoving and straining, the closure popped open with a rank and dismal odor engulfing his nasal lining. A white handkerchief stifled the putrid odor, yet nothing could hold him back. He rode forward, balanced on toes ready to spring backward on cue.
Brouchard peered into the coffin. His eyes swelled to consume the scene before him. The upper lid lay in shreds, the contents a jumbled mass.
He gazed intently. The Eveready light moved in cadence with his darting eyes. He leaned back upon the heavy vault. He tried to imagine Scaife’s last gasping moments before he expired: the throat-wrenching gargle of suffocation, the wildly thrashing nails, the weight of the dead lady’s remains, and the twitching legs thirsting for some room. The claustrophobic pinch, the lack of oxygen, the bulging eyes straining to see in absolute pitch set his nerves pulsing. Scaife perhaps unhinged the lady from the mooring hooks, felt the crushing torso, and died with the old bitch in his arms!He again peered into the receptacle with eyes now more attuned to the light. "Indeed, indeed!" he chuckled faintly, "Ha! Ha!"
Scaife had mounted a valiant effort to extricate himself from the coils of certain death. The inside of the casket bore no resemblance to the skillful workmanship of Imperial Vault. He moved to allow the light to fully illumine the scene within.
Brouchard closed the receptacle‘s door. As he retreated the tomb, a profound sense of elation eased like fine goose bumps down his spine. He laughed aloud to think how deft his movements over the years worked to conceal his criminally murderous acts.


© Copyright 2018 Johnny Redd. All rights reserved.

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