“Chance Encounters
 of the
Close Kind”

© 2010 by Anel Viz. All rights reserved.

 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

 

 8. Slasher

After the sex I took a shower and went back to my cubicle to cool off, maybe have a short nap.  I was awakened by a soft knocking on the door.  I opened it a crack and saw one of the bath attendants.  He looked nervous.

“Did I oversleep?” I asked.  “Are my eight hours up?”

“No.  You have to come with me.”

“Where to?  Why?”

“To the lounge.  I’m not allowed to tell.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after three.  No, come as you are.  Here’s a towel you can wrap around your waist, and you should take your key.  Nothing else.”

“Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t think so, not you personally, but maybe we all are.  I don’t know.”

We had to pass the lockers on our way to the lounge.  The night manager was there with his set of keys.  He’d opened one of the lockers.  Two cops had dumped its contents on the floor and were sorting through it item by item, examining everything, writing it all down.

“What’s going on?”

“A search.  They’re going through everything, first the lockers, then the cubicles.  That’s why you had to leave your stuff behind.”

“But why?”

“Can’t tell you.  There are cops posted at the front door and the emergency exit, and God knows how many more in the street.  You can’t get away; you’ll have to play along.”

“Why would I try to get away?  Can we go by the toilets so I can take a leak first?”

He nodded.  That gave me a chance to pump him for more information, not that it was forthcoming.  “Play along with what?” I asked.

“Answer a few questions.  Then they say you can go home.  They promise that if it turns out you’re not involved you can remain anonymous.”

“Fat chance of that.  Doesn’t bother me, though; I’m not in the closet.  Questions about what?  I suppose you’re not allowed to say.”

He shook his head.

They’d posted a cop in the lounge doorway to make sure nobody tried to leave, but he kept his distance.  Another attendant stood behind the bar with free coffee for everyone.  There were about fifteen of us so far, each with just a towel around his waist.  The attendant left to fetch the next guy.  By the time he’d brought in the last, we numbered a little over two dozen.  Some of us sat apart from the others, looking terrified and not saying a word, probably the men with a wife and kids at home, or with jobs or reputations to protect. Others whispered excitedly together.  A small handful were leafing through a magazine or watching the TV, which had been turned on very loud, pretending they weren’t concerned, but we were all scared.  You could see that some wouldn’t have minded doing a little groping, not that anyone dared with a cop standing right there.  This was a private club, but we were in an open space, and who knew if they had the right to book us for public indecency?

I joined the group of whisperers.  The wait was excruciating.  After an hour and a half the manager came to the lounge with three men in plain clothes, obviously detectives.  One of us had the nerve to ask what was taking so long.

“We can’t start questioning you till we finish the search,” he answered.  “That means your cars too.  You can speed things up if you give us your plate numbers and the model of your vehicle and tell us where you’re parked.  Anyone come here by bus?”

They had our licenses, of course – you had to leave them at the desk when you signed in – and must have run them all already.

He went on: “We have to spray everything down with luminol too.  That takes time.”

“What’s luminol?” someone asked.

I knew, from watching CSI.  “That stuff that makes blood glow in the dark.”

The detective read out some half-dozen names.  “You guys can go now.  We won’t be needing your testimony.  An officer will escort you to pick up your belongings.”  He turned to the manager.  “We’ll start by interrogating your staff.”

“Can’t you question the clients first?  Some of them have to get home, and they probably all have to get to work.  The workers are on duty till noon anyway.”

“It’ll go quickly now,” the detective reassured us.  “We have three detectives here, and not all the rooms were used tonight.  We’ve set three aside to question you one on one.”

As soon as he left someone asked, “How come they get to go?”

“They all got here after nine,” the manager said.

“Didn’t you understand?” the cop barked at him.  “You give out no information.”

The manager clammed up; we couldn’t get anything out of him.  Three men were called for questioning, then after ten or fifteen minutes a detective would  show up and call another name.  Those who left didn’t come back.  We asked a detective about that, and he explained that when they were done they took their things and went home.  Maybe he was telling the truth.  It sounded likely enough.

Meanwhile the rumors were flying.  Nine o’clock, looking for blood.  The consensus was that one of the attendants had opened a cubicle and found the guy dead, lying in a pool of blood with his throat slit.  None of the staff could say anything, but the expressions on their faces confirmed it.  If that was the case, I had nothing to worry about.

Then, waiting my turn, it dawned on me – a slasher stalking the bathhouse corridors!  What a narrow escape I’d had, we’d all had... except one.

 

Posted: 02/05/10