We recently moved into a new computer room and the powers-that-be decided to spring for some new equipment. The bugs are still being worked out.
Case in point is our copiers. They're new out of the box but they have some breaking in to go through. Today one of them kept jamming and it would make the most hideous sound when it would go wrong, just like someone in pain. I have the most experience fixing these things so I was opening the machine up and fiddling with the rollers and little wheels inside. My coworkers stood around, watching me and cracking wise.
The three guys I work with are all related, two brothers and the husband of their sister. They hang around together when they get off work, usually going over to one of their houses and playing poker for a few hours before calling it a night. Spending all that time in each other’s company means that they have similar senses of humor. Today they found great amusement in the sounds the copier made.
“Someone’s getting skinned in there!” they’d say with glee. “Now he’s getting castrated!” Then the pitch would rise right before the machine shut down. “Oh, listen! He’s a eunuch now!”
Hilarity was had by all. Except me.
It was 16 years ago and I was still working as a fingerprint technician. They brought the suspect in on a hot summer night, like tonight. He was a young guy in his mid 20’s, a nice looking fellow, lean with those ropy muscles that develop on the guys who really work for a living. What made the most indelible impression on me were his hands, big hands with calluses gotten from lifting and carrying. It was a stone bitch to get his palm prints because the cards we normally use were too small. I finally had to get paper from the copier in the corner and apply a very light inking so the impressions wouldn’t run.
He was friendly, too. The normal SOP was to have a uniformed officer in the print room with the tech and the suspect, but this time they had three rather tense cops crowded in there with me and my client. A few more were watching through the glass, just standing there and taking it all in. He was joking and joshing with all of them, and with me.
After I got the prints and he was being cuffed, one cop on each arm and another fitting the bracelets on, he looked over at me and gave me a wink and a smile. “You know what people are? They’re nothing but bags of meat with screams inside.” I carefully gave him the once over as he was being led away so I’d be able to recognize him if we ever crossed paths again.
One of the watching officers gave me the low down. The suspect liked to break in to houses with a roll of duct tape and a bowie knife. He’d tape up and gag whole families before cutting each of them from crotch to anus, jerking off while they rolled around. No one had ever died from shock or blood loss, but it was a near thing sometimes. He must have thought it was a worthwhile hobby since he kept on doing it. This last time he hadn’t noticed the stickers in the window from the security company which proclaimed the silent alarm service.
It’s funny how our minds work. A copier makes noise before it jams, my coworkers make some tasteless jokes, and I remember blotting ink off of a criminal’s hands so the defense lawyer couldn’t raise an objection about blurry palm prints. I haven’t thought of that guy in close to a decade, the whole thing was completely gone from my memory, but it seems like only a few minutes since he winked and grinned and doled out some of his own special brand of wisdom.
The bars have been closed for over an hour now. All the drunks should have had time to walk or drive home, and the streets should be empty and quiet. In a few minutes I’m going to leash up the dogs and take them for their long evening walk. But you shouldn’t worry in case I should meet a friendly fellow with big hands, duct tape and a knife. Rest assured that this is one bag o’ meat that will keep his screams.