Dismember Me, My Love

Glenn Gray

            Detective Flanagan was the first to discover Doctor Glassberg in his robe at the East Hampton mansion, slumped over his mahogany desk in front of the computer. The top half of his head was gone, exploded out, and the bottom half was split down the middle, resembling an anatomical dissection worthy of a surgical atlas.

            A shotgun was on the floor and a bound stack of papers rested on the desk next to a clump of brain. Fine droplets of dried blood dotted the front page. Flanagan picked up the stack of papers and brought it close to his face.

            The front page read:

Dismember Me, My Love

Written by Winston Glassberg, MD

Interesting, Flanagan thought. He remembered the looming bookcase behind him and turned to look. Bits of brain, hair and bone speckled the binders. He scanned some of the titles: Screenplay by Syd Field, Story by Robert McKee, The Elements of Screenwriting by Irwin R. Blacker.

            On the shelf below, Flanagan saw one of his favorites, The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain. He pulled it from the shelf, flipped the pages. It was old, a first printing, pages yellowing. He slipped it back, next to Farewell My Lovely by Raymond Chandler. Flanagan recognized many other titles, mostly hard-boiled crime stuff.

            Yeah. Flanagan recognized the type. Heck, what could he say? He was one of them. He had many of the same books. No first editions though. He had written some short stories too, detective pieces, tested out his talent. Shit. He studied the pathetic headless figure in the robe

              He flipped to the first page of the screenplay.

              He started to read with interest:

FADE IN:

AERIAL SHOT of blue-green ocean. PAN over coast, waves breaking, dunes dotted with beachfront mansions -- East Hampton, Long Island. Circle around one mansion, slowly ZOOM on window.

CUT TO:

INT.  KITCHEN - EARLY EVENING

A huge stainless steel and granite kitchen reeking of money.  DR. WINSTON WASSERMAN, plastic surgeon to the stars, fifties, balding with a slight paunch, mixes drinks. His wife is in the living room, in earshot, sunk into an oversized leather chair. Dr. Wasserman is nervous and empties some powder into one of the tumblers.

DR. WASSERMAN

     Busy day then, love?

CUT TO:

INT. LIVING ROOM - EARLY EVENING

Woman in the chair, RACHEL WASSERMAN. She is much younger than he, petite and pretty in an insolent way, about thirty. She rolls her eyes while picking at a long painted fingernail. She has large fake tits.

RACHEL

     Yeah. Whatever.

Dr. Wasserman enters the room smiling, drinks in hand. He gives one to Rachel and lowers himself onto a nearby couch.

DR. WASSERMAN

     There you are, love.

RACHEL

I have to get my haircut tomorrow, early. After

tennis.

DR. WASSERMAN

     That’s fine, love. I have plenty of work to do.

RACHEL

     And I’m going to my mother’s for Thanksgiving… Alone.

A long awkward pause.

DR. WASSERMAN

     I see.

RACHEL

Tomorrow. Late. You can take me to the airport if you

like.

DR. WASSERMAN

     Of course, dear. I don’t see why not.

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Lots of fidgeting. Rachel looking around, Dr. Wasserman staring at Rachel. She downs her drink. Her eyes get heavy.

CUT TO:

INT. MASTER BEDROOM - EVENING

Dr. Wasserman cradling Rachel in his arms, carrying her into a spacious master bedroom. She is unconscious. He gently places her on the bed which is covered in a clear plastic tarp. He lovingly caresses her hair and then places a clear plastic bag over her head. He walks off camera and returns a moment later holding a Louisville slugger.  We see beads of sweat on his naked back. The bat rises overhead.

DR. WASSERMAN

I’ll miss you, Rachel. Surely, Thanksgiving will not

be the same.… FORE!

The bat comes down out of sight to a sickening crack we know is Rachel’s skull.

CUT TO:

INT. BASEMENT - LATE EVENING

A home operating room. Rachel is naked, face smashed, lying on her back on a metallic table. Dr. Wasserman calmly gathers instruments, speaking out loud.

DR. WASSERMAN

I don’t know why you couldn’t just behave your sweet

self. Just be a normal loving wife. Just love someone

who loved you more than anything in the world. That

someone is me. Yes-But no! You just fucking go and get

all crazy and fuck it all up. Just fuck it up.

He begins the dismemberment. His surgical knowledge comes in particularly handy. He moves deliberately, smoothly and with confidence. He begins with quick incisions about the left shoulder, needing just seconds before he is disarticulating the humeral head from the glenoid fossa. Smooth cuts, arm comes right off. Repeat on right. He moves to the knees. We see him feeling the joint line, sliding the scalpel blade precisely. The lower legs are soon off and placed in a neat pile with the arms on an adjacent table. He steps back and observes his handiwork.

DR. WASSERMAN

     Now look at you, honey. You’ve gone to pieces!

He laughs in a weird manner and we can tell he’s a little giddy. He takes a sip from his tumbler. Laughs again. He changes the scalpel blade and moves to the pelvis. He makes sweeping slices around the left hip, digging down to the femoral head, and then short choppy motions to get through the joint capsule and ligaments. He grabs her thigh in the crook of his elbow, twists it, and then pops out the left femoral head. He does the same on the right.

He wipes his sweaty forehead with a rag and then takes another sip from the glass sitting nearby. We hear the ice clanging. We see what he sees, a limbless body with a smashed face.

DR. WASSERMAN

Now, we might’ve had a chance if you looked like this

when you were alive. HA! Homebound. Where can you go

without arms or legs? It’s like that movie Boxing

Helena. Now there was a smart character. Actually, you

look a little like a Thanksgiving turkey! HA! Stuffing

anyone?

He pauses. Looks her over.  He’s staring at her upright breasts.

DR. WASSERMAN

I think I’ll take those back, thank you. You won’t be

needing those. Nope.

He makes a smiley-face incision along the undersurface of her right breast. He tugs at the skin flap, turning it up and over the nipple. He hacks away at the scar tissue around the implant and is eventually able to wrestle it free. He plops it on her stomach and then repeats on the left. He then places both implants on the counter.

DR. WASSERMAN

There you are. Back to baseline. Flat as a pancake.

Happy? I’m going to save those. Yes I am. You never

know when I might need a little goosey-goose. Know

what I mean?  

He laughs hard, obviously happy with himself. He stares at her a long while and then starts to sob. A moment later he is laughing again. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist and smears a trail of blood on his face. Takes a sip of his drink.

DR. WASSERMAN

Sorry, dear. Should always finish what you

start. Right? No. You wouldn’t know anything about

that, now would you?

He starts hacking at her neck, cutting the top first, getting through trachea, going along the sides and getting some oozing from the transected carotids and jugulars. He lets the blood dribble and it runs into a drain. He keeps hacking, getting a little faster and sloppier. He gets to bone and stops. He reaches to the counter and picks up a bone saw, which looks like a mini fan. It starts to whiz, making a buzzing sound which drops a pitch as blade meets cervical vertebra. Bone chips shoot out. Rachel’s head rolls off backwards and falls to the floor with a thud.

DR. WASSERMAN

Fuck! Fuck Fuck Fuck!

He hurls the bone saw at the wall, shattering a glass cabinet. He reaches down and picks up Rachel’s smashed head by the matted hair. It spirals around in his hand. He props it next to the pile of severed limbs. He grabs his drink, downs it and pulls a chair next to the pile of body parts. He turns the head so he is looking directly at the grotesquely distorted face.

DR. WASSERMAN

Okay, Dear. Ha! I think we’re through here. What do

you say? Had enough? I think so. I think you’re ready

for your trip. Gonna see Momma? HA! I kind of like you

like this. Just kidding. It is rather interesting

though. No it’s not. Yes! Oh, one last thing.

Dr. Wasserman proceeds to extract all of Rachel’s teeth with pliers and then slices off her fingertips. He places all of these items in a small plastic sandwich bag. He stuffs the baggie in his pants pocket.

CUT TO:

INT. BASEMENT - LATER EVENING.

Dr. Wasserman is lowering Rachel’s torso in a large black suitcase as if he’s packing for a vacation. He follows with the limbs and head and then zips it up. With effort, he carries it off screen.

CUT TO:

EXT. CAR - LATER EVENING

Dr. Wasserman (his POV) is whistling as he drives his Mercedes west along a dark stretch of Sunrise Highway. The headlights brighten a sign that reads: LONG ISLAND PINE BARRENS REGION.

CUT TO:

EXT. FOREST - LATER EVENING

Dr. Wasserman lugs the suitcase through a moonlit forest, densely wooded with pine trees. He stops suddenly in a small clearing and looks around. He drops to his knees and then unzips the suitcase and takes out Rachel’s head. He zips the suitcase back up. Holding the head out with both hands, he stares at it a long moment then kisses it deeply.

DR. WASSERMAN

     Goodbye, dear. Have a good holiday.

He carefully props the head on the suitcase. It falls over. He grunts and takes another moment to position it and makes sure it stays up. He pulls a small garden spade from his coat pocket and starts to dig.

CUT TO:

EXT. PARKED CAR - LATER EVENING

Dr. Wasserman returning to his car, whistling again, easily swinging the empty suitcase into his trunk.

CUT TO:

EXT. DOCK - EARLY SUNRISE

Dr Wasserman stands at the end of a wooden pier. The sky is purple pastel. We hear the swish and pull of moored boats at the pier. He has his hands in his pockets and he is staring across Shinnecock Bay.

DR. WASSERMAN

     Guess this is really it, dear.

He looks around, takes out the plastic baggie containing chopped fingertips and teeth, gazes into the bag for a moment, holds it up to his nose and inhales. He then quickly scatters the contents off the pier. Seagulls squeak and flutter about close by, swooping down, several sailing away with a fleshy digit.

CUT TO:

INT. STUDY – Afternoon (One Week Later)

Dr. Wasserman sits at his mahogany desk, a 12-gauge shotgun straddling his lap, staring down at his feet. He mumbles out loud, intermittently laughing and crying. He becomes tranquil then awkwardly places the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth, leans into it. He waits a moment. We see a close up shot of the trigger. His thumb pulls and we hear a click. We now close up on his face, eyes wide, mouth full of metal. There is another, louder click. This is the front door. We hear a woman’s voice. Dr. Wasserman is at first surprised, then elated. This is his adoring, loving wife, Rachel. His soul mate. He removes the metal from his mouth.

RACHEL

Honey? Dear? I’m here. I missed you so much.

Where are you? I can’t wait to get my hands

on you. Oh God, I love you. Where are you?

Honey? Love of my life?

Dr. Wasserman props the rifle against the desk. We see a warm smile on his face as he pushes up from the leather chair.

CUT TO:

INT. FOYER - DAWN

We see an overhead shot of Rachel leaping into Dr. Wasserman’s arms in the foyer. They swing in circles, slow motion, embracing, round and round, to the song, Endless Love. The camera pans out and we see shimmering rays of early morning sun streaming in through the skylight, beaming down across the foyer.

The screen turns white, dissolves to blue-green ocean.

FADE OUT

            Flanagan tossed the manuscript back on the desk with a slap. He inhaled deeply, rubbed his eyes. He noticed a garden spade, its blade caked with dirt, behind the computer monitor on the desk. He felt numb.

            He got out his cell phone, ran his fingers through his hair, punched in the precinct.

            “I’m gonna need some help,” he said, exhaling deeply. “Forensics team, dogs. The works. Yeah.”

            A pause.

            Flanagan looked down at Dr. Glassberg, slowly shook his head. He had the urge to vomit but was able to keep it down.

            “Meet me. Sunrise Highway,” Flanagan said. “I’ll fill you in.”

            He listened to the brisk chatter on the other end.

            And then said, “Yeah…Pine Barrens.”