Set in the late 1800s, this historical fiction addresses the relatively well known issue of medical murder (physicians procuring bodies for medical research through questionable means) and exposes the carefully guarded historical fact of hysterical orgasm (that women diagnosed with hysteria were treated with orgasm or "paroxysm," achieved via vibratory therapy, water jet massage, and/or manual stimulation). Iowa and Oregon provide the settings for the chronicles of a young physician and a serial killer whose paths are hopelessly and tragically linked. Tristan Andersen becomes a doctor in spite of hopes of him working his family's Iowa farm. Roy, who at first is seen as merely providing physicians with corpses, is too adept at murder for it to be coincidence. He is, in fact, a serial killer. Perhaps, even, the icon of the infamous White Chapel secret society. This story includes intertextual references to: Van Gogh, Jack the Ripper, The Schoolhouse Blizzard, and more.
Excerpt:
The rain was gently falling on the warming fields of Iowa. Estimates (bets made by farmers [and their banks]) promised; promises made: some kept…others cast as chaff.
“Tristan, what are you going to tell your folks?”
“I don’t know, Jake. I guess that I want to be a doctor.”
“My folks laughed when I told them I wanted to be a veterinarian.” “That’s all? Laughed?”
“Yeah. Then I told my dad I could help keep his livestock alive and he started ‘figurin.’ When he was done doing that he was alright with the idea.”
“How about your mom?”
“She said that as long as I took care of the farm I could do whatever fool-blamed thing I wanted in my spare time.”
“Fair enough. But. . . it’s different with doctors.”
“True. True.”
“My mom and pop are expecting me to take over our farm too. So how do I break it to them that their only son won’t be around?”
“Yeah, not much call for docs in small towns like yours or mine. Hey, who’s the barber at your end?”
“Stan Smith.”
“Ours is Danny Smith! Think they’re related?”
“Could be. Could be.”
“Yeah, Danny’ll shave ya’, cut ya’, pull yer teeth, and stitch ya up all sittin’ in the same chair.”
“Same with Stan. I’ll have to go to a city. . . where there’s a practice.”
“Getting a bit ahead of yourself aren’t you?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean you have to graduate the Ag. Program first, get into a medical school—which I’d be bloked to tell you where one of them is. I’m just glad they started the vet program here this year. Talk about divinity.”
“Don’t bring THAT up.”
“What up?”
“Divinity.”
“Oh I see. Parents wanted you to be a preachin’ farmer then. I’ve seen a few of them over the years sitting in the pews. Seriously though, the Agriculture program? That’s a long way off from preaching.”
“It sure is but even worse is that when I started Divinity here…I hated it.”
“Why?”
“If I told you I’m afraid it would ruin religion for you.”
“Ah come on! We’re best friends. You can tell me.”
“That’s right. We are best friends and that’s exactly why I WON’T. Anyway, I figured if I went Ag then at least my dad would be happy.” “And medical school? When did that happen?”
“The day you lost your finger.”
