The night we found body parts in our garage, we ordered a pizza. There wasn’t the usual drawn-out discussion about what would go on said pizza, which was fantastic. The pizza was to be plain-jane, with only cheese on it. We agreed that eating something topped with red sauce and meat felt like the wrong order at the time.
We had been prepping for a garage sale.
My opinion of garage sales? I loathe them, much like weeding. When I was a kid, my parents made my brother and me weed the hill in our backyard. We’d spend a Saturday morning crouched over in the baking sun, getting rid of unwanted plants. I reasoned that we should leave them there as surely someone else might like them. But, my opinion didn’t count so I did what my parents told me.
Three of us lived in this three-story rental house, blocks off the beach. Collectively, we walked by several mystery bags in the garage countless times. With one roommate at work, my other roommate and I decided to sell the things the previous tenant had supposedly left; after all, it had been there a year. When we opened one of the hefty bags, we saw the bottom of a foot. After running into the street screaming, my roommate and I sprinted upstairs. In an instant, each of us picked up our respective phones and called our parents. I listened to my dad’s advice, preparing to follow his directions, and my roommate did the same. We were to hang up and dial 911.
Before seeing skulls and feet, I’d like to think I was an obedient person.
In the past, if we were having a garage sale, you’d find me reluctantly sorting through bags and boxes of unwanted things I couldn’t identify. A prime example was the small rubber box that may have held playdough or could attach to the end of the gymnastics beam given away ages ago. Whatever it was, I would display the used wares as priceless items found only in the most high-end boutiques. All of this, because my parents asked me to.
For some unknown reason, after the parentals gave the directive to call the police, my roommate and I chose to go next door to our landlord. He opened the door wearing boxer shorts and a wife-beater undershirt. Like making a sacrifice to an almighty king, we hesitantly laid the news upon his doorstep, half-whispering we’d found bodyparts in the garage. He didn’t ask questions, inquiring if we were okay or if someone might be in the house. Without missing a beat, he declared, “I can assure you that the last tenant left with their arms and legs fully intact.” This statement and our hasty exit are what prompted us to finally dial 911, figuring we had a mentally deranged ax-murderer living next door.
Garage sales tend to bring out the crazies.
The clientele comes through in a specific order. Early AM brings the electronics scavengers, aggressively demanding what you have before you’ve figured it out yourself. Then no one comes, and the minutes expand, making a half-hour feel like a year. Senile old ladies come next, where they sit in, try out, and comment on everything as if you aren’t there. Finally, when you get a decent amount of traffic, someone feels robbed by the $1 asking price of an item and begins to negotiate. Such is the garage sale I know and loathe — events that I’d prefer to escape.
One of the officers told us to stay put — we were not to leave or speak to anyone.
Hearing that, I disappeared around a corner to quickly call our friend we planned to meet later. As if this happens every day, like a secret agent giving the code word, I quickly tell my friend, “We’ve found bodyparts in the garage. Come over.” Her reply is equally concise and expected, “On our way.”
My roommate and I had roomed together for seven years. Living in California meant we could have declared ourselves common-law married. This would have worked out for me because she owned a ton of silverware. We were both working in advertising, worshipped the sun, and ran and swam together. Since we were a competitive duo, we noted who received the most flowers from potential suitors during the Valentine’s Day season — she always won.
We both were and still are, blind, as can be.
After we found body parts and the authorities arrived and confirmed we weren’t hallucinating, we were pushed aside, relegated to watch. Officers from our small beach town radioed each other, the entire force showing up, boredom, the most likely reason. I was trying to get a peek at the findings spread across a cloth on the garage floor. The coroner was reciting body parts, while another person took notes, “one skull, one tibia, one fibula.” The uniforms formed a barrier at the garage opening, blocking what we thought was our right to see. My friends and I crouched down, crawling around to get a better view between the tiny spaces where there weren’t legs in our way. Like teenaged boys thinking something is simultaneously cool and gross, we had a loud reaction witnessing a skull and liquid falling from one of the bags. The coroner banished us to inside the house after that.
I had never been a murder suspect before, much less on the inside of the crime scene tape.
I had never watched neighbors whisper to each other, wondering if we were psychos. Now sequestered in our home, the cops were combing through the bushes, discussing which part of the yard they’d start digging up first, what they’d find.
The exact moment I can delineate between before and after was when my friends and I were upstairs ordering pizza, and dedicated officials were downstairs organizing cadaver parts. This was the moment I seriously considered vegetarianism.
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This really did happen. I worked in an office and missed my 15 minutes of fame, while my roommate worked from home and was hounded by the press. Here is one account of the event.
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash
