The Antibiography of Ian Mcnulty

By John Macgregor

This book is not for the prudish. It portrays graphic scenes of sex and murder.

The Antibiography of Ian McNulty revolves around a playboy pathologist who has it allmoney, social status, beautiful women, and rich friends to party with. Secretly, he imagines himself an assassin, but in reality, the only person he kills is himself by turning inwardly into the living dead. His resurrection begins when he meets Rebecca who introduces him to a few shades of gray and to a joie de vivre he never knew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499070637

John Macgregor

After Propinquity, John Macgregor wrote the treatments (pre-scripts) for the Australian movie Shine; was deported from East Timor at gunpoint while reporting on human rights abuses by the Indonesians; interviewed three prime ministers for the major dailies; won Australia's investigative journalism award for exposing an FBI scandal; and reported from Burma on slave labour under the generals for the New York Times. John Macgregor was raised in Melbourne, and attended Geelong Grammar School. After school he worked as a jackaroo (cowboy) and a truck driver. In 1986, Macgregor entered Propinquity in the manuscript section of the Adelaide Festival's Biennial Award for Literature, which it won. In addition to $15,000 in prize money, the award mandated publication by Wakefield Press - which was then owned by the South Australian Government. Propinquity was published to very positive reviews - especially for a first novel. But as it was being released the Press was sold to The Adelaide Review, which had no book-publishing experience. Propinquity sat in the warehouse for many months, and missed the sales bandwagon. A year later Macgregor purchased the rights. After Propinquity, John Macgregor wrote the treatments for the Australian movie Shine, which was nominated for seven Academy Awards. He also did much research for the movie. In 1989 he worked as a political advisor to Senator Janine Haines, federal leader of the Australian Democrats. Macgregor reported for The Australian on military intimidation of the East Timorese population, on the anniversary of the Dili Massacre in 1995, and was deported by the Indonesian occupiers. In the 1980s and 1990s he interviewed Australian Prime Ministers Hawke, Keating and Howard in syndicated profiles with the Age, Sydney Morning Herald and other papers. In 2001 he wrote a series of articles in the Age and Sydney Morning Herald on the framing of former Florida politician Joe Gersten, by the FBI and Australia's Federal Police. The stories helped secure Gersten Australian citizenship - and Macgregor the 2002 George Munster Award, Australia's prize for investigative journalism. Macgregor went to live in Southeast Asia in 2004. In 2005 his story and photos on slave labour in Burma were published on the front page of the International Herald Tribune (the foreign edition of the New York Times). He wrote and edited for the BBC World Service Trust also taught as a v...

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A Puff of Smoke

The rusted white Chevy bounced over Texas-sized potholes as it carried us down the dirt road toward the train terminal. As we approached the dispatcher’s building, I looked at the tracks alongside the Trinity River. Three boxcars were lined up where the man said they’d be. Just then I caught the driver looking at me. I nodded toward the boxcars.

Yeah, our home away from home for the next couple o’ days, he said.

He shifted the matchstick in his mouth and grinned a toothless smile. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week.

Where do they get these scumbags from? I asked myself.

The scumbag pointed to a lifeless old tree next to a wooden fence. There it is, he said. That’s where you’ll take your position, next to the fence behind that grassy knoll.

He stomped on the brakes and slid us to a screeching halt. A cloud of dust flew up in our wake.

Hey, watch it, I said. Do you want the whole goddamn world to know we’re here?

Aw, keep your shirt on. Nobody’s looking at us. They’re all watching the parade.

I got out and reached into the backseat for three packages wrapped with newspapers and string. I slipped the two longer ones under my crumpled overcoat and wedged their tips inside my cowboy boot. Then I placed the smaller package in my coat pocket.

As I closed the door, the driver leaned over to the passenger window. Happy huntin’, he said.

I stared him in the eyes. He stopped grinning, threw the car in first gear, and sped off, blowing up another cloud of dust.

Amateurs, I said to myself. They’ve got me working with fuckin’ amateurs.

I walked over to the fence and took up my post beside the old hackberry tree. I could hear the parade drawing closer and knew I wouldn’t have long to wait.

The man even had the timing right, I said to myself.

I watched as the motorcade slowed for the tight turn off Houston Street onto Elm and as the big black limousine started to pass directly in front of the Texas Book Depository, just as the man said it would.

This was my first signal. I had to hurry now. I pulled my red Swiss Army knife from my pocket and slit the string from the two larger packages. I stripped away the newspaper, uncovering the gun barrel and wooden stock. As I worked, I crouched behind the tree and fence so no one could see me. Now I pulled the package from my coat pocket, unwrapped it, and lifted out the rifle scope. First I mounted the rifle barrel on the stock. Then I fastened the scope. All the while, I was counting, One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. When I’d reach thirty Mississippi, I’d receive my second signal.

I cocked the bolt to feed a thirty-ought-six cartridge into the chamber. Then I lifted the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the scope.

For a split second, I could see the president clearly, but suddenly a large traffic sign blocked my view. In a moment, I had him in my sights again. I lined up the crosshairs on his right temple. Then I waited for my signal. It came in the form of a rifle-shot directly behind the motorcade. I placed my finger on the trigger and squeezed … but it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, my vision got blurry. I tried to realign my sights on the president, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. Then my mind got as foggy as my vision. What was wrong with me? Was I drugged? I was determined to fire a shot anyway. The president was close enough to me now that—despite my blurriness—I couldn’t miss. I squeezed the trigger again, but it still wouldn’t budge. Just then, I heard a second shot ring out behind the motorcade. My vision cleared enough for me to see the president through my scope as he clutched at his throat with both hands. I knew that his car would soon be speeding away from Dealey Plaza, and I’d miss my shot if I didn’t fire now. I squeezed the trigger once more but still couldn’t move it. At that instant, I heard the explosion of gunfire. It sounded right on top of me. I saw the muzzle flashing and smelled gunpowder burning as a puff of smoke billowed away from me. Through my scope, I saw the president’s head snapping back and his right temple bursting open in a gush of brains and blood.

What the hell happened? I asked myself. The trigger wouldn’t budge, so how could I have shot the president?

At first, people began screaming and diving for cover. In a few moments, however, a few of them sprang to their feet. They turned and looked in my direction. They began shouting and pointing at me. A uniformed policeman came running toward me. That’s when my vision went totally black.

The next thing I knew, I was standing among the crowd directly behind the policeman. My sight was returning. I watched and listened as a heavyset, middle-aged blonde woman described me to the cop.

He was about six-foot-one, she was saying.

Did you get a look at his face?

Oh yes. The first thing I noticed was how fair-complexioned he was. His skin was so white and his eyes sky blue.

What color was his hair?

Dark red and wavy but receding.

How old would you say he was?

Early to midforties.

And what did he weigh?

I’d guess about 180 pounds.

Did you see what he was wearing?

Yes, he was dressed in a crumpled tan overcoat, but it was very lightweight, almost like a lab coat.

How was he built?

Very muscular. He had wide shoulders and a broad chest. He looked like he could’ve been a football player … not a lineman but a running back.

Where was he when you first saw him?

He was over by that grassy knoll, standing behind the wooden fence next to that old tree. I heard a gunshot, which made me look in his direction. That’s when I saw a puff of smoke coming from behind the tree.

Could you identify him if you saw him again? the cop asked. I mean, could you pick him out of a lineup?

I can do better than that, the woman said. I can show him to you. He’s standing right behind you.

She pointed straight at me.

The policeman turned and looked at me, then turned back to the blonde woman.

I don’t understand, ma’am. The suspect you described was in his forties. That’s a ten-year-old boy you’re pointing at.

I’m telling you, officer, that’s him.

No, no, I didn’t do it, I said. The trigger wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t have shot the president.

Come here, son. I want a word with you, the policeman said. Now where’d the little bugger go? Did anybody see where he went?

There he is, officer, the woman said, pointing at me again. This is who you’re looking for.

She led the policeman straight to me.

Thank you, ma’am, he said. You’ve been a big help.

As the woman walked away, the policeman turned toward me, smiled, and extended his hand.

*     *     *

I’m Detective Farley of the NOPD on special assignment with the Orleans Parish Coroner’s Office, he said. I’m here to do a background check on you, Dr. McNulty, for your biennial reappointment as assistant coroner.

I almost fell out of my chair when the policeman approached me. My heart still pounding, I shook his hand.

Did I startle you, Doc?

I’m afraid so, Officer Farley. You caught me daydreaming. I wasn’t expecting a policeman walking into my office.

"I’m sorry I frightened you, Doc. By the way, it’s Detective Farley."

Oh, sorry. When Detective Willis would come by for these background checks, he’d always wear street clothes.

My promotion to detective won’t be official until the mayor works out his budget problems with the city council. Until then, I’ve got to wear my patrolman’s blues.

Say, you look familiar, I said. Didn’t we meet at Detective Willis’s retirement party?

Yes, we did. By the way, he passed away a couple of nights ago. It hasn’t made the papers yet, so maybe you haven’t heard.

No, I didn’t. What happened?

Heart attack. Just two months after retiring too.

Every time I saw him, he spoke about how much he was looking forward to retiring and finally having some time to himself. What a shame. He was such a nice man.

It just goes to show that you can’t put off living till tomorrow. And you’re right. He was a nice man. I never met anyone who didn’t like him. Well, Doc, I know you’re busy, so why don’t we get down to business. I know you’re familiar with the procedure, but I still need to ask you some questions. First, you understand that I’m here to do a security check on you to renew your appointment as assistant coroner for Orleans Parish?

I understand.

And do I have your permission to ask you whatever questions might be pertinent to such a security check?

You have my permission.

And are you willing to sign an affidavit at the end of this interview attesting that all of your answers are true and correct to the best of your knowledge?

I am.

First, would you state your full name for the record?

Ian James McNulty, MD

Would you review your medical background for me, please? I know we have it on file, but I make it a practice to double-check details when I take over a new job.

I graduated from LSU Medical School and was licensed to practice medicine in Louisiana in June 1977. I did a one-year internship and a three-year pathology residency at Charity Hospital in New Orleans. Following that, I completed a two-year forensic pathology fellowship cosponsored by the LSU Department of Pathology and the Orleans Parish Coroner’s Office. In 1983, I was appointed as assistant coroner for Orleans Parish and have been reappointed every two years. In 1985, I joined the staff of St. Luke’s Hospital in north New Orleans. In 1987, I became chief pathologist at St. Luke’s and have held that position to the present. My duties include supervising the clinical laboratory and blood bank, serving as consultant to other staff physicians, and performing autopsies.

What are your duties as assistant coroner? Being new to my job, I’m discovering that people in the coroner’s office have a wide range of responsibilities and maybe you do too.

My only duty now is performing autopsies on coroner’s cases at St. Luke’s Hospital: deaths from murders, accidents, and suspicious circumstances. When I was first appointed, I used to be on call for such cases all over the city, but I got off that rotation. I have enough to keep me busy here at St. Luke’s.

Doc, I’m also supposed to ask if you’ve been convicted of any crimes in the past two years: felonies, driving while intoxicated, possession of illegal drugs, that sort of thing. I also need to know if you’ve been treated for substance abuse or if you have any physical or mental impairments, which might prohibit you from performing your duties as assistant coroner.

No, none of that.

Has your license to practice medicine ever been suspended, revoked, or voluntarily surrendered? The same question would apply to your clinical privileges at any hospital where you’ve been on staff.

No, my record’s clean.

That’s all the questions I have for you, Doc. If you’ll just read and sign the affidavit, I’ll be on my way. Oh, I almost forgot, the patrolmen’s association is talking about sponsoring a golf tournament to benefit Detective Willis’s widow and two sons. If you’re interested, I’ll put your name on the mailing list. I heard you’re a pretty good golfer.

Oh, I’m a hacker like everybody else. I play once or twice a week, but I’d tee it up every day if I could. Count me in if PANO goes ahead with the tournament.

Great. By the way, I think you’ll enjoy the course. Commandant Philpott thinks he can get us on English Turn.

That’d be wonderful. I love English Turn. In the meantime, I hope the mayor and the city council work out their differences on the budget so your promotion becomes official soon.

Thanks, Doc. I’ll be seeing you.

After the detective left, I grabbed my putter from the corner and practiced rolling a few balls along the carpet. Soon, I found myself going over in my mind the last tournament I had played in.

I had made it to the finals of Eastover’s match-play championship and was playing in the second flight.

My opponent was Stan Wyznusky. He had been champion of the second flight for the past two years. Stan was 5'10 tall and weighed 220 pounds. An ex-linebacker for McNeese State, he had a flat belly and bulging muscles. He must’ve had a lot of Mediterranean blood in him too because he was very dark and hairy. He sported a full head of shiny black hair slicked back with oil. Whenever Stan played golf, he chomped on a cigar. Every time he’d hit a good shot, he’d blow smoke in his opponent’s face and say, Beat that, sister." Stan would also contract curious ailments on the course. His afflictions would cause him to choke suddenly on his own saliva and have to clear his throat or cough during his competitor’s backswing, become momentarily palsied and drop his club or ball when his opponent was putting, or suffer temporary amnesia and forget how many strokes he had taken on a hole.

Stan showed up for our match wearing a black polo shirt and pink slacks embossed with purple leopards. Draped around his neck was a gold rope chain with a miniature anchor dangling from it. A diamond-studded ring and gold Rolex rounded out his ensemble.

As reigning champion, Stan had the honor of teeing off first. He warmed up by holding his driver like a barbell in front of him and flexing it toward him. Mounds of muscles bulged from his biceps, which looked as thick as most men’s thighs.

Interesting warm-up, I said.

Oh yeah? Well, watch this, sister, he said.

He stepped up to his ball and hit a 250-yarder down the middle.

Beat that—, he started to say.

I’ve heard it before, Stan, I said, holding up my hand to block his puff of smoke.

Now it was my turn on the tee. I concentrated on a slow, smooth backswing and cracked one of my best drives 235 yards down the fairway.

Lucky shot, said Stan.

My approach shot was short, hitting the front of the green and backing onto the fringe. Stan, meanwhile, knocked his ball a couple of yardsticks past the pin.

1-up on the first hole! I’m going to whip your sweet ass, Sarah, Stan said.

We haven’t finished the hole yet, Stan, I said.

My ball was resting against the collar of the green. I had to stroke the clubhead hard to get it through the grass. The ball rolled six feet past the cup, stopping just short of Stan’s.

Stan laughed at me. Then he swaggered to his ball, addressed it, and stroked his birdie putt. The ball rimmed the edge of the hole and horseshoed back at him.

Damn, he said as he tapped in the six-incher. The greens are lightning fast today. You’d better hit it easy or you’ll roll ten feet past the cup.

Are you giving me advice on the course, Stan? There’s a two-stroke penalty for that, you know.

Say what? Goddamn! I wasn’t giving you advice. I swear!

Well, I guess I’ll let it pass this time, but you’d better not do it again.

I banged my ball into the cup, putting us square for the first hole.

Stan’s dark brown face glowed beet red. As he stomped off the green to his cart, he heaved his cigar into the lake.

For the next twelve holes, we played to a draw. Finally on the fourteenth, Stan hooked his ball into a pond. I made par and won the hole. I was now 1-up in our match.

Goddamn morphodyke sonafabitch! Stan said, hurling his putter at his golf cart.

On the par-3 15th, we both hit the green with our tee shots. My ball landed far from the cup while Stan’s rolled close to the hole. Stan lit a new cigar, chomped down on it, and bared his teeth to me like a wolf challenging his rival to a fight. I tried to look as expressionless as possible. Then I gave my putt a solid stroke and sank it for a birdie. His hands trembling, Stan barely reached the cup with his putt. His ball teetered on the edge of the hole but didn’t drop. When stomping the ground with his feet failed to make the ball fall, he rapped it in with his putter. I was now 2-up in our match. You’re killin’ me! You’re killin’ me! Stan said.

Suddenly, I felt foggy-headed. My vision got blurry too. Altogether, I felt like I was in a trance, out of touch with my mind and body.

When I stepped up to the sixteenth tee, I felt as though I were playing golf for the first time. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

I stepped back and tried to refocus. But I couldn’t. Dazed, I addressed the ball and swung as hard as I could. The clubhead slipped beneath the ball, popping it up almost straight into