Ilse Sonnerlund, MD
Heinlein got home and drank. And drank some more. Soon a fifth of Cutty Sark had vanished and he was snoring on the couch. He dreamt of his mother.
He got up in bad shape. Hangovers for guys in their early fifties take a lot more effort to undo than the college-years variety. His head felt like a huge rotten marshmallow, and he was bumping into furniture everywhere he shuffled in his house, like his feet were big fat lead weights. Making coffee was a tactile chore – and entailed a few spills – but he finally got a few cups of the black elixir inside of him. Aspirins – three at once – kicked in before long.
Finally, the clouds parted. He was scheduled to start late at Warren PD and pushed it forward another hour. His Chief was good about things like that – provided Heinlein made up the time later.
Dreaming about his mother made him think about going to church – just to light a candle in her memory. It’s an Orthodox thing. Soon he was heading to St. Michaels Orthodox Church in Flemington, NJ – twenty-six miles down US Rt. 202 and US Rt. 206 – just to light a three-dollar candle.
St. Michaels used to be known as Saint Michaels Russian Orthodox Church until recent waves of Russo-phobic hysteria started to choke the US media. Everything broadcasted was Russia Bad! Ukraine Good! People who couldn’t find Ukraine on a map or an AI platform were suddenly parroting alarmist drivel like “Communists are coming for our Democracy!” Of course, the Russian Federation hadn’t been Communist in decades – but American boobs weren’t interested in details like that. Everything bad was attributed to “Russia! Russia! Russia!”
The USA was transforming itself into a luddite-saturated, pigmy-IQ filled, mediocre barnyard of Fox and CNN “News” addicted sheep. People who gorge themselves on soundbites and react impulsively, without thinking. People who dry-hump their iPhones and sleepwalk through life in a brain fog of government-sanctioned narratives. “X”, TikTok and Facebook are their soothsayers. And the Bullshit never lets up.
No, Israel isn’t engaged in a Genocide in Gaza….America isn’t angling for war with Iran – or bankrolling Ukraine in a broader effort to regime-change Russia. Zelinsky is Winston Churchill reincarnated. Iran wants nuclear war. Go ahead – swallow more Kool Aide. Don’t question the lies. Don’t dare tally how much money AIPAC Zionists throw at your political candidates – or President. Jeffrey Epstein? Who’s he? Israel got the goods on Trump? What are you – some kind of Conspiracy Theory nut case? Some kind of Antisemite?
Heinlein’s analysis of America’s future was stark: the United States of America is coming apart at its seams. Truth – real Truth – is bleeding out and dying.
And Zionists in Tel Aviv are now calling the shots.
But the Detective wasn’t being completely honest with himself today. Down the block from Saint Michaels Orthodox Church in Flemington was the second-best reason he was making this road trip to Flemington, NJ.
Flemington Medical Trauma Center. Isle Sonnerlund, MD, Director and Chief Medical Officer.
Heinlein’s girlfriend.
After spending some time inside the exquisite architecture and atmosphere of Saint Michaels’ Orthodox Church – smelling the residual incense, becoming slowly mesmerized by thousands of flickering candles reflecting against a magnificent colorful iconostas – Heinlein felt reborn. He prayed staring up at an icon of the Blessed Virgin for the soul of his mother, Olga. Sometimes he didn’t quite visualize the Virgin Mary’s face – he saw his mothers’ instead…it was his mind’s eye. He just couldn’t help it.
He watched the Orthodox priest in his weighty, gold-embroidered vestments resolutely preparing for the Liturgy that was to take place soon and marveled at the ease with which he accomplished his ceremonial tasks while quietly and simultaneously reciting lengthy passages of scripture from the Gospel of St. John Chrysostom from memory.
The traditional majesty of Orthodoxy appealed to Heinlein; its complexity was somehow reassuring – as if it’s answers to the mysteries of life were crafted by the Divine One’s own hands. It wasn’t an easy Faith. Nobody slept their way through an Orthodox Liturgy. It required you to take an active, engaged part. There were involved rituals. Rules about how to conduct yourself in the church – both before and after the “Doors” of the Iconostas were open to celebrate the Host (“The doors, the doors of wisdom let us attend…”) Women were expected to cover their heads. The songs were ancient, complex and atonal. Their choirs were awe-inspiring. The Priests conducted themselves with somber dignity. A Russian Orthodox Liturgy was hard work. But it annealed your spirit. Your mettle became indominable.
Orthodoxy fed Heinlein’s soul with hope and purpose. Together with his life and her love, the Russian Orthodox Faith was his mother’s greatest gift to him.
Heinlein spent about a half-hour in prayer, then lit his candle and left. He walked briskly up the block to Flemington Medical Trauma Center. Upon entering he flashed the guard on duty his gold Detective’s Shield and kept walking. He strode past the treatment rooms to the office and conference theatre wing like he owned the joint. He was scoping out Ilse’s usual haunts -meandering around the hospital, hoping to find Doctor Sonnerlund and surprise her.
Sure enough, he soon saw her down a hall, leaning against a wall and chewing out an Intern who looked like he was going to piss himself. Her view from the back was as delicious as it was from the front. Having just come from church, he was a bit embarrassed to hear himself muttering under his breath, “What a great ass…”
She turned suddenly and caught him coming up fast. Her face beamed with an impish – as the Brits would say – Cheek.
“Hey, Heinie” she said, smiling from ear to ear.
“How’s it Hangin?… Uh-oh…from the looks of ya’ the answer is: limp and lean…”
She always called him Heinie. He always called her Swede.
“You look like you been shot at and missed, shit at and hit….”
Ilse reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Come here, Heine. I got what you need….” she said.
Heinlein wasn’t about to argue as she led him to her office. They’d had many a romantic interlude there on a couch that was seriously in need of new upholstery. “Director and Chief Medical Officer Sonnerlund” had a replacement couch on order…and the randy couple planned on wearing that one out, too.
“Swede, whatever you got I can use it… I need your rescue and medical magic…” Heinlein said – hinting at more than he let on.
They could talk about his increasingly far-fetched investigation later… Heinlein needed help from a particular person she was acquainted with. But no use rushing things. Some tension-relief was just what the doctor ordered. After all – driving twenty-six miles one way to see Swede always got him a bit worked up.
First things first……
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