The Body Keeper

by Anne Frasier

  Nan thought a moment, then added, I’m also going to advise some financial aid counseling.

  The reply came quickly. Maybe the two of them were more than work friends.

  Surprising outcome! I guess you were right about her, as you almost always are! I’ll read the report right now, sign off on it, and get things moving on getting the child back home. ☺

  Nan replied:

  Thanks! I feel like I might be coming down with the flu that’s going around. I plan to head home and put my phone on DND for the evening. I might even take a day or two off.

  Reply:

  You deserve it! Get some rest and watch some TV for me!

  Aww, sweet girl.

  Cell phones made this kind of deceit so easy.

  Communication over, Nan scrolled through the past year of Jenny’s photos. So boring. There were a lot of pictures of cats. No kids, didn’t look like any boyfriend or husband either. A few taken at restaurants with friends or coworkers, but those were old, dating back to late summer or fall. She either didn’t take many pictures, or she didn’t have a social life. Nan was going to bet no social life.

  She hated to waste a perfectly good phone, but keeping it was stupid. She pulled out the battery, dropped the device to the floor, and smashed it with the heel of her uninjured foot. Glancing out the window, she noted it was starting to snow again. Snow was good.

  She levered herself up off the couch and thumped her way back to the body, dug through the girl’s pockets, and found a set of keys.

  Back in the main house, Nan bundled up in a hooded coat. She wrapped her cast in a black garbage bag and secured it with duct tape. Grabbing a single key that hung on a set of hooks by the door, she made her way outside, leaving the walker at the end of the sidewalk.

  The girl’s white sedan was unlocked. Nan slid behind the wheel, inhaling the new car smell, and headed for the barn. A few more hours, and she probably wouldn’t have been able to get the vehicle through the snow. She hobbled to the sliding barn door and struggled to pull it open, leaning heavily to allow her body weight to do most of the work. Metal wheels on a metal track. Once it got going, the momentum finished the job. With the door open wide now, she drove inside, past the snowmobile, parking in a far corner near the John Deere tractor. She tossed a tarp over the car, securing the corners with bungee cords. When spring came, she’d figure out what to do with it. She might be able to get some money for it once things cooled down.

  She grabbed the supplies she might need, shoving nylon straps under the padded snowmobile seat before gingerly settling on the machine as she stuck the key from the kitchen in the ignition. It took a few tries, but it finally caught. She revved the engine and drove out of the barn, parking next to the addition.

  Inside the house, she ripped down the shower curtain from the bathroom, wadded it up, stuck it in the pocket of her walker, along with the other supplies, then clumped back to the body, all the while cursing the world and her bad luck.

  She rolled the dead woman onto the shower curtain. Bent over, panting, leg aching, she cut off the girl’s clothing with scissors. Like dealing with someone in the ER, it was easier to remove clothes with scissors, especially her bra and underpants. But when she tugged off a nice pair of wool socks, she tossed them aside to save for herself. Everything identifiable went, even the girl’s tiny stud earrings. What were those? Angels? That was sad. Sleeping on the job.

  Once the body was nude, Nan secured the shower curtain with duct tape. She was running low and would have to buy more on the next trip to town. Then, trying to keep most of her weight on her good leg, using the wall to support her, she dragged the body out the back door. The task got a lot easier when she hit snow. Snow was going to be her friend today.

  From under the seat of the snowmobile, she pulled out the nylon ratchet strap, tied one end around the body’s feet and the other to the metal lift bar at the back of the snowmobile, then she straddled the machine again.

  Warmed up, it started quickly this time.

  She wanted to drive like hell, full throttle, but she forced herself to move slowly across several open acres of land. She didn’t want to lose her friend.

  The snow was coming down thick and wet and heavy now, almost like a curtain, evening falling with it. The snowmobile lights bounced off a wall of the white stuff, hindering visibility. Nan leaned forward and squinted, finally spotting her goal—the concrete silage pit. She pulled up beside it, hobbled off, unfastened the nylon strap, and pushed the dead girl over the edge.

  The body hardly made any noise when it hit. That’s how deep the snow was. Just this muffled thump. Later she’d come back with gasoline and matches. In the spring, she’d bury whatever was left. Not ideal, certainly not her first choice since there was a risk of dogs and coyotes carrying off the bones.

  She hobbled back to the machine. Her wrapped walking cast was slick as hell and she lost traction. Her feet went out from under her. She landed on her back, the air knocked out of her, pain ripping through her injured leg. She screamed and clamped a hand over her mouth, stopping the sound halfway, turning it down to a muffled whimper even though it was unlikely anybody would hear her.

  She rolled over and crawled to the snowmobile on her hands and knees, then pulled herself up inch by inch. She didn’t even try to straddle the wide seat. Sitting sidesaddle, she started the engine and drove in the direction of home, each bump a stab of white-hot pain through her leg. Halfway there, she pulled out the gun she’d used to kill Jenny Hill and gave it a heave, tossing it as far as she could into the field. Then she took off again.

  Breathing heavily, almost blinded by pain, she left the machine at the front door.

  Inside the house, she downed prescription medication. Once the opioids kicked in, she returned to the annex and the scene of the crime, collecting the clothing, sticking the jewelry in the pocket attached to her walker, scrubbing the blood away. In the main house, she slowly stuffed the clothing, one item at a time, into the woodstove, appreciating the warmth of the fire.

  CHAPTER 39

  Her cell phone vibrated. Jude grabbed it from the bedside table and glanced at the mattress on the floor, where the boy was sleeping undisturbed. Two days had passed since she’d picked him up from the foster home, but the news wasn’t good. She’d heard that afternoon that he was going to be sent back to Nanette Perkins.

  The call was from Ingrid. A call rather than a text this time of the night meant something serious. Jude answered as she slipped out of bed and walked lightly into the living room, partially closing the bedroom door behind her so the call wouldn’t wake the boy.

  “I hate to get you up,” Ingrid said. “Detective Ashby said to contact you.”

  Uriah was going to have to tell people what was going on soon. They’d start wondering, coming up with their own suspicions, maybe things that were worse than the truth, although the truth was pretty bad and serious even though Uriah downplayed it.

  “I’m on night duty and got a call,” Ingrid said. “A man found frozen to death off Lyndale, between Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Sixth Street.”

  Jude checked her temperature app. Twelve below zero.

  “I’m sitting in my van right now, trying to get warm, but anyway, I thought Homicide might want to take a look. On the surface, it appears a straightforward death-by-exposure by someone severely underdressed for the weather. But there are a few things that made me question an accidental death.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll have some coffee for you.”

  Jude called Elliot. “I’ve got a possible crime scene I need to check out,” she told him. “Can you stay with the boy?”

  He sounded groggy, but said, “Be right up.”

  She was dressed and waiting by the time he arrived two minutes later, barefoot, clutching a pillow to his chest. White T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Slipping into her jacket, Jude whispered, “Sleep in my bed. It’s more comfortable.”

  He nodded. “It�
�s twelve below out there. You know that, right?”

  She zipped her coat to her chin and pulled on a black cap. “Yep.”

  “Call a cab.”

  “Good idea, but I’m taking my car.” She wanted to be in control.

  Heading downstairs, her booted feet already felt the chill seeping through every crack in the building. The inside of the foyer windows were covered in a thick layer of frost, the delicate swirling fern design made even more beautiful by the illumination from the streetlight outside. Jude pulled out her phone and took a picture of it. If she had Instagram, she could post it. Elliot was always trying to talk her into being at least a little active on social media. She tucked her phone away, hurried to the garage, and headed for the address Ingrid had given her.

  It was always easy to spot the white coroner van. Right now its lights were on, engine running. A silhouette—most likely Ingrid’s—in the driver’s seat. A patrol car was also there, the scene in a holding pattern while awaiting input from Homicide.

  Jude parked and slipped into the warm van with Ingrid. The body on the ground, illuminated by the vehicle’s headlights, was covered in snow.

  “Here.” Ingrid passed her a carryout cup with the promised coffee. “I’ve got toe warmers in my boots and finger warmers in my gloves, thermal underwear, insulated snow pants, and a down jacket, and I’m freezing my ass off. And then I see photos of people in Antarctica, and it’s forty below or something insane, and they’re standing there smiling with no hat. And you have to wonder: What the hell?”

  “But it’s a dry cold.” They both laughed, and Jude sipped her coffee. “It makes people think it’s easy. Living somewhere like this.”

  “It wasn’t easy for that guy.” Ingrid pointed. “He wasn’t dressed for the weather. No jacket. No hat or gloves.”

  There were several bars nearby. People were known to get drunk and wander off, unable to find their car, and just freeze to death. It happened. Often it was college students, but not always.

  “Ready?”

  Ingrid checked her phone. “It’s now fifteen below, so I don’t think it’s going to be of any benefit to wait.”

  The officers in the nearby cars joined them outside, one of them giving Jude a quick rundown. “Called in by someone walking her dog. We got here, dusted off the face a little, but it was pretty obvious he was dead. Frozen solid. Just looked like another victim of the weather to me.”

  “I had the same reaction,” Ingrid said. “Classic presentation. Young male, possibly college age. Popular nightspots all over this area. Leaves a bar drunk, gets disoriented, can’t find his car, finally collapses in this dark corner of the alley. But then I looked closer. Check him out and see if you see what I see.”

  Someone handed Jude a flashlight. She stepped closer, crouched, and aimed the beam at the dead man’s face.

  And recognized him.

  CHAPTER 40

  The man who might be Shaun Ford.

  His face was marbled and his lips were blue. His eyes looked like opaque glass. But the area around his mouth was faintly discolored in a suspicious way.

  “Duct tape,” Jude said. Her thoughts raced as she tried to track what had transpired in the time between his visit with her and now. “Good catch.” Without revealing that she’d met him before, she stood and passed the light back to the officer beside her. “Let’s cordon off the area. Get a tent up, along with some heaters.” She wanted to find out where he’d gone after he left the police department less than forty-eight hours ago.

  “Alan Reed.” An officer standing nearby held a set of car keys and a billfold open to reveal a driver’s license. “Oklahoma. No wonder he didn’t know how to dress.”

  “We’ll track down next of kin and get a few people on this,” Jude said. She’d call Uriah and fill him in. “But right now, let’s get inside our vehicles before we end up like him.” She held out her hand to the officer. “The victim’s keys.” To Ingrid Stevenson, she said, “Let me know when he’s ready for autopsy. I want to be there.” Ingrid nodded, and they dispersed.

  Back in her own car, Jude started the engine. The interior was already cold, and the vents blew icy air.

  She drove around the block slowly. And bloody hell, she even lowered her window several inches while pressing the lock button on the key fob the officer had pulled from the dead man’s pocket. When that didn’t generate any results, she broadened her search. A car finally responded with blinking red taillights, and she pulled up behind the vehicle. Leaving her beater running this time, she grabbed her Maglite and got out, unlocking the victim’s car as she approached, frozen snow sounding like breaking glass under her feet.

  Still wearing winter gloves, she carefully opened the door with two fingers, shining her light around the interior. On the floor in front of the passenger seat was a single-slice pizza container. In the cup holder was an empty drink from a gas station. Wadded up on the floor near the brake pedal was a receipt.

  She picked it up, holding it by one corner. Location, date, and time had been recorded with his purchase. The stop had occurred shortly after she’d taken his DNA sample.

  She made a mental note of the location of the business, shut and locked the door, and returned to her car for an evidence container. Inside, she slipped the receipt into the bag and sealed it, then called Forensics to arrange a pickup of the vehicle for analysis.

  CHAPTER 41

  On the way back to her apartment, Jude stopped at the gas station where Alan Reed had gotten food. It was open twenty-four hours, deserted now due to time and weather conditions. Inside, she told the woman at the register she needed the names of the people on duty when Reed had stopped there. The roster was checked. “That’d be Michael or Jolene. They were both here.”

  “I’d like their contact information.”

  The woman wrote down two numbers on a tablet, tore the paper free, and passed it across the counter. Jude thanked her and glanced at the wall clock. A little after four. She’d give it a few hours before disturbing them. Back in her car, heater blasting tepid air, drying out her eyes and face, she sent Uriah a text to see if he was okay. If he was asleep, hopefully it wouldn’t disturb him. If not . . .

  His reply was to call. He sounded terrible, so terrible she made an instant decision to check on him. “I’m going to stop by.”

  “Don’t. It’s ugly over here.”

  “I’m already on my way.” She disconnected and drove.

  “It’s unlocked,” was the reply to Jude’s light rap on Uriah’s apartment door.

  She found him lying on the couch, a blanket over him, empty bucket on the floor, close just in case.

  “Do I look that bad?” he asked weakly. His face was white, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His normally curly hair was flat and lifeless.

  “Yes.”

  He tried to laugh but gave up.

  “What can I get you? Something with ice? Crackers?”

  “I didn’t take my anti-nausea meds, because I was on call and they make me sleepy.” Seeing her expression, he continued, “I finally took them, and they’re kicking in.” He tossed the blanket aside. T-shirt and briefs. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “God no.”

  “Okay.” She glanced around the room. “Yell if you do.”

  “You’ll be the last to know.”

  At least he could still joke.

  While the shower was running, she straightened up, collecting dirty dishes and carrying them to the kitchen. In the refrigerator, she found a bottle of ginger ale. She shook it to get rid of the fizz, then poured half in a glass and added a couple of ice cubes. It would be ready if he wanted it.

  The shower stopped.

  She rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. In a cupboard, she found some reasonably bland food. A box of cereal she showed him when he stepped into the kitchen, dressed in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. “Interested in this?”

  He reached fo
r the box, looked at the image on the front, and passed it back without speaking, sitting down heavily on a chair. His wet hair was soaking into the shoulders of his shirt. She retrieved a clean towel from the bathroom and returned to find him with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, the kind of breathing a person might engage in when trying not to throw up.

  Standing behind him, she carefully placed the towel on his head and gently dried his hair. The shampoo he’d used smelled minty, and she realized it was a scent she unconsciously associated with him. The gentle head massage seemed to relax him a little, and he let out a sigh. “My hair’s falling out.”

  “It’ll grow back.”

  “I keep wondering if I should shave it. Now.”

  “I’d wait. It’s not bad.”

  “Never thought I’d care about my hair, but I do.”

  “You have great hair.”

  He let out a snort.

  “You really do.”

  Once the towel had absorbed as much as it could, she draped it over his shoulders and sat down across from him.

  He took a cautious drink of ginger ale. When that seemed to go down okay, he pointed to the box of saltines on the counter behind her.

  His kitchen was so small she could reach them without getting up. She opened and placed the box on the table near his hand. As he nibbled on a cracker, his color improved, so much that he picked up the ginger ale and box and walked slowly to the living room, Jude following as he lowered himself to the couch, cautiously, as if lying down on a bed of glass shards.

  “Would music help?” she asked. She loved how his apartment, with the dark lamps and floor-to-ceiling books and records, was a sanctuary. It felt peaceful and safe.

  “Maybe something soft.” He closed his eyes. “Turned down low.”