Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  “Yes.”

  “You always work so late?”

  Sally shrugged. “I get the guests ready for the day’s services. I like to work when it’s quiet.”

  “Guests?”

  “The dead.”

  “Oh.”

  Sally lifted her gaze and took in the husky man with the unusual streak of white in his hair. His villainous wardrobe and smeared ebony eyeliner didn’t suit him at all. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile.

  “You don’t look like a cop.”

  The detective grinned back.

  “I moonlight in a band. We were playing tonight.” He indicated the fire door behind him. “In there.”

  “What are you called?”

  “The Rotten Johnnys.”

  Sally laughed. “Are you that bad?”

  “Yeah.” The detective grinned wider. “Actually, we try not to be. We took our name from the Sex Pistols as we do a lot of covers of their stuff. But we also throw in some other cool bands: a little Clash, if we’re feeling ambitious; dash of The Monks; Electric Chairs; Dead Kennedys; Ramones; Boomtown Rats; Joe Jackson… whatever gets people boppin’. We’re also trying out some angry Celtic stuff that I really enjoy: Flogging Molly, The Pogues, that kinda thing.”

  The fire door opened and Johnny appeared with two bottles of water. When he handed them over, his eyes went wide as he caught sight of the broken and bloodied woman lying alone in the middle of the alley.

  “Jesus Christ, Skunk! Is she dead?”

  “Hit and run. I told you.”

  “You didn’t say she was fucking dead. Why aren’t you doing anything?”

  “I called it in. There’s a unit on the way.”

  Johnny sputtered. “B-b-but she’s dead and you’re chatting up a groupie like there’s nothing—”

  The detective jumped to his feet and shoved Johnny against the metal door. “She’s not a groupie. She works across the alley in the funeral home. She’s a witness.”

  “Okay, okay, take it easy, shit.” Johnny scrunched up his face as if he was about to be sick. “I’m going back inside.”

  Johnny slammed the door behind him, and the detective returned to his crate.

  “Sorry about that, Miss, err…”

  “Wilson,” said Sally. “Sally Wilson.”

  The detective offered his hand. “Jersey Castle.”

  Sally took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. His grip was firm and dry without being so loose as to be insulting or too strong to be intimidating. In fact, Sally thought, it was just right.

  5

  Two patrol cars, an ambulance and a fire truck arrived simultaneously, followed within minutes by an ugly brown Ford with twin dented front fenders and a long, paint-blistering scratch running horizontally across the driver’s side.

  Jersey cringed when he saw the Ford and absently began tucking his ripped T-shirt into his leather pants. The rapid movement made the chain bandoleer that crossed his chest jangle noisily. He quickly pulled it over his head and tossed it out of sight behind one of the wooden crates.

  When Lieutenant Noel Morrell stepped out of the Ford and stopped to stroke his impressive ginger moustache, everybody stopped breathing. Despite the lateness of the hour, the lanky lieutenant looked as though he had stepped fresh out of the Hugo Boss catalogue—all sharp lines and aggressive stance. With shined shoes and pleated slacks, Morrell took a few moments to process the scene before striding forward at a brisk and measured pace.

  The other officers on the scene didn’t start breathing again until after he strode past. When he stopped in front of Jersey, the detective reluctantly lowered his eyes in supplication.

  “What in tarnation are you wearing, Detective Castle?”

  “I’m off-duty, sir.”

  “Is that what I asked?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So answer the damn question.”

  “It’s my stage costume.”

  “Costume?”

  Jersey shrugged.

  “Are you a closet fairy, Detective Castle? Do you enjoy being chained and whipped by degenerates?”

  “I play drums in a punk band, sir, but I don’t believe you’re allowed to question my sexuality, whatever it may be.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. I recall the memo.”

  “Quite.” Clearing his throat as though to dislodge something distasteful, Lieutenant Morrell turned his attention to the dead woman’s mangled body in the middle of the alley. He wrinkled his nose. “So what do we have here?”

  “Hit and run.”

  “You saw the vehicle?”

  Jersey squirmed. “Just the tail end as it turned the corner. Four door, American made. Possibly a Dodge.”

  “Registration?”

  Jersey glanced at the club’s rear entrance, searching for the telltale sign of a close-circuit security camera. Something he should have paying attention to instead of… becoming distracted.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I—”

  Sally stepped between the two men and handed Jersey a piece of crumpled paper.

  “This might be the license plate you’re looking for,” she said.

  “You saw it?” Jersey asked.

  Sally nodded, her eyes looking away.

  “But you came out after—”

  “Well,” Morrell snapped. “Is this the registration or not?”

  “I believe it is,” said Sally cautiously. “It took me a moment to remember. Detective Castle was very patient.”

  Morrell snorted. “Hmmm, well, good.” He turned to the closest uniformed officer. “Get a BOLO alert out to all patrols on this number immediately.”

  Morrell turned to Jersey and stroked his moustache again. “Good work, detective. Just don’t let this punk business interfere with your caseload.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll be watching.”

  Morrell spun on his heels with such precision he could put a Marine Corp drill sergeant to shame, and marched back to his car. As he started the engine to back out of the alley the other officers held their breath again.

  A sudden squeal of brake and crunch of metal made everyone cringe as a large trashcan was sent flying off to one side. Morrell reacted by stepping harder on the gas and quickly backing the rest of the way out of the alley.

  “Amazing,” said one of the uniformed officers after Morrell’s car had vanished from sight. “He only hit one can.”

  The other officers laughed, including Jersey.

  Sally looked at him quizzically.

  “He’s the worst driver you’ve ever seen,” Jersey explained. “No peripheral awareness. His car has been under the hammer more times than I’ve been out of tune. When he’s driving, fire hydrants get so scared, they leak.”

  Sally’s eyes sparkled in amusement. “He’s keeping strange hours for a senior officer.”

  “His daughter is about to give birth and has moved back home,” explained Jersey. “He’s feeling useless there, so he’s driving everyone crazy out here instead. The other night he decided to inspect a stakeout that Vice was running and nearly blew the whole operation.”

  Jersey turned as he caught sight of the Emergency Medical Technicians moving toward the body with a stretcher. He rushed forward and held up his hands.

  “We’re treating this as a potential homicide,” Jersey said. “We need photos and a full work-up before transport. Sorry, guys.”

  The EMTs looked disappointed as they retreated to their ambulance and sat on the rear bumper to wait for the coroner and a forensics crew to arrive.

  Jersey turned back around to ask Sally how she had managed to see the car’s plate number, but she was gone.

  6

  Closing the fire exit behind her, Sally fastened all three deadbolts and sank to the floor. Cold radiated from the shallow concrete landing as she wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed.

  What the hell was she thinking? How could that possibly be the correct licens
e plate? The cops would be furious at her for wasting their time, but it had seemed so real…

  All she had done was touch the woman, and she had… what? Relived the last thing the woman experienced before she died.

  That didn’t make any sense. Sally had been working with the dead for years and apart from… Sally hesitated, remembering. When she had touched her dead mother all those years ago, she had still been warm, her life just ended. But Sally hadn’t left her own body and witnessed her mother’s death. Instead, her mother delivered a warning. She told Sally to run.

  And I’ve been running ever since.

  Maybe she’d inhaled too many fumes, Sally thought as she glanced across the room at the ancient exhaust fan sputtering in the far corner. That could explain everything.

  Feeling better with that explanation, Sally rose to her feet, shook off the chill, and returned to Mr. Lombardo. The poor man had been left alone with nothing but a plastic diaper to protect his dignity.

  The detergent from the sponge had evaporated, leaving odd-looking green chicken scratch on his stomach. Sally rinsed the sponge in warm water and gave the body a quick wipe to remove the marks.

  After drying him, Sally peeled away the thin plastic dry-cleaner wrap from around the fresh suit his widow had delivered and began the process of dressing him. As she feared, she had to slice the suit jacket down the back and stitch it together with safety pins to get just the right fit. But once she was done, Mr. Lombardo looked like a successful businessman who had fallen asleep on a stainless steel tray.

  The only exception, as is the case she found with most men, was his hands. Those could have belonged to a potato farmer.

  Sally stretched a kink out of her neck and glanced at the clock before picking up nail clippers and an emery board to make Mr. Lombardo’s hands match the rest of the presentation.

  She was just adding a final touch of metal polish to his gold wedding band—something his widow insisted be buried with him—when there was a firm knock on the rear door and a man’s voice called out her name.

  7

  Detective Jersey Castle stood in the alley and knocked on the door once more.

  “Yes?”

  Sally’s voice: firm yet tentative; soft but not defensive. A voice, Jersey thought, one could fall asleep to and still be thrilled to hear upon awakening. Seriously? he chided himself, you just met the girl. Snap out of it, man.

  “It’s Jersey.” He made his voice firm and deep. Strong. Not soppy at all. “The Medical Examiner has removed the body, and I just have a few final questions.”

  “Hold on.”

  When he heard the locks being turned, Jersey felt a joyfulness stir in his soul that he hadn’t experienced in far too long. Never married nor engaged, Jersey had contentedly lived his life, never contemplating loneliness until this exact moment as he waited in anticipation of the green-eyed woman behind the locked metal door.

  When the door swung open, Jersey wiped the excited grin off his face and replaced it with a serious, and what he hoped was a manly, for handsome was probably a stretch, expression.

  Sally held the door and looked up at him. She appeared worried.

  “It’s okay,” Jersey blurted in an attempt to put her at ease. “It’s just routine.”

  “Do you want to come in?” Sally asked.

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  Jersey winced at his own enthusiasm as he stepped through the door and followed her down concrete steps to the chilled basement below.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Jersey took in his surroundings: plain off-white walls, unimaginative linoleum floor in a speckled black-and-white gravel pattern, gleaming stainless steel fixtures, two large walk-in refrigerators at the far end, and an elderly corpse in a smart-fitting herringbone suit.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  Sally burst out laughing and it was so infectious Jersey couldn’t help but join in.

  “Sorry,” Jersey said as the laughter died down. “I guess that was lame.”

  “Not to worry.” Sally walked over and lightly touched his arm. “For an inner-city mortuary, it does have its charms.”

  Sally moved past him and grabbed the occupied gurney.

  “Can you get the door?” she asked. “The cooler on the right.”

  Jersey crossed to the giant refrigerator and pulled open the heavy steel door, which allowed Sally to wheel the gurney inside. Once the body was parked, Sally covered its head and upper body in a light cheesecloth veil to protect against dust or other contaminants wrecking her work. When she was done, she closed the door.

  “So,” Sally moved to pack up her supplies, turning her back to him, “what questions did you have?”

  Jersey cleared his throat and fumbled open a small fake-leather notebook.

  “Just the one really,” he said. “How did you see the vehicle’s plate?”

  SALLY DIDN’T KNOW how to answer.

  The truth seemed ridiculous: she had noticed the car’s registration while watching the hit and run through the victim’s own eyes.

  It was the one part of her experience that really bothered her. All the rest, the woman’s legs being broken, her neck hitting the windshield… it didn’t take a detective to piece together what must have happened. The state of her body told that story. It would have ignited anyone’s imagination.

  But how did she explain the license plate and the two faces she glimpsed through the windshield?

  “Ms. Wilson?” Jersey’s face radiated concern.

  “Sorry.” Sally smiled. “I drifted off for a second.”

  “You look worried. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

  “It can be a shock,” said Jersey, “seeing a thing like that. It hits me, too, sometimes. I’ll be working a case, wading through bodies, thinking I’m invulnerable to it all, and then, wham, I need to sleep for about twenty hours just to get things back in perspective.”

  “My guests are easier,” Sally said. “More at peace than yours.”

  Jersey grinned. “I’ve never thought of my cases as having guests, but maybe I should start.” His eyes reflected a gentle warmth and Sally felt something inside her stir. “Then maybe their faces wouldn’t stay with me so long.”

  Sally reached out and stroked his arm again, her fingers becoming hooked in a rip in the sleeve of his ratty T-shirt.

  “How did you get that hair?” Sally asked. “The white streak.”

  Jersey blushed. “Natural curse, I guess. My grandfather had it, which never endeared me to my father as he hated the son of a bitch.”

  Sally laughed, but quickly covered her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “No, don’t be,” said Jersey. “I can be a son of a bitch, too, if the mood strikes.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Jersey smiled wider. “You might be surprised.”

  “I think I’d like that,” said Sally.

  “Like what?”

  Sally grinned playfully. “To be surprised.”

  Jersey blushed again.

  “Why Ms. Wilson,” he said in a weak attempt to sound like Rhett Butler, “are you hitting on me?”

  Sally feigned indifference. “Would you like me to?”

  “With all my heart.”

  Jersey’s sincerity was so unexpectedly earnest, Sally felt her own cheeks grow warm.

  The awkward silence that followed was broken when Jersey’s cellphone burred.

  “Sorry.” He answered the phone. When he hung up, he said, “They’ve found the vehicle and need me on scene.”

  “Good news?”

  Jersey shrugged. “Didn’t sound like it.”

  “Pity,” said Sally. “Your work day is just beginning, while mine, thankfully, is at an end.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  Sally laughed and punched his arm. “I wasn’t.”

  Jersey crossed to the steps leading up to the rear door.

  “Lock up behind me, will ya? It�
�s a crazy world out there.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Sally followed him to the door.

  Jersey stepped into the alley, but before taking off he did something completely out of character—he turned and kissed Sally on the lips.

  Sally was startled, but secretly pleased.

  “Just in case.” Jersey headed down the alley and disappeared from view.

  Back in the mortuary, Sally bustled to pack up the rest of her supplies and finish cleaning the equipment and tables.

  It had been too long since she had found a man who wasn’t either completely freaked out about her occupation or had a morbidly disturbing fascination with it. Jersey hadn’t seemed to give it much thought either way. He had been more interested in her than with what she did to pay the bills.

  The discovery of the hit-and-run vehicle was also good news. If they had found the car maybe Jersey wouldn’t realize that she never told him how she saw the vehicle’s plate.

  8

  When Jersey arrived at the scene of the suspect vehicle, discovered in an alley less than eight blocks from the nightclub, he covered his ripped T-shirt with a navy blue windbreaker that he kept stashed in his trunk.

  The word POLICE emblazoned on the back of the nylon jacket in large, glowing white letters reflected any available light. The jackets were great for rainy night traffic stops but, as Jersey liked to joke, not recommended for undercover work.

  There was nothing he could do about the leather pants and tattered biker boots, but at least the windbreaker made him look slightly less like an overweight thug with a leather fetish.

  “Nice pants,” said the uniformed officer manning the barricade at the mouth of the alley. “Vice got you cruising gay clubs?”

  “Just your wife’s bingo hall,” Jersey fired back.

  The officer laughed. “In those pants, she’d eat you alive and spit out the zipper.”

  “Sounds like domestic bliss.”

  The officer sighed. “If only.”

  Jersey went around the temporary plastic barricade and continued down the alley to a small crowd of uniforms mulling around a large, four-door Dodge sedan.

  “We know who owns it?” Jersey called out to the crowd as he reached the rear of the vehicle.