by Tim Waggoner
“I understand completely. I have an errand of my own to run anyway.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to drive out to the lake and talk with Sadie Muir.”
She gave him a disapproving glance. “Dale …”
“When you use that tone of voice, you sound like my mother. I was already planning on talking to Sadie before we found the wallet. I’d hoped she might be able to help identify the murdered boy. She knows more about the genealogy of the county’s families than anyone else. I’ve heard that even Althea Cross relies on her expertise from time to time.”
“And you thought she could identify the boy from just a description?”
“I do have photos of the body, too, but yes, I did.”
Joanne wanted to tell Dale it was a foolish idea. Cross County had more than its fair share of residents who contributed to what was euphemistically described as the “local color,” but Sadie Muir was more than merely eccentric. As far as Joanne was concerned, the woman was downright certifiable. But she had to admit that Dale had a point. Sadie might well have been able to identify Ray Porter from his photo — and she probably could’ve traced his ancestry all the back to before his ancestors first came to America.
“We know who Ray is now,” Joanne said. “So why go see Sadie?”
“To learn if there’s any connection between Ray Porter and the four people Carl Coulter murdered.” He shrugged. “It’ll probably turn out to be a waste of time. After all, no connection was ever established between Carl’s victims. But I figure it’s worth a shot.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do. My social calendar is inexplicably empty for the rest of the day.”
Joanne smiled. “All right, go see Sadie. But if you learn anything interesting, let me know.”
“Don’t I always?”
• • •
After dropping Ray off at the Echo office, Joanne stopped by the county building to put Ray Porter’s wallet in the evidence locker. She then went into the main office to look for Ronnie and found him at his desk, sitting in front of his computer and typing reports. Since he was inside at his work station — an environment he completely controlled — he wasn’t wearing his surgical mask or rubber gloves.
“You think you could take the evidence we’ve gathered in the murder and Debbie’s break-in and run it up to Columbus?”
Ronnie frowned. “After I finish my reports, I was planning on going out to look for Tyrone Gantz.”
“Getting the evidence to Columbus is more important. Get someone else to find Tyrone. In fact, tell everyone on patrol to look for him. Whoever finds him first can bring him and take down his statement.” Besides, a road trip might give Ronnie the break he needed, give him a chance to relax a little.
“Sure thing, Joanne.”
She nodded and was about to explain to Ronnie that while the trip to Columbus normally could’ve waited until tomorrow, she wanted to get things moving on the dual investigations as fast as possible. But then she realized something. “You called me by my first name.”
Ronnie frowned, and she saw a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and through the crease in his brow.
“I’m sure I didn’t, Sheriff.” His tone was one of honest puzzlement.
“It’s no big deal. You know you’re welcome to call me by my first name.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear on many occasions, Sheriff. And while I always appreciate the offer, I still prefer to address you as Sheriff … Joanne.”
Joanne searched Ronnie’s face for any hint he was teasing her. Ronnie wasn’t a big joker, but he wasn’t entirely humorless. But again she saw nothing but confusion this time. Ever since Emily Davis, their administrative assistant, had gone on maternity leave a couple weeks ago, they’d all been picking up the slack, but Ronnie, most likely due to his compulsive nature, had taken on more of her duties than anyone else in the department. He was doubtless overworked and overstressed. She tried to remember when Ronnie had last taken a vacation, and she realized that he hadn’t, not since she’d become Sheriff, anyway. He was way overdue, but she decided this wasn’t the best time to bring it up. She’d say something to him later.
“All right then, Ronnie. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
“I’ll finish up here, check out the Deveraux place, and — if I don’t have time to do it myself — I’ll see about finding someone to track down Tyrone Gantz and get a statement. I should be able to leave for Columbus around dinnertime, maybe a bit later, if that’s all right.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to go check to see if Terry’s started the autopsy of the Porter boy yet, and then I’m going to head over to the parents’ house and break the news to them. If any reporters call, you know the drill. It’s too early in the investigation to release any information, but we’re working on pursuing all leads, and so forth. Okay?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Great, Ronnie. Thanks.”
She turned to go, and as she headed away from Ronnie’s desk, she heard him softly say, “You’re welcome, Joanne.”
• • •
As soon as Joanne left the office, Ronnie’s gaze fell to the telephone sitting on his desk. There was nothing remarkable about the device — bland off-white plastic, rectangular buttons for selecting different lines or transferring calls. He cleaned it with bleach wipes ever morning, after each use, and then a final time before leaving for the day. It was just a normal office phone, nothing special. But he could swear it was whispering to him right now, its voice a soft electronic hiss of static forming inaudible syllables. Even so, he nevertheless understood what it wanted him to do. He had something to report, and he was supposed to pick up the receiver and punch in the number for Marshall Cross’s cell phone.
The fingers of his right hand twitched, but he did not reach toward the phone. He felt a pinprick of pain behind his forehead as if a long sharp needle was slowly being driven through the bone and into the soft flesh beneath. He wasn’t going to betray Jo — Sheriff Talon. He wasn’t!
The static-hiss grew louder, more insistent, and the needle penetrating his brain now felt like a blunt carpenter’s nail. He felt a squirming-itching sensation on his right hand. He didn’t want to look at it, told himself that he wasn’t really feeling anything, and even if he was, it wasn’t anything to worry about. The rubber gloves he wore so often sometimes caused the skin on his hands to dry out. He just needed to moisturize more, that’s all. He kept a bottle of hypoallergenic hand cream in his desk, along with a mini-pharmacy of healthcare and hygiene supplies. His rationalizing did little good, though. His head continued to throb, the pounding intensifying the itch, which in turn only served to intensify the pounding.
He gritted his teeth against the mounting discomfort and told himself to forget about the picking up the phone to call Marshall Cross. All he needed to do was take care of his itching hand and everything would be all right.
With his left hand — which felt perfectly normal — he reached for the drawer where he kept his cream. He forced himself to look in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of his right hand, not that there was anything to see, not if his problem was just dry skin. As he groped for the drawer handle, he heard something hit the floor with a soft, moist plap. Something that had fallen from his right hand.
Icewater flooded his bowels and, unable to stop himself any longer, he looked at his right hand.
It was covered by a mass of wriggling creatures, so many that his flesh was no longer visible. Two-inch long greenish-gray gelatinous blobs, roughly ovoid in shape. Their writhing bodies lengthened and compressed like caterpillars as they moved, but they weren’t insectine. Ronnie understood instinctively what he was looking at, for he’d been battling the goddamned things his entire life. They were bacteria, germs, viruses … they were filth, somehow grown from microscopic size.
All the better to feast on your delectable flesh, my dear.
With his left hand
he opened the desk drawer, then gripped the front of it with his right hand so his fingers were hanging over the top. Then with his left he jammed the drawer closed as hard as he could. Pain exploded in his hand. It was almost enough to drown out the static-voice of the phone and the hot agony drilling into his brain.
Almost.
He closed the drawer again, a third time, and a fourth, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He was alone in this part of the office, but he didn’t want to alarm Doris in the dispatcher’s room or the deputies in the jail division down the hall. Tears streamed down his face, slid down his neck, soaked into the collar of his uniform.
He opened the drawer one last time and removed his hand. The fingers were bent and twisted, and there was blood where the skin had torn. But there were no more gray-green wigglers on his flesh. The filth was gone. Still, he knew it could return anytime, and would — if he didn’t do what was expected of him.
The phone was shouting now, its voice nearly deafening, and a red-hot railroad spike was lodged in his skull. Sobbing, broken fingers shaking, Ronnie reached for the phone.
• • •
Coroner was an elected position in Cross County, and Terry had a regular medical practice in town. But when he needed to perform an autopsy, he did so in the county morgue facility housed within the county building. That’s where Joanne found him, already gowned and gloved, wearing a clear plastic face shield. Ray Porter lay spread out on an aluminum table with faucets and drains for washing away and collecting blood. The boy was naked, no trace of blood on his body.
The room was small, colors institutional pistachio and tan, tiled floor, and fluorescent lights. One autopsy table, a counter with hose, sink, drain, surgical tools, hanging scale, bottles of chemicals, and a half dozen freezers for cadavers built into the wall. The facilities were modest, but they usually served the county’s needs well enough. And if for some reason they didn’t — like the after the fire in the historic district a few years ago — Terry would use the morgue over at Resurrection Hospital, near the county line.
Terry looked up as Joanne entered, and despite the morbid surroundings, her heart warmed when he smiled at her.
“I just finished washing him off and was about to start cutting.”
“His name is Ray Porter,” Joanne said. “We found his wallet out at the Deveraux Farm.”
Terry frowned. “By we, I assume you mean you and Dale.”
She smiled. “Jealous, table for one.”
Terry smiled back. “Very funny.” He turned to look at Ray’s body. “Nice to meet you, Ray Porter, though I wish to hell it had been under better circumstances.” He faced Joanne once more. “What was his wallet doing at the farm? That’s weird.”
“Tell me about it. I’m going to talk to his parents. How long until you finish and get him sewn up so I can bring his folks in to identify him?”
“If you like, I can just do a preliminary examination now, and then wait until after the parents have been here to do a full autopsy.”
Joanne considered a moment. “No, the sooner you start, the better. Plus that way you can also sew up the gash in his throat so it doesn’t look so bad, and we can cover the design on his stomach with a sheet. It’s bad enough his folks are going to have to see their son’s corpse this afternoon. No need to make it any worse for them.”
“Right.” Terry glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was closing in on noon, and Joanne realized she hadn’t anything to eat since breakfast. She looked at Ray’s lifeless body and decided to skip lunch.
“I should be finished by three. You can have the parents stop by any time after that. But call first, just in case I’m running late.”
Joanne nodded. “So … what’s your schedule look like later this evening, Dr. Birch?”
“I had to cancel my morning patients so I could be here, and a few of them are going to see me after five. But I should be free as the breeze around seven.” He removed his face shield and set it down on the counter. “Got anything in mind?”
She stepped close, put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned up to kiss him. He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her tight against his body. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue sought her, but she gently pushed him away.
“Sorry, but this isn’t exactly the most romantic of settings.”
He grinned. “I guess not. How about I come over to your place around eight or so? We could have a late dinner … or whatever.” He comically waggled his eyebrows and Joanne laughed.
“Whatever sounds good. I’ll call you if anything changes, okay?” She gave him a last quick kiss, studiously avoiding glancing at Ray Porter. But she did give the boy’s corpse a final look as she turned to go. She was not looking forward to what she had to do next.
• • •
Marshall stepped into the coroner’s office just as Terry Birch was using a scalpel to make a deep incision from Ray Porter’s right shoulder down to the boy’s breast bone. He was glad to see the autopsy was just beginning in earnest. Ronnie’s call had been well timed.
“I apologize for interrupting, but I doubt your patient will mind very much.”
Terry looked up, startled, but Marshall noted the hand holding the scalpel remained rock-steady. He approved. Power was useless without control.
“Believe it or not, Mr. Cross. There are some places even you aren’t allowed to go. As you can see, I’m in the middle of an autopsy. You need to leave. Now.”
The only person Marshall took orders from was his mother — and only then because it was his duty. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, and he imagined his hand shooting forward, fingers digging into the soft flesh of the coroner’s neck, and squeezing until the man’s windpipe collapsed. But he maintained iron-clad control of his anger, and the most his hand did was twitch once then fall still. When he spoke, his voice was calm and relaxed, even if he himself was not.
“I’ve come to pay my respects to the young man.”
Behind his face shield, Terry raised an eyebrow. “This is rather an odd time for it, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. My family often performs such tasks in private. We … have a tendency to draw much attention when we’re in public, and we have no wish to diminish the loss of the boy in any way.”
Terry looked at Marshall for several seconds, as if the coroner was attempting to gauge the sincerity of his words.
“Very well. You’ve paid your respects. Now leave and let me get on with my work.”
Marshall took several steps closer until he stood within six feet of the autopsy table. He saw the line of blood where Terry had cut Ray Porter’s chest, but there wasn’t a lot of it. Blood didn’t well forth very strongly when one no longer possessed a beating heart. Marshall could smell the blood too, an acrid slightly spoiled scent just beginning to filter into the air. It was the odor of blood with no life left in it. He found the stench offensive, but he kept his facial expression neutral. Control was everything.
“I would appreciate it if you could share with me any preliminary impressions you’ve gleaned so far from your examination of the body. As you might imagine, my family is shocked by this brutal and senseless crime, and we’d like to do whatever we can to help.”
“You sure you’re not just getting off on being this close to a dead body?” Terry asked. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Marshall allowed his lips to form a smile, but his gaze remained cold. “I could ask you the same thing, Doctor, but my manners are better than that.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “Besides, I’ve been in the presence of the dead before. So often, in fact, that the experience long ago lost whatever novelty it may have once held for me.”
Terry opened his mouth, his facial expression indicating he was about to ask Marshall exactly what he meant by that. But the coroner closed his mouth fast, his teeth clacking together as he did so.
Wise man, Marshall thought.
Marshall took another step forward and inhaled deeply.
Mixed in with the smell of dead blood was something else, something familiar. And it wasn’t coming from the boy’s corpse.
He looked at Terry. “You’ve got Cross blood in you. I can smell it. Not a lot and” — he sniffed again — “a generation or two back, but it’s there.”
Terry lifted the scalpel from Ray’s body, a small dark ruby of blood clinging to the instrument’s tip. He made no move to put the scalpel down, though. “Don’t think your amateur magician’s tricks are going to impress me. It’s not generally known, but my great-grandmother was a Cross. Her name was Thelma.”
Marshall thought for a moment. “If I recall correctly Thelma Cross married a local barber, and the two of them moved out of state.”
The coroner might put up a good front, but Marshall could tell Terry was both impressed and disturbed by his knowledge.
“That’s right. But they didn’t move by choice. Your family drove them out because you thought she’d married beneath her and tarnished the Cross name.”
Marshall took another step forward. Now he was within arm’s reach of Terry — which meant he was in range of the coroner’s scalpel should the man decide to use it as a weapon against Marshall.
“And now, two generations later, you’ve returned to you ancestral home. How commendable. So … as a member of the family, I’d appreciate it if you call tell me what you’ve learned so far.”
Terry looked at Marshall, gaze clouded with confusion. Marshall gave a little mental push — not too much — but it was enough to at least loosen Terry’s tongue.
“I haven’t learned anything beyond what you can see. The boy’s throat was slashed and a design carved into his stomach. A design resembling the one Carl Coulter cut into his victims. But I imagine you were already aware of those details.” Terry hesitated. “We do have a name now …”
“Ray Porter. Yes, I know.” Thanks to Ronnie. “If you wouldn’t mind, Terry, I’d like a few minutes alone with the poor boy.”
Terry blinked several times, and his cooperative manner of a moment ago vanished.
