Judge Franklin nodded to Opie. “Mr. Andrews?”
Opie climbed to his feet. “Your Honor, it is our contention that while the DA’s office was approached for an order to raise, no such order was required. It is further our contention that the Medical Examiner is legally and ethically bound to perform a complete examination of a corpse to determine cause of death, and that by the authority of his office, he may order the raising of a corpse if he deems the resultant evidence could assist him in his determination of cause of death.”
Milligan flung his legal pad across the table. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He rubbed his face with his hands, then leaned back into the mic. “Your client’s request to secure an order to raise was denied because you had no basis to assume the corpse could attest to her own cause of death. And even if the corpse could provide such evidence, the testimony of the undead isn’t admissible in court.”
“I’ve heard enough,” said the judge. “I concur with Doctor Blanchard’s assessment on both counts. I believe he properly construed the authority he carries as the acting Medical Examiner of Hamilton County. And I agree that the bureaucratic red tape civil servants have to wade through, simply to function in the commission of their duties, is egregious and must end. And this is where it starts. Charges dismissed.” The judge banged his gavel.
I think I peed a little.
Milligan’s jaw dropped. “But Your Honor. There was no order to raise.”
“Save it, Counselor. In case you missed it, I made my ruling. Charges are dismissed.”
Opie grinned and quickly swept his notes into his briefcase, as if he were afraid the judge would call a do-over.
“Nice job, Counselor,” I said, skirting past him. “Worth every nickel I paid. I’ll be right back.”
Harry lingered at the doorway chatting with Doc Blanchard. I wanted to speak to them both. I reached them just in time to hear Harry say, “I read your report. What kind of murder weapon would inflict that kind of wound?”
“A long wide blade,” Doc said, shoving his briefcase beneath his arm. “Maybe a hunting knife, or some kind of military blade.”
He stepped past Harry on his way out the door.
“Dr. Blanchard,” I called, tapping him on the shoulder. “Thank you for today.”
He barely turned his head. “Don’t thank me, Ms. Nighthawk. I told you I wouldn’t lie for you, and I didn’t. You should be thankful that your attorney asked the right questions.”
He slipped out the door without another word, leaving my gratitude hanging in the wind.
I waved to the back of his head as he walked away. “You’re welcome, Allie.”
Harry clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t mind Doc. He took a turn on the hot seat, but he didn’t get burned. No harm, no foul.”
I smiled and pointed toward the street. “What do you say we deliver the good news to Cap? In case he couldn’t hear Farragut’s screams when Milligan had to tell him that he’d lost the case.”
Little Allie lectured me, insisting that I wipe the grin off my face. I told her to shut her pie hole.
Nani nani boo boo, you stinking brain bitch. I won.
13
How Many Zombies in a Horde?
The formidable Miriam Miller looked fetching, as always, in her black pencil skirt and crisp, white, button-down blouse. Her hair, pulled back from her face so tightly that her eyes went almond-shaped, was once again shellacked into a bun at the top of her head.
Harry and I had barely rounded the corner when her head popped up from her desk. She swung her long, skinny neck in our direction and stared at us with her beady little eyes, reminding me of a turkey vulture tracking its prey.
She vaulted from her chair, in an impressive burst of speed, and rapped on Cap’s door. Before he could even respond, she called, “Harry Delk and that…that…Nighthawk woman are here to see you, sir. Are you in?”
Cap’s voice drifted through the solid oak door. “What difference would that make, Miriam? She’ll make her way in here. She always does.”
I flashed the crimson-faced Miriam a victorious smirk as I swept past her into Cap’s office. Harry followed a few steps behind, making sure to say, excuse me, when he squeezed past the ferocious admin-bouncer.
“Good news,” I said, making myself at home in one of his ratty vinyl chairs. I plopped my feet on the corner of his desk and flaunted a shameless smile. “I won. Take that DA Farragut. You messed with the wrong corpse whisperer.”
Cap folded his fingers beneath his chin and gazed at me with tired red eyes. “So, I’ve already heard, strangely enough, from DA Farragut. I understand the futility in these words even as they tumble from my mouth, but you need to keep a low profile for a while. Actually, you need to be invisible. You’ve shit in his oatmeal enough for one lifetime.”
Me, low profile? Invisible? What were the odds?
When I didn’t respond, Cap pushed the issue. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I said, ignoring Little Allie, who threatened to slap me for telling a bald-faced lie.
Cap leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on Harry. “Where are we on the Henry case?”
“Andre Petrov stopped in at The Blue Note and had a chat with Nighthawk last night.”
“The mob lieutenant? How does he fit into the puzzle?”
“Veronica’s book, maybe,” I said. “Petrov seemed to think our investigation would turn up some very valuable, very private information. He was willing to pay big bucks for it.”
Cap snorted. “Have you considered that Petrov might be the murderer? Maybe the dirt she wanted to share was about him.”
“He claims he had no reason to kill her. Veronica and his boss had a mutually acceptable arrangement.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. The point is, whatever she had on Petrov’s boss is up for grabs now. And if Veronica’s book is filled with that kind of sensitive information, we could have an entire smorgasbord of suspects.”
“So, find the damn book. Anything else?”
Harry cleared this throat. “I got the phone records yesterday. I need to analyze them. See what direction they take me.”
“And yet, you’re here because…”
“Right.” Harry did an about face. “Call you later, partner.”
Harry’s footsteps clacked against the tile as he retreated to his office.
Fearing I could be shanghaied for yet another assignment, I held up my hands in protest. “Don’t look at me, Cap. I did my thing. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in a week.”
“That reminds me,” he said, sliding open his desk drawer. “I have something for you.”
He handed me a business envelope — with a check in it. I felt a little woozy.
“This covers your services to date. Don’t get used to getting paid so quickly.” Cap glanced back down to whatever he’d been working on when we’d come in. “I pushed it through for an off-cycle check, only because you whined about being broke. That won’t happen again.”
I left Cap’s office a new woman. I even planted a big wet one on Miriam’s over-powdered cheek as I danced by her desk. She recoiled faster than a mongoose.
Dollar signs pinged through my brain like pinballs. That always happens when money finds its way into my pocket. Fiscal responsibility is for diehard conservatives, not kickass corpse whisperers. Clothes? Forget about it. Black jeans, well-worn T-shirts and a ball cap. That’s how I roll. Spa day? Hell, no. Who can handle a gun with long acrylic nails?
That left only one option: the firing range.
I walked into Brasshole’s and smiled as a wave of burnt gun powder filled my nose. Beats the crap out of Chanel No. 5, any day. I bought some targets and sent them twenty yards downrange on the T-rail, listening to the gunfire that flanked me on either side. I closed my eyes and relaxed. A peacefulness came over me.
This. This was where I belonged. In a place where guns did most of the talking, not mouths. An
d where what little was said stayed in the range, like the bullets trapped inside its cinderblock walls.
I pulled Hawk, aimed, and let him eat his way through the first three mags. Then I slid my backup piece, Baby, a Glock 26 from my ankle holster and had more fun. While everyone around me shot center mass, I obliterated the heads from my targets. That’s called doing it zombie style. It didn’t take me long to burn through the targets and my ammo. Much as I would have loved to spend the rest of my day, as well as my paycheck, playing with my toys, I decided to head home to let Headbutt know I was alive. And maybe catch a quick nap before heading to The Blue Note for my shift.
Nobody would ruin my perfect afternoon, not even Nonnie Nussbaum. I killed the Lowrider’s engine about thirty yards from my driveway and walked the bike home, feeling the sun on my cheeks, and daring myself to feel hopeful for the first time since I’d returned to the Queen City. I twisted the knob on the kitchen door.
Nonnie sprang up from behind the fence like a seventy-year-old jack-in-the-box. “Mrs. Nighthawk! Look! Your naughty, naughty golem killing my rose bushes.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Nussbaum. I’ll have a talk with Headbutt…again.”
I hurried inside before I caught another ration of shit and slammed the door behind me. But Headbutt, who hadn’t been outside since early morning, pawed furiously at the weather stripping on the sill.
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you behaved yourself,” I said, yanking the door back open.
Headbutt’s eyes twinkled.
“Don’t do it. Don’t you even think about it.”
He barked and wagged his stubby tail.
“I mean it.”
Headbutt trotted out past me, head held high, a dog on a mission. Nonnie planted her feet shoulder-width apart on the other side of the fence and waited, garden hose in hand, ready for the day’s skirmish in the Battle of the Bushes.
I let out a sigh and pulled the door closed. The two of them deserved each other. Let the best golem win, I thought, as I plopped on the couch and began a silent countdown to Nonniegeddon.
The melee commenced on cue, beginning with Nonnie’s bloodcurdling war cry, followed closely by a raucous combination of barks and growls. The amazingly short-lived fracas ended with a thump at my kitchen door. I was half afraid it might be Nonnie, wanting to turn the hose on me, but it was only Headbutt, shaking the excess water from his coat.
I let him in and waggled my finger in his face. “You bring this on yourself, you know.”
He sauntered past me without so much as a glance and plopped on his favorite register vent to soak up the heat.
Nonnie might have won the battle, but the war was far from over.
By the time I walked into The Blue Note, Dallas had stocked the bar and iced the tubs. I mopped the floor and rolled silverware to stay busy, until around nine, when Harry and Opie stopped in to buy me a congratulatory shot that magically turned into three.
I brought up the war between Nonnie and Headbutt, hoping someone might offer solutions that didn’t involve duct-taping Nonnie’s mouth or moving. The most surprising suggestion came from Harry.
“Get a bird.”
“How’s that going to help?”
“Oh, it won’t,” Harry said, taking a sip of his Guinness. “Birds are easier to take care of, is all I’m saying. You don’t have to walk them. And they don’t piss on your neighbor’s bushes.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through some pictures. “This is Kulu, my African Grey.”
Well, slap my silly ass and call me Sally! Harry had a pet. Go figure.
Harry rambled on about how smart his bird was. How it did tricks and talked a blue streak. His phone vibrated on the bar top, interrupting his story about how he taught the bird to sing “Drunk on a Plane.”
Thank you, Lord. A freaking pterodactyl wasn’t worthy of that much conversation, much less a stinking parrot.
Harry ended the call, drained the last of his beer and said, “We’re up.”
“You and me?” I said, looking at the clock. “Now?”
“Biter sighting at The Crosley Building.”
I could feel Dallas’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I turned to apologize, but he waved me off. “You were doing more drinking than working anyway. I got this.”
Well. That was just uncalled for. Even if it was true.
I swung by Dallas’s office to grab Hawk and my Ka-Bar. A light snow had fallen, so it made more sense for me to ride with Harry than to take the Harley. The moment I climbed into the passenger seat of his car Little Allie started yapping my ear off. She had a hinky feeling about this call. So did I.
I buckled my seatbelt and asked, “Who calls in a biter sighting in an abandoned building at ten o’clock at night?”
“I asked the same question,” Harry said. “Anonymous caller from a pay phone, a block north.”
“A pay phone?”
Harry snorted. “They still exist, you know. Not everyone can afford cell phones.”
He parked beneath a street light, maybe fifty feet from the corner of Spring Grove and Arlington, and radioed in our location. “1 David 26 out for investigation at 1329 Arlington Street.”
I opened the car door and got a noseful of Eau de Deadhead.
“We’re in the right place,” I said, letting my eyes wash over the ten-story tall Crosley Building, a behemoth of crumbling brick and broken windows.
Harry slipped his radio into his pocket, then opened the glove compartment and pulled out his backup piece. He clipped it to his belt and took the lead as we jogged through the dark.
“Seriously?” I snickered, drawing Hawk. “Your back up piece is a .38, too?”
He puffed like a freight train. “Big surprise. I told you, I’m a dinosaur.”
Something rustled to my right. I spun, holding Hawk at high ready. A piece of newspaper tumbled through the air and plastered itself against an ancient metal dumpster stationed along the Arlington Street side of the building.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my gun.
Little Allie harrumphed and called me a wussy.
“Bite me, bitch.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder. “You say something?”
“No. Keep moving.”
Stupid head hag.
From our left came the unmistakable sound of a footstep, as it crunched against the broken glass, bricks and concrete that littered the ground. Harry and I whirled, weapons drawn, but the art deco-styled building threw random shadows in the waning glow of the moon. Even with the help of a flashlight, scanning those inky silhouettes proved difficult — like distinguishing one shade of black against another.
One of the shadows rippled. Or had it? I shut my eyes and let my other senses go to work. The stink of death grew stronger. The air beside me displaced, and brushed silk-like against my skin. I shivered and tightened my grip on Hawk. “Harry?”
No answer.
“Harry.”
“I can’t see for shit,” he muttered.
A biter popped into Harry’s flashlight beam, maybe six feet ahead. In one fluid motion, he brought his .38 to bear, squeezed off a round, and nailed it between its eyes.
He drew in a long, loud breath and announced, “Deadhead down.”
“Don’t get cocky. Take a whiff,” I said, breathing in the stench. “He’s not the only game in town.”
The sound of movement ahead in an archway spurred us forward. We reached the alcove and nearly tripped over splintered pieces of plywood strewn on the ground, directly across from an entrance to the building. Where once had been a boarded-up door, now stood a gaping black maw. A woman’s scream came from inside.
Harry barked at his radio. “1 David 26, requesting backup. 1329 Arlington Street. Possible assault.”
“Roger, 1 David 26. Backup en route.”
“We don’t have time to wait for backup,” I whispered. “One bite and she’s finished.”
Harry snorted. “Who said anything about waiting? Get the hell be
hind me and see how dinosaurs do things.”
Our flashlight beams created thin pinholes of light in the black abyss. We stared into the void and funneled inside, eyes and ears peeled, creeping forward at the speed of slugs. Harry shined his light to the right, and I shined mine to the left, but our field of vision was nearly nonexistent. The echo of our footsteps told us the room was huge. A second scream rang out, followed by distant banging and clanging noises.
After clearing our point of entry, Harry and I headed in the direction of the scream and ended up at a large, heavy-gauge metal door. He yanked on the handle and pulled. The door groaned, but opened wide. Unseen feet shuffled across the concrete floor into the darkness. A distant chorus of moans and groans halted as we stepped through the doorway.
Little Allie, who hadn’t been fond of this call to begin with, launched a full-scale assault in my head. She hadn’t needed to. I was way ahead of her.
“Harry—”
“Yeah. I know. This is all kinds of FUBAR.”
The huge metal door behind us slammed shut. That door weighed hundreds of pounds. It hadn’t closed itself.
Harry brought the radio to his mouth. “1 David 26, 1329 Arlington Street. Where the hell is that backup? Possible zombie horde. Repeat. Possible zombie horde.”
“Roger, 1 David 26,” the dispatcher responded. “How…how many zombies in a horde?”
Harry looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“How the hell should we know?” I yelled into Harry’s phone, “Just send backup, damn it. Like everybody you got.”
Harry harrumphed and slid the radio back into his pocket. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did she really ask how many biters in a—”
He raised his .38 and fired. A bullet screamed past my head. I grabbed my aching ears and spun to find a biter flat on its back, not three feet behind me. Most of its head was missing.
Life Among the Tombstones Page 8
