"It's a nice one, ain't it?" said a voice behind me.
"Sure is," I replied, closing the Bible carefully and turning around. There, in front of me, was the man I had seen a couple of days before, hustling to get the tent raised.
"Dr. Hogmanay McTavish at your service, sir."
The man in front of me was short and plump, but what struck me immediately about his appearance was that he possessed one of the finest comb-overs in the Western Hemisphere. His hair—perhaps the only hair he had, began on the left side of his head, slightly below his ear. It was salt and pepper in color and had a wiry texture to it. From behind his ear, the thatch of hair came forward, made a north-easterly swing across his brow, circled the top of his head twice like a wreath, the second revolution nesting inside the first, with the final strands of his long tresses glued to the center of his dome. Unwound, I suspected his hair was probably a couple of feet long. I took his outstretched hand, and despite his small stature and rounded physique, his grip was enough to give me a twinge.
"Glad to meet you. I'm Hayden Konig."
"Ah, Chief Konig. The pleasure is all mine. I was hoping you'd stop by."
"First stop on my list," I said with a smile. "Now, Doctor, what can I do for you?"
"First off, call me Brother Hog. Or just plain Hog." He laughed. "I know I introduced myself as 'Doctor,' but I don't hold with all that snooty stuff. Puts folks off."
"What can I do for you Brother Hog?"
"I was thinkin' that we might be able to get one of your officers to help with some parkin' and directin' traffic on Friday and Saturday nights for the next few weeks. It'd sure be a help."
"We're a small department—there are two other officers besides myself. I'll be happy to ask them, but it'd have to be on their own time. And you'd have to pay them yourself."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he said happily. "How about yourself? You need any overtime?"
"No, thanks."
"Well, you're welcome to come and worship with us anytime. I'd introduce you to my assistant, but she's resting up for this evening." He paused and looked at me as if sizing me up. "Well," he said, "I hope you can make it out to the revival once or twice."
I shrugged in my most noncommittal fashion. "I'm pretty busy."
He smiled again. "You never know what might happen."
* * *
I pulled up at the coroner's office in Boone about an hour later just as my new recording of Pictures at an Exhibition was heading toward the Great Gate of Kiev. The CD player in my truck was quite a marvel of electronic engineering. My truck was not. The '66 sky-blue Chevy pick-up had at least 480,000 miles on it that I knew of, but it might have more. The odometer rolled over every 100,000 miles and may have rolled once before I bought the truck. I kept track of the hundred-thousand milestones with a small notch in the steering wheel. In the twenty-five years I'd owned the vehicle, I had replaced the radio/tape player/CD player and speakers six times, the engine once, the transmission twice, and the clutch more times than I bothered to count. I sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes and let the orchestra finish Mussorgsky's masterpiece before reaching behind the seat and pulling out a bottle of Maker's Mark for Kent. When I had called Kent on my cell phone earlier, he suggested that I'd better come in and see him. And I always came bearing gifts.
"Morning, Kent," I said, as I walked into his office.
"Morning, Hayden. Coffee?"
"Don't mind if I do."
I opened the Maker's Mark and poured a shot into both coffee mugs sitting on Kent's desk. Kent leaned across his desk with the coffee pot and filled the mugs the rest of the way.
"Coffee and bourbon," said Kent with a smack. "Can't beat it to get your day going."
"I don't usually imbibe this early," I said. "But it is coffee, after all."
"Darn tootin'."
Kent was in his usual attire consisting of an old tweed jacket with its obligatory elbow patches and leather buttons, a vest, corduroys and a bow tie. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip.
"Ever heard of Incorruptibles?" he said over the top of his cup.
"Yeah, I guess. Dead bodies that don't decompose. There are a couple of famous saints, aren't there?"
"More than a couple. They're found in Europe mostly."
"And they don't decompose?"
"They have an interesting history."
"I'm all ears," I said, settling back.
* * *
"There are basically three ways bodies have of being preserved after death," Kent began. "The first is accidental preservation. This can happen when a body is buried in hot, dry sand or lava, or has been placed in an area with little or no moisture, or in a frigid climate. As long as air or moisture doesn't reach these bodies, often, they can be preserved from significant decay. However, when accidentally preserved bodies are discovered, they are typically discolored, wrinkled, distorted, are skeletal looking and have no elasticity. In addition, they always have a bad odor and always decay rapidly once they're exposed to the air."
"Like the mummies found in the Andes? Or the peat-bog man?"
"Exactly," said Kent. "Secondly, there are those corpses that were purposely embalmed or otherwise treated before burial with the intention of trying to prevent decomposition. In most older cases of deliberately preserved human bodies, the body cavities were emptied and filled with specific materials like resin or resin-soaked sawdust, or the entire body was submerged in preservatives such as honey, rum, or sand. In the past few hundred years, there have been other methods used to prevent corpse decomposition. The body was typically submerged or filled with resin, tar, salt, alcohol, or a combination of these. Now, of course, we use chemicals, and embalming is primarily done to disinfect and preserve the remains for viewing by the family. We use a formaldehyde-based solution. Again, when older deliberately preserved bodies are discovered, like accidentally preserved bodies, they are typically discolored, wrinkled, etc. You get the point."
"Egyptian mummies. Got it."
"There is another way that bodies can be preserved. And, as a Catholic, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you about it."
"The Incorruptibles," I said. I poured another cup of coffee—this time a double. Kent picked up his pipe, stuck it in his mouth and began the ritual of relighting.
"These types of preserved bodies," he said from between clenched teeth, holding his match above the bowl and giving the pipe a couple of good puffs, "started being discovered back in the early centuries after Christ, though surprisingly, they do not fall into either the accidental or deliberate preservation categories. Incorruptibles are discovered in many different environments, including environments that would typically cause an accidental or deliberately preserved corpse to decompose rapidly. They remain free of decay regardless of manner of burial, delay in burial, temperature, moisture, rough handling, frequent transference, having been covered in quicklime, or proximity to other decaying corpses."
"And the scientific explanation?"
"There isn't one, really," Kent said. "Science can mimic the phenomenon, but a true Incorruptible is…well…unexplainable."
"And is there such a thing as a true Incorruptible?" I asked. "It seems like a probable stage for a religious scam. Let's just say that it's 1580 and you're a Bishop of a cathedral that's having some franchise problems. The Protestants are pretty much undefeated going into the series. Your counter-reformation isn't going too well. Then one of your young nuns dies so you secretly embalm her, put her in a locked glass case, make up a story about how she's incorrupt and died in ecstasy during her first communion, get her canonized on the fast track and kazow!—you're in clover again. Pilgrimages, offerings, the world-wide tour… everything you need to put your cathedral back on the map."
"Yes. St. Imelda. A good point. She was earlier than 1580, but it did happen exactly as you say. In fact, up until recently, one of the two miracles that could be attributed for sainthood could be incorruptibility. And the other miracle had to b
e posthumous. Somebody healed of something dreadful by leaning over and touching the glass of the coffin or even simply praying to the pre-saint in question."
"Sounds like a racket."
"It was. But still taking all that into account, there are still more than a few actual examples around. St. Bernadette Soubirous in France is the most famous. She died in the 1870s. There are more." He shrugged.
"And these Incorruptibles are always Catholics?"
"Well, yes and no."
I waited for the explanation.
"The holy people that were already devout Catholics and were found incorrupt became canonized."
"Were there others?"
"Oh yes. The other people that were dug up for whatever reason and found to be incorrupt—the non-Catholics, the heretics, or even practicing Catholics that weren't up to snuff— were viewed quite differently."
"And they were…?"
"Witches mainly, demons…" Kent paused, thinking. "In Eastern Europe, they were vampires. Sometimes werewolves."
"They weren't, of course."
"No, no," Kent said. "Of course not. But you can see how such legends could easily get started. When anyone found an incorrupt body, the thing to do was to cut the head off, burn it, scatter the ashes, kill everyone the deceased knew and consider themselves lucky to be rid of the abomination. So although there were probably many more examples of this type of thing happening, there aren't any bodies left to study. And, of course, the church isn't about to let science take a swipe at the ones they have."
"What about in North America?"
"Totally different cultures. The natives of North and South America didn't bury their dead in stone mausoleums and crypts. And they certainly didn't bother to dig them up once they were buried. Even if a body is incorruptible, worms and insects still have their job to do.
"What about in the 20th century then?" I asked. "Surely, there are some examples you guys can study."
"Not really. It's a very rare phenomenon anyway and once we started embalming…"
"What about that pope?" I asked as something jogged my memory.
"Pope John XXIII" said Kent sarcastically. "Not a good example. He died in '63. His body was moved in 2001 and was well preserved. The Vatican claimed a miracle and used it to validate Vatican II, but it's a dubious claim at best. First, the Vatican admits that the ex-Pope was sprayed heavily with anti-bacterial spray and sealed inside three airtight coffins. Hardly a case for incorruptibility. Not to mention that later there was quite a scandal concerning the pope's physician and a scientist in Rome who had perfected a formula for keeping cadavers incorrupt. A mixture of formaldehyde and methyl alcohol if I remember correctly. The scientist says the pope was pickled."
"So he isn't an Incorruptible?"
"The official Vatican position is that he is."
"But no tests have been done."
"No."
"So," I said. "Do you believe in all this stuff?"
"Yesterday I would have said no."
"Something change your mind?"
"He's lying on the table."
Chapter 6
"How ya doin', Alice?" I said, lighting a cigar. "Glad you could come up."
Alice Uberdeutchland entered the office pelvis first if that could have been anatomically possible which apparently, thanks to yoga, double jointed knees and Arian fortitude, it was. Her flaxen hair hung across one eye like a blonde pirate-patch and the scar that I'd given her during our last encounter was fading but still visible on her porcelainic cheek. Her cigarette holder jutted from between two lovely fingers like another long wooden finger painted black with a glowing cigarette stuck in the end and her red sequined dress hung on her like a Hollywood actor hangs onto his Valium prescription.
"Vat have you found out?" she demanded. "Vee need to know, schnell!"
"Schnell, eh?" I said, narrowing my eyes and giving her a half-smile like one of those cats who looks as though it knows something, but in reality is just a dumb animal with a brain the size of a large walnut--the smile, most probably a little gas from eating some dead lizard--the knowing look, a product of an over-anthropomorphizing culture. "How schnell?"
"Sehr schnell!"
"Sprechen sie English, Alice? I seem to remember that you do."
"Ja." She sank into a chair. "Vee need to find out who killed Candy. She vas taking money from different special interest groups to include zere hymns in zee new hymnal."
"How does Piggy Wilson figure into it?"
"He vants the graft, but he doesn't have zee connections. We don't sink he killed her. It vould be like killing zee golden moose."
"You mean 'the golden goose, ' Alice. Or maybe just a special goose that lays golden eggs. Any way you spread it, it's still pâté."
* * *
Kent and I bent over the body of Lester Gifford.
"He smells like roses," I said. "Nancy smelled the same thing in the church."
"It's sometimes called the odor of sanctity."
"This is amazing," I said. "Did you do an autopsy? I don't see any incisions."
"I haven't started yet. Actually, I was sort of afraid to, you know."
"Yeah."
"I know I have to do it, but once I start, I have to finish. The organs have to come out. Everything. Then, according to North Carolina law, he has to be embalmed. Couldn't we wait until we can study him for a while? After all, he's already been dead for sixty years." I could tell that Kent was really torn.
"Here's the thing, Kent. There was obviously foul play—probably a murder—and I have to have an autopsy. If we put this guy on public display, we will, in all probability, never get one. You agree?"
"I do."
"Once you begin the autopsy, the point is moot. Correct? I mean, the church wouldn't want him if you remove his organs and, by law, you have to embalm him anyway."
"That is correct."
"So," I said, thinking out loud. "Although he wouldn't technically be an Incorruptible when you were finished, you could possibly have adequate time to do some research while he was here. That is, before he was embalmed."
Kent brightened considerably. "Yes. Yes I could. What about burial?"
"No rush."
"Next of kin?"
"Haven't found anyone."
"I'll get started then. It'll probably be Monday before I have anything."
"That's fine. I've got Nancy digging around in the public library and the newspaper archives. Maybe she'll come up with something."
* * *
I met Megan in the downtown park at exactly twelve o'clock. Sterling Park was in the middle of the square. It wasn't a large park—just a full city block square—but, in my opinion, it had everything a park should have. A lot of old trees—chestnut and poplar, a few benches, flower gardens, grass, and a white wooden gazebo placed right in the center. St. Barnabas faced east on the west side of the park; City Hall faced west across the way. There were shops and law offices surrounding the square. Main Street came in from the north, ran around the square and exited south. Addresses were therefore divided into North Main and South Main with all the addresses on the square simply designated as "On The Square." For example, the address for St. Barnabas was simply On The Square, St. Germaine, NC. This used to drive the UPS drivers crazy, but they'd gotten used to it. All the buildings had numbers, of course—they were required by law to have them for 911 calls—but no one ever used them. Most of them weren't even displayed.
"Right on time," I said as Meg walked up.
"I'm always on time."
"I meant me."
Meg smiled one of those dazzling smiles that made me glad I was the one at whom it was aimed. "Yes, you are on time. I'm very pleased. You may kiss my hand."
"Yes, mum," I said, gallantly taking her outstretched hand and brushing her fingers with my lips. "Now then. What's for lunch?"
We sat down on a bench, Meg's basket placed between us. She took the red-checked napkin off the basket and began to unpack. Two bottles
of cold Harpoon Ale, turkey sandwiches on thick whole-grain bread, hot German Potato salad and a block of aged Jarlzburg.
"Wow," I said. "This is great. I don't know why I don't marry you."
"Why indeed?" asked Meg, looking at me quizzically. I gulped and tried to change the subject as quickly as etiquette would allow.
"Yes, well…ahem…"
"Never mind," said Meg with a laugh. "You looked positively panic stricken."
"Whew."
"What did Kent have to say?"
I filled her in on Kent's narrative over lunch. I told her about meeting Hogmanay McTavish. We discussed the weather (which was perfect) and some church business. You know, I really didn't know why I didn't marry her. Other than the fact that I was terrified.
"You know that I'm off the vestry this election," Meg said, cutting a sizeable piece of the Jarlsburg and handing it to me.
"I'd heard that."
"And I'm on the nominating committee."
I nodded, my mouth too full of cheese to answer.
"What do you think of that new lawyer? Rob Brannon."
I swallowed. "He seems to be a good guy. Rich. Smart. Plenty of time on his hands. He'd be a good choice I guess, but I don't think he'll do it."
"Really. I think he might be interested if I asked him in the right way."
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 5
