by Tim McBain
Worse than the kiss, perhaps, had been her admission to being a newbie. Why had she done that? The only possible outcome would be that he’d take her and her theories less seriously. No good would come of that.
Damn it all.
She felt a little better after a coffee and a cup of yogurt she snagged from the meager breakfast spread from downstairs.
Checking the clock to make sure it wasn’t too early to call, she dialed one of her old colleagues in Victim Assistance.
“Violet, it’s so good to hear from you,” Beverly said. “How are things?”
“Good,” Violet said, sure to smile and try to mean it when she said it.
All of her old coworkers were psychologists and social workers, experts at reading your mood from the tone of your voice, no matter what your words might say.
“I’m good,” she repeated.
“I’m glad to hear it. We miss you, you know,” Bev said. “Judging by the time, I’m guessing you’re not calling to chat.”
“No, I’m not. And I think I probably already know the answer, but… is there a way to get assistance money for funeral expenses without the signature of next-of-kin?”
“You got one of those, huh?”
“Yeah,” Darger said.
It was always surprising to her how often people didn’t want to bother setting up a funeral for a loved one, even if the cost would be covered. Then again, many of the family members they dealt with were the same people responsible for abusing the victim, or kicking them out of the house, which ultimately led to them turning to the sex trade to make a living. And then, like she’d told Luck, people have all manner of defense mechanisms they use to try to protect themselves from the ugliest parts of life.
Bev exhaled loudly, her breath creating a static noise through the phone.
“You really can’t get authorization without the family’s consent. It’s all supposed to be on the behalf of the survivors, you know? It’s basically the same as if we can’t locate next-of-kin. If there’s no next-of-kin and no estate, then it’s the standard state-funded indigent burial or cremation.”
“That sucks.”
It was what Darger had expected, but she was disappointed at the answer.
“Yeah, I know. The dignity of the decedent isn’t really taken into consideration.”
Violet made polite small-talk with Bev for a few more minutes before ending the call. She sat back against the padded headboard.
She thought of Sierra’s body, laid out on a cold stainless steel tray, draped with a white sheet. A morgue attendant would open the door to her compartment, her private, little refrigerated cubbyhole. The tray would roll out, and she’d be transferred to the metal gurney with a thump and a clang. The wheels of the gurney would squeak and bump over the grout lines between the tile as she was transported down a long, stark hallway.
In the incineration room, her body would be placed on a large conveyor belt. With the twist of a knob, the conveyor would start forward, bearing the remains into the cremation box. The incinerator door would slam shut with a bang, a lever lowered to secure it in place. A button would be pressed and flames would shoot out from the combustion chamber, lighting the room with a flickering glow. Sierra’s flesh would blister and then blacken, any remaining blood sizzling and hissing in the heat as it literally boiled. The fire would consume her, every last eyelash and fingernail. Her bones would be nothing but charred dust in the end, stuffed into a box labeled with a case number and a name.
“Fuck that,” Darger said out loud.
Loshak answered the door, sipping at a cup of tea.
“Cup of tea?” he offered, but she declined.
“Have you given any more thought to my theory?” she said.
“What theory was that now?”
Violet didn’t want to sit. She’d sucked down another coffee after her phone call and the caffeine was humming in her veins.
“The one about Fiona being a stand-in for Sierra Peters. You sort of said it yourself at the crime scene, I guess.”
“Did I?”
“You said he would have sworn off killing again after she got away. But when the urges came back, he went out and grabbed the first girl he saw: Fiona Worthington. I think this proves he was after Sierra all along.”
Loshak swallowed a mouthful of tea and set the cup down.
“That might be a leap too far.”
“How so?”
“Well to start, how do we know he doesn’t have more than one girl picked out at a time? Maybe he screwed up with Sierra and moved down the list.”
“But he took Sierra’s head. With Fiona, it was like he started to and then changed his mind.”
“Or was interrupted.”
Darger sat down finally. She could see he wasn’t going to be easily convinced. Like everyone else, Loshak was far too enamored with Fiona Worthington. She fiddled with the pin at her lapel.
“So what’s with the hedgehog?”
“What?”
“The pin. Come on, it’s too obvious. You haven’t worn a lick of other jewelry since we met — no earrings, despite the fact that your ears are pierced. No necklaces, no bracelets, no rings on your fingers. But that little golden pin is there on your jacket every day. Who’s it from?”
This was why she hated being around other profilers. They couldn’t turn it off. Once you trained yourself to start noticing every little thing, you couldn’t stop.
“It’s not from anyone,” she said. “I bought it. It’s mine. End of story.”
Loshak pursed his lips, not looking convinced.
“Whatever.”
Darger took the opportunity to change the subject.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d like to have a service for Sierra Peters.”
She practically blurted it out, worried he’d cut her off before she had a chance to say the words.
“Huh,” he said, then suddenly looked more awake. “Alright.”
She’d expected some kind of resistance. When it didn’t come, she almost didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing.
Loshak rubbed a hand over his cheek and chin, massaging the skin.
“You know, we could have some guys in street clothes getting video in case anyone of interest shows up. That means we’ll need to have the press run something—”
Darger sprung out of her chair.
“What? No. No way. That’s not what this is about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can’t this girl get one day, one fucking day without it turning into a media shitshow?”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it? We can’t control that, Darger. What’s more, it’s not our job. Our job is to catch the guy.”
She set her jaw, teeth gritting together.
“No press,” she said.
He held his hands out.
“Alright, chill out. It was just an idea.”
It was quiet for a moment while they studied one another. Loshak broke away first.
“Look, I know you had a personal connection to her, but don’t let it get under your skin. It’s not good for you.”
“It’s not under my skin.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” she answered, biting the word off quickly.
“Alright,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But don’t let it become a habit.”
She didn’t bother putting up a fight this time.
“It won’t.”
“Have you arranged something like this before?”
“Exactly like this?” she asked. “No.”
“I just meant a funeral, you know. I don’t suppose you’re quite the weeping widow, but I guess what I wanted to say was, don’t let them take you for a ride. Whole business is a racket.”
Darger thought Loshak was being a bit unfair, but she let it slide. She thought morticians probably saw about as much of the horror of the world as law enforcement did, and no one threw them any par
ades or lauded them for their bravery.
Violet would have been happy to report to Loshak that there was very little pressure to add any bells and whistles from the funeral director. Darger selected a modest casket and a simple service. She also made sure to warn him about the condition of the body.
“The body is not… intact. In fact, there’s no head. At all.”
“I see,” he said, barely reacting with more than a series of blinks.
She wondered if his composure was real or something that came with years of practice.
“Obviously that means closed-casket, but in addition to that, I’d like to stress that there is an on-going investigation and the… condition… of the body is something we’d like kept out of the press.”
The man folded his hands, one on top of the other.
“I can assure you that we are accustomed to being as discrete as is possible.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
When it came time for the flowers, Darger pointed to a photograph in the brochure. It was an all-white casket spray with roses, tulips, and snapdragons.
“That one,” she said, then something occurred to her. “Do you have anything with peonies?”
“Peonies would be out of season, so we’d have to have them flown in. $20 a stem, so $240 for a dozen, plus shipping.”
Violet thought of Fiona Worthington’s mother, sparing no expense to have her daughter’s favorite flower on hand for the funeral and now at home. And then she thought of what Sierra’s mother had said in response to Darger asking about a service. Do whatever the hell you want. She’s dead.
And then there was Loshak’s opinion of the business being a racket. Maybe he was right. And maybe Patricia Peters was right, too. But Sierra deserved something nice just as much as Fiona had.
“That’s fine. I’d like to replace the roses with a dozen white peonies.”
Chapter 38
All the lights in the funeral home were off when Tyler jammed the key into the lock and twisted it. The deadbolt clacked out of the way, and the back door swung open, just like that. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose, a rushed breath hiccupping into his throat. Frigid electricity entered his bloodstream then. Like it always did. Key or no key, nothing made his heart pump icy cold all through him like breaking and entering. Nothing.
He kind of loved it.
The steel rectangle tilted aside to reveal the shadowy interior of the place, and Tyler led the way in, Sam following close behind.
They inched forward into the darkness, the kitchen counter vaguely discernible to Tyler’s left. A gaping blackness pocked the center of it, and he gathered that must be the sink. With that as a reference, he knew the basement steps were somewhere to the right, though he couldn’t see them. He shuffled that way, trying his best to remain soundless. The sheer quiet of the moment stretched out into something stimulating, and he couldn’t help but smile, more little bursts of electricity flashing through the muscles in his cheeks.
“Can we get some lights on up in here?” Sam said, his voice practically full volume.
“Shut the fuck up!” Tyler whisper yelled.
He got a hold of himself and went on in a more hushed manner.
“They’re sleeping upstairs. Right above us. Dickhead.”
“Right. Sorry,” Sam said, now whispering, though even that seemed too loud as far as Tyler was concerned.
Jesus. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this idiot along after all. This was all Sam’s idea, of course, but when Tyler took an honest look at his friend he saw him for what he truly was — a mouth-breathing idiot who ate Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for approximately half of his meals. Subtlety and finesse were foreign concepts to Sam. Tyler thought they always would be. Quiet was a language this fool could neither speak nor understand.
Tyler extended his arms in front of him, hands bobbing into the darkness like strange tentacle feelers, reaching out for some piece of wall to orient himself. Anything solid. The quiet bloomed again, and the stimulation made the skin on his chest writhe, the flesh pulling strangely taut with every inhale and then going slack upon releasing.
Though he’d never brought a friend along, Tyler had snuck into the basement of his uncle’s funeral home a few times before, stealing enough embalming fluid each time to properly soak a few bags of weed. The high was pretty dramatic, supposedly indistinguishable from that of PCP. One of his friends, Anton, tripped so hard on the stuff that he wound up disrobing on a city bus and telling the other passengers he was a Native American. (Not true.) Upon being arrested for indecent exposure, he told the cops he was Jesus. (Also not true.)
Tyler had been in high school back then, though. Now he was 20, and this trip into the basement would land him something much, much better than a weird drug trip. He licked his lips as he thought about it. Sam’s cousin had all the phone numbers they’d need to arrange the sale as well. It was too perfect.
His fingertips found purchase then, brushing the ornately carved wood adorning the edges of the doorway. He stopped, adjusting the trajectory of his shoulders, and then he skidded his feet until they felt the lip at the top of the steps. Good.
It was all downhill from here.
Upon reaching the hall at the bottom of the steps, Tyler felt along the wall and turned on the lights. The long fluorescent bulbs flickered and hummed as they came to life. He had to squint and let his eyes adjust to the brightness. He looked over his shoulder to see Sam doing the same, though he did it while breathing through his mouth, of course.
Maybe they would’ve been OK to turn the lights on in the kitchen as well, but he didn’t like it. Not with his Aunt Alice, Uncle Bob, and three cousins asleep just up the flight of stairs, possibly within viewing distance of the increased illumination. Down here, it’d be OK, though. He felt pretty good about that.
It was colder in the basement. The kind of cold that made Tyler’s skin shrivel, all of his body seeming to shrink away from the dank air. He felt the muscles in his arms tense, seeming to pull the sleeves of his t-shirt higher up on his shoulders. His nipples were like the tips of ice picks.
Tyler pivoted, looking at the myriad of doorways leading off of this hallway. It all seemed vaguely familiar, but it took a second for the particulars of the layout to come back to him.
“This way.”
He gestured to the lone open door to their left, and the boys stepped once more into the darkness. Astringent odors wafted about them, hovering somewhere between a medicinal smell and that of toxic chemicals, somehow mildly healing and harming all at once. Tyler again flipped a switch and waited that beat for the fluorescent bulbs to light the way.
Two metal embalming tables dominated the room, evenly spaced like a pair of hospital beds. Stainless steel. Little grooves ran down the length of each that somehow made them look like something his mom would roast a chicken on. The heads of the tables cut off into industrial sinks, some apparatus mounted underneath them with what looked like tanks and hoses coming out. Those must be the new embalming fluid pumps.
The blood goes out. The pink goo goes in. And now the meat will keep again.
Tyler couldn’t help but consider the notion that one day his naked body would lie on a table just like these. He pictured himself sprawled out, skin puckered in the cold so little dimples formed everywhere like the saggy skin on a raw Thanksgiving turkey.
But no. No. It wouldn’t just be tables like these. It would be these actual tables. Wouldn’t it? Everyone in his family would surely have their funeral here.
He shivered, his t-shirt riding ever higher on his shoulders, and a lump formed in his throat, swelling up like a tennis ball.
He looked at the pearl and black tiles on the floor, all of them leading slightly downhill to the grate in the center of the room. A drain, he remembered. In case it got messy and they needed to hose the room down.
“Jesus,” Sam said, his voice again coming out full volume. “This is where they cut ‘em open and shit, huh?”
> Tyler swallowed the tennis ball and glared at his friend. He growled barely above a whisper.
“Shut the fuck up. If you can’t be quiet, go wait in the fucking car. I can do it myself.”
Sam reverted to his version of whispering.
“Sorry. Just… Well, where the hell is it?”
Tyler took a breath, the flesh on his chest crawling again.
“I forgot. This is where I stole the embalming fluid, but it’s not where they, uh, store them. Store the bodies, I mean.”
They looked at each other, and weird clucking sounds emitted from Sam’s gaping maw. After a second, Tyler realized his friend was laughing.
Nice.
Tyler turned, and they crossed the hall, opening the door there and entering another dark room. He felt around for the light switch once more.
This space felt colder right away. He could feel the chilly air press through his jeans and coil itself around his legs, his torso shimmying a little at this unwanted touch. Again, the silence seemed to swell in that moment before the lights came on.
There. Yes. This was it, thank Christ.
The pair of refrigeration units looked like stainless steel filing cabinets along the back wall, each big enough to hold two bodies.
“Fuck,” Sam whispered in an awed tone. “It’s like those… um… things from TV. Those rooms where police keep bodies and shit. Can’t remember what they’re called.”
“The morgue.”
“Fuckin’ right. The morgue, bro. Like the rue morgue and shit.”
Tyler nodded, and then the two of them hesitated a moment just inside the door, not quite ready to cross the room and get hands-on with the metal box where the dead bodies lay.
Tyler felt a little twitch in his leg, and that seemed to spur him into motion. He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing off the tiles on the floors and walls.
He slowed as he neared the unit, his eyes flicking from door to door, trying to settle on which meat drawer he would slide open first. Top left made sense to him. May as well work it left to right.
He didn’t wait around for the weird feelings to kick in. As soon as he was within arm’s length, he reached out.
