A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  Lucy was thirteen, anorexic for a year as far as Maggie knew. She’d just got out of a rehab center near Fort Myers that specialized in eating disorders—she’d collapsed at school, dehydrated from an exclusive diet of dry toast in the morning and laxative tablets the rest of the day. In the ER, at five foot six inches tall, she’d weighed in at under ninety pounds. But the doctors were optimistic—she’d done well at the clinic, and Lucy, her mother, and grandfather met weekly with Dr. Vargas at Stella Maris for an hour of discussion, visualization exercises, and creative role-play. Lucy was already up twelve pounds.

  Jenner changed into his running clothes, then called the morgue. There were two cases waiting for him. The first was an elderly woman with a long history of heart disease, who’d died after cardiac bypass surgery; she was Jewish, and the family had a religious objection to autopsy. Jenner would perform a quick external examination, then photograph and release the body without a single incision, issuing a death certificate based on the available medical history.

  The other case needed an autopsy, but sounded straightforward: an unidentified white man hit by a car on I-55 south of Bel Arbre. The cops figured the victim was probably a migrant worker, one of the new urban poor who now competed for jobs that had always gone to illegals. The driver was young, but hadn’t left the scene, and had passed roadside sobriety tests. Here, the forensic challenge wouldn’t be the cause of death but identifying the decedent.

  An easy day, then. Jenner was relieved—he needed time to work on his eulogy for Marty’s memorial service the next day.

  Plus, he thought, I didn’t get much sleep.

  He stretched in the sunlit kitchen and, thinking about the night before, he allowed himself a smug grin.

  CHAPTER 49

  Clay Martin tapped the desk in front of Arlene Soto and said, “God, Arlene, how much longer will he be?”

  “Oh, okay, Clay—why don’t I just go in there and tell Sheriff Anders that Clay Martin and Gordie Cooper from Highway are sick of waiting for him to prepare for his national TV interview with Amanda Tucker on American Crime? That what you want?”

  Martin snorted and said, “No, no, you know I don’t want that. But jeez! Feels like we’ve been out here an hour!”

  “Nuh-uh. You been here twenty-four minutes.”

  Martin walked back to the bench where Cooper sat reading Guns & Ammo; Cooper didn’t look up. He was about to sit when the door to Anders’s office opened, and there was Anders, in full Class-A uniform, flushed, his brush-cut hair damp with Brylcreem. Martin nudged Cooper, who got slowly to his feet.

  “Hey, sheriff.”

  “Boys.” Anders smoothed his shirtfront, checking his reflection in a shiny black commemorative wall plaque. He turned to them. “So, how do I look?”

  Cooper said, “Sharp, Tommy. Real sharp.” From the way he said it, Martin knew Cooper was enjoying himself; his words always got tight when he was having fun.

  “Thanks, Coop.” Anders nodded at his reflection in the plaque, brushing the epaulets flat on his shoulders, then gestured into his office and said, “What can I do yer for?”

  They followed him in and Cooper motioned for Martin to shut the door. The stacks of paper in Anders’s office had been tidied, and his shooting trophy and the medal he’d received for bravery during a traffic stop had been shuffled to a more prominent place on his desk, next to a framed photo of Anders as a boy standing next to his father, Sheriff Richard “Big Rick” Anders.

  Tommy Anders sat behind his desk; furrowing his brow, he leaned forward and auditioned his pen set first to his right, then to his left. Neither seemed to satisfy him. He looked up. “Sorry. What you got, Gordie?”

  Cooper shook his head, a reluctant expression on his face. “I’m not one for stirring things up that don’t need to be stirred up, but I thought you should know this…”

  “Okay.” Anders leaned back, eyes narrowing. He knew Cooper well enough to be wary of the man even when sharing a beer at a cookout in his own backyard. “What should I know?”

  Cooper shook his head again, looking pained. “This morning when Clay and I were heading over to Denny’s in Golden Palms, we passed by the Palmetto Court—where the doctor is staying?”

  “And…?”

  “Well, we saw a Bentley in the lot.”

  “Huh.”

  “Well, so, there’s more. On the way back…” He glanced at Martin, as if for moral support. “On the way back, we took another look, and we saw Maggie Craine come out of the doctor’s cabin, then get in the Bentley.”

  Anders was silent for a second, his expression blank.

  “Was the girl with her?”

  “Nope. But she looked like she spent the night with him.” Cooper shifted in his chair as if his clothes were sticking to his skin.

  Anders shook his head, then shrugged. “Not my concern, Gordie.”

  “Looked like she was still dressed up from the night before.”

  “I get it.”

  “Sure, chief.” Cooper stood. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

  Anders looked at him bleakly. “That it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Okay, see you guys around.”

  As they left, Cooper turned back and grinned. Anders was still moving the pen set around on his desk; only now, his right foot was tapping urgently.

  CHAPTER 50

  As Cooper and Martin left the office, a small mob was headed toward it: Arlene the receptionist and Diane from Public Affairs were escorting Amanda Tucker and her entourage down the hall.

  The sheriff opened his door, then paused, framing himself carefully in his doorway for a second before approaching, hand outstretched, broad smile on his face.

  “Miss Tucker, a real pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  Amanda grasped his hand and said, “Me too, sheriff.” He enjoyed her grip, cool and confident, yet soft and feminine; the country needed more women like Amanda Tucker.

  The segment producer suggested that the two should chat casually as they toured the building, so that the cameraman could get some interesting background shots, then sit down in the sheriff’s office for a formal interview. The soundman clipped a small microphone to the upper part of Anders’s shirt, where the straining buttons yielded to a ruff of white T-shirt, then had him slip the slender cable all the way down under his shirt. He threaded the cable out between two shirt buttons, plugged it into a black box smaller than a pack of cigarettes, then placed the box in the sheriff’s hip pocket.

  The sound engineer listened to his headphones, then gave a thumbs-up to the camera operator. The cameraman said, “A quick white balance, then we’re a go…”

  Amanda waited, head down, for the signal. She knew her hair was good, but her face felt over-made-up.

  The producer nodded at the cameraman, who said, “Rolling…Speed.”

  “Okay, Amanda, whenever you’re ready.”

  Close-up on Amanda: “This is Amanda Tucker. We’re on location today at the Douglas County sheriff’s office, in Port Fontaine, Florida. This wealthy, picturesque resort town was rocked last week by the discovery of the decomposed bodies of the county medical examiner and his wife in a sunken car; both of them had been tortured and killed.

  “Then, two days later, the bodies of another four as yet unidentified men were found out in the Everglades; they had all been murdered by hanging.

  “At the center of the investigation of these six homicides is a man who’ll be very familiar to regular viewers of American Crime Prime Time—disgraced former New York City medical examiner Edward Jenner. Dr. Jenner is…Sorry, can we cut it there, Rob? I want to go again—I don’t think my energy was right.”

  “Okay, Amanda. I thought you were fine, but we need to adjust the mic levels—you’re pinning the needle in the red.”

  “Okay. Plus I think I want to go with ‘putrefied’ instead of ‘decomposed.’ What do you think?”

  “Yeah, nice—putrefied’s better.”

  The she
riff leaned over and said, “Very interesting. Uh, Ms. Tucker? What do you mean ‘disgraced’? What you were saying about Dr. Jenner…”

  “Please, sheriff—Amanda.” She pressed her hand to his arm conspiratorially, smiling widely, her eyes gleaming. “You don’t know his story? I’m surprised. My team in New York is putting together a bio reel for Dr. Jenner—watch Update this afternoon, I think you’ll find it quite an eye-opener.”

  Christ, Anders thought. What now? He’d let Roburn sort out his vacation coverage, and the ME had said he was bringing in one of the best. Jenner’s name had sounded familiar but…

  “Sheriff, can we get you and Amanda over by the statue and the flags?”

  The producer moved them into position, the sheriff instantly cardboard-stiff and self-conscious beneath the flags and the bulky bronze bust of his father. Amanda said, “Let’s not talk about Dr. Jenner’s past right now—I’d prefer your unbiased opinion…”

  Anders shook his head. “You know, Amanda, I have to admit I’ve developed some concerns about the doctor.”

  She appraised him coolly. “You and me both, sheriff. Let’s chat about this later—I think we can help each other out.”

  The white light flared up again. Anders felt the flush of his face; he could almost hear his sweat begin to trickle.

  “This is Amanda Tucker with Sheriff Tom Anders at the Douglas County sheriff’s office, here in Port Fontaine, Florida. This picturesque, wealthy resort town was rocked last week by the discovery of the putrefied bodies of the county medical examiner and his wife…”

  The segment producer watched with admiration. Amanda could be an utter, screaming bitch, but he had to give it to her: she was a pro. He savored the way she gently pushed “putrefied” without making it obvious, like a con man forcing a card on some rube.

  CHAPTER 51

  Jenner shook his head. Something was definitely not right here.

  The Highway Patrol lieutenant had said the victim was probably a migrant worker, but Jenner doubted he was from Bel Arbre.

  He stepped back to look at the body again. A young white man, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Black hair shaggy but cut fashionably, like some British pop star. Clean-shaven. Good general hygiene. Circumcised.

  A migrant worker? The arms were faintly tan, but the hands were soft, no calluses, no scars—they’d never held anything more serious than a pen. Most migrants were Latin American, Catholic, and uncircumcised.

  In recent years, though, marginalized young people who called themselves “travelers” had joined the migrant workers, following the harvests from state to state with the shifting seasons. But travelers wore their alienation like a uniform—hair in matted dreadlocks, skin tanned deep brown, facial piercings, anarchist tattoos. Their bodies were lean and hardened, often detailed with wrist scars and needle tracks.

  This kid was pale, a little doughy, and his teeth were perfect.

  Well, almost. Lifting the upper lip, Jenner noticed a slight color difference between two of the premolars, one tooth subtly paler than the others.

  He had Bunny wheel over the X-ray machine and do a full-mouth X-ray; he was pretty sure that was an implant. All the fillings were care fully tone-matched ceramic, high-end work, not mercury amalgam packed in on some side-street butcher shop in Juarez or wherever. This was Park Avenue dentistry—no way was this kid a field hand.

  They cleared the room for Bunny to zap the film, then Jenner waited by the viewing box.

  “Hey, Jenner! What’s up?”

  Rudge was at the entry to the main body cooler. Next to him was a middle-aged black man in a dark suit, standing next to a collapsible gurney topped with a maroon velour cover. A funeral director.

  “Morning, Detective Rudge. How’s it going?” Judging from Rudge’s breath, it had been going pretty well the night before.

  “Doc, I want you to meet my cousin, Reggie Jones.”

  Jenner shook hands. “Good to meet you.” Reggie had the same next-day booze smell.

  “Doc! Check out his shoes—handmade!”

  Reggie proudly raised his knee and hiked up his pant leg so Jenner could admire his shoe—a gray, pointy-toed Cuban-heeled ankle boot in what looked like armadillo skin.

  Jenner said, “Nice!” with all the sincerity he could muster.

  Rudge clapped his hands on Reggie’s shoulders and said, “You see, Jenner? This is what we should be doing! There’s money in dead folk! Reggie’s building a house near the golf course, acre of land, partial canal-view, three-car garage…”

  “Four, now,” Jones said, nodding solemnly. “Four-car garage.”

  “Hear that? That’s what I’m talking about! A four-car garage! And his brother Jimmy’s a funeral director in Atlanta—his house is even bigger!” He clapped Reggie on the shoulder again, and said, “I tell you what we do, Jenner: we get the hell out of law enforcement, we go to funeral-home school, we rent ourselves a place.

  “Because I’m naturally good-looking and have a winning way, I put on a suit, run the front of the house, take care of the customers, all that. Because you’re a naturally tall-ass white dude who’d terrify grieving relatives, we’ll stick you in the basement, give you your own slab and some formaldehyde, let you loose on the bodies…We work a few years, then we franchise the shit out of the operation, and retire young, good-looking, and rich…”

  Jenner thought for a second. “Whose name first?”

  “Say what?”

  “Mine or yours? Rudge & Jenner or Jenner & Rudge? It makes a difference.”

  “The idea man always goes first.”

  Bunny poked her head into the hallway. “Doc, I’m done.”

  She slapped the film up onto the viewing box, and Rudge, his cousin, and Jenner gathered in front of it.

  Jenner tapped the upper premolar; the tight white shadow of a small screw spiked into the bone of the jaw. “There we go.”

  “What you got, Jenner?”

  “This pedestrian from up near Bel Arbre.”

  “So what’s his mouth saying?”

  “He’s telling us he’s not just any pedestrian from Bel Arbre. And that his dental work is much too good for a migrant worker.”

  Rudge said, “Highway’s going to love that!”

  Reggie said, “So he’s not ID’d yet, doc?”

  Jenner shook his head. “No. He will be, though—this is the kind of kid people look for…”

  CHAPTER 52

  Bunny was suturing the body closed when Highway Patrol showed up. She led the two troopers to the back area, where Jenner was laying out the decedent’s clothes to be photographed. He recognized Cooper and Martin from the hallways; Cooper was the stocky fireplug, Martin blond and etiolated. Neither looked delighted to be summoned to the morgue.

  Jenner said, “Thanks for coming down—I have a couple of questions about the investigation, and there’s something you need to see.”

  Cooper looked at Jenner with a concerned expression and said, “You okay, doc? You look kind of tired.”

  Jenner shook his head, slightly confused. “No, I feel fine.”

  “Late night? Because you look kind of pale.”

  “Not really.”

  Jenner walked toward the body; behind his back, Cooper winked at Martin. “Oh, okay, good. So what do you think? Intox’d? Unlucky? Both?”

  “There’s a few strange things. First off, this guy is no migrant worker. High-quality dental work, hands that have never seen a day’s work, no tan, no foreskin—I don’t think he’s from around here.”

  Martin looked up from his notebook and said, “Any tattoos or identifying marks?”

  Jenner shook his head. “His head’s in good shape, so once we have a tentative it’ll be an easy photo ID. There’s a scalp laceration, but the skull isn’t fractured, and there’s no brain trauma or intracranial bleeding. In fact, the rest of him isn’t too bad either. The impact busted his arm and leg, but from his injuries I’d say he wasn’t so much hit as run over…”

  Co
oper said, “Well, the kid driving the SUV swears he didn’t see him—says they felt a bump then the car suddenly skids out. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Did the driver touch the victim? Approach him, stand over him or anything? Was the driver injured?”

  “He says he didn’t. He went over to the body, but says he didn’t touch it. And nope, no injuries on the driver—they basically just skidded to a stop, they didn’t hit anything else.” He glanced at Martin writing away. “Why do you ask?”

  “Did the victim say anything? Was he moving?”

  Cooper shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t say anything, wasn’t really moving. He was making noise, moaning, though.”

  “Well, if he was alive after the impact, he was alive before it.” Jenner shook his head.

  He looked at the body on the table again. “Did they notice anything else while they were waiting for EMS?”

  Cooper said, “Not really. Just moaning. And drooling—they said he was just laying there moaning and drooling.”

  “Drooling?” Jenner shrugged. “I don’t know what that’s about.” Probably some weird effect of the head injury.

  He glanced over at the X-ray again, at the immaculate fillings and the perfectly executed implant.

  “This isn’t adding up, sergeant. You’ve got a guy who’s lying on the road, alive, hit by a car. His injuries are bad enough to eventually kill him, I guess, but I can’t understand why he died so quickly—according to EMS, he died in the ambulance minutes after being hit. I’ve seen people die from shock and pain from tissue damage, but he’s young and healthy, so…It’s just…weird.”

  He looked at the clothing on the table in front of him. The shirt, cut open by the paramedics during resuscitation, lay roughly reassembled, the cut margins held together with adhesive tape.

  “Okay.” Jenner shrugged. “There’s something important I want to show you.”

  He lifted the shirt and turned it to the cops. “The front of his shirt is soaked in what looks and smells a lot like red wine. And that’s fine—maybe he is just some poor bastard who has too much to drink and passes out on the road. But…”