by Liliana Hart
“Christ, Jaye. You actually talked to him about it?” Jack put the gun away in an evidence box, and then put his hands on his hips as he paced back and forth beside the truck. He stopped and glared at me. “Do you have a death wish?”
I narrowed my eyes and turned to face him. “Like I said before, I was in a public place. And no one else was listening. Now do you want me to tell you what he said, or are you going to bitch some more?”
“It’s a good thing I love you,” he said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
Panic swarmed through my body like angry bees, and I looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Cut it out, Jack. You’re just trying to stir up trouble.”
“You do that perfectly fine on your own. I was just stating a fact. One which obviously makes you nervous. That’s okay. I figure if I keep saying it, you’ll eventually believe me.”
“Can we please get back to the dead body?”
“By all means,” he said, waving a hand towards me. “What bothered you during this brief period of bad judgment where you felt it was a good idea to question George about his tattoo?”
The growl erupted before I could control it, and I had to close my eyes and count to ten before I could speak.
“George kept saying, They,” I said. “That if we kept digging, they’d come for us. That if someone tried to leave the organization, they’d taunt you. As if he knew from experience. But the way he kept saying they made me think he wasn’t a part of it any longer.”
“Well, he’s certainly not now,” Jack said, rubbing his hand over the short length of his hair in what I knew to be a gesture of frustration. “What we have to figure out is who saw you and George talking. Someone knew what was happening, and they acted quickly.”
“The man in the white Cadillac?” I asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone else at the auto shop. Maybe George had a partner.”
I went around the other side of the truck and took a deep breath before opening the door. This side of George looked nothing like the man I’d seen this morning. The entry hole of a bullet wound was nice and neat, but it had to come out somewhere. And a .38 wasn’t the kind of gun to leave a pretty exit wound. The whole right side of his face was gone.
I blanked my mind to the carnage and smell, and started gathering brain matter and tissue from the seats and windows. I felt Jack’s hand squeeze my shoulder for comfort just before I climbed inside and got a better look. It was a godawful job.
“George left the garage about ten o’clock,” I said. “And he’s still warm, so he had time to make a stop or two before they caught up to him.”
I reached back and Jack handed me the thermometer from my bag without me having to ask for it. I ran George’s temp just to make sure, and then I pulled back his eyelid and studied the surface of the eyeball. “Eyes are just starting to cloud over. The killer cut it close. Lewis could’ve witnessed the whole thing if he’d been a few minutes sooner. Between the flaccidity of the body, his temp, and the eyes, I’d say George has been dead just over an hour.”
“No chance of self-termination?” Jack asked.
“No. It’s definitely homicide.” I got out of the truck and sucked in a huge breath of fresh air.
“I guess it’s my turn,” he said. “This is the one part of the job I didn’t miss when I moved from the city back to Bloody Mary.” He started his search in the glove box. “Insurance papers and a hundred bucks in cash.” He bagged it all and then ran his hands under the passenger seat. He then crawled inside and did the same beneath the driver’s side. Jack pulled out another gun, and I held out the evidence bag for him this time. There was no way to go about the process of collecting evidence neatly.
“Another .38,” Jack said. “This one will be registered to George.” He moved back out of the truck and popped the lever to lower the passenger seat so he could reach into the back. “A .22 rifle back here and a tool box. Nothing out of the ordinary around this area. We’ll impound it and do a more thorough search, but on the surface it looks pretty clean. I’ll head over with the team and start the search through his house.”
We were both covered in things I didn’t care to think about. Even with the coveralls, I’d be hitting the showers the first chance I got. I called out to the officers who had drawn the short straw to pack up the body. “Let’s get him loaded up and back to the funeral home.”
Jack and I stepped back a few feet and let them go about the messy task.
“You going to tell his parents?” I asked.
George’s parents and grandparents both still lived in Bloody Mary, and if Jack didn’t get over there soon, they’d hear the news of their son’s death from someone else.
Jack winced and said, “Yeah, I’ll swing by there first. I’ll bet you twenty someone has already spilled the news.”
“That’s a sucker’s bet. And I’m no sucker.”
“I’m so proud.” He slapped me on the back and then headed to his cruiser. “I’ll be by later for the autopsy results,” he said, snapping off his gloves and stripping out of his coveralls. He tossed everything in a yellow plastic hazardous waste bag and locked it back in the trunk.
“It’s going to be a few hours,” I called out. “I still have to pick up Mrs. Perry.” I discarded my own coveralls and gloves. “She’s been on ice at the hospital morgue a while. It’s going to be hell rubbing out the rigor.”
“10-4, Kemo Sabe. See you tonight.”
***
I put in a call to Vaughn after I’d deposited George Murphy in my refrigeration unit, and it went directly to voicemail. I left a quick message telling him to get back in touch, and then went to deal with Mrs. Perry at the morgue.
By the time I made it back to the funeral home, Mrs. Perry was tucked comfortably next to Reverend Oglesby, and her daughter was drinking hot tea in my office. Mrs. Perry had been ninety-six years old at the time of her death, so her daughter wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, but she’d made the decisions for her mother’s interment with an efficient decisiveness I had to admire. We were done with the paperwork within half an hour, and I was left alone with my bodies, a full pot of coffee, and a hefty check for services. I tried calling Vaughn one more time, but it went to voicemail again, so I sent him a text.
Call me ASAP.
It was going on five o’clock by the time I started preparing Mrs. Perry’s body. It was cold down in the lab, and I shivered as I donned a white surgical gown and blue gloves. I pulled her out of the refrigeration unit and got her transferred over to the special table I used for embalming with no problems. Mrs. Perry had shrunken with age, and she looked almost childlike under the white sheet I’d placed over her, but when I pulled it back there was nothing but the frail remains of a ninety-six year old woman—sagging skin and liver spots included.
I spritzed the body with disinfectant and wiped her down. The quiet hum of the ventilator was starting to get to me, so I went and turned on the radio. I figured the dead had an eternity to listen to Bach or harp song, so I cranked Soundgarden and went back to my work.
There are a lot of steps that go into preparing a body so it can be seen by friends and family. Death causes all sorts of abnormalities to occur—especially with the eyelids and joints and mouth. Most people don’t know that I have to staple a person’s gums together to keep the mouth closed. They probably don’t want to know. I did quick work with the staple gun and stuffed Mrs. Perry’s mouth with cotton before stepping back to check my work.
I’d gotten much faster at embalming over the last two years. Even being gone the last few months hadn’t taken away the skill. I mixed the embalming chemicals together, and the smell that made Jack heave filled the air. I’d have to take a shower—another shower—before I met with him again. It was a smell that clung to everything like thick syrup. It’s the reason I always used lemon soap. The acid cut through the layers.
I sliced open the skin above Mrs. Perry’s clavicle and again at the neck and hunted
for the carotid artery so I could tie it off and start the embalming process. It was messy work, preparing the dead for burial, but everything went smoothly and the body drained and filled as it was supposed to, the proper fluids filling the wells built into each side of the table.
Embalming someone isn’t a terribly long process, so I let the machine run its course, and then I sewed her back up and slathered her in lotion so her skin wouldn’t be dry when it was time to put on makeup. I rolled her back into the refrigeration unit and pulled out George Murphy.
I changed my gown and gloves, and then went over to refresh my coffee cup. The stacks of boxes I’d brought in from the Suburban taunted me from the corner of the room. I needed to burn them. But part of me knew I couldn’t do that until I’d been through every scrap of paper and evidence in those boxes. I had a right to know exactly who my parents had been. And I had a right to give myself some kind of closure, even if it was finding out things I didn’t particularly want to know.
I cut off George’s clothes and went through all his pockets, documenting the contents as I went. It was all very routine, but then I came to his front right pocket and I froze as I pulled out a gold wedding band. My job required me to compartmentalize the things I saw in my job—to put away the atrocities and the carnage and focus only on the job. But something inside me broke as I held that small ring of precious metal in the palm of my hand.
George had kept that symbol with him always, even after his wife had left him for someone else and died as she’d made her escape. It was a heartbreaking reminder of the frailty of human life, and that the person laying in front of me had been real—with real thoughts and emotions—and at the end, real suffering.
I carefully placed the gold band in a small plastic baggie and put it with the rest of his things to give to his family, and then I turned back to the body to start the examination.
I got him cleaned up and started my external examination, documenting everything I came across, including the tattoo on his tricep. Three-point crown. Not five. I finished and ran him through x-rays, not expecting to find anything, but not expecting is what always led to surprises.
“What the hell?”
I saw what looked like crumpled paper in his trachea, so I grabbed my forceps and adjusted the light. I opened his mouth carefully and tilted back his head and I could barely see the corner of what I’d seen on the x-rays. I used the forceps and gently reached in to pull it out.
I took it to the counter and opened it up. It was a photograph, slightly faded and a little worse for wear, but I recognized Murphy’s Auto Shop. There was a smattering of people standing in front of the bays—some were mechanics—but it was mostly local men. The auto shop had always been a gathering place, and I didn’t see anything incriminating or suspect in the photo. It looked like any other day at that particular spot. Nothing in Bloody Mary really changed. I had the proof in my hand.
I grabbed an evidence bag and logged and dated the information on the outside before placing the photo inside. It wasn’t until then that I noticed Frank Greenbaum and Jesse Fife in the photo. It didn’t explain anything really. It just meant the photo was eight to ten years old, since Frank and Jesse had both passed on—both of natural causes—some time back. I’d been away at college when Frank had died, but I’d been back home for the Christmas holidays when Jesse had gone, so I’d had to help my parents with his interment. I looked closely at all the others in the photograph, but didn’t see anyone else who made me think there was anything out of the ordinary happening.
The rest of George’s body didn’t give me any more clues to his murder, and the autopsy didn’t take nearly as long as normal since most of his brain was missing. His tox screen came back negative, and there were no abnormalities internally that I could find. Gunshot to the head was official COD, and there was no amount of putty in the world that would make George presentable for an open coffin. It was a little sad to think George would probably be going into the plot next to the one we’d dug for his wife only a few months before.
I put George away and then went to use the shower in the bathroom attached to my office. I scrubbed and washed my hair twice, and I didn’t get any whiffs of embalming fluid when I got out and dried off. I grabbed the extra pair of clean clothes I kept inside the office closet, and yanked on jeans and a long-sleeved black Henley. I set my boots out on the side porch to air out, and grabbed my tennis shoes instead.
I tried calling Jack to let him know about the photograph, but it went directly to voicemail. I had no idea where he was, but I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him to come to me. I needed to get out. Seeing those boxes in the lab had ideas forming in my head, and I knew if I stayed at the funeral home, I’d be ripping into them to read what was on the inside. I’d already seen some of it. I just wasn’t sure it was the right time to look at the rest. Maybe I was just a coward.
I checked my phone for the twentieth time in ten minutes and saw I had no messages, either from Vaughn or from Jack, so I grabbed the photograph and my bag and headed for the Suburban. I knew exactly what I had to do and where I was going. It was past time I faced my demons. Maybe once I did I could finally find peace.
Chapter Fourteen
The darkness was coming later and later in the day as spring neared, and today of all days, I was thankful for it. The clouds had grown gray and angry while I’d been cooped up with George and Mrs. Perry, and they roiled dangerously even as thunder rumbled in the distance.
My fingers tightened on the wheel at the crossroads of Queen Mary and Heresy, but I pushed ahead and turned left on the rutted path. The inside of the Suburban seemed to be getting smaller and smaller the closer I got, so I rolled down the windows for some fresh air. The smell of the water from the Potomac was strong, especially with a storm rolling in, and the wind had picked up so the trees arced towards the ground and my hair whipped around my face.
I hadn’t realized I’d arrived until I saw the line of trees at the dead end just past the turn into my driveway. I stopped there in the middle of the road and stared at the house in disbelief. Jack had been busy while I’d been away.
The old Victorian had been built in the early part of the twentieth century, and when I’d left Bloody Mary four months ago it had looked its age. But now, everything looked right. At least on the surface. The roof had been repaired, the rotted wood had been replaced and repainted a bright white, and the sagging porch had been rebuilt and painted a dark navy to match the new shutters. There were no broken windows. And I knew the inside would be fixed as well.
But beneath it all, it was still the same old house.
I stumbled from the Suburban and walked up the graveled drive. Someone had cleared out the weeds and overgrown brush, but I hardly noticed. I’d left my coat in the car, and the wind was vicious as it cut through my shirt to the skin. But I just wrapped my arms around myself and stared.
I’d grown up in the house. A house that had held nothing but lies and deceit. A house that had already been drenched in blood before my own brush with death a few months before. And I knew no matter how many coats of paint now covered those walls, the blood would always be there. I thought of Brody—of the man I’d wanted to love. But I’d been incapable of forcing the emotion. I thought of my parents who’d made me that way.
The first drops of rain started to fall at the same time I heard the tires of another car approaching. A car door slammed and footsteps crunched across the gravel, but I didn’t turn around. I knew it was Jack, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the house. And I couldn’t bear to face him when I told him what needed to be said. The footsteps stilled behind me, as if he were unsure how to proceed.
“You were right, you know,” I said. “I didn’t love him—Brody, I mean. It makes his death somehow worse, doesn’t it?”
“Jaye—”
“No, let me get this out. I need to tell you why I don’t think I’m capable of loving. Why you’re wasting your time.” I licked my lips, but my mouth was co
mpletely dry, so it didn’t help. “What I feel for you is stronger than what I’ve ever felt for anyone, but I need you to try and understand why you may not find what you’re looking for with me.”
The rain was coming faster and my shivers more violent, and Jack moved closer so he could hear me over the howling wind.
“Then tell me,” he said, his voice gentle despite the turbulence I felt inside my own body.
“My parents—” I gulped in a deep breath. “I didn’t tell you everything about my parents. You know the basics. You know the FBI accused them of smuggling stolen goods and worse things into the country. They used the dock in the little cove behind the house. I had no idea the magnitude of their business when I was growing up. Even when I was an adult.”
“I found some things while I was up at the cabin. Documents. The FBI never found the bolt hole they’d built behind the house. It’s built like a storm shelter into the ground about a hundred feet back, but it’s covered with leaves and brush. Dad showed me where it was.” I stopped feeling the cold the longer I spoke. “It was like a game, he’d said. A family secret. Just in case I ever needed to hide.”
I felt a jacket come around my shoulders and knew Jack had given me his, but he didn’t say anything. He just waited for me to get it all out.
“There are so many papers. Documents recording body after body that they used to hide smuggled goods. Most of them were military, shipped back from overseas for a proper burial. My parents had a government contract, so bodies in the state of Virginia automatically went to them for preparation before interment at Arlington Memorial. It made it more convenient for cover. Then they’d pretend to bury them and ship them off to another location for the buyer. Jesus, Jack. What do I do? How do I tell all those families their loved ones aren’t really buried where they’re supposed to be?”
