Death and Douglas

by J. W. Ocker

  Lowell let out a low whistle. “S does not stand for murder.”

  Once enough of the wax had been scraped away, there was no mistaking the sinuous letter that had been cut into the face of the man by his killer and stitched together by his embalmer.

  “What do you think this means, Low? It’s not a different killer, is it?”

  “I don’t think so, but what do I know? Maybe it’s the same killer, and he’s spelling something.”

  “I don’t know too many words that start with ms.”

  “Maybe we haven’t found the other letters. Or maybe the killer’s dyslexic.”

  “Yeah.” Douglas said, but he barely registered his friend’s words. Something else had caught his attention, which was saying a lot since Douglas was standing over a dead body. The windows in the basement room were small, set close to the ceiling. Outside, the horizontal panes of glass were at ground level. There wasn’t much to see through them at that moment—just night and grass that needed mowing. But Douglas thought he saw some of that night shift faintly, some of that grass move slightly. As he stared, he slowly moved the flashlight in an underhand arc across the floor and up the wall. Right before the circle of light hit the window, a flurry of motion outside made him call out loud enough that it almost penetrated the two floors to his parents’ bedroom on the opposite side of the house.

  “What’s the matter?” Lowell turned around fast. “Did you see something?”

  It took Douglas a few seconds to work up the saliva to answer. “Yes, outside the window. I saw something move outside the window.”

  Lowell stared at the small, black rectangle. Nothing stirred.

  “Think it was Eddie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s give this guy his cheek back, and get the hockey sticks out of here.”

  SEPTEMBER 21

  WEDNESDAY

  Douglas had never met him while he was alive. Now, in death, he had seen him three times in less than twenty-four hours. In the morgue last night, in the nightmares that followed, and now in the chapel for the funeral service. He’d only found out his name by glancing at a program: Marvin Brinsfield. Marvin, the murder victim.

  The Mortimer Family Funeral Home chapel was officially called the Hammond Mortimer Memorial Chapel. It took up the part of the house that had once been a detached carriage house and was purposefully a simple affair. Plain wooden benches with blue cushions, a thin metal lectern at the front, and tall windows that arched at the top. All easily customizable to suit whichever religious rites needed to be suited.

  It was six o’clock in the evening and the funeral wasn’t scheduled to start for another hour, but Douglas had to pay his respects to the dead early. Soon, he would have to leave the coffin-side contemplation to the actual mourners. Marvin was currently reposed in front of the lectern in a cedar coffin with a soft red interior. His hair had been combed since Douglas had last seen him, and the layer of mortician’s wax on his cheek somehow looked even better in the soft light of the chapel than when he had applied it by flashlight in the dark morgue the night before.

  Of course, as Douglas stood again above the prostrate form of the murder victim, he wasn’t so much paying his respects as he was thinking of the ragged S currently hidden on the deceased’s cheek. Douglas had been thinking about it all day at school, and that inevitably made him think of the dark figure at the window. It seemed that his mind only went to bad places these days.

  Beside him, a hand reached out and rested on the edge of the coffin as a smell of leather and formaldehyde entered his nostrils. The hand had a thick coat of hair on its back and knuckles, and its middle finger ended abruptly in a smooth nub at the first knuckle.

  “Hi, Eddie.”

  “Nice tie.” It was red with golden rectangles and sort of clashed with his gold and green name tag.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good work, right? It’s harder to make up young people. Older folks, they can look fine dead. Most of them look dead when they’re alive, anyway. Younger ones, it’s harder to do.”

  “Yeah, he looks good. You always do great work.”

  “Thanks. Although,” Eddie paused for a few seconds, “I don’t always have to do that work twice, you know.”

  A chill ran down Douglas’s body, as if he’d been suddenly pushed into the morgue refrigerator downstairs. His stare remained on the cheek of the murdered man. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I came in this morning to finish up Marvin, here, and discovered that somebody had undone some of my carefully crafted facial work and then reapplied their own.”

  For a few seconds, Douglas thought about trying to keep up the charade. “How’d you know it was me?” he finally asked.

  “Because you did a pretty good job. Plus, you’re the only one it could have been. I briefly, briefly thought that maybe the police wanted another look at the scar and your father had accommodated them. Heck, it wouldn’t have surprised me with all the confusion that went on with Mrs. Laurent’s corpse. But your father would have asked me to cover it again, not tried to do it himself.”

  “Sorry. We had to see the letter.”

  “We. The police chief’s boy, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I guess that’s how you knew about the letters in the first place. A friend in the know. Heck, you probably know more about the murders than I do.”

  “Not really. Low apparently knows just enough to get me in trouble.”

  “Ha. It’s good to have a friend like that. Just don’t be that friend.”

  “Are you going to tell Dad what I did?”

  Eddie ran his hand through his mess of curls. “Nah. Not if this is the only time.”

  “Thanks.” Douglas was pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t tell on him, even if it did happen again. “Oh, you left a glass out, by the way. I poured it down the sink in case Dad came down and saw it. Hope it wasn’t the expensive stuff.”

  Eddie looked around the room to make sure ear shot was clear. “Never is. But thanks,” he said. “It was a rough day.”

  Douglas barely mumbled a reply. He was trying to decide whether to ask the question that had been hiding behind the rest of his conversation with Eddie. He almost didn’t, but Eddie turning to go seemed to trip something inside of him. “Hey … you didn’t happen to come back last night after you left?”

  Eddie’s raised eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Huh? Last night? No way. A midnight monster movie was on. Two buses full of cadavers couldn’t have pulled me away from that. Spook yourself?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “That’s not like you. But the morgue at midnight can do that to a person. That’s why I suggest you never sneak down there so late again. Also, because your father will kill you, and even with my talents, I’m not so sure I could make you look pretty enough for your funeral after he’s done with you.”

  Douglas lingered a few more moments over Marvin. He didn’t really want to leave the coffin. It was almost as if as long as he could see the body—as long as it wasn’t put into a hole with a piece of granite at its head—the murder wasn’t complete. Marvin was still here.

  The buzz of the attendees pulled Douglas back. He had hung out too long with the dead. He turned to assume his position at the door and almost ran right into a tall woman in glasses and a green dress with large flowers that seemed to want to be on a different dress or a different woman—the woman from Mr. Stauffer’s funeral.

  “What is your name?” The voice drifted above his head as the woman hovered over him like a guillotine. She had a weird little hat made of netting and black canvas pinned to the too-tight spirals of her brown hair.

  “Douglas.”

  “Douglas what?”

  “Douglas Mortimer.”

  “Mortimer as in Mortimer Family Funeral Home?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You live here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That seems unwholesome for a boy your age.”<
br />
  “I don’t know.” The woman didn’t seem ready to get out of his way. Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, Doug, your dad wanted me to tell you he needs help with the refreshments.”

  “Thanks. Sorry, ma’am. Gotta go.”

  As soon as the two boys were far enough past the woman, Lowell snorted. “Coffee-drinker.”

  “Thanks for that. Hope she doesn’t realize that there are no refreshments at this service.”

  “Eh, who cares. Who was she?”

  “I don’t know. She kept asking me questions. Said that living here was unwholesome for a boy my age. Not sure what she meant by that.” Douglas squinted in thought.

  “File it with the other ‘who cares’ topics.” Lowell’s hair looked like he had barely walked within fifteen feet of the nearest comb, and his shirt needed ironing. And replacing. Douglas couldn’t blame him. After the night’s scare, they’d both decided it was too risky for Lowell to head home right away, so he’d crashed on Douglas’s floor for a few hours before sneaking out at first light when it felt safer … or at least more dangerous for his father to catch him than a killer.

  “I checked online at school. Couldn’t find any words that started with an M and S. Lowell punctuated the statement with a yawn large enough to crack his jawbone.

  Douglas returned the reflex. He’d managed a relatively untroubled nap after school, but still felt the effects of last night’s adventure.

  “Maybe it’s an abbreviation.”

  “Yeah, there are a bunch of those—Master of Science, Mississippi, multiple sclerosis. It’s also a title somewhere between Miss and Mrs. Nothing that really makes sense to me, though. It could be from another language, too.”

  “Yeah. Well, here. Help me hand out programs.”

  Once the service was underway, Lowell found a seat and assumed a position that could hide his heavy eyelids. Perched on a folding chair at the back of the chapel, Douglas thought that maybe he had lost a battle with his own sleepiness and was dreaming the service. Everything seemed weird.

  At the podium, Reverend Ahlgrim was eulogizing Marvin, but the O’s in his speech seemed deflated. Douglas’s parents, each standing in a back corner, seemed to be fidgeting beyond what they usually tolerated in the name of funeral decorum. Marvin’s parents were in the front row, neither grieving audibly, each stuck in a wave of shock that wouldn’t break for probably a few more days. Every once in a while, the woman in the flower print dress and tiny black hat turned around and looked at Douglas.

  There was something unwholesome about this whole situation.

  SEPTEMBER 24

  SATURDAY

  Douglas leaned on the narrow sill of his bedroom window, immersing his head in the cool night. It was past midnight, just barely September 24, and just barely autumn. During the day, the season was announcing itself with the glorious colors of dying foliage. At night, it was proclaiming its presence through chill breezes, subdued owl hoots, and the quiet scraping of tree limbs.

  Douglas nervously twisted an old-fashioned silver-handled cane in his hands. He was about to go out into that dark night. And he wasn’t quite sure why.

  Lowell had called him that morning. It had been three days since the funeral of Marvin, the murder victim.

  “Let’s sneak out to the cemetery tonight.” Lowell was barely intelligible through bites of his breakfast cereal and blaring of a cartoon in the background.

  “What?”

  “The cemetery. Tonight. Sneak. Us.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know if we ever need a reason to sneak out to the cemetery, but in this case, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Last time we did that, Cowlmouth got a murderer. I don’t think I want any more news from you.”

  “Oh, but this is some news.”

  “Did your dad catch him?”

  “Nope. But there’s something new about the killer.” Lowell clanged his spoon against his bowl in time to a commercial on the television. “Something nobody knows yet except the police and me. Something that’s pretty important.”

  “What is it?” Douglas was still uncomfortable with how excited Lowell was over the murders.

  “Tonight. At the cemetery.”

  “No way. Not with that creep still out there.”

  “We’re perfectly safe tonight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’ll find out. Tonight. At the cemetery.”

  The conversation went on like that for another few minutes, until Douglas finally promised to meet Lowell.

  As he peered out his bedroom window, Douglas was confident that Lowell wasn’t lying about their safety. Douglas didn’t think Lowell had ever lied to him, but that might mean that his friend was simply a great liar. Still, he’d stake his life on the fact that Lowell would never intentionally deceive him. I guess I’m about to do that now, Douglas thought. Of course, Lowell could’ve been plain wrong about his information.

  That’s why he was holding an old man’s cane. The long shaft was made of dark oak, and was topped by a long flourish of silver cross-etched into a satisfying grip. Or a satisfying club-end, as that was how Douglas intended on using the cane tonight. Of all the midnight trips to the graveyard he’d taken in his life, this was the first time he felt he had to arm himself. The cane had belonged to a dead man. Probably still did. It was supposed to have been buried with one of the bodies at the funeral home a few years back, but at the last minute the widow of the deceased had decided she really wanted him to look like he was sleeping and asked them to change out his suit and favorite cane for a pair of pajamas. She even had them remove his glasses. She had never come back to claim his effects. The cane eventually ended up magpie-like in Douglas’s room, where it leaned in a corner quietly predicting that Douglas would live to an age old enough to use it. The cane had become as much a comfort as a weapon.

  Douglas was at his side window, the one that overlooked the parking lot. The one that was best for sneaking. With his head leaning slightly outside, as it was now, he could get a pretty good view of the front of the property, all the way to the dogwoods that lined both sides of the street and the large, old houses that hid behind them on the far side. Right now, though, he was gazing at the parking lot, which currently stabled the two vehicles that made up the Mortimer Family Funeral Home fleet along with Christopher’s red jalopy. All three cars were in the appropriate spaces, each marked with a RESERVED sign. That meant everyone was home.

  Douglas hoped there wouldn’t be a removal call tonight. It was late, but people died at all hours, so there was always a chance that Christopher or his father would be up and preparing to pick up a body.

  Lowell had been strangely specific about what time they were supposed to meet: 12:30 on the dot. It was just about that time now. Douglas spent a few more minutes summoning the courage to clamber down the outside of the house to the ground. His courage wasn’t listening to him, though, remaining stubbornly hidden.

  Normally, Lowell and Douglas met at the cemetery on their sneaks. Tonight, though, they’d agreed to meet outside Douglas’s house and walk over together. Actually, agreed wasn’t really accurate. Douglas had forced Lowell to meet him at his house as part of his terms. Regardless of Lowell’s inside information, Douglas didn’t want to walk to the cemetery by himself at night. These days, he seemed to see the shadow of the monster everywhere he looked: down alleyways; in closets; in empty classrooms …

  Or right there.

  A dark form was lurking across the street behind the dogwoods. Douglas thought for a second that it might be Lowell, but that wasn’t the direction of his friend’s house. And the figure was too tall. Douglas gripped the cane tighter.

  “Doug.” The single word made his heart squeeze down into a solid lump inside his rib cage.

  Douglas didn’t move until he heard his name repeated. He saw Lowell standing there with his hands cupped around his mouth. Douglas looked again at the line of trees across the street, b
ut there was nothing there but the slender strips of trunk spaced evenly like bars on a zoo cage. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen, but he sure didn’t want Lowell to keep whisper-shouting his name.

  Grabbing the rope ladder that his parents had nailed to his sill for fire emergencies, and carefully unrolling it down the side of the house, he shinnied down to meet Lowell, who was dressed in black sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, with a black knitted cap covering the messy golden halo of his hair. It was perfect camouflage for the night … except that on his back was a bright green backpack with cartoon frogs all over it.

  “It’s my kid brother’s. The strap on mine broke this afternoon.”

  “You going to use that Monday at school?”

  “No way. Just tonight when I’ll be with someone I can easily beat up if he makes fun of it.”

  Douglas laughed quietly and reached up for the knot in his tie, only to drop his hand when it came up against naked Adam’s apple. Ties weren’t sneaking attire. Like Lowell, he had on a dark sweatshirt, although he had settled on blue jeans and had a dark jacket to ward off the chill. He didn’t need a cap. Douglas’ dark head of hair melted into the night as if that’s where it’d come from in the first place. The three strands of stiff hair angled across his forehead made it look like the darkness was running down his face.

  His laughter stopped suddenly when he caught sight of the line of dogwood trees again; they seemed more ominous to him now that he was at ground level.

  “Hey, do you see anything over there?” He nodded toward the trees.

  “Trees, darkness, street lamp. Lots of stuff.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, I guess not. Spooked myself while I was waiting for you.”

  “Man, I told you, we’re safe tonight.” Lowell eyed the cane in Douglas’s hands, but said nothing. Douglas saw the taped hilt of a bat sticking through the top of Lowell’s backpack. His friend had come similarly prepared. “Plus, you live in a funeral home. I thought that made you immune to being spooked. It’s like your superpower, or something.”