Her hands touched the sheet, draping over the gurney’s edge. Inexplicably, she felt fear. As if, once she pulled back the thin cotton, she would destroy some essential boundary between the known and the unknown.
“Dead.” The two paramedics had followed her, curious, like vultures.
The sheet lifted and fell gracefully.
She sucked in air. She’d never seen anything like it.
The paramedics were wriggling, almost dancing with glee.
“Get out of here.”
“Told you. Told you. Weird as shit.”
She leaned forward, checking for a pulse, reflexes. The lungs were flat. Deflated, like a balloon. Pupils fixed.
“Get out of here. I need room to work.”
“You heard her.” A tall, slim man ducked inside the curtain.
“Parks,” he said, sliding a badge from his inside suit pocket.
He was young, good looking.
“Looks like a shriveled leprechaun,” said Parks.
The body was small—under five feet. Maybe fifty, sixty. “Alive, he couldn’t have been more than eighty-five, ninety pounds,” said Marie. “No obvious cause of death. Pale. Consistent with blood loss.”
“They said you were the right doctor for a weird death.”
“Who?”
“Detectives at the scene.”
Marie didn’t answer. A nursery rhyme floated through her mind: “This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my drum.” She sang it to Marie-Claire. “Knick-knack, paddy-wack, give the dog a bone.” Kind Dog would wag his tail. “This old man came rolling home.”
A small crowd of technicians, nurses gathered at the green, ringed curtains.
Marie pressed the man’s flesh—abdomen, thighs, arms. “There’s not much resilience. Dehydration. I don’t think there’s an ounce of blood left.”
The body wasn’t much more than a skeleton, brown flesh stretched over bone. Lying on the gurney—bones stiff, skin deflated—the body seemed a cruel joke. A papier-mâché or woodcut of a body. A made thing, not a dead man. This was the ill Agwé had tried to warn her about.
“Go on, get out of here.” Parks pushed back the gawking nurses and technicians, pulling the ringed curtains shut. He stood next to Marie.
“You should let him go,” said Parks.
“What?”
“Let him go.”
She’d been holding the man’s hand. Blunt fingers, scars on his hand, the tip of his index finger lost. Typical injuries for dock workers.
“Where was he found?” asked Marie.
“Wharf. Just as you see him here. No ID. No valuables.”
“Why didn’t you take him to the coroner’s office?”
“I was told I’d do better to bring him here. To you.”
“I’m supposed to help?”
“I’ve been told you are uniquely qualified.” His expression was curious. No sarcasm. Or hint of disdain. “Roach—our coroner—is on his way.”
“Let’s get him down to the morgue.” She settled the sheet over the corpse. “Help me?”
“Sure.” Parks pushed, she pulled the gurney. Turning a sharp corner, rolling past the nurses’ station, the sheet shifted, exposing the dead man’s face and torso.
“Did you see that?”
“Bloodsucker.”
“Anne Rice must’ve cast this one.”
“Lestat. That’s her vampire. Lestat did it.”
The nurses squealed.
Parks covered the leathery skull.
El shouted, “Back to work. Be respectful.”
Marie felt ancient. Most of the nurses were only a few years younger than she was. She understood their desire to make macabre jokes.
One of the nurses, a brunette with thick-lashed eyes, crossed herself for protection: “Father. Son. Holy Ghost.” Marie wondered if she was fearful of her, the dead man, or both?
The morgue was in the basement. Refrigeration units took up half the floor; the other half, held autopsy rooms and labs.
They rolled the blood-drained man to a woman sitting at a metal, traditional school desk, reading a paperback, James Lee Burke’s In the Electric Mist of the Confederate Dead, and popping gum.
“He needs refrigeration.”
“Actually, he doesn’t. It’s best to look at him fresh. Least, at first.” He grinned, making him seem even younger. “Forensics—a hobby.”
“You’re—?”
“Parks. Detective Daniel Parks. I thought I was making an impression.”
“No one ever calls you Dan.”
“Am I that obvious? Never liked diminutives.” He tapped his chest. “Detective Parks, just as you’re Doc—” He glanced at the tag on her right-breast pocket.
“Laveau,” she said.
“Yeah. They told me about you. Used to be Levant. Came from Chicago. Discovered you were a Laveau. Voodoo ancestors. Must’ve been strange.”
The technician, wide eyed, popped her gum.
“We’ll find an empty theater,” said Marie. This time she pushed the gurney, Parks pulled.
Parks was everything Reneaux hadn’t been. Clean cut, light brown hair; blue eyes, and suited in a gray cotton business suit, white shirt, polished black shoes. No jewelry anywhere, not even a wedding ring.
She missed Reneaux’s faded leather jacket, his hair in a ponytail, the cross stud in his left ear. She missed his velvet black skin.
“This one’s clear.” Parks pushed the door.
“Wait up.”
“That’s Roach,” said Parks.
“Why do you call him Roach?”
“Don’t ask,” said Roach, struggling to catch his breath. “Let’s look at this baby.” He pulled back the sheet and whistled.
Parks flipped open a spiral notepad. He and Reneaux, maybe all cops, had that in common. Lines filled with ink and lead markings.
Roach circled the body.
Marie shivered. The theater was cold. Concrete floor with drainage depressions for blood, bodily fluids. Steel examining table. A portable tray with gleaming tools to cut, dissect, crack chest cavities, drill skulls, spread abdominal walls. There was a metal sink on the right. A scale. The human heart weighed twelve ounces. Brain matter, fourteen. Liver, three pounds. She’d learned this in anatomy. But she’d never liked cadavers—“stiffs.” She preferred living tissue; plastic, colored layers of body diagrams; cast models with pretend skin peeled back, cut open; or a computer simulation.
“Let’s have a better look at him,” said Roach, snapping on latex gloves.
Rigor mortis had settled in like an unwelcome cousin. Arms were shrinking inward; legs, contracting, curling into a fetal position. The body seemed more like a marionette, strings cut, collapsed into an improbable, impossible position. Everything about the fixed joints, the bloodless limbs, seemed inhuman.
“Time of death?”
“Hand me that thermometer, Doc.” Roach sliced through flesh, into the liver. And inserted the thermometer. “Time of death. Maybe sometime before midnight—last night. It’s hard to tell. Not normal to take a reading from a bloodless liver. Body is unnaturally cold. Bodies rot in New Orleans’s heat. Stomach-content analysis might tell us more.”
Marie swallowed. She’d been at the jazz club. Was this man dying when Agwé appeared?
“I still don’t understand why you brought the body here,” she said. “You’ve got your own facilities.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Roach, bent over, almost sniffing the dead man’s body, circling him, inspecting skin and bones.
“Call it a hunch,” said Parks. “What’re you doing, Roach?”
“Checking the neck.”
“Dracula’s not to blame.”
“Relax. Just checking.”
A fly was trapped in the morgue. It buzzed, landing on the dead man’s hair.
“Have you ever seen anything like this, Dr. Laveau?” Roach’s eyes blinked behind his round glasses.
“No. The body has eight pints of b
lood. To become bloodless is scientifically impossible without some gaping wound, a throat slashed, or artery cut.”
“No cuts here. No blood on his clothes.
“Exactly. Free from trauma except for blood loss.”
“Fascinating.”
The fly buzzed off.
“So we agree,” said Parks, standing beside Marie. “This is a remarkable case.”
She could smell Parks’s aftershave. Too sweet for such a disciplined, no-nonsense man. She focused on the body.
Roach chuckled, gleeful. “My real name is William Deheny. One of New Orleans’s Irish. You do voodoo stuff?”
“Leave it, Roach.”
“Priests do hocus-pocus, too. All that incense. Holy water. Come on—wine into blood?”
“Roach,” warned Parks.
“Sure, right. He looks like he’s ready to be mummified. In all my born days, never seen such a thing. You?”
“No.” Marie decided she liked Roach, round, and irreverent. Parks, staring intently, made her feel like a freak show.
Roach took a knife and sliced open the abdomen. The rib spreader showed tissue-paper lungs, dried sinews, collapsed arteries and veins.
Marie murmured: “Bad-luck man. Never got a break. No shoes, only calloused feet. These black marks mean his toes were infected. His pants and jacket are too small, secondhand. Whatever he did, he didn’t do well. All his life, he couldn’t do anything well. Not even when he tried.” She’d seen this man’s type often enough. A migrant trying to get by.
“He threatened someone,” said Parks.
“Maybe,” said Marie, not eager to let the statement rest.
“What did he do that didn’t deserve a beating, a knife to the groin, or a bullet at the base of his skull?” asked Roach. “How could he threaten an enemy so much, they’d drain every drop of his blood?”
Marie exhaled. What was she missing? She squeezed her fingers into gloves, then ran her hands over the body. His skin felt like paper, ready to crumble. She caressed his right hand. Missing finger. Scarred. She turned his palm over. “Look. His wrist—”
“Puncture marks.”
“Yes. Blood drained here.”
“Impossible.”
“No, I’m right.”
The man’s spirit sat up, nodding.
Marie stumbled backward.
“You okay, Doc?”
She looked at Parks, startled. His voice sounded like Reneaux’s.
The dead man’s spirit was perched, like an elf, on his own chest.
Inhale, exhale. She blinked. “He’s still there.”
“Who?”
“The dead man.”
“’Course he is,” said Roach. “I’ve cut the shit out of him.”
“No, I mean, his ghost.”
“Where?” Roach dropped his knife.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Parks.
“In the body cavity. The chest.” The dead man opened his mouth and howled.
Marie covered her ears. “Stop. Stop.”
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Parks.
“Make it stop.”
Roach sliced the air, over the chest.
Silence.
“Is he gone?” asked Roach. “Did I kill him?”
“You can’t kill a dead man,” said Parks.
Marie clutched the dead man’s wrist. The wounds were circular, small, reddish brown. “Blood could be siphoned here. Kill a man. This is what Agwé was warning me about.”
Roach made the sign of the cross.
“You mean you had a warning about a possible murder? Why didn’t you call the police?”
“And say what? Premonition?”
“You said it was a man named Agwé.”
“I said, ‘Agwé,’ Detective Parks. Not a man. A spirit god. Rules the oceans and seas.”
“Jesus. Mary. Joseph,” said Roach.
“You’re joking.”
“You came to me, Detective.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Doc. Detectives told me about you.”
“But you didn’t believe them? Didn’t believe there was a crazy conjure woman with second sight, hexing, doing ju-ju.” She waved her hand. “No. Don’t answer.”
“I believe,” said Roach, nervously looking around. “He . . . the ghost . . . still here?”
Roach was typical of white New Orleanians’, irreligious until spooked.
Marie stroked the dead man’s cheek. “No, he’s gone.”
Parks checked his notes. “ ‘Never got a break,’ you said. How do you know?”
“I can sense things.”
“Like you can see things? Things others can’t see?”
“Now I hear the sarcasm, Detective. I thought you were more open-minded.”
“It’s ’cause he’s a northerner.”
“Shut up, Roach.”
“It’s true. Northerners don’t believe in anything.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Religious hocus-pocus. Voodoo.”
“I believe,” said Roach, stubbornly. “She saw a ghost.”
“She says she saw a ghost. Isn’t that right?”
Marie was studying the dead man’s eyes. They were glassy. Not only blood, but all moisture had been drained from his body.
How could a man with no major arteries cut be drained of blood? More important: Why would he be?
Marie rechecked his limbs, behind his knees. His ankles. Parks and Roach were right behind her. She could feel their breaths. Smell the sweat on Roach, the aftershave on Parks.
The little man was looking at her, too. Woebegone, as if she could resurrect him. Reanimate life.
Marie felt as if time were collapsing, two worlds—living and dead—were merging. The spiritual intruding on her medical world.
She looked at the dead man’s ghost. A small, hard-driving, workingman. A face that looked forever mournful. A wharf rat. A man who would take bribes, try and influence what cargos got dumped first, hide cargo—human or otherwise—that needed to be forgotten.
“Definitely a violent death,” she said hoarsely.
“How do you know?” asked Parks.
“Otherwise his spirit would be gone.”
“You saying he’s back?” Roach pulled a flask from his trouser pocket, forgetting to take off his exam gloves.
Parks whispered in her ear. “Show me.”
She turned her head; their faces, close. His blues eyes staring into her brown.
“Diagonally across. The other side of the body. Touch.”
Parks extended his hand. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Wait.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be cold?”
“Wait.”
“I feel—I feel—”
“What?” shouted Roach.
Parks withdrew his hand. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” She’d watched his face. Seen the slight widening of his eyes. The twitch in his jaw.
“Let’s close up the body.”
“Sure,” said Roach. “Is he watching?”
“Yes.” The ghost was holding his dead self’s hand. She thought it best not to tell Roach that the ghost was right across from him.
“I was a fool,” said Parks. “Complete idiot to have the paramedics bring the body here. Anyone could see he was dead. No question. Should’ve gone to the city morgue.”
“Then we wouldn’t know about the ghost,” said Roach.
“We still don’t know anything. All we’ve got is Doc’s word. I don’t think it would hold up in a court of law. Right, Doc? They’d revoke your license.”
“You brought him to me.”
“A mistake, Doc. Police officers’ practical joke. I bit. Hook, line, and sinker. There’s nothing here, Doc. Just a body. A murder victim. No ghosts, Doc. There aren’t ghosts. Just in fairy tales.” Parks’s face was flushed.
“Hamlet,” murmured Roach.
“Ghosts don’t exist. Hear me, Doc? Murder. Clear and simple. You won’t believe what I’ve
seen. A million ways to die. There aren’t any ghosts. If I’d felt something, I would’ve told you. Logic and evidence. Just like a doc.”
Both Marie and Roach stared at Parks.
Roach shrugged. “ ‘He doth protest too much.’ ”
“Doc. Logic and evidence.” Parks was calmer now. “Nothing else, Doc.” His hair had swept forward onto his brow.
“Did you know Detective Reneaux?” she asked.
“Good cop,” said Roach.
“Not to speak of,” said Parks. “I’m new to the force. Heard about him. How he died. Multiple gunshots.”
Marie swallowed. “Yes. He suffered.” She tore off her gloves. “He called me ‘Doc’ because he knew I hated it. His voice had the same southern lilt yours just had.”
“A kid from Jersey doesn’t speak southern.”
“Right.” She stretched her fingers to caress, tuck back his hair, then withdrew. Fair skin. Blue eyes. Parks wasn’t her black, Egypt lover man. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” said Parks.
“I hear things. Voices.”
“Trick of memory. You miss him.”
“Parks can make a girl forget,” said Roach. “He’s the department Don Juan. I’d be, if I didn’t have a spare tire.”
“Shut up, Roach.”
“You shut up. I’m senior coroner.”
“I’m case detective.”
“You sound like children.”
Roach laughed.
Parks grimaced, then his face went blank—once again he was the cool, collected officer. “Sorry if we bothered you. Won’t happen again.”
“It will.”
“You predicting murder? Something you’re not telling me? Maybe you’re an accomplice? Maybe somebody else is already murdered?”
“I help people,” she nearly shouted. “Heal. Never hurt.” She was trembling with rage.
The ghost’s arms were wrapped about his chest, his body rocking.
“Definitely a violent death.” Marie started walking.
“Aw, shit,” said Parks. “Make me a believer. Explain this death to me.”
Marie kept walking. She left the morgue, faking calm at seeing ghosts, at hearing Reneaux’s voice coming out of a white man’s mouth.
She needed for Roach to cut, dice, slice in the city’s morgue. Needed for Parks to solve his own damn crime.
She passed the gum-popping girl. Punched the elevator. The doors opened, then closed. The ghost was in the elevator.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 3
