Peering inside the passenger side I see that the legs of the corpse closest to me—this one appears to be a woman—are pinned beneath the dashboard. The front grille of the car is crumpled against the trunk of a large oak tree. In the back of the SUV are several suitcases, and beside the body in the front seat, covered with blood and Lord knows what else, is a lockable briefcase. Behind the car I see a mowed-down trail leading back through the brush and trees, presumably the path the car took before it came to rest.
Arnie echoes my thoughts by saying, “They must have been really moving when they left the road to have made it this far into the woods.”
I nod in agreement and pluck another wipe from my container, feeling something tickle along my shoulder as I do. I idly scratch at the spot and watch as Arnie starts taking camera shots of the scene from a variety of angles. Three disinfectant wipes later, with my hands relatively clean, I don a pair of gloves and take in the condition of my scrubs, which are smeared down one side with the death goo. Remembering that Izzy will be coming to the scene, I take out my cell phone and try to call him, thinking I can ask him to bring me a change of scrubs. But my phone can’t find a signal. I snap it shut, grab another wipe, and attempt to remove the worst of the muck from my scrubs using that.
I feel another itch—this time on my chest—and something about it makes me pull at the front of my scrub top and look down inside. To my horror I see a handful of maggots slowly crawling their way across my torso and around my cleavage. Panicked, I try to reach in there and pluck them out but then I feel that same itchy sensation in the middle of my back and realize the little varmints are now in places I can’t reach. I do a jiggly jump-and-hop, hoping to knock them loose, but the itching only grows more intense. Suddenly I feel little itchies all over my body so I do the only sensible thing I can think of. Standing in the middle of the woods on a cold November morning in front of four men and two corpses, I strip off my scrubs and start swiping and swatting at myself like a full-blown detox in a lockdown room.
Chapter 16
“Get them off me! Get ’em off!” I yell, jumping around in the woods wearing nothing but my underwear. I’m brushing frantically at myself, my entire body suddenly alive with creepy crawling sensations. As soon as I’ve rid myself of the maggots I can see on the front of me, I crane my head around in an attempt to examine my back. I can’t see a thing, and just as I feel my panic rise to an explosive crescendo, a steadying hand settles on my shoulder.
Hurley’s breath is warm on my neck as he says, “What is it with you wanting to get naked all the time? Does it have something to do with that nipple incident you never told me about?” His fingers flick a couple of times on my back and then he turns me around and says, “There you go. They’re all gone, at least from the places I can see.”
He is grinning down at me suggestively, and after tearing my eyes from his face, I look around at the rest of the group to see if I’ve made as much of a spectacle of myself as I think. Apparently I have. Arnie is standing off to my right, mouth agape, his eyes riveted to my chest.
A cold breeze rustles the nearby trees, making my skin come alive with goose bumps, which only enhances the crawling sensation. I look down at my chest expecting to see more maggots crawling on me but the only bumps I see are in my bra. My nipples are protruding out from the cold, standing at attention like Madonna on steroids. What is it with me and nipples?
The two sheriff’s deputies have their hands clamped over their mouths, their bodies shaking with mirth. I’m about to give them The Look when I hear a distinctive click-and-whirl sound over near Arnie. I’m thinking he has used his camera to sneak off a couple of shots, but when I look in his direction I see that he’s still standing frozen and transfixed, a small string of drool hanging from one corner of his mouth. Some branches behind him flutter and I see a flash of movement.
I take a couple of steps closer and peer into the brush, quickly identifying the source of the noise. “Damn it, Alison, you might as well present yourself. I know you’re out there.”
The bushes rustle again and a sheepish-looking Alison steps out into the clearing.
Hurley shakes his head and sighs heavily. Then he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. “This is starting to feel like a habit,” he says. As I put the jacket on, he walks over to Alison and holds his hand out. “Alison, hon, you know better. Give it over.”
Hon? Since when did she move into hon position? Hun, perhaps, but hon?
Clearly the endearment isn’t lost on Alison since her guilty expression is fleetingly replaced with a smug one. Then she shakes her head at Hurley and pouts cutely. “No one gets my camera, Stevie, not even you.”
At the utterance of “Stevie” the two deputies both snigger but a death ray look from Hurley shuts them right up, making me a bit envious.
Hurley turns back to Alison and says, “You don’t have to give me the camera, just the film.”
“It’s digital,” Alison says with an unmistakable duh tone in her voice. “There is no film.”
My natural endowments put a definite strain on the buttons of Hurley’s jacket but I finally manage to get the majority of my chest under cover. As a result, Arnie snaps out of his coma and tunes in to the conversation.
“It’s all stored on a little memory card,” he tells Hurley. “Make her hand over the card.” Then his eyes grow huge as a thought hits him. “In fact, give it to me. She might have taken some valuable evidentiary shots. I should review it all to make sure there isn’t anything, um”—he pauses and his eyes briefly dart toward my chest before he looks back at Hurley—“anything critical on there.”
I whirl around and glare at Hurley. “If that memory card goes to anyone but me I swear I’ll sic my crazy-assed brother-in-law on all of you.”
The crowd grows silent. Everyone here knows that being the focus of Lucien’s attention is to risk public embarrassment and shame the likes of which most people have never imagined, much less experienced. The man is a master rumor monger and in a small town like this one, rumors spread faster than cold sores at an orgy.
“Give her the card,” Hurley says to Alison. “And then get your ass out of here. I could have you arrested for this, you know.”
I turn back and smile smugly at Alison, but she is clearly undaunted by Hurley’s threats. She bats her eyelashes at him and says in a breathless voice, “Ooh, does that mean handcuffs, Stevie?”
Hurley shoots her a thunderous look and she pouts again, removes the memory card from her camera, and tosses it to me. Her aim is a bit short and I have to bend and reach in order to catch it. As I do so, Hurley’s jacket rides up my backside and I hear him suck in his breath behind me. He leans forward and whispers, “I’ll give you twenty bucks to do that again.”
As I slip the memory card into one of the jacket’s pockets, I feel a blush spreading over my body, but it’s quickly forgotten when the bushes rustle again and Izzy steps into the clearing.
He pauses a moment to take in the scene. “Dare I ask?” he says, his gaze settling on me.
“I wouldn’t,” Arnie says.
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Hurley warns at the same time.
The two sheriff’s deputies just shake their heads.
Izzy nods. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”
Chapter 17
After cleaning my scrub pants off the best I can, I reluctantly put them back on. My top is a total loss however, so I keep Hurley’s jacket, which fortunately helps to cover my crotch vent. By the time I don a plastic gown over it all—better late than never—I feel like the Michelin Man. Finding a place to hook my voice recorder proves challenging, but after testing its ability to pick up what I’m saying from beneath the plastic gown, I end up sliding it down into my cleavage, much to the amusement of all the men.
The contents of a wallet and pocketbook we find in the car support Arnie’s suspicions about the victims’ identities, though it won’t be enough to establish a definite ID. For
the male victim, it will likely require a forensic dentist, but Izzy informs me that identifying the female might be easier since we find a pair of breast implants sitting in her lap. Implants all have serial numbers on them, allowing us to trace them back to the surgeon who used them, and from there, to the patient who received them.
A couple of hours later we have finally bagged what can be bagged, and tagged what can be tagged, including samples of all the maggots, flies, and other insects found on and around both bodies. The remains of the two bodies have been removed—a task made no easier by the degree of decomposition—and sealed up inside special body bags. One of the sheriff’s deputies who had been on site originally left to make arrangements for towing the car from its resting place back to a special garage. As a result, a four-wheel-drive, flatbed truck arrived ten minutes ago. Once we were sure the trail the Caddy had taken through the trees was thoroughly examined and photographed for evidence, the truck backed its way along the same path. The men who came with the truck are now winching the car into place and trying not to vomit.
It’s almost entertaining at this point to see the reactions of the newcomers since everyone else has become more or less immune to the odor. My own nose hasn’t so much as wrinkled for the past hour and a half.
Despite the temperature, which is a seasonable forty-nine degrees, I’m sweating like a pig beneath my many layers and can’t wait to get back to the office and into a shower, though at this point, regular body odor is the least of my worries. I strip off my outer suit and bag it to get some relief, but the outfit beneath still leaves something to be desired.
The task of getting all the evidence from the scene back to the office is our next challenge. Not only do we have to haul the two body bags and all the evidence we have obtained through the woods to our vehicles, there is the matter of the news gauntlet waiting back at the road. Given my current state of attire and the fact that I’ve made myself plenty newsworthy already today, I’m desperate to avoid anyone with a camera. And as I watch the tow truck guys do their thing, I have a brainstorm.
“Izzy, why don’t we load the evidence onto the flatbed of the tow truck along with the car and take it back to the office on that?”
Izzy shakes his head. “We need to ensure our chain of evidence.”
“Easy enough,” I counter. “I’ll ride with the truck and the evidence. In the meantime, you and Arnie can carry a few items back to the cars the way we came in and give the news crew that sound bite they’re so desperately seeking.”
Izzy considers the idea for a moment. “Maybe,” he says thoughtfully. “But how would we secure everything down on that flatbed?”
Damn, I hadn’t considered that. And I’m guessing the image of the ME’s office won’t be enhanced much by body bags flying off the back of the truck and onto the highway. I’m about to kiss my brilliant idea good-bye when Arnie saves the day.
“I’m pretty sure they have tarps they use to strap stuff down to the bed. Put everything under the tarp and it should be fine.”
Izzy nods approvingly and I feel hope spring once again in my chest—at least I pray it’s hope I’m feeling, and not another maggot.
Izzy says, “Let me run it by the truck driver,” and then he walks over to the tow truck’s head guy and starts talking and gesturing up a storm. The driver is frowning pretty hard, and just when I’m thinking it doesn’t look good, Izzy points to me. Suddenly the guy’s face splits into a broad, slightly lecherous grin and he nods vigorously.
A second later Izzy trots back over to us. “They’re willing to do it,” he says.
“What the hell did you promise them for payment?” I ask, watching as the head guy says something to the other two men and they all turn to stare at me.
“Just the usual,” Izzy says enigmatically.
I’m hardly reassured since we’ve never done this before and there is no “usual” established for this situation. I chew on my lip, debating my alternatives, and decide I’d rather spend half an hour squeezed into the cab of a tow truck with three sweaty, drooling men than have to face the news cameras again.
But then Hurley walks up to me and whispers low in my ear, sending a little tingle down my spine. “Those guys look a little rough. If you want me to ride with you, I will. I can leave my car out here and pick it up later.”
I look up at him, an action that carries a thrill all its own since there aren’t a lot of men who are taller than me, and flash him a grateful smile. “Thanks. That would be great.”
An hour later, we have everything loaded onto the truck except for a few evidence envelopes that Izzy and Arnie are carrying. The Caddy is secured and tarped at the front end of the flatbed and all the other evidence is tied down under a second tarp at the back.
A member of the truck crew approaches me, chewing on the large wad of “tobacky weed” I heard him borrow from his buddy. That’s how he worded it—“borrow,” like he was going to chew it and then give it back. He looks directly at my chest, smiles at me with a handful of brown stained teeth, and says, “You kin ride in the back seat with me.”
I look to Hurley for help but he’s wearing a cocky grin that tells me he’s enjoying my predicament far too much to intervene. Resigned, I climb into the back seat of the king cab, sandwiched in between Mr. Tobacky Weed and his supplier, while Hurley climbs into the front seat with the driver, a huge behemoth of a guy named Manny. We are about to take off when Mr. Tobacky Weed sniffs the air a few times and makes a face.
“Holy shit,” he says. “What on earth is that smell?” He sniffs the air a few more times and his nose eventually settles somewhere in the neighborhood of my cleavage. His eyes drift up toward my face with a look of disgust. “It’s her,” he says, rearing back. “Lord, lady, you smell worse than the rat what died under Bubba’s outhouse.”
Mr. Tobacky Weed’s supplier wrinkles his nose and rears back like he’s been slapped. “Man, you ain’t kidding,” he says, pinching his nose shut. He pushes open the little vent window beside him and sticks his face in the crack. “Aw, that’s bad. I don’t think I can take it, Manny.”
“Me neither,” Mr. Tobacky Weed says, opening his window vent and mimicking his partner. “Aw, geez,” he says, gagging. “I think I’m gonna ralph.”
Hurley turns around and looks at me with a sympathetic smile. “You are kind of ripe,” he says, making a face like he just tasted something rancid.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” I snap back. “It’s not like there’s a shower out here anywhere. I don’t see what I can do short of stripping naked and wiping myself down with the chemical cloths.”
All four men stare slack-jawed at me for a moment before Mr. Tobacky Weed breaks the trance. “I can’t ride with that smell,” he declares, taking a last, woeful look at my chest.
“Me either,” says his partner.
“Well, I have to ride somewhere,” I tell them. “I can’t leave my evidence.”
They all look at each other, temporarily dumbfounded. Then Mr. Tobacky Weed’s one mental light bulb turns on, sealing my fate.
Banned from the truck’s cab, I am forced to ride on the flatbed along with the car and the evidence. My ride isn’t exactly legal, but Hurley pretends not to notice, an act I vow to make him pay for.
I’ve never understood the appeal of convertibles. It sounds romantic—the wind in your hair, the sun on your shoulders, Mother Nature all around you—but the truth is, nature has nasty things like stinging, cold raindrops, and the wind can tie knots in your hair.
The flatbed of the tow truck is the convertible ride from hell and by the time we arrive back at the morgue I look like something the dog barfed up. Since Izzy and Arnie aren’t back yet I’m able to get into the office garage without any further camera incidents, but it also means I have to sit and wait for them to arrive to ensure the security of our evidence.
Hurley heads outside to make some phone calls—the morgue garage is a dead zone for signals as well as people—and the t
ow truck crew head down the street to the Nowhere Bar for a bite of lunch and a pint or ten of ale. I perch myself on the back end of the flatbed and start scraping chunks of God-knows-what out of my hair while dreaming of a long, hot, soapy shower.
The door opens and I get excited thinking my shower is imminent, but it’s only Hurley coming back from his phone calls. His presence causes an excitement all its own, but when I see him look at me and purse his lips to bite back a laugh, I figure now isn’t the best time for me to make a move.
“Christ, Winston, you certainly are a sight.” He holds his camera phone up and sights me through the viewer. “Can I snap a picture of you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, smiling sweetly. “Can I snap your family jewels?”
His phone clicks closed and disappears into his pocket. The garage door opens again and I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the van pulling in with Arnie behind the wheel. As he parks alongside the truck, I see Izzy in the front passenger seat, staring out his window at me with an expression of shocked disbelief. Once Arnie shuts the engine down, Izzy hesitates for a few seconds before slowly opening his door. But instead of getting out, he stares at me from the safety of the van’s confines like he expects me to spring on him and eat him alive.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asks. “Your hair looks like you stuck your finger in a light socket.”
I scowl at him and make a self-conscious swipe at my head. Before I can say anything, Hurley jumps in with an explanation. “The guys in the truck deemed her too rank to sit inside so they made her ride back on the flatbed.”
Izzy’s eyes grow wide and he gives me a cautiously sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Mattie. I know this has been a rotten day for you,” he says gently.
Hurley snorts and says, “Yeah, it stinks that you had to ride in the back.”
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