Here Comes the Corpse

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  I asked, “Why didn’t you call the cops or at least tell someone?”

  “A runaway reporting a crime? I figured I was safe hanging out in the crowd. Then I heard all kinds of people talking about a dead body in a washroom. I was scared. I didn’t know who killed him. They might think I did it, or maybe the killer would come back. When I left the hotel, I didn’t know what to do. I decided to come here.”

  “How’d you know where we lived?” Scott asked.

  “I got the address from Aunt Mary’s computer when we were there for Grandpa and Grandma’s wedding anniversary party. No one saw me copy it down. I knew she’d have it because she likes you guys.”

  The kid had heard the murder take place. He needed to talk to the cops. He could certainly eliminate the possibility of escape out the back way.

  “You’re going to have to talk to the police at some point,” I said. I was tempted to tell him that when I’d found Ethan, he was still alive, and that if they’d found him sooner, they might have been able to save him. I’d have to ask the authorities if that was true. Even though I didn’t like Donny, my suspicions would have to turn to certainty before I’d try to put that amount of guilt on the kid.

  Donny said, “I know I should have called. I guess you’re right. I don’t want to talk to the police.” At the moment I felt extremely uneasy about what the kid had told us. Many of his earlier answers seemed too facile or even rehearsed. The stuff about the murder seemed genuine. I wasn’t going to confront him just yet.

  We set him up in the guest room with a view to the west.

  After the kid was in bed, we returned to the kitchen. Standing against the Corian countertop, we discussed what to do next.

  6

  Scott said, “We should call his parents. Do we tell them about Donny’s connection to the murder?”

  I said, “I’d hate to give that kind of information to a parent over the phone. The kid probably should be the one to do that.”

  “If he doesn’t, we’d have to consider it. Do we tell the cops he probably heard the murderer?”

  “I don’t think we have much choice there. He can almost certainly eliminate one avenue of escape. His story means it is very likely that the killer was at the reception. Donny’s version might help keep me from being a suspect. After I found the body, emergency people showed up pretty fast. On the other hand, according to his story, he can’t accuse anybody.” Even though he was Scott’s nephew, I wanted to get the next question out in the open. “Could Donny have killed him?”

  Scott gazed at me for several moments, then said, “I sure as hell hope not.” He shook his head, sighed, and said, “Let’s get the parent call out of the way.”

  It was two in the morning. Scott found the number and dialed. He put the call on the speakerphone. It rang twice. A very alert, nonsleepy female voice answered.

  “Cynthia? It’s Scott, Hiram’s brother.”

  Silence.

  “Donny is here in Chicago. He’s safe.”

  “Thank God. We’ve been frantic.” She didn’t bother to cover the receiver as she gave the news to whoever else was in the room. The phone clunked several times, someone putting it down. Several moments later we heard weeping. The phone was picked up. A gruff male voice said, “You put him on the next plane home.”

  “Hiram,” Scott said, “I think maybe you should come and get him.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  Scott said, “He’s asleep. He said he didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “He’s my kid. He’ll do what I tell him.”

  “Yes, he’s your kid, but for the moment, he’s here.”

  Cynthia’s voice came back on the line. “We’ll come pick him up.”

  There was a deep-voiced squawk. Cynthia spoke firmly: “We’ll be on the first plane in the morning.” Seconds later we heard a dial tone.

  As we undressed for bed, I said, “I wonder if Donny was telling us the whole truth.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  That’s the problem with people such as Scott who are inherently truth-tellers. They are more likely to believe those who lie. Scott may pride himself on how good he is with little kids, but he’s not used to teenagers. He doesn’t see them daily. He hasn’t experienced up close their desperate need for secrecy combined with their wild desire for attention and affirmation. They passionately desire an identity and security. They are often ill equipped to conceal their needs or to articulate them intelligently. Their needs are always out there at the raw edges of reality. All of that is pretty normal. How far beyond the ordinary adolescent angst Donny had gone, I wasn’t sure yet. Something was amiss. Simple lies or depths of criminal complexity, I wasn’t sure.

  I said, “I just got a sense there was more to the story.”

  “He’s a good kid. I don’t think he’d lie. Which part sounded incomplete to you?”

  “For one, that part about abuse by your brother. You know him better than I, but when we were in Georgia, he didn’t strike me as abusive.” I did think of him as a bigoted redneck, but not a violent one. I didn’t think this was a tactful thing to say.

  Scott said, “Hiram puts on a macho, tough image, but he isn’t mean.”

  “I wonder if the kid is really gay.”

  “Why would a straight kid want to make that up?”

  “Maybe he thought that’s what we’d like to hear, and he figured saying that would make us be more sympathetic to him. I’m not saying I have definite answers here. I’m just saying I have doubts.”

  “I believe him.” Scott stated this as absolute fact. “I asked him some tough questions and he gave reasonable answers.”

  “I thought they were more like snarls.”

  “He’s a teenager. He’s had a rough time. What do you expect?”

  I backed off. I had no proof, and it was his nephew.

  Scott amended what he said. “I believe him for now. We’ll have to talk to his parents and get their side of things.”

  I agreed.

  In bed we caressed each other and snuggled close. He murmured, “This isn’t quite where I planned to be on our wedding night.”

  “Funny, this is exactly where I planned to be.” It was late and a horrible deed had impinged on an emotionally rough-edged day. I kissed him and we cuddled contentedly for a while. I wanted him close, but it didn’t seem like the right moment for mad passion. In a short while I felt his muscles relax. He usually falls asleep faster and sleeps longer and deeper than I. I held him until my arm fell asleep. I pulled it gently from under him and turned over on my back. I laced my fingers together, placed my hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling.

  For the moment I eliminated the murder from waking memory. I thought of our wedding day and our commitment and our love. I thought of how lucky I was to have found a man who loved me as much as I loved him, that I had found someone to share all of life’s little oddities. And I do love him. Deeply and completely and happily. No question, he was the one I wanted to spend my entire life with. I looked at the ring on my finger. This would be the first time I would be sleeping with it on. I could see his on his left hand.

  My thoughts took a maudlin turn for a while into usually unexpressed fears. I wondered how long we would be together. An accident on the freeway could end everything tomorrow, or we could live for fifty more years together. I wondered which of us would die first and how tough that would be for whichever of us was left. I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

  When we were kids, Ethan and I had vowed to each other that our relationship would never end. Silly promises of a couple of kids they might have been, but at the time they felt permanent and enduring. As a teenager I’d never confided such dreams to anyone else. Our breakup had felt like the 51 most horrible betrayal. Time had blurred my memories of those awful days. The hurt as a child combined with the more recent rebuff as an adult burned like the sting of an old memory that comes back unexpectedly. Vestiges of heartache remained. My relationship with
Scott, the reason and calm of adulthood, and the forgetfulness of years kept me from the soap opera tears those moments might otherwise merit.

  I had Scott to tell all my secret hopes and dreams to, and it felt very right. If they needed a picture of bliss for the dictionary, I was ready. I touched his brush-cut hair with the tips of my fingers, let them linger on the nape of his neck, on his left ear, the line of his jaw. I leaned over and whispered, “I love you.” I was in love with a man who loved me, and we had just had a day that had been near perfect, until ten minutes to seven.

  Finding a dead body at the wedding didn’t fall into the category of amusing anecdotes to tell the grandkids. I know that into every relationship a little rain must fall. This was more like a deluge. I had a brief view of the two of us walking hand in hand down a street with dead bodies flopping in our wake. I shuddered at the thought that the story of our lives might become more like a demented amateur sleuth’s than I preferred to imagine. Who would invite an amateur sleuth to town? They’re a crime wave waiting to happen and certifiable menaces to society. Here’s another tip: never invite Miss Marple or the rest of her cozy crowd to anything. When amateur sleuths show up, people die.

  I awoke an hour or so later. When we have houseguests, especially the first night they stay, I sleep poorly. It’s not that I expect them to cart off the crown jewels; after all, they are invited guests. It’s not as if I can hear them. Maybe it’s something primitive and instinctual. Someone’s in my territory. Or despite Scott’s assurances, maybe we had a killer sleeping down the hall. Or maybe I’m a neurotic moron and need to get a grip. Or maybe I was wakeful because of the excitement of the day and night we’d been through.

  At any rate, I was restless. I put on some white athletic socks, Jockey shorts, and a tatty old T-shirt that reached to midthigh. I stopped in the kitchen for a sip of diet soda. I heard a noise in the electronics room.

  Calling it an electronics room was not descriptive enough by half. If it was digital or made noise or produced the slightest electronic blip, even if it barely breathed technology, we owned it. Scott loved playing with all this junk. I enjoyed using it, but nowhere near as much as he.

  I stopped in the darkened doorway. Donny Carpenter was backlit by the myriad digital displays on the resting machines, four of which were now in the middle of the floor, unplugged and disconnected. Donny was in his stocking feet and boxer shorts. He was busily working on a fifth machine and quietly humming to himself. One of the computer monitors glowed. I distinctly remembered shutting down everything in this room after we’d showed it to Scott’s parents the day before. The monitor indicated the computer was turned to the search engine for the Internet.

  I leaned against the doorjamb and waited for Donny’s inevitable realization that he wasn’t alone. He turned with the receiver he’d been manhandling and walked to his pile of loot in the center of the room. Just before he added it to the stack, he looked in my direction. The electronic component in his hands thudded onto the gold, plush carpet. I heard several bits of electronic innards rattle.

  “Rearranging the furniture when you’re a guest something they teach in Georgia?” I asked. “How kind and thoughtful.”

  “Uh” was the first noise he made, then he switched to muttering. I caught the word Motherfucker.

  I pressed the button to turn the lights up. He didn’t meet my eyes. He didn’t gaze at my underwear-clad torso. Mostly he looked at the ground. Occasionally, he stood on the side of his feet. I said, “I suspect most of what you told us earlier wouldn’t stand up to a lot of scrutiny.”

  “I did run away.” Full teenage snarl.

  I sat down in a comfy, high-back swivel chair, draped a leg over the side, stretched out, and said, “So all the rest was lies?”

  He raised his voice. “I did hear the shouting in that bathroom at the hotel. I don’t have to put up with this shit!” He strode toward the door.

  I rose to my feet, glided to the portal, and stood in his way. I was several inches taller than he and at least twenty or thirty pounds heavier. I said, “I’m trying to decide if I care enough to take that snarl and shove it down your throat.”

  “My uncle won’t let you threaten me. I’ll tell him you did.”

  “We could race to tell him. If you don’t tattle, I certainly will. His problem is that despite the slings and arrows he’s endured, he still has a naive belief in the goodness of all mankind. I, however, have been a schoolteacher for far too many years. I can recognize a teenage lying sack of shit when I see one. I expressed my doubts to him earlier. He didn’t believe me.”

  “I’ll run away again. You can’t make me do anything. I can do anything I want.”

  I hate it when people disconnect from reality. I said, “What a stupid thing to say. Only moronic twits without a brain in their heads would say such a monumentally boneheaded thing. Where on this planet does anyone do whatever they want? You may be trying to say you will make all the decisions controlling your life, but there you would be wrong again.”

  “I don’t care what you say.”

  “Caring isn’t the problem. Your fatuous stupidity is.”

  “Fuck you”—delivered in a full-throated roar. No snarl when he was truly pissed.

  “I’ve got a question, several in fact.” I pointed to the monitor. “What were you looking for on the Internet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I can download the history and find out where you’ve been.”

  “Not if I went there when I finished and erased it.”

  I hate how kids know so much about computers. Even more I hated the triumphant tone in his voice. I asked, “How were you planning to get this stuff out of here and where were you taking it to?”

  Now I got a silence filled with oceans of defiance. His arms were folded across his chest. His jaw was set. The eyes were focused on the middle distance, a trick usually reserved for inhabitants of B-list British novels.

  I thought I’d try logical progression of thought. This doesn’t work often enough with your average recalcitrant teenager, but it’s better than torturing them painfully in a dark, dank dungeon, no matter how tempting this last alternative might be. I said, “I don’t understand how you think silence is going to help right now. You either did or did not think the whole thing through: coming here, lying, and ripping us off. I’m curious about your thought process.”

  No response.

  “Why didn’t you just run away somewhere closer to home, to a friend’s, why here?”

  Nothing.

  “It’s a little late to put everything back right now. Why don’t you go to bed, and we can resume our lack of discussion in the morning.” I paused at the doorway and looked back. “In case you’re planning to leave tonight without telling us, 55 be aware the doorman in the lobby is on duty twenty-four hours a day. The parking garage always has an attendant on the premises. As far as I’m concerned, you are free to leave. I’m just letting you know your departure without merchandise would be noted. With merchandise, you’d be stopped.” I didn’t wait for a reply. I wasn’t about to trust the little creep. I watched him leave.

  Almost everything about him made me uneasy. Not trusting him was one thing. There was something very not right about this kid. I returned to the computer that Donny had turned on and checked the Internet history. In fact, I couldn’t even find evidence that he’d gone on-line. The kid was either very good at covering his tracks, or he hadn’t had time to use the thing much. Then again, he could have just turned it on out of curiosity. Yeah, right. I believed that. He had to have a reason for turning it on. I doubted if he was ever going to tell me what it was.

  We had thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment in this room. We’d had security devices installed on all the exits to the penthouse and on rooms with valuable items such as this one. I set the electronic lock and watched the quarter-inchthick glass door glide shut. I called security, then sent the elevator to the ground floor. He’d be unable to recall it without the
key. He wasn’t getting out downstairs without us knowing. I set the alarm on the emergency exits to the stairs. Up here he couldn’t leave without breaking a window and jumping. With the kind of glass we had on this floor, he’d probably need a cannon to break it. He didn’t strike me as a jumper. A user, a taker, a manipulator—sure. Suicidal? I figured he was making that up, too.

  I crawled back into bed next to Scott. He stirred in his sleep. I lay close to him and shut my eyes.

  7

  The bright morning sun flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows brought with it a ringing phone. It was the doorman announcing my parents, my sister and her husband, and Ethan’s parents, Rachel and Perry Gahain. Scott was in the shower. I threw on jeans, white socks, tennis shoes, and a logoless sweatshirt. It was seven in the morning. We’d gone to bed at three. I’d confronted Donny around four. I called to Scott to tell him they were here. He said he’d hurry. There was no sign of Scott’s nephew as I unblocked the elevator. As I passed Donny’s room, I glanced in. He seemed to be sound asleep.

  I let the six of them in. If we had slept little, they had obviously slept less. Mr. and Mrs. Gahain’s eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles around them. They were still in the clothes they’d worn to the reception. We sat in the kitchen. I switched on the automatic coffeemaker and set it to brew. Several years ago we’d gotten the properly exotic brewer with the properly exotic packets filled with properly exotic and annoyingly perky coffee. I got out regular cream for my mom, the fake cream my dad likes, sugar, blue and pink diet-sugar packets (my mother likes to use one of each), and honey for Scott. I placed the tray in the middle of the breakfast nook. As we all filled our coffee cups, Scott entered the room.

  My mother said, “We’ve been up with the Gahains all night. We’ve been trying to make sense out of Ethan’s death. Of course, we can’t. The police talked to Rachel and Perry, but either the police didn’t know anything or wouldn’t tell them anything.”

  Mrs. Gahain said, “We need to understand why.”