He picks up the sandwich, hands it to his wife. It’s all she can do to take a massive bite out of it. He yanks his hands back fast.
“God, Wendy,” he barks. “You almost bit my finger off.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles through a mouth filled with Wonder Bread and meat. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
The bologna sandwich is devoured in a mere three bites. Wendy’s cheeks are overstuffed. For a brief hopeful moment, he believes she might choke. But she washes it down with the Mountain Dew she ingests through a straw. The big two-liter bottle is attached to the bed frame via a special oversized cup holder.
Disgusted, he finishes his beer, heads back into the kitchen, quickly goes through the mail. There’s a letter from New York State Unemployment Insurance telling him his request for further payments have been denied now that he has found gainful employment. He smiles at the news because he knows the three PO Boxes he leases at the mall post office will also contain letters from the same address, only these letters will all contain approvals. He should stop by and pick the letters up, but there’s no real rush since the money is automatically deposited into the three separate accounts he set up under the false identities and false social security numbers he managed to scam.
He tosses the letter into the trash, then goes under the sink for a pair of rubber gloves, sanitary wipes, a brand-new disposable puppy training pad, and a white Glad trash bag. Heading back into the living room he proceeds to clean Wendy.
“Maybe she’s right,” he whispers to himself while working. “Maybe it is time to bring in a nurse.”
When Wendy is clean and provided with two more bologna sandwiches and a bag of Lays potato chips to munch on while he’s gone, he washes his hands and face in the sink. Pulling out his cell phone, he texts Peg.
Thinking of you. Can’t wait to finally meet you.
He waits for a response. When it comes, he feels his heart lift right out of his chest.
Can’t wait either . . . XO
“I’m gonna get so fucking laid,” he sings to himself, happily.
Replacing the cell phone, he once again steps back into the living room. Wendy’s right hand is buried in the potato chip bag, and already, one of the sandwiches is gone.
“If you really loved me you wouldn’t be feeding me this stuff, Pumpkin. I mean it.”
“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t eat it.” He grins. “But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? Soon your left major artery will clog up, and your heart will go pop, and then we’ll find a piano box to bury you in, and I will be free.”
She stops chewing for a moment. “Just go,” she says, a single tear running down her round, beefy face.
“I’m gonna be late tonight, darling,” he says, going for the back door. “Don’t wait up.”
Detective Miller and I stand shoulder to shoulder and stare at the empty bench.
“Wedding cakes,” he says after a time.
I look at him over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Miller. Must be my tricky ear, but I thought you just said wedding cakes.”
“Yup, I did. I did indeed say wedding cakes.”
We both refocus on the bench. The yellow tape looks ridiculously out of place. Like a painter ran out of “Wet Paint” tape and had no choice but to borrow some of this yellow stuff from a cop walking his beat. Pardon me . . . his or her beat.
He goes to the bench, stands directly beside it, makes an about-face on his heels. He then takes an exaggerated step forward, and another, and another, until he is all the way back down to the road.
Turning back around, he says, “Thirty feet.”
“The distance?” I say. “So, wedding cakes and distance. You’re losing me, Miller.”
He’s nodding his head while he heads back up onto the lawn. He’s whispering to himself, oblivious to my comments, making me realize that this is the man-at-work Detective Miller I’m presently witnessing. The master Sherlock. He stops walking when he’s beside me.
“Why do bakers who bake wedding cakes always drive big cargo vans with tall ceilings?” he poses.
“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Riddle me this?’ before asking me that question?”
“What’s your answer?”
I mull it over for a second or two since it’s not something I’ve ever before considered. But the answer comes to me soon enough.
“Because wedding cakes are tall and fragile, and works of art that cost thousands of dollars.”
“To some young couples who are about to be married, the cake is priceless. Something to be admired and cherished for its moment-in-time perfection.”
“Until they cut into it later and shove it into one another’s faces.”
“Exactly,” he says.
He extends his right arm, points at the road.
“Our killer . . . our embalmer . . . drives a van. It’s got a tall ceiling, and it’s an extended cab. That way it can house the victim in a seated position.”
It occurs to me then.
“They’ve all been discovered in a seated position,” I say.
“Yes, which means, he must take special care in their transportation. He even takes great care to do their hair so that it looks like it could be blowing in the wind. Something like that would be as precious and fragile as the frosting on a wedding cake. It’s not to be marred in any way prior to the delivery.”
“Indulge me for a sec, Mr. Holmes,” I say. “His embalmed victims are not only a result of his working knowledge of embalming—the skills he learned at his trade prior to being laid off or fired—they have become his precious works of art. They are not to be spoiled in any way.”
“That’s exactly the feedback I’m looking for, Jobz. You’re cooking with gas now, helping me establish motivation for this prick.” Now he points in the opposite direction at the bench. “He didn’t carry or drag that young woman’s body up this slight incline to the bench. He must have carted her body on some kind of device, like a wheeled dolly, so that she remained in perfect, stiff condition. Hair-blowing-in-the-wind included. When he got her up there, he simply set her in place. Probably did it under the cover of darkness too, using flashlights or maybe the van lights or both.”
“I’m guessing this guy really liked his job before he was let go.”
“Or, he was really good at it. Maybe too good at it.”
“How can you be too good at your job, Miller?”
“You tell me, Jobz. Haven’t you ever heard of someone putting in for unemployment because they got canned for being better at their job than their boss?”
I nod. “Yeah, it happens for sure. The inferior becomes a threat to the superior. It becomes an either me or him situation.”
“Exactly. Could be what we have on our hands.”
“So where do we go from here?” I say.
He looks at his wrist watch.
“We’re close to the hospital,” he says. “I want to get your opinion on something.”
“Opinion on what exactly, Miller?”
“On the work of art which was discovered seated on this bench by an early morning jogger.”
My mother always told me it’s good to experience new things in life. And my entering into the bowels of the Albany Medical Center to access its morgue is most definitely a new experience. Not one I had written down at the top of my bucket list, but a new experience all the same.
The corridor is long and dimly lit with wall-mounted light fixtures protected by metal cages, not all that different from an industrial facility where the danger of breaking bulbs is a constant occurrence. The walls are covered in thick, rectangular, off-white tiles like down in the subways of Manhattan. Overhead, the ceiling is exposed revealing an intricate spaghetti of aluminum, metal, and PVC plastic conduits that snake their way along the length of the corridor before abruptly curving at a ninety degree angle in order to feed an adjoining office or room.
The sound is not silence. There is an uneasy quietness about
the place that is almost disturbing. There’s the ping and clang of the heating and ventilating system diffusers opening and closing, and the hum of the electrical ballasts that feed the lighting fixtures, and the occasional bang of metal against metal that originates from somewhere further up in the corridor. But for the most part, this is a place that not only houses the dead, it possesses the feel of a mausoleum.
It also stinks.
The odor is not foul, so much as sickening. A cross between rotten eggs, alcohol, and disinfectant. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the cheeseburger and fries I stuffed down for lunch as the acid indigestion forces a squirt of bile up to my esophagus and mouth. I swallow it all back down and pray to God that this little field trip is quick.
Miller walks a few steps ahead of me. He’s obviously a regular down here because his gate is confident and quick like he owns the joint. He turns once while we’re making our way along the corridor.
“You okay, Jobz?” he says. “You ever been down inside one of these places before? Maybe when you were a cop?”
Naturally, I don’t want to give him the impression that I feel like barfing all over the painted concrete floor.
“Nope,” I say. “I’m a virgin.”
“You’re in for a real treat,” Miller says.
Is he kidding me? My gut tells me that his idea of a treat is to shock me straight. Inhaling a deep breath, not through my nostrils, but my mouth, I prepare myself for anything.
When we come to a set of wooden double doors, Miller hooks a severe left, reaches out with his hand, pushes one of the doors open, and enters. I follow him and immediately see death laid out on a metal table. It’s the body of a blonde young woman.
A thin man emerges from an office on our left.
“Miller,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Georgie,” Miller says, cocking his head over his shoulder in the direction of the corpse. “You ever see anything like this? Three dead by forced embalming?”
The man shakes his head, shoves both hands into the pockets on his white lab coat, pulls out a pair of baby blue latex gloves.
“Not in recent memory, man,” he says in a raspy, former smoker’s voice. “You ask me, once is enough. Two times is one too many. But three, three is a pattern, you catch my drift. I’m assuming we have us an official serial killer on our hands.”
Miller nods.
“Let me introduce you to my new associate,” he says. “Steve Jobz, meet Dr. Georgie Phillips. Albany Med’s Chief of Pathology Emeritus.”
He reaches out with a gloved hand. I take the hand in mine, shake it. It feels like plastic and as dead as the woman laid out on her back on the stainless-steel table.
“Pleasure,” I say.
The man is maybe an inch taller than me, but thinner. Not in-shape thinner like a marathoner of Miller’s caliber, but instead, like a rock star who’s been on the road far too long. He’s got thick, long, gray hair tied back tightly in a ponytail, and a close but gruff matching gray beard that covers a narrow, concave-cheeked face. His nose is semi-hooked and his eyes, deep blue. He’s wearing worn blue jeans and for footwear, not plastic booties or white sneakers, but instead, a pair of old cowboy boots. Brown leather cowboy boots to be precise.
“Expecting something totally different, weren’t you?” Phillips says not without a smile and a wink in the direction of Detective Miller. “Maybe somebody with a white face and a jagged scar across his forehead. Like Dr. Frankenstein.” He says Frankenstein like Frankenshteeeeen.
“Truth be told,” I say, “I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve seen pathologists on TV. Quincy. But that’s it.”
“Quincy,” Phillips says. “You’re dating yourself, dude.”
“Hulu,” I say. “I watch Rockford Files too. And Mannix.”
Phillips nods, assumes a quizzical expression. I know what the next words coming out of his mouth are before he utters them.
“Jobz,” he says. “Like—”
“Yes, sir,” I say before he has the chance to say it.
“Quite the coincidence,” he giggles and pulls something from the chest pocket on his lab coat.
At first, I think it’s a cigarette. But when he also pulls out a Bic lighter, fires it up, I discover it’s a joint. As in marijuana.
“Hope the name at least gets you laid now and then,” he adds, speaking through a mouth filled with smoke.
When he exhales a blue cloud, Miller turns to me.
“Georgie suffers from skin cancer. It can be painful. So, he smokes the medicinal pot to combat it.”
Georgie holds the joint out for me.
“You wanna hit? Promise I won’t tell anyone.”
For a quick second, I consider taking him up on his offer. I might not be that kid who hangs out in his buddy’s basement, spinning “Smoke on the Water” and sucking bong-hits anymore, but I still partake now and again. Sometimes it makes the day seem brighter. But then I see that look in Miller’s eyes and decide against it. I’m still in the process of making a first impression, I suppose.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say. “Tends to make me paranoid.”
“Speaking of paranoid,” he says. “You wanna take a gander at the girl?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Miller says. “I’m trying to nail down a motive for this mortician son of a bitch. Something to fill in the blanks, help chalk up a lead on him. Maybe prevent number four from happening.”
Georgie douses the joint by licking the pad of his index finger, touching the burning end. You can make out the hiss of the suddenly dying flame. When it’s sufficiently extinguished, he shoves it back in his pocket. Stepping over to the steel table, he sets his fingers on the woman’s left arm.
“Took me a while to get her straightened out,” he says. “She was pretty stiff by the time she got to me, which tells me she hasn’t been all that dead for all that long, you get my drift. And that embalming shit doesn’t help a whole lot. Had to drain her again . . . pump it out of her. But she eventually lost enough rigidity to make a full autopsy possible.”
I’m looking at her, but I’m trying not to focus in on anything particular, or risk losing my cheeseburger all over the floor. But here’s the quick of it: The skin on her scalp has been sliced from ear to ear, and a section of her skull sawed away. The skin has been pulled down over her forehead. Her brain is missing, leaving only a dark empty space. Set above the table is a weight scale like you find in the produce section of the Price Chopper Supermarket. It’s got a brain inside of it. A pink, veiny, fleshy wet brain with clear slime all over it.
“You okay, Jobz?” Miller says. “’Cause you’re looking a little pale right about now.”
Miller pulls a notepad from out of his jacket pocket, flips it open, pulls a pen from the breast pocket of his shirt, clicks the back end of it into action.
I shift my eyes from the brain to the woman’s chest, which has been opened wide with a kind of T-like incision, the cross beam of the T running from shoulder to shoulder, with the long vertical beam of the T running from sternum to pelvis.
I hear something being unwound, and when I turn in the direction of the noise, I can see that Dr. Phillips is opening up a can of anchovies soaked in their own oils. He pulls one of the greasy fish out, bites into it, the fish guts and blood oozing out of the now cut in half anchovy.
The floor beneath me shifts. My stomach flips, and the entirety of my lunch comes up.
“Bucket!” I bark through a mouthful of puke.
Miller grabs the blue medical waste bucket from beside the table, shoves it in front of my feet, I bend over and heave into it. When I open my eyes, I can see that it’s filled with bloody gloves, cloth, and tissues, and I heave once more.
“Sorry, man,” Phillips says. “My bad. That medical pot is strong stuff. Gives me the munchies something fierce.”
“Just . . . please . . . get rid of the fish.”
“Right on, Jobz.” He sets the tin of anchovies onto the stainless-steel coun
ter to the left of the table.
“You done puking, Jobz?” Miller says. “’Cause I have some questions and the day is getting short.”
Phillips soaks a paper towel in water from the counter sink, hands it to me. I wipe my face, nod in Miller’s direction.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Miller clears his throat.
“Okay, Georgie,” he says, “you know the drill. You have our victim’s vital info I assume.”
“Lisa Barrett,” he says. “Two Rs and two Ts, 43, lives in Troy. Presently unemployed. Am I right?”
Miller adds, “There were no personal items on her when the jogger discovered her. No cell phone, no wallet, no purse.”
“How’d you manage to get an ID so fast then?” Georgie asks.
“Take a photo of her face, cross reference it with the database of every major online dating site until we come up with a match. In this case, just like the past two cases, we managed to find matches on all the sites.”
Georgie shakes his head. “No such thing as privacy anymore.”
“Okay, now for the good stuff, Georgie,” Miller goes on. “Cause and mechanism of death.”
“Cause,” Georgie says. “Exsanguination.”
“Excuse me?” Miller says, brow furrowed, eyes half-mast.
“She bled out while her veins, capillaries, and arteries filled with highly toxic embalming fluid.”
“Painful?” Miller follows up.
“My guess is, it must feel as if your body is burning on fire from the inside out.”
The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller Page 6
