Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6)

by Ray Flynt

  He emerged from his car, squinted in the late-afternoon sun, and walked toward the entrance. Brad mounted the steps to the porch where a rattan rug covered the floor and flower boxes filled with yellow and white mums topped the railing.

  A pudgy-faced young man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt answered the door. He held one of the freshly delivered floral baskets.

  “I’m Brad Frame. I spoke with Wes Taylor about an hour ago. He’s expecting me.”

  “Sure. Come on in.” The funeral director’s son, Brad guessed. The kid added, “Wait here.”

  Brad watched as the young man picked up the other floral basket, walked through an archway to his left, and disappeared past rows of neatly arranged folding chairs. The sweet smell of roses clung to the air. A vinyl accordion door to his right closed off what Brad surmised was another funeral chapel. As he stood waiting in the front hall, Brad found his breathing falling in sync with the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock.

  Sharon always said that funeral homes “creeped” her out. She wasn’t averse to dead bodies. He’d witnessed Sharon at a few autopsies when she elbowed her way next to the medical examiner for a better view. But Sharon bristled at the suggestion of visiting a funeral home. He knew she’d lost her mother at an early age and her dad not long afterward. For her, the sights and smells of a funeral home evoked too many tragic memories.

  While Brad visited Taylor’s, Sharon was prepping for her visit to Ruddigore’s. He hoped she could find out more about Nick’s altercation two weeks earlier with Skull Sanders and Jack Barkow. They’d compare notes the following morning.

  With Barkow as the lead detective on Haller’s case, Nick on the sidelines, and a client with Alzheimer’s, Brad faced multiple challenges. He knew he’d be limited in how much he’d be able to investigate Sterling Haller’s death. Given Grace’s mental state, maybe he didn’t even have a client, but he was determined to bring her justice.

  “This way.” The young man reappeared and motioned for Brad to follow him.

  They passed through a viewing room where an alcove held an empty bier surrounded by half a dozen floral tributes, including the newly-delivered bouquets now sitting on the floor. Brad suspected this was where Sterling Haller would be laid out. The kid led him through a set of double doors into a room filled with caskets of all types—plain oak, burnished bronze, and deep mahogany. Brad paused in front of the only open one, a gold-tinged metal container with a beige crepe liner. “Is this for Mr. Haller?” Brad asked. A tent card propped on the mattress carried the $3,795 price tag.

  The young man shrugged and muttered, “Don’t know.” Under the fluorescent light, the boy’s acne was more evident, along with his mussed red hair. Brad tried to guess his age. He had the verbal fluency of a high school sophomore, but unless his dad had let him skip school, Brad pegged him as eighteen and maybe a part-time community college student.

  The two of them pressed on toward the rear of the building and descended a short flight of stairs to a large garage where a hearse, a Lincoln Town Car, and a Ford Econoline were parked. The kid rapped on a door at the rear corner of the garage and shouted, “He’s here,” then wandered off to the front of the garage where he began hosing down a white van.

  A few seconds later the door opened. “Mr. Frame?” said a tall man dressed in blue scrubs, and a vinyl apron, and wearing glasses. “I’m Wes Taylor.” He peeled a latex glove from his right hand and offered a firm handshake. The mortician’s red hair, edged with gray at the temples, wasn’t as brilliant as his son’s. The man had a ruddy complexion and an empathetic smile. Taylor opened the door wide, and Brad followed him into what was clearly the embalming room.

  The room smelled of chemicals and perfume, but Brad grimaced at the additional odor of human decay. Sterling Haller’s body lay on a stainless steel embalming table; his bald head elevated on a rubber block. His arms were at his side and the torso partially covered with a sheet. The table sloped toward the foot end, which hovered over a utility sink.

  The room’s floor looked like terrazzo. White subway tile covered the walls. Along one wall were white cabinets with a variety of surgical instruments arranged on a granite countertop. The room felt chilly while the white color and cool fluorescent fixtures added to the nippy feel. A fan whirred in the exhaust hood above the table. Brad spotted a biohazard sign on the wall warning of skin irritation and cancer risk.

  Taylor must have observed Brad’s apprehension. “No need to worry,” he said in a soothing tone. “There aren’t any open containers.” Taylor removed his other latex glove and tossed both of them into a trash receptacle marked as hazardous waste.

  “As I told you over the phone,” Brad began, and handed Taylor one of his business cards, “I was contacted last week to help locate Mr. Haller who’d been missing for several days. Given the strange circumstances surrounding his death, I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. I haven’t met Grace Haller yet. She sent clothes over this morning.” Taylor pointed to a gray suit, white shirt, and a burgundy tie hanging from a hanger on a nearby rack. Brad suspected the pressed and well-matched ensemble was the work of Carol Forrester.

  “A representative of her bank made the funeral plans,” Taylor added, in a way that conveyed bankers arranging funerals was unusual. “We’ll have visitation tomorrow and services will be Thursday morning at Emmanuel United Methodist. I do hope Ms. Haller will be pleased with all the arrangements.”

  Grace Haller would be a satisfied customer, but Brad didn’t want to share the details of her mental state, so he smiled and nodded. “The police told me that Mr. Haller was already embalmed when they found his body.”

  “You could call it that.”

  “What would you call it?” Brad asked.

  “Truthfully? I’d call it a mess. My father started this business after World War II. Every once in a while we’ve had a body shipped here from out of state with less than professional standards in preparation. I’ve never seen such shoddy workmanship as this.” Taylor pointed toward Haller. “My son could do a better job, and he’s only worked with me a few times.”

  “I know a little about your business, Mr. Taylor. Could you tell me why you thought the embalming was a mess?”

  Wes Taylor moved to the right side of the embalming table and motioned for Brad to stand opposite him. Brad glanced at the floor and saw that Wes Taylor wore booties over his shoes. He noticed that the center of the table curved upward, and a raised edge would channel blood and fluids toward a drain hole positioned above the porcelain utility sink.

  Taylor pointed at the lower right side of Haller’s neck. “Take a look at this.”

  Brad saw an incision about five inches long above the collarbone to the right of the sternum. Brad noticed a separate incision from the autopsy and realized the medical examiner had examined the larynx for signs of possible strangulation.

  “The neck is one of several common access points for arterial embalming,” Taylor pressed his finger immediately below the scar. “The carotid artery and the jugular vein are located here beneath the surface. The carotid serves as the entry point for the embalming fluid while blood drains from the jugular. We’re trained to make a small incision to access the vessels, but this looks like the guy was trying to slash his throat. Then he sutured it shut. Badly.”

  “If he wasn’t a trained embalmer, is it possible that he had medical training?”

  “Hardly.” Taylor exhaled. “If a surgeon sewed you up like that you’d be scarred for life.”

  Brad stared at Sterling Haller’s grayish pallor. He didn’t think Haller looked much like his photograph. Although most of Haller’s head was bald, grayish brown stubble sprouted at the sides. Brad could see where incisions had been made at the base of the scalp during the autopsy. Taylor had done an artful job of disguising those scars with skin-colored wax.

  Brad nodded. “Anything else?”

  “I’m just getting started.” Taylor peered over the
top of his glasses. “He only did an arterial embalming and that wasn’t done properly.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you see how gray Mr. Haller’s skin looks?”

  “Yes. I noticed.”

  “Whoever did this used too concentrated an embalming solution.”

  “Too much formaldehyde?” Brad asked.

  “Formaldehyde is a gas. We use formalin, a solution that contains formaldehyde.” Taylor reached into a nearby cabinet and produced a bottle of pink-colored liquid. He handed it to Brad.

  Brad studied the label on the sixteen-ounce bottle and noted the contents described as a 10 percent buffered solution of formaldehyde, water, and methanol.

  “Depending on the circumstances,” Taylor explained, “formalin would be mixed with other chemicals, such as isopropyl alcohol and propylene glycol, dye, and water.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “Well, let’s say that we receive a body that has been dead for a day or two. We’d use a stronger solution to disinfect and preserve than would be necessary if we were picking up a person who had died at a hospital.”

  Brad returned the bottle of embalming fluid.

  “When using higher concentrations of formaldehyde solution,” Taylor continued, “we compensate for discoloration with the addition of bleach and dye. Whoever did this used a strong solution containing little or no dye, causing the gray color and a higher degree of rigidity in his features. He left Mr. Haller a mess.” Taylor frowned and shook his head. “I’ll need to use a lot of cosmetics to improve his coloring. I spent the last hour trying to achieve a more natural facial expression.”

  Brad didn’t know how natural Sterling Haller looked, but Taylor painted the picture of his murderer as an amateur embalmer. Finding the killer wouldn’t be as easy as cross-checking a list of the Philadelphia area’s licensed morticians.

  “Did you find any lacerations, contusions, or defensive wounds?”

  “None.”

  After several minutes of breathing the chemical-laced air, Brad’s mouth felt dry, and he cleared his throat. “Is it possible that an experienced embalmer tried to make his work look like a novice’s?”

  Taylor arched an eyebrow as if that were the craziest question he’d ever heard. Brad wished he hadn’t asked. In spite of Taylor’s assurances about no biohazard, he wondered if the chemicals were affecting his brain.

  “Yeah, about as easily as a trained race car driver would intentionally strip gears on a transmission.” Taylor removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with his handkerchief, and replaced them. “There are standard procedures everyone follows. We all have little tricks we’ve learned over the years. This guy missed a lot of lessons.”

  Taylor turned away and began organizing the instruments on the countertop.

  Brad feared that he’d lost Taylor’s attention, and he had more questions to ask. “Whoever did this would have had access to an equipped embalming room?”

  Taylor turned to face Brad. “That’s debatable. He had formalin, but that’s used to treat parasites on fish. You can buy it off the shelf at a tropical pet store. He wouldn’t need an embalming fluid pump.” Taylor pointed to a small appliance with multiple dials and a pressure gauge, atop which sat a glass tank that looked like it could hold several gallons. A length of rubber tube coiled in front of the machine. “Gravity could regulate the flow. Perhaps you’ve seen pictures of embalmers during the Civil War who worked in tents near the edge of the battlefield? He could probably manage with a hot water bottle and plastic tubing.”

  Brad nodded, because he understood, not because he’d ever seen such photographs. He heard the steady hum of the exhaust fan above him. “Anything else unusual about what he did?”

  Taylor examined the deceased, like an archeologist scrutinizing a newly found sarcophagus. “Yeah, I almost forgot. The technician in the medical examiner’s office informed me that during the autopsy they found a piece of metal jammed into the space between Mr. Haller’s upper and lower center teeth. Apparently the guy used that to hold the mouth shut.”

  Brad made a mental note to check on whether the metal was retained as evidence. “I take it that’s unusual?”

  “Yes, we usually suture the jaw closed.”

  Brad decided that was a detail he could live without knowing. Once more the stench of human decomposition threatened to make him nauseated, and he drew his hand up to cover his nose and mouth. “You’ve done a lot of work on Mr. Haller this afternoon, and I’m sure his family will be very appreciative. Maybe it’s my imagination, but why do I smell decomposition?”

  Taylor sniffed the air and searched the embalming room with his eyes. He took a few steps toward the foot of the preparation table and peered into the utility sink. Then he glanced up at the exhaust hood. “Give me a second,” Taylor announced. He walked over to the hazardous waste container and cinched the top of the trash bag closed. He flipped a switch, and the exhaust fan fell silent.

  “I apologize,” Taylor said. “I’m afraid the fan might have pulled odors in your direction from the trash receptacle. Earlier, I mentioned that whoever killed him had only done an arterial embalming. Cavity embalming is even more critical. Mr. Haller was in an advanced state of decomposition, and there was purging at the mouth.” Taylor went on to explain, “His body was refrigerated at the morgue, but the medical examiner’s office estimates that he was dead forty-eight to seventy-two hours before his body was found. They returned the organs from his abdominal cavity in a viscera bag so that we can bury those with the body.”

  “I see.” Even before Brad had first met with Grace Haller, her brother was probably dead. Developing a timeline would be important.

  The wall phone gave two sharp rings.

  “Pardon me, that’s the business line.” Taylor picked up the phone and in a sympathetic tone said, “Taylor’s Funeral Home. Yes.” During the silence that followed, Taylor made notes on a pad next to the phone.

  Brad wanted to know where Sterling Haller’s body had been dumped. Perhaps Taylor knew or Nick might be able to tell him.

  Taylor wrapped up his phone conversation. “Yes. Thank you, we should have someone there for the transfer within half an hour.”

  Taylor tore his notes off the pad, excused himself, opened the door of the preparation room and called into the garage, “Jeff. Come here.” A few seconds later the gangly pudgy-faced kid who had welcomed Brad to the funeral home appeared in the doorway. “I need you to handle a removal at Pennsylvania Medical Center. Here’s all the information.” Taylor handed the paper to his son.

  “Okay.” Jeff started to dash off.

  Taylor stopped him. “Change clothes before you go.”

  “Dad!” Jeff frowned and rolled his eyes like he didn’t need reminding.

  “And comb your hair,” Taylor called after him. He turned and smiled at Brad. “Do you have any children?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “Jeff’s a good kid.” He cocked his head toward the garage. “Reminds me of me when I was his age. I didn’t want to be in this business. My dad pushed me. I’m trying a lighter touch with my son. He enjoys working with the cars, but he steers clear of this room—unless I absolutely need his help.”

  Brad could identify with both the young man’s reticence to become an embalmer and the challenge of measuring up to a father’s expectations.

  “I’m sure he’ll make the right decision,” Brad said. “Did you happen to hear where they found Mr. Haller’s body?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I can’t give you a location, but his back was caked with mud.”

  Brad recalled the thunderstorm that had caused severe damage across the tri-state area the previous Thursday. “He wasn’t clothed when found?”

  Taylor shrugged. “From the mud, I’m guessing he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Check with the medical examiner.”

  “That’s quite a tattoo Mr. Haller has,” Brad said, pointing at the red, green and yellow Chinese dragon on the left side of the neck.<
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  “That’s not the only one.” Taylor returned to the embalming table, folded back the sheet, uncovering Sterling Haller to a point above his pubic bone. Brad recognized the distinctive Y-shaped autopsy incision across Haller’s chest and down the center of the abdomen. He could see that Taylor had sewn it closed, and from the glossy texture around the incision, it looked like a sealant had been applied to the sutured areas. Brad spotted the scorpion tattoo above a patch of dark brown pubic hair; its stinger pointed toward Haller’s belly button. Brad moved to the center of the table for a better look. The two-tone tattoo—indigo with red accents on the arachnid’s eight legs and claws—was approximately five inches in diameter.

  “They both look professional,” Brad said.

  Taylor nodded.

  Brad recalled his initial meeting with Grace Haller. She produced a shoebox full of unorganized photographs featuring candid family shots of herself and her brother, along with their parents and unidentified friends. In one picture, a young Sterling Haller, with a full head of dark hair, stood shirtless against an ocean backdrop. He wore sunglasses and seemed to be showing off his new dragon tattoo along with a toothy grin. July 1986 was stamped on the back and “Atlantic City” written in black ink. Who had taken the photo? Is that where Haller had gotten the tattoo? No other pictures matched that beach scene. The five-inch by seven-inch size was larger than the others in the box, suggesting that perhaps a friend had given him the photo.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Taylor said as he pulled the sheet back over Haller’s chest. “Please wait for the medical examiner’s report before you say anything to the family.”

  “Sure,” Brad said.

  “Based on my experience, I’d say that Mr. Haller had liver cancer…an advanced case. I’m not a doctor, so I can’t tell you how long he might…” Taylor’s voice trailed off, but it was clear to Brad that he intended to finish with might have lived.