by Elaine Viets
Angela watched another funeral-home van park by the door. “How can you stand this place?”
“View’s not much,” Katie said. “But you can’t beat the company. The place is boss-free: no doctors, administrators—even the nurses don’t come here. Just the people who do the work. Great information and good company. Ah, here’s Connie.”
Connie was a slim, round-faced Latina with short, shiny dark hair. Mascara made her shrewd brown eyes look bigger, and she had laugh lines around her generous red-lipsticked mouth. Angela could smell her sweet, flowery perfume. She guessed Connie’s age at fortysomething. She had a can of Coke and a burger on a tray. “You mind if I eat while we talk?” Her English was only slightly accented.
“Please. I’m taking your lunchtime.”
“For Kendra, I’m glad to do it. Katie said you need to know about that . . .” She stopped, and Angela could see the anger in her eyes. “I can hardly say his ridiculous name. Bunny.” Her contempt should have incinerated her sandwich. She carefully cut the burger in half.
“Jose told me a little about her romance with him,” Angela said, “but I get the feeling he doesn’t know the whole story.”
“If he did, he’d kill the creep. I don’t know enough bad English words to describe what he did. Katie says you will promise not to tell Jose the whole story.”
“Never!”
“You called it a romance, but it was only a romance for Kendra. He’s a predator. I’m old enough to recognize these men—they think sex with a Latina will be exotic. When Kendra told me she was in love with him, I tried to warn her. But she was only nineteen then, and I was an old lady of forty-two. She thought Aunt Connie was too old to understand love. What do I know, a married lady with three children?”
Connie bit into her burger, then said, “Kendra was very romantic then.”
Then, Angela thought. But no longer.
“He gave her cheap flowers and took her for long walks. She told me they would talk and talk for hours. She was sure they would marry. I tried to tell her that rich men like him don’t marry poor Latinas, but she thought America was the land where dreams come true. The girls at her high school had been mean to her—really mean. Now she had a handsome young doctor courting her, and she was sure she would march down the aisle and become Mrs. Hobart. I finally gave up warning her that would never happen. I was afraid I’d drive her away. I love that girl, and she was so innocent.”
Was. Connie took a swig of Coke and another bite of burger.
“Was he her first lover?” Angela asked.
“Yes. That meant a lot to Kendra but nothing to him. She wanted to get married, and he kept making excuses. He said he had to finish his residency, and she promised to wait. Then he did, and he invited her to a party at his apartment. She was sure she’d get a ring. I went shopping with her for a dress. She chose pink lace—she thought white would look too bridal.”
Angela thought Connie had tears in her eyes. “I hoped she was right. I even bought her high heels to wear with the dress. She stopped by before she went to his apartment, and she looked so young and beautiful and hopeful. I thought he’d have to have a heart of stone to hurt her. Well, he did.” Connie poured ketchup on the rest of her burger as if she were squeezing blood out of the packet, then savagely bit into the sandwich. After she washed it down with more Coke, she continued.
“Kendra showed up at his apartment, all dressed up, expecting a ring, champagne, flowers, maybe even candles.”
“She was a romantic,” Angela said.
“And he was disgusting. She was puzzled by what she saw. Only Bunny’s two best friends were there—no other women. There was no engagement champagne, flowers, or candles. Just beer and pizza.”
“Kendra asked where was the party and that . . . that pig introduced her to his two friends and told her to relax and get to know his ‘bros.’ He said he had some coke and weed. They were grinning at her. Kendra realized she was the party. He was bored with her and wanted to pass her around to his friends.”
“Cruel.”
“She was embarrassed. Humiliated. She had no idea he thought she was a slut. She slapped his face and ran out of there. She went home and cut her new dress into pieces and threw out her shoes. She locked herself in her room and wouldn’t talk to her parents. Gracie stayed home the next day, and Kendra finally confessed what had happened. Gracie called me, and I went to see them. We cried together and agreed her father must never know the truth.
“But Kendra was a different girl. She was quiet. She no longer laughed. And that crafty old Luther must have seen she was wounded. She was ripe for the picking. He treated her with respect, took her to the finest restaurants and on glamorous trips. He wanted her to move in with him, but Kendra said no. She no longer wanted love. She told me she was finished with that. But she wanted to be a Forest wife. She thought all the other wives would bow down to her if she married an important man like Luther.”
“No chance of that,” Angela said.
“I know that, and so do you. Like I said, Kendra was young. Luther gave her an engagement ring and two million dollars. He said it would make her independent. He wanted her to move in with him because they were engaged, but she refused unless he married her. Luther became the talk of the Forest, and he loved the attention. He loved showing off his beautiful, young fiancée—especially since he knew how much it angered his wife, Priscilla.”
“She wouldn’t give him a quick divorce,” Angela said. “And his daughter hated him.”
“Right. And Gracie was worried about her daughter’s reputation. She told Kendra she was no better than a prostitute to take that money from Luther. Kendra was heartbroken—and angry at her mother. She moved out of her parents’ home and got a flat in Toonerville. After that, Luther’s behavior grew wilder and more drunken. Kendra didn’t seem to care. I don’t think she knew how to go back home. She had her pride. The one good thing that came out of this is that Luther is dead, and Kendra is back with her parents. Gracie has forgiven her. They’ve forgiven each other.”
“What about Bunny?” Angela asked.
Connie’s lip curled, and rage flashed in her eyes. “I wish he’d been set on fire. Luther was an old fool, but Bunny was a killer. He killed my sweet Kendra. I don’t know this new girl anymore.”
CHAPTER 13
Day three
Angela was on call that night from midnight to 8:00 a.m. She fell asleep about two in the morning. Butch Chetkin’s call woke her up.
“Angela, sorry to wake you up at four thirty.” The Forest detective sounded rushed and apologetic on the phone. “We’ve got a bad one. A headless motorcycle rider.”
Angela’s sleep-fogged brain flashed on “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” except she saw a headless motorcyclist holding a pumpkin under one arm. She quickly stomped on that thought. She’d been dragged out of a sound sleep for an early-morning death investigation, but at least she’d be working with her favorite detective.
“The deceased is sixteen, according to his driver’s license,” Chetkin said. “Tried to pass a car and smacked head-on into a semi. He was going about a hundred miles an hour.”
Angela whistled. “Poor kid. Where’s the accident?”
“Bodman Road, in southwest Chouteau County. About half a mile from I-55. Kid lived in Bodman in Jefferson County.”
Bodman was a huddle of run-down houses just over the county line, and Bodman Road was the main drag. “I’m on my way.” Angela splashed cold water on her face, then slipped into a dark pantsuit, tied her shoes, and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She grabbed her cane and was out the door and at the scene twenty minutes after Chetkin called.
She saw the accident half a mile away on the twisting two-lane road. In the harsh glare of the portable lights was a sad carnival of flashing light bars and police cars, ambulances, tow trucks, and other official vehicles. As she got closer, a jackknifed semi blocked the road at the top of a hill. A white delivery van was parked at the east side of the
road, with a blue late-model Toyota behind it. Bodman Road was blocked from the south by a patrol car, and a pair of uniforms directed the few cars driving at this hour to an alternate route.
Angela parked her car by the roadblock, pulled her DI case out of the trunk, and carefully caned her way along the potholed asphalt. The police had opened a portable folding nylon screen in front of the truck, and another one was about twenty feet away in the middle of the road. The body and the head. She shivered, and not only because it was a cool morning.
Butch Chetkin waved and hurried over. He was about thirty-five—a big barrel-chested man who looked dangerous. He was, to the wrong people, but Angela found him to be smart and thorough. He wore a dark police windbreaker, dark pants, and a turtleneck.
“What happened?” she asked.
“According to the wit in the Toyota, who was on his way to work at the 7-Eleven, the driver of the motorcycle was going at a high rate of speed and tailgating. The motorcyclist flashed his high beams and proceeded to pass the Toyota and the white Chevy van when the semi crested the hilltop at about fifty miles an hour. The truck driver applied the brakes, but it was too late. The motorcycle collided head-on with the semi, and the truck jackknifed. The kid’s body is stuck on the radiator like a bug on a grille, and his head separated from his body. It landed about twenty feet away. Judging by the skid marks, I’d say the motorcycle was going at least a hundred.”
Angela hissed in horror. “How’s the truck driver?”
“Minor injuries and shock. He blames himself, but there’s no way he could have stopped. Both he and the wits say he was driving the posted limit. He’s on his way to the hospital, but I don’t think the doctors can remove the sights and sounds from his mind.”
“What was a sixteen-year-old doing out at this hour?”
“We found heroin in his saddlebag. The ME’s going to have to test for it in his system, but we think the deceased may have been out buying drugs.”
“More heroin in the Forest?”
“We’re seeing lots of it lately,” Chetkin said. “We think it’s being brought in from Saint Louis.”
“Do you have a name for the victim?”
“No formal ID yet, but the motorcycle license is in the name of Shane Mathrews, with an R.” He spelled the name for her. “The photo looks like him.” They both knew licenses were unreliable, especially for teens, who often used fake IDs.
Angela thanked him, opened the Vehicular-Related Death form on her iPad, then wheeled her suitcase over to the truck. Her stomach slid sideways when she saw the victim’s headless body flattened on the truck grille. That cab must have been the trucker’s pride and joy: shiny black with custom-painted red-and-yellow flames and gleaming chrome bumpers, radiator, and cab steps. The chrome-winged lady on the radiator must have taken off the victim’s head. There was a dark trail of blood where his head had slid across the hood, cracked the windshield, then landed in the road. He was still wearing his helmet.
Shane, she told herself. His name is Shane. Even if she couldn’t officially use his name until he’d been identified, she’d think of the lost boy as Shane to humanize his horrible death. Angela’s stomach lurched, and her hands shook slightly. The only way to handle this nightmare was to concentrate on the facts. She photographed the body and the head.
She noted the time, the temperature—forty-two degrees—and the number of lanes. The road was two potholed asphalt lanes divided by a faded double-yellow line. Shane had illegally passed those two vehicles. The accident had happened at night in an open area in clear weather. The roadway was dry. There were no visual obstructions and no streetlights.
Butch ran the plates and gave Angela the year, make, and model for the vehicles. The crushed motorcycle was a 1973 Suzuki T500 with a rusted fender. She picked her way around the broken bits of reflectors and twisted metal, using the cane to steady herself, and examined the truck, a 2012 Peterbilt 587. She noted both the motorcycle’s and the truck’s plate numbers and the trailer’s height, length, and weight. Butch told her the cargo was light bulbs. Both vehicles had their headlights on and their wipers off. The CD player had been turned off in the truck cab after the accident. The driver had been listening to Michael Bolton. There were no alcoholic beverages in the cab, a plush affair with red leather seats.
These mundane details calmed and centered her. Now Angela was ready for the body actualization.
She started with Shane’s head, lying near the center lines in a modern, artsy arrangement of blood slashes, arcs, and an oval puddle like John the Baptist’s platter. The victim’s helmet was decorated with flames similar to the ones on the truck he’d smashed into. The ME would remove the helmet. From the crown of the helmet to what was left of the neck measured eleven and three-quarters inches. The head had been detached just below the hyoid bone. Angela photographed the head and mangled neck.
Shane’s face had road rash on the unprotected left cheek. His dishwater-blond hair was in a blood-drenched ponytail. His pale blue eyes were open, his two upper front teeth—numbers eight and nine—were chipped, and both upper incisors were broken. His mouth was surrounded by scrapes and contusions, but she could see enough to tell that, before the accident, he must have been handsome.
Angela moved on to the body embedded in the shiny truck grille, painted with blood. She photographed the body and the bloody hood ornament that had sheared off Shane’s head, then measured the rest of the body. He appeared to have been of average height for his age: about five foot seven. One red athletic shoe was on his right foot, and the left one was in the road. He wore a dirty white crew sock with a hole in the heel. His body measured four feet eleven and three-quarters inches from his neck to his shoeless toes.
She photographed and noted the lumps of bloody tissue on the truck’s hood, then started at what was left of the neck and worked her way down. The yellowish jigsaw puzzle of the fourth cervical vertebra and the top of the spinal column—with its sheared-off veins, arteries, and ligaments—were drenched in blood.
Shane was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket with reflective skulls on the back. She pushed away the thought that his skull was in the middle of the road. His jeans were worn and oil stained. Both hands were badly broken, with compound fractures of all ten fingers. Jagged bones broke through the skin. She suspected nearly every bone in Shane’s body was broken, but the ME would determine that when the body was X-rayed before the autopsy. She did not see any open fractures through his clothes. She photographed and measured the significant areas of blood on his clothes and at the base of the truck’s radiator.
The sun was nearly up when she finished her body actualization. She found Chetkin talking to a uniform near a patrol car and asked, “Can we take the body off the radiator?”
“No way. He’s embedded in that grille. We’ll have to remove the grille and take the whole shebang to the ME’s. I don’t envy the transport service having to lift that.”
An hour later, the grille with Shane’s body had been detached from the truck cab, and the tissue and remains on the rest of the truck had been collected. When the transport van arrived, Angela signed the paperwork, and Shane was taken to the ME’s office. By nine o’clock, the trailer had been righted and the truck towed, along with the wrecked motorcycle.
Chetkin brought Angela hot coffee and a glazed doughnut. They sat side by side on his car bumper while she ate. The coffee revived her. “We should notify the next of kin,” Butch said. He looked weary in the bright morning sun, and Angela knew she must look equally tired.
“This is going to be a hard one,” she said. “If that’s his right address, we’ll have to take whoever’s at home to ID the body at the ME’s.”
“The face isn’t too damaged. If the ME puts sheets over the rest of him, the kid won’t look too bad. But the undertaker’s going to have a hell of a job putting him back together. Follow me to the house on Bodman Road to inform the next of kin?”
“Might as well. The day can’t get worse.�
��
As soon as she said those words, Angela knew she’d regret them.
CHAPTER 14
Day three
The house on Bodman Road looked like a junkyard. The tiny, white shoe box had faded to a dirty gray, and its weed-choked yard was piled high with rusting cars, a commode, a child’s stroller, sun-faded plastic toys, and broken, unidentifiable objects. Angela felt another stab of pity for Shane Mathrews. If this was his home, his life must have been as miserable as his death.
Butch Chetkin offered to break the news, and Angela gratefully accepted. Telling people they’d lost a loved one was always difficult, and at times it could turn violent. She’d seen newly bereaved fathers punch their fists through walls. One mother of a murdered girl had lunged at Angela and tried to claw her face. Luckily, Chetkin was with her that afternoon and grabbed the woman before Angela was hurt. Later, the grief-stricken mother had apologized. But “kill the messenger” is a common impulse when parents lose their children.
The front porch of the Bodman Road house was a concrete slab with a yellow aluminum lawn chair and a dead plant in a clay pot. A tired, scrawny woman with colorless hair, raging acne, and a sagging dark-blue T-shirt answered the door. Bruce Chetkin introduced himself and Angela, and they both showed their identification.
“I’m Tiffany Mathrews.” The woman talked as fast as a tobacco auctioneer. She was missing at least four teeth, and Angela wondered if she was a meth head. She sure looked like one. Angela couldn’t guess her age, except that she seemed somewhere between forty and sixty. But if she was a drug user, she could be in her thirties.
“Do you know a Shane Mathrews, age sixteen?” Butch asked.
“What’s he done now?” Tiffany flared into anger. “He in jail? He didn’t come home last night.” She didn’t invite them inside. She padded outside in her bare feet and closed the door. Angela wondered if she was hiding her own drugs.