"Oh, sorry about the mess," he said. "You're here for the Taylor case, right?"
"Yes," Yang said. "Took us a while to find someone for positive identification."
"Used to that." The medical examiner walked over to a wall with nine mini-fridge-sized doors. "He's in three."
"You okay?" Yang asked me as the medical examiner opened the door and grabbed the handles of the tray.
"Yeah, let's get it over with."
The medical examiner pulled on the handles and a covered corpse slid out of the ice-cold mist. Yang grabbed the sheet and peeled it off the body.
"Jesus Christ!" I screamed.
"What? It's Taylor, right?"
I stumbled backward. "Oh God, what the fuck!"
"What's wrong, Jon?"
"What's wrong?!" I screamed as loud as I possibly could, then pulled up my left pant leg, revealing my prosthetic. "You said he was killed by a lightning strike…" I looked back down at Taylor's body. "His leg is gone, Detective! What happened to his fucking leg?"
Yang shot the medical examiner a surprised look.
The medical examiner clicked his tongue. He shook his head, then said to Yang, "You boys need to do a better job of reviewing the updated reports."
Yang raised out his hands, palms up. "What are you talking about? What report?"
"The reports my office sends over."
"Just tell me what it said."
I stared at Taylor's dead face. The corners of his lips were upturned as if he knew the punchline of a joke that he couldn't wait to share.
"Initially we reported Mr. Taylor's cause of death as a lightning strike. Most of his wounds were consistent with that conclusion. Upon further evaluation I determined Mr. Taylor did indeed suffer from some sort of electrical discharge, however this happened days prior to his actual death."
"You mean he was electrocuted but that's not what killed him," Yang said.
"Exactly."
"What did kill him then?"
"Blood loss," the medical examiner said. "As your friend here pointed out, the body is missing its left leg. Though rare, it's not completely unheard of for lightning to sever an appendage, but in this case…someone cut it off."
"What are you saying?" I asked. "Who did this to him?"
Yang stared at me, studying me through narrowed eyes.
"Actually," the medical examiner shrugged, "the angle of the wound suggests it was self-inflicted."
Yang spun around and faced the medical examiner once more. They spoke for a while in hushed tones but I was in no condition to comprehend any of what they were saying. The only thing I heard was the metallic humming sound of the cold storage cases. My gaze locked on Taylor's missing leg, and I stared, nearly catatonic, until Yang took me by the arm and walked me out of the building.
"Thank you for identifying the body, Jon. The department appreciates your assistance."
"Cut the bullshit!"
Yang flinched. "What're you talking about? I told you we needed your hel—"
"Stop. I know what that was, Detective." I said, walking up to the passenger side of his Crown Victoria. I waited, ready for any rebuttal, but all Yang did was open his door and climb inside. I followed his lead then slammed my door as hard as I could.
"I know what that was," I said again with more conviction.
Yang started the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. It was several minutes before he spoke again. "I'm sorry, Jon. It wasn't my call."
"Yeah, but you agreed with it."
"We found out about the leg this morning. Before we even spoke, I had already sent that unit to bring you in." Yang took a sip of his coffee. "We thought you would slip up if given the chance."
"That isn't right. We're talking about my best friend and his family. How would you feel if someone did that to you?"
"Don't turn this around, son. I'm doing my job."
"Did you get what you want? Still think I'm involved? And don't call me son."
Yang took another drink of coffee. I hoped it was as cold and bitter as I felt.
"Sorry…" he said. "And no. We didn't have the news that it might have been self-inflicted, so I don't think this is on you. But that isn't conclusive. The department is still going to look your way until we can say for certain that Mr. Taylor acted alone."
"Look all you want." I shrugged.
"Jon, why does anyone kill? Affairs, money, revenge. Or in your case, they think you just snapped. The file the hospital had on you suggested you're prone to outbursts, perhaps even experienced a bout of temporary insanity after your accident."
"I don't care about what they think. Like I said before, my only goal is to help you find his family. I'm not going to stop. They're going to be devastated. I need to be there for them, Yang. Don't you get that? He was like a brother to me, and we made promises to each other, signed a contract. These things you wouldn't understand."
"Jon—"
"No. It's your turn to listen. Just know that it falls on me to look after his family. I can't afford to think of anything else right now."
"We don't need your help finding them," Yang said sullenly.
"I don't care. You can't stop me."
"No, Jon…they aren't missing anymore. We found them."
"What? Was that another part of your twisted game? Where the hell have they been?" My hopeful questions kept firing from my mouth, even though I knew better. "Why haven't they called me at all?"
Yang had to speak over me, louder, "No, you're not understanding. I mean…while we had you under guard in the interrogation room, divers were busy pulling body parts from the bottom of a pond."
Detective Yang's words crushed me worse than the Black Hawk had. He glanced at over at me.
"Six bodies, Jon," Yang whispered. "They're dead…all of them."
SECTION III - OBITUARY
Former NYC resident, Major Jesse Taylor, 33, died March 3rd, 2013, in Bloody Pond, MD. Major Taylor was born April 25th, 1979, in Cooperstown, NY. He graduated from Cooperstown Central High School in 1999 and went on to become a decorated pilot in the United States Army. When not in uniform, he spent his time coaching Pee Wee football for under-privileged kids. Major Taylor was preceded in death by his wife, Lorie; son, Jon; father, Hunter; mother, Christina; older brother, Kyle; and younger sister, Tiffany. He is survived by his grandfather, Howard Taylor of Williamsport, PA. A service will be held on Friday, March 15th, at Hardesty's Funeral Home in Annapolis, MD.
***
Mary Stallings of the Baltimore Sun newspaper sat across from me, shaking her head.
"How does that sound?" I asked.
"It sounds kinda—"
"Kinda what?"
"Emotionless. Sterile. Why don't you liven it up, say something about him as a person?"
"I mentioned he liked to coach."
"Don't you want to say something substantial, Mr. Randon?"
I took a deep breath and looked around her office. Two Excellence in Journalism awards, one from 2008 and the other from 2010, hung on the wall next to her diploma from Louisiana State University. All three plaques were caked with a layer of dust.
"I told you a dozen times, I'm not talking about the case. The only reason I'm here is for the obituary."
She frowned.
For the past three years, Mary Stallings had been the police liaison. Her primary job was to collect information for the Crime Beat section of the paper.
When she came poking around, I flat out refused to talk to her. That did nothing to stop her resolve. She kept coming back, day after day, trying new ways to pique my interest. In the end, it wasn't Mary's persistence which changed my mind; it was The Death Agreement.
Taylor had needed an obituary. Funeral homes usually take care of that kind of thing once payment is made and all the documents are in order. I didn't have the money to pay out of pocket right then, and the military was dragging their feet with Taylor's paperwork. Without his will, no one, not even the funeral homes, would help me with anyth
ing involving Taylor's estate. The one exception: Mary Stallings.
I had agreed we could talk but told her there was a big If attached. My terms were simple. She would help me write the obituary, and maybe I would tell her about Taylor. Of course that's the official reason why I had gone to see her. Unofficially, my life had unraveled past the point where I could pull it back together alone. Yang was all right, but I needed someone to talk to other than the police.
"Jon," she said and brushed her wavy auburn hair away from her brown eyes. "You asked for my help, remember?"
"I know."
"So let me help."
I met her eyes and admired the pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. I nodded, and wondered if she was sincere, or if she only saw me only as a meal ticket. Even if that's all I was to her, it wasn't so bad.
I knew the story would get out sooner or later. Fact is, the only reason it hadn't hit the newsstands was because Mary had left Taylor's case out of the crime section of the Baltimore Sun. At that point, all that anyone knew was the family had died.
"All right. If you want to help, tell me about those." I said, nodding to the wall.
"Okay. What would you like to know?"
"For starters, how did you go from an award-winning reporter to sloshing through piles of police reports?"
Her jaw clenched shut and her stare turned to daggers. I lowered my gaze to the papers scattered across her desk. "I didn't mean to be insulting. I'm sorry."
Her shoulders fell and she relaxed against her chair. "It's okay. Let's call it office politics. The editor in chief and I butted heads once too often and now I'm here."
"Sounds like the Army."
"Is your commanding officer a loud-mouthed son-of-a-bitch?"
"His name is Colonel Litwell, and yeah, he is, actually."
Mary laughed and it was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. I might have fallen in love right then. In another time or place I would have acted on the feeling, but the moment of relief had only lasted a second. Suddenly, I wondered what Taylor would think of her, wondered when I could introduce her to him. Then reality crashed down and the family of corpses weighed heavily on my conscience once more.
"The police still consider me a suspect," I blurted out.
In a serious, yet nonjudgmental tone, she asked, "Are you involved?"
"No."
"Why do you think he did it?"
"I don't know that he did. Imagine someone you've been close to for years waking up one morning and saying something like, Hey, today's a good day to kill everyone I love. It doesn't happen." I bit my lip. "I mean, it's not supposed to happen."
Mary turned in her chair and opened a file cabinet. "I have a story for you," she said, sliding files back and forth. "I wrote it back when Mr. McDonger was in charge around here. Ah, here it is." She turned back to me and placed a laminated front page article on her desk. The featured picture was of an alley crisscrossed with yellow police tape, the red brick buildings had taken on a slight blue grow from the light of the police cruisers parked on the street.
I picked up the laminate, but Mary had already begun telling me the story. Her eyes seemed focused on something far away, so I placed it back on her desk and listened.
"A few years ago," she said, "Natasha Banders, a woman living in Baltimore City, called the police to report her daughter missing from a crib. The detectives found a broken pane of glass on the back door. Less than three hours later, the dogs found her daughter's body in a dumpster.
"She had been tortured, Jon. Sodomized with a hot curling iron, then strangled. I was there covering the story. I don't have the words to describe the woman's agony as the police pulled the baby from the garbage.
"'My little girl! Oh god, someone murdered my little girl!' Rage filled her eyes, and she screamed, 'I'll kill you! Come out'n face me. I'll slit your throat.'
"Then she ran up to random bystanders and yelled in their faces, 'Was it you? I know it was you!' She went on like that, absolutely hysterical, until one of the officers wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and pulled her away from the crime scene.
"I felt her pain, every ounce. We all did. The horror she was going through, the terror the little girl had suffered….
"No one deserves that. This well-liked community woman had gone to work at the docks each morning to help feed her family. She had no enemies. She never had a run-in with the law. Why her? What could she have done to deserve the wrath of a monster?
"The worst part…a week later, when the police discovered a Chinese restaurant had installed a camera to watch the alley, it was Mrs. Banders who had dumped her daughter's body…. So don't blame yourself. Anyone can be fooled."
We sat in silence for a while, then I finally said, "I'm not blaming myself."
Of course I did. If Taylor had been harboring murderous thoughts his whole life, or if he had slipped into insanity during the war, I should've noticed. I should've protected his family. Their deaths were on me.
Mary reached across her desk and put her hand on mine. "Hey?"
"Yeah?"
"I might be wrong. Like you said, maybe someone set him up."
"But I'm the only one the police are looking at. Most of them are convinced I'm a killer."
Mary nodded. She looked at me much the same way that Yang had looked at me in the morgue—with hunger in her eyes. "Well," she said, smiling slightly, "now that would be a story."
SECTION IV - ATTEND FUNERAL
The Naval Station's legal department had finally confirmed that they had Taylor's will on file.
As stated in The Death Agreement, his will had been adjusted, the change small. In the event no immediate family members survived, I would become the executor of the estate. That meant I became responsible for burying my best friend, who may or may not have murdered his family.
Once I had Taylor's will in hand, I used it as proof to get his body released and delivered to Hardesty's Funeral Home. The funeral director needed a day to prepare, which was fine because I had other important duties requiring my attention. You see, the executor takes on the responsibility of asset dissolution. Because Lorie died before Taylor, he inherited everything, and since the rest of Taylor's family was also deceased, the whole estate went to me.
This, of course, didn't set well with Lorie's parents. To complicate matters more, Yang told me that the inheritance could be considered a motive, and I should tread lightly. It was okay, I told him. I already knew what to do.
The hardest thing I ever did was make that call to Lorie's mother. Like an idiot, I tried to offer my sympathies, and suddenly realized this woman probably wanted to see me burn, so instead of a heartfelt condolence, I began to spill my guts into the receiver:
"Ma'am, I understand that my voice is the last thing you want to hear. Nothing from me will ease your pain, but I swear to you, this wasn't my doing. Maybe Jesse…." I trailed off, unable to say the words. Lorie's mother hadn't said anything but she hadn't slammed the phone down either, so I continued, "Maybe someone else…I don't know. The police are investigating, and I am cooperating fully. Right now, the most important thing is getting Lorie and Jon sent down to Georgia. They need to be laid to rest by those who love them most."
I paused for a breath, imagining Lorie's mother on the other end of the line, listening to me rambling while trying her best not to give me the satisfaction of hearing her cry.
"The arrangements have been made," I said. "Once the assets are liquid, half of the money in the estate will be forwarded to your account. The other half will go to Jesse's grandfather so he can bury the rest of his family. I'll take care of Jesse myself, out of my own pocket."
By the time I finished explaining, I was sobbing into the phone, too.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, "and I hope God is looking after them. Please call if there's anything I can do."
She didn't respond; she didn't need to. I waited patiently just to let her know I would be there no matter what. When I heard the soft cli
ck of her phone hanging up, I knew she had accepted the offer, and possibly my sympathies as well.
Next, I called Jesse's grandfather, Howard Taylor. He accepted my proposal in much the same way, only prior to hanging up he did say one thing: "Wiiilll seeend floweeers," he said as if gasping for breath, a hacking cough punctuated each word.
All in all, heart-ripping as it was, the whole ordeal went better than expected.
***
Taylor's funeral had been another matter altogether. The director, Mr. Hardesty, greeted me at the door. He was a black man with a short-cropped beard, and the way he held himself reminded me of a distinguished butler.
"I don't advise informing the public of the viewing schedule, nor do I advise printing the obituary until after the event takes place."
I needed to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "What about his friends?" I asked.
"Mr. Randon, with all due respect, sir, it might be best to cancel the service. It's highly possible former friends will not attend. How can I say this delicately?"
"I'd appreciate it if you would just say it plainly."
"As you wish. The deceased has been accused of serious crimes, and to be blunt, sir, you yourself are the subject of an ongoing investigation. I implore you, don't advertise this funeral, or else you may regret it."
As he spoke, my first reaction had been to punch the pompous bastard, but then I picked up on the fear in his voice. The man was scared of me and yet he still gave his honest opinion, which I begrudgingly admired.
"Thank you. I respect your candor. It is good advice, but I made a promise, you see. Some contracts are written in ink and others are written in blood."
Mr. Hardesty nodded. "In that case, I will have him ready for tomorrow." He shook my hand and left the parlor.
As a man who deals in death, I knew he would understand.
After he had closed the door, leaving me alone with the soft jazz music playing in the small office, I browsed through the catalog of caskets, considering his advice.
The Death Agreement required an obituary. However, nothing in the document specified when it needed to be printed.
I called my favorite reporter, Mary Stalling.
"Jon?" she answered. "Is everything okay?"
"Hi, Mary. I'm all right. I wanted to ask a favor. Could you please delay Taylor's obituary? I think too many people would show up and none of them would come to pay their respects."
The Death Agreement Page 4