by Alex Grecian
After putting Maddy to bed, Skottie had called Trooper Ryan Kufahl. When he’d picked up, his voice sounded thick with sleep.
“This is Skottie. Did I wake you?”
“Hmm. No,” Ryan said. “Actually, yeah, I guess you did. Fell asleep in front of the TV again.”
“Sorry,” Skottie said.
“No, it’s still early. I’m gonna have a hell of a time getting to sleep later.”
“Listen, I won’t keep you. I was just wondering if you could fill me in a little on that burn victim you found.”
“Wish I could,” Ryan said. “I was supposed to go along and witness the autopsy, but I caught a three-car pileup that took me past the end of my shift.”
“They delayed the autopsy?”
“Right,” Ryan said. “Supposed to go in first thing tomorrow so I can view it and sign off.”
“Who was handling it? Was it Iversen or one of his assistants?”
Dr. Lyle Iversen was the coroner and forensic examiner for the twenty-third district, which covered four Kansas counties that butted up against one another in a sideways L shape. In his spare time, he acted as assistant coroner for the other districts in western Kansas, as well as parts of Colorado and Nebraska. He was based out of a mortuary near Hays in Victoria, but he kept his Dopp kit ready because most of his time was spent on the road or in the air, traveling to small towns to analyze crime scenes and sign death certificates. He had a Cessna gassed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Skottie hadn’t met him, but she had heard stories about the adventurous doctor. If he was somewhere away at the fringes of his territory, one of his two assistants would have responded to Ryan Kufahl’s call.
“It was the man himself,” Ryan said. “But I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. Like I say, I had that accident I had to respond to, so I left the doctor to his business and never made it back up there.”
“Did he identify the body?”
“I don’t know, Skottie.” Ryan sounded annoyed. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking this might tie into something else I’m working on.”
“Working on? Like what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Skottie said. “Kind of an off-hours thing. Do me a favor and don’t mention this to the lieutenant? That we talked about this?”
“Sure, I guess,” Ryan said. “But if there’s something I should know about, you’ll clue me in, right?”
“Of course. Sorry I woke you up.”
“No problem. I should probably eat something anyway. I’m surprised you can’t hear my stomach grumbling.”
Skottie ended the call and paced around the room while she considered her options. She could call Dr. Iversen and ask him the same questions she’d asked Ryan Kufahl, but she didn’t know whether Iversen was strictly by-the-book. She hadn’t caught the call, so he might be as reluctant as the lieutenant to give out any information. Kufahl and Lieutenant Johnson were the only people he was officially obligated to talk to about the case. On the other hand, Skottie now knew where the body had been taken.
She decided it might be best to cut out the middleman and take a look at the evidence herself.
2
Three men sat in a car across the street from the house, two of them in the front seat, one in the back. When they saw Skottie come out and get into her car, the man in the back seat leaned forward and flicked the ear of the man behind the wheel.
“We should follow her,” he said.
“Why would we do that?” Theoretically the man in the back seat was in charge, but the driver was used to making decisions.
“I don’t …” The man in the back seat slumped back down with a sigh. “I guess, like, maybe we don’t even have to go in the house?”
“She’s probably armed right now. I don’t wanna get shot, do you?”
Skottie’s car roared past them to the end of the street, and the three men got a glimpse of her face as she passed, but her eyes were focused on the road ahead and she didn’t look to either side. She paused at the stop sign, turned left, and was out of sight.
The man in the passenger seat chimed in. “She probably keeps her gun under her pillow. We’re gonna get shot no matter what.”
“No,” the driver said. “She won’t do anything with her kid and the old lady around, right? That’s when she’s gonna be most vulnerable and scared. So we wait, we go in, and we leave. Safe and easy.”
Neither of the other two spoke, and the driver relaxed. It was just like he said. Safe and easy, in and out. As soon as they delivered their message, they could go home.
3
Nine miles from Hays was tiny Victoria, Kansas, named for Queen Victoria by Scottish and English settlers in the late nineteenth century. There was nothing on Main Street to indicate that its history had been preserved. It resembled every other small town in the area, with agricultural co-ops and John Deere suppliers, small construction companies and dusty mercantiles. Hudson Brothers Mortuary was sandwiched between a bank and an insurance agency. The digital readout on the bank’s sign informed Skottie that it was past eleven o’clock and the temperature was thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. She pulled up in front of the mortuary’s white brick building and turned off the engine. A half-track was parked in the wide alley across from the mortuary, and a stray calico with one ear stopped to scowl at Skottie’s car before trotting casually away. Despite the mist that still clung to the ground, Skottie saw fingers of lightning reaching down to touch the horizon. The moon’s diffuse glow lent an eerie cast to the empty street, and Skottie half expected to hear boot heels clicking toward her across the pavement or a distant wolf’s howl. She got out and went to the door, situated well back from the street under a wide arch. She pressed a buzzer on the wall and waited, stamping her feet against the cold. After a very long time, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door and a latch was thrown. The door opened inward, and a stout man in an ill-fitting blue uniform peered out at her.
“We’re closed,” he said. His hair was thin and greasy, and he had three chins stacked neatly atop the huge knot of his navy necktie.
Skottie flashed him her badge. “Yeah, sorry. I’m following up on a case, and it can’t wait till morning.”
“We’re closed tomorrow, too,” the watchman said. “Thanksgiving, don’t you know?”
“Well, that’s just it,” Skottie said. “If I wait two whole days, this case is gonna go cold.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Speaking of cold …”
The watchman blinked his eyes and stared out at the street, as if he might be able to see the temperature. He hopped back on his heels and opened the door wider. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Weather’s been freaky, ain’t it?”
“Supposed to rain again later,” Skottie said. She squeezed past him into the stuffy vestibule.
“Snow and fog and rain. We’re getting the whole shebang this week, huh?”
“Welcome to Kansas.”
The watchman squinted at her. “Don’t gotta welcome me. I been here near on forty-five years. My whole damn life.”
“It was just a joke.”
His brow furrowed with effort. “Huh. Anyway, never saw weather like this, I’ll tell you that.”
He turned his back to her and waddled away through the dim vestibule. Skottie followed him into a small waiting area decked out with wooden chairs and ancient wood paneling. There was a tiny desk in one corner of the room that evidently served as a guard station. An empty Styrofoam cup of coffee was tipped over perilously close to the edge of the desk, and there was a tattered paperback laying facedown, open to a point roughly halfway through.
“We only got one body right now,” the watchman said. “Waiting for a viewing on Saturday. That what you’re after?”
“Actually, I’m wondering about the case Dr. Iversen’s working on.”
“Iversen? Oh, that ain’t part of the mortuary, per se. They got their own area in the back. I don’t go in there.
It’s where they do the autopsies and stuff.”
“Exactly,” Skottie said. She decided since she was here under false pretenses, she might as well go for the big lie. “I was the trooper who found the body today. I need to get some information for my file. Trying to get the paperwork squared away so I can enjoy the holiday.”
The watchman led the way down a narrow hall, turning on lights as he went. “Got a big turkey?”
“And all the trimmings,” Skottie said. She had seen the turkey in the basement refrigerator, but had no idea what else Emmaline was planning for the holiday feast. She felt a sudden flash of gratitude and sympathy for her mother, who had welcomed Skottie and Maddy into her home, fed them and cared for them. Then she boxed up these feelings and put them away for later.
“Well, this is the lab back here. I can unlock it for you, but then I really oughta get back to my post.” He drew himself up taller as he mentioned his responsibility, and Skottie wondered whether he had anyone at home, up late prepping a turkey and potatoes, or whether he was looking forward to a TV dinner and a six-pack in front of the football game.
“I’ll let you know when I’m done in there so you can lock it back up,” she said.
The watchman nodded. He unlocked a thick wooden door, then lumbered away, back to his lonely vigil.
Skottie could smell all the familiar hospital chemicals. She brushed her hand against the inside wall of the room until she found a light switch and flicked it. Overhead lamps blinked to life, revealing a long room, bright white and sterile. Support beams divided the room into sections, and two stainless steel tables had been situated between the beams with easy access on each side of them so there was plenty of empty floor space. Dr. Iversen would be able to move around freely as he worked without bumping into anything. Counters lined two of the walls, with cabinets above and below painted candy-green, deep metal sinks with arched faucets, and soaps and towels and squirt bottles of varying colors. A bulletin board was hung over an old-fashioned wall phone with a long cord. Two desks with iMacs were positioned near the back of the room, and the wall to Skottie’s left as she entered the room was dominated by a huge refrigerated cabinet with eight heavy doors fronting storage bays designed to keep corpses fresh. There were paper cards in slots on three of the eight doors, indicating those cabinets currently held bodies.
Skottie had been in rooms like this, in Chicago, in Kansas City, in Milwaukee. They were always the same, even if the details differed. Clean and orderly, an attempt to boil the ugly uncertainty of death down to facts and statistics. Skottie could see how the rooms comforted some people, gave them lists they could check off and file away, but they made her skin crawl. A woman had been drowned and a man burned, their bodies left for strangers to discover, and there were no facts that mattered except that two people were gone forever.
She knew she would have to open the cabinets, pull out the drawers, and look at the bodies, but she wasn’t ready for that. She went instead to the first desk at the back of the room and tapped the space bar on the computer keyboard. The monitor sprang to life, showing a desktop picture of a smiling man holding a baby, squinting into the camera, deep purple beneath his eyes. A proud sleepy father. Skottie assumed this computer belonged to Dr. Iversen’s assistant. A gray box sprang up, obscuring the young father’s face, and a blinking cursor prompted her to input a password.
“Damn,” Skottie said.
“What are you looking for?”
Skottie started and looked up from the monitor. A very tall man in a heavy brown trench coat and a white Stetson stood in the doorway, a ring of keys in his hand. He had gray hair and glasses and a neatly trimmed mustache. Skottie judged him to be in his midfifties.
“Dr. Iversen?” she guessed.
“Who are you?” Iversen hesitated in the door, torn between curiosity and outrage. “I thought—”
“You were expecting Trooper Kufahl, right? I’m afraid I lied to your watchman out there.”
Dr. Iversen dropped his keys in a pocket of the big coat. “He said the trooper who found the body was here. That’s not you. So I’ll ask again, who are you?”
“I really am with the Highway Patrol. Can I show you my badge?”
Iversen nodded, and Skottie took out her badge holder, flipped it open so he could see the shield inside. He seemed to relax. He unbuttoned his coat and hung it on a peg behind the door while Skottie talked.
“Trooper Kufahl asked me to come out here and check on something for him,” Skottie said. She didn’t want to lie to Iversen—lies seemed to be piling up behind her at an alarming rate—but the truth was far too convoluted. She had no legal or procedural reason to be there, and she didn’t want the doctor to start making phone calls. Once word got back to Lieutenant Johnson, Skottie knew she would be in an enormous amount of trouble. “I didn’t want to disturb you at home, so I thought I’d just take a quick look at the file for him and leave you a note for the morning. Sorry if I startled you.”
Iversen hung his hat on a peg next to the trench coat and used his fingers to smooth his hair. He shook his head.
“Why didn’t Ryan come out here himself? Have I met you before?”
“Only over the phone. My name’s Foster. Call me Skottie.”
“Okay.”
“Ryan’s still caught up with that other case, the pileup,” she said. “Long day.”
“Right. Helluva day. Why I came back. Thought maybe I could get a jump on tomorrow. Two suspicious bodies, one right after the other—well, it’s not a record, but we’re not really set up for that, not to mention the ordinary bodies we’ve got to deal with.” He held out his hands like he was surrendering to the mysteries of life, or the Fates, and shook his head again. “Anyway, what was it Ryan needed?”
“I know it’s early yet, but if you’ve got anything on the John Doe from today, the burn victim …”
“Not much, of course,” Iversen said. He went to the refrigerated cabinets and adjusted his glasses, reading the cards attached to the doors. “We got lucky with a couple of details, though, and I’m waiting on an e-mail from the hospital.” He settled on one of the drawers and unlatched it, pulled it out on its rollers, looked in, and closed it again. “We’ll know more when I get him on the table tomorrow, but …” He grabbed a file from a rack on the counter next to him and went to a large light box on the wall, opening the file as he walked. He stuck a rectangular sheet of film in the holder at the top and pushed a button on the side. A moment later, the light box flickered to life. “Look at this.”
Skottie watched as he clipped two more X-rays up on the wall. Sections of the dead man’s skeleton were illuminated in no particular order, like a gruesome jigsaw puzzle.
“Here.” Dr. Iversen pointed to a spot on one of the X-rays. “See that?”
Skottie moved closer and squinted up at a blurry white spot on the reversed-out shadow of an arm. “That line, is it a fracture?”
“Not just one. Three fractures, close together here. And here, too. And see there?” He pointed again, but Skottie didn’t see anything unusual.
“Harder to see,” Iversen said. “But those dark spots there, the head of the radius has been dislocated enough times that scar tissue built up in the joint. Monteggia fractures of the proximal forearm. These are old injuries, set well and healed. Probably childhood trauma.”
“Abuse?”
“Not necessarily.” He held his arm out and hit the heel of his hand against the counter. “You put your arm out to break a fall and the pressure gets transferred up the line and breaks at the weakest point, which is your ulna … here.” He pointed at his forearm. “It probably wouldn’t happen this way, especially with the dislocation at the wrist, if he had been hit with something from above or from the side. If I had to guess, I’d say he spent a lot of time on a skateboard. Or maybe a bicycle or in-line skates. Fell often enough that he broke that arm three different times.”
“Ouch,” Skottie said.
“Well, yes, but a lucky
break for us, so to speak. Lucky breaks, I should say. We ought to be able to use those to help us identify him. He was too badly burned for much else.”
“What about dental records? Or a DNA test?”
“Dental records, sure. Sarakay’s going to get on that first thing. But I’m afraid a DNA test would take weeks and cost more than the county will probably want to spend.”
And Skottie knew that a DNA test, aside from being slow and costly, was no guarantee of any real results. There had to be something to match the DNA to in order to make an identification. It was a long shot.
“But if he’s a murder victim …”
“Oh, I think that’s beyond any doubt.”
“Really?”
Iversen pointed to another X-ray. “See that?”
“Okay, it’s a skull,” Skottie said. “Besides that, what am I looking at?”
“Here.” Iversen tapped his finger on a line that looked like a curly hair had fallen across the negative.
“Another fracture,” Skottie said. “But it’s—”
“Not a fracture. A piece was cut out of this man’s skull. He’s had brain surgery.”
Skottie felt her level of excitement rising. “That should make it easier to identify him.”
“Maybe. There’s one more thing you can tell Ryan, although I’ll show him all this tomorrow anyway.”
Dr. Iversen led the way to the refrigerated cabinets and pulled out the same one he’d opened before. This time he rolled it all the way out and waved Skottie over.
“Look at the side of his head there,” Iversen said. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“I don’t see it.”
The man’s head was badly burned, most of the skin blackened and thin as parchment. His hair was burned away, and the flesh that was visible along his scalp was a livid pink. His features were obscured by a mound of blisters like mushrooms on an old log. Skottie wanted to look away, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself with Dr. Iversen.