by Martha Reed
“I’ve been tasked.” The PDI spoke over her shoulder, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. “With any medico-legal death, sexual assault, and mental health investigations in NOLA and I report directly to the Chief Deputy Coroner. Do you have any initial questions?”
“Are we the only ones in here?” Delilah whispered.
“Oddly enough, yes. We’re experiencing a lull.” Snatching a folded sheet off of a nearby cart, she tucked it under her arm. “That’s not usually the case. Central’s the busiest Coroner’s Office in Louisiana. We see upwards of 1,000 autopsies a year plus two hundred more from neighboring parishes who request our help.” Pausing before a steel door, she twirled her index finger. “Dr. Jeff made some real changes. This is a state-of-the-art viewing facility.”
“Top drawer.” Dupree snickered.
Cop humor. Jane winced at his pun.
“First class.” Dr. Sabatier corrected severely as she opened the viewing room door.
They filed in. Jane caught an unexpected rustle and she jumped, because the room wasn’t empty. A sallow morgue attendant stood stock still in one corner as motionless as a zombie. He was wearing a lavender smock with a neon green hairnet. Gray industrial goggles and a paper facemask were loosely slung around his neck.
“Baptiste?” The PDI slid the sheet onto another cart. She scanned her clipboard. “We need Coroner’s Case docket D-7493.”
“74-93. Yes, ma’am. Be right back with it.” Straightening his paper sleeves, he pushed through a swinging side door, shuffling away in his blue shoe booties.
“Everyone? Please take a seat. This may take a few minutes.”
Dr. Sabatier pointed to a cluster of plastic chairs. Crossing the viewing room, she grabbed a brown paper bag off a stainless-steel shelf next to a stack of paper towels and an opened pop up box of plastic evidence collection bags.
“Ms. Pascoe? This is Mr.,” she caught herself, “Ms. Abellard’s personal property, recovered at the scene. The DC has released it to the family.”
Gee warily hefted the paper bag. It had weight, and she sat down before she opened it.
“What’s in here?”
Ripping open the metal staples, she peered in before pulling Fancy’s gold wallet out. Flipping it open, she looked up. “It’s been picked. Everything but her license is gone.” Dipping her hand back in, she snaked out Fancy’s pink silk purse. Grief lined Gee’s face when she noticed that the silvery chain link strap was snapped in half. She choked as she threaded the slim chain through her fingers. “You said she put up a fight?”
“Yes. We believe she did,” Detective Bordelon sympathized sadly.
“Is her phone in there?” Delilah asked.
Gee tipped the bag on its side. “No, I don’t see it.” Sliding out Fancy’s mohair sweater, she gasped, rapidly shaking her fingers like a cat flicking a damp paw. “This has dried blood on it.”
“The violence associated with this homicide is what triggered the Coroner’s Case registration,” Detective Dupree rumbled.
“I’ve been a PDI for thirteen years,” Dr. Sabatier added, “and I’m still shocked by the insane senseless violence that I see in this city.”
“Leave Fancy’s clothes in the bag, Gee,” Delilah suggested quickly. “We’ll take care of that later.”
The PDI leaned her hip against a stainless-steel table. “We’ll hold Ms. Abellard’s body until the homicide investigation is complete. That may take several weeks. We have new autopsy protocols in place.” She delicately dusted her fingers. “Dr. Jeff has directed us to be thorough.”
“That’s a good thing.” Dupree stopped picking at his nails. “Since we couldn’t always believe the evidence or the answers that previously came out of this office.”
Dr. Sabatier angrily pushed off the table. “Previous protocols were sloppy.” She raised her chin. “We’re working very hard to reestablish public confidence, and trust.” She picked the clipboard up. “When the investigation is complete, we’ll release Ms. Abellard’s body to the funeral home you choose. Ms. Pascoe?” She clicked a pen. “We’ll send you status updates via email unless you’d prefer a call?”
“No.” Gigi rested her forehead on her fingertips. “Email or text work best.”
Jane tensed as she caught the sound of rubbery wheels gripping linoleum. There was a pause, a solid metallic clunk, and the side door swung open. Baptiste returned, pushing a loaded gurney into the viewing room over his fully extended arms. Everyone froze. He settled the gurney against the far wall like he was parallel parking a car.
Straightening his shoulders, he unzipped the body bag from head to foot with three ferocious tugs.
ZIP. ZIP. ZIP. Jane grabbed her nose.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Oh-mi-god!” Delilah gagged. “Wait! I’m not ready for this!”
“This one’s not so bad.” Baptiste rocked steadily from side to side. “December’s better for decomp. Not so hot.” Shoving his hands deeply into his smock pockets, he wheezed. “He-he-he. This fella look like a human canoe. Look how much they stitched him up. He looks like a baseball.”
“Thank you, Baptiste. That’s all.” Dr. Sabatier inserted quickly. “I’ll buzz when we’re done.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged, shuffling back into the hall.
The PDI reached for the folded sheet. Snapping it open, she settled it neatly over the body bag and the corpse, leaving only Fancy’s head and hands exposed. Jane dropped her hand to her side as a powerful wave of chlorine scent scorched her nose hairs. She felt immensely grateful for anything that masked the stench.
“Ms. Pascoe?” Dr. Sabatier faced the room. “Is this Lester Wayne Abellard?”
“Yes.” Gee gasped, pressing her fingers to her mouth in obvious horror. “Fuck. It’s her. It’s Fancy.”
Jane automatically surfaced her CSI training, distancing herself from the immediacy of the scene and looking at it objectively. Decomposition was more than started; it had advanced. Fancy’s broken fingers were swollen like purple sausages. Her golden fake nails sprang from her fingertips like malformed talons. Jane shifted her eyes up the sheet. Fancy’s shaved head was a balloon mask of post-mortem lividity. Skin slippage had already begun. Her cheeks sagged, and the loose skin pillowed against the gurney. The dulled white of her eyeballs gleamed through two blackened slits. Her mouth yawned opened in Death’s last grimace, that dark jester’s final smile. Her lips were drawn back over her gray gums, exposing her missing teeth.
Gee hesitantly stepped closer. “Where’s her hair?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Dupree looked confused.
“Her hair, her wig,” Gee insisted. “It’s not in the bag. Where is it?”
Snatching up her clipboard, Dr. Sabatier ran her finger down the inventory. “I don’t see it listed. She didn’t come in with one -”
“Quick!” Snapping her fingers, Gee stared unblinking at Fancy’s corpse. “Give me a towel. I’ll make her a turban, cover her up.” Obviously steeling herself, she took another step closer. “She’d hate to be seen like this, all naked and bald.”
“This is horrible!” Delilah wailed, unpinning the rhinestone brooch on her lapel. “Wait, Gee! Use this, too.”
“Stop!” Jane leapt up, terrified by the onrushing danger. “Don’t step any closer! They forgot to bag her hands.”
“She’s right.” Detective Dupree blocked their way. “Please return to that side of the room. You’ll contaminate the evidence.”
“I’m sorry, Gee.” Delilah gagged again, pressing her hankie to her lips. “I can’t take this. I need some air. I’m feeling faint.”
“Sure thing, honey.” Gee dug out her keys. “Go warm up The Boat. We’ll finish up and I’ll drive you home. Can you find your way back?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Delilah blindly waved good-bye. “I’ve got to go.”
Jane faced the PDI. “Did you scrape her fingernails? Swab for skin residue samples?”
“I believe we di
d.” Dr. Sabatier stammered as she scanned the report. She snatched up a couple of plastic evidence collection bags. “I don’t see it listed. I’ll bag them now.”
“Don’t do that. Can’t use plastic.” Glancing around the room, Jane came up empty. “Humidity degrades DNA even faster. You should be using acid free paper bags. Don’t you people know that?”
“How do you know that?” Dupree challenged.
“Who are you to tell me my job?” The PDI chorused.
“I’m ex-CSI. That should’ve been done at the crime scene. Too late, now. Any evidence you do find will get tossed outta court by any decent defense attorney.”
“Is she right?” Gee asked, wide-eyed. “What a cluster fuck! You’re supposed to be the professionals!”
“Every department has its own protocol,” Dr. Sabatier stated defensively, thumbing a blue button mounted on the wall. “Thank you for your cooperation. We have what we need. This office will be in touch with any news.”
“That’s it?” Gee demanded.
“That’s it. We’ll be in touch.” Dr. Sabatier repeated, her eyes glinting like steel.
Bordelon caught the door, politely holding it open as they filed into the hall. “And that’s it for me, as well.” He settled his hat. “I’ll close Ms. Abellard’s missing person’s file and transition the case to Homicide. Ms. Pascoe?” Continuing down the hall, he spoke over his shoulder, buttoning his overcoat from the bottom up. “I’m truly sorry about your friend. I know this wasn’t the answer we were hoping for. I hope the family can find closure.” He paused. “On a personal note, I’ll add you to my prayers and buy a mass for Ms. Abellard. Detective Dupree will be the case lead, going forward, but please don’t hesitate to bring me in if you need to. I want to see this case successfully closed, since it’s my last one.”
“That’s right! I forgot.” Dupree slid to a stop. “What’s today’s count?”
“Ten more days.” Bordelon smoothed his lapels. “Until I retire. Thirty-four years on the force should be enough for any man. Call the governor. I’m due for parole.” He joked gently, tipping his hat, turning on his heel and striding for the door.
Gee’s shoulders dropped as she watched him go. “Detective Dupree? You gonna quit on us, too?”
“No, I’m not.” Dupree raised his chin. “I want an answer.”
“And I’m not going anywhere, Gee,” Jane stated. “I’ll see this through.”
“Good.” Gee balled her fists. “Because I’m going to find out who did this to Fancy and make them pay. So, what do we do now?”
Jane considered the evidence. “We know her wallet was rifled. Her bank could tell us if some scumbag tried using her debit or credit cards. If he accessed an ATM, we can subpoena the video.”
“Already asked Judge Duquesne for a subpoena this morning.” Dupree smirked.
“Subpoena Fancy’s phone company records, too. Trace any calls she made or received over the last few weeks. Try to spot a pattern or a singularity.”
“Keep going. You’re doing my job for me.” Dupree sounded sarcastic, but he looked impressed. “Anything more to suggest?”
“Yes. Track down the current location of her phone using GPS. If the killer sold it for scrap, which I’m guessing he did, the recycling center should have security video. If it’s a pawnshop, even better. I know they store video. Plenty of them in the Ninth Ward. We might get lucky, get a hit.”
Gee looked puzzled. “You’re still thinking Fancy was robbed? This wasn’t a hate crime?”
That’s a good question. Jane paused. What do I think really happened? She recalled the grisly details from the viewing room. Fancy’s murder was vicious and deliberate. You don’t kick a person to death by accident. Guilt rippled through her core. Did I automatically fall into my old comfortable way of thinking because it was easier than engaging my brain and thinking outside the box? I’ve kept up with the Yahoo headlines. Gee’s gender fluid world is under attack from right wing hate groups and extremist evangelicals. LGBTQ civil rights protections are being rescinded by the Trump administration every day. Maybe I need to trim my sails and shift my way of thinking?
Dupree’s cellphone buzzed. Pulling it from his pocket, he frowned. “I need to take this.” He sped for the door. “I’ll follow up. Be in touch.”
Jane watched him go. What if Dupree doesn’t find Fancy’s killer? What if he gets busy, and lets it drop? Her need for justice breached the surface of her rocky emotional plane like a spouting whale. Hate crimes are on the rise. The wrong element is getting stirred up. Soon enough, this new behavior will become our new norm. What do I want my reality to be?
She swallowed thickly. “No, you’re right, Gee. This has ‘hate crime’ written all over it. No matter who did this, or why, we need to stop this scumbag before he hurts anyone else.”
“We?” Gee asked, wide-eyed. “We need to stop him?”
“Yes.” Jane stated flatly. “We.”
Ignoring her own rising mindless panic, Jane shut her eyes as she recalled the searingly clear details of her own very, very bad day on Nantucket four years ago, when she scoped down her extended arms and heart-centered a 9MM clip into another monster until he was dead. And I’m not sorry I did it, not one bit. She opened her eyes. “We’re going to fight this and we need to win. I won’t live in a world that has this kind of evil in it.”
“I’m in.” Gee stared, unblinking. “Oui.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You reconfrontant working solo tonight?” Numa Hebert sat hunched behind the security console, scowling. “Had to pull Christophe in early to cover daylight.”
“Why?” Jane studied her boss. Numa was sweating profusely, his cheekbones spider-webbed with bright broken capillaries. As usual, he looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. “Where’s Cal?”
“Fuck if I know. Probably took off running. The cops are after him.” Numa flattened his greasy bangs against his forehead until he looked like Napoleon. Pushing away from the monitors, he freed his suspendered potbelly, which ballooned as he rose. “Caught that fucker working the system. Cops asked me to see who leased #301 and guess what? It’s not on the books, but Cal issued an entry fob for it. Turns out Cal’s been letting unauthorized people on site.” He squinted. “You know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not.” Jane lied. But I had my suspicion.
“What a cluster fuck.” Numa struggled into his windbreaker. “Now the owners want me to figure out which units are leased legit. What am I? An accountant?” He repeatedly pursed his lips. “Level Three’s de’pouille, a real mess now that the cops got done with it.” Snaring a paper printout with his fingertips, he tapped a floor plan schematic. “301, next to the fire door. You stay out of there, sweetheart. Trust me. You don’t want to get involved with any part of this.”
Oh, but I already am. Fancy was a friend. Jane chanced a random cast for information. How much do you know, Numa? “The news said they recovered a body.”
“Fuck yeah, and not for the first time.” Numa zipped his windbreaker to his throat. “Thought we was done with that when we chased the druggies out. That fentanyl is some lethal shit.” He massaged his brow. “Cops are thinking this is something different though, something more, I could tell. Owners told me to shut my trap until the cops got a warrant and then be as helpful as heck. Fuck if they didn’t show up with one. Spent the whole day crawling up my ass. Who rented #301? How did they pay? Got bank info or a street address? Show us the corridor videos. Had to explain that we didn’t have corridor videos; took everything in me to convince the cheap ass owners to install security cams in the stairwells last year. Now I look like an ass wipe. I’m cashed.” He looked it. “Red will relieve you at six. Text me if there’s an emergency,” he grimaced sourly, “right after you dial 911.” He turned for the door. “I’ll be down at The Deuce. I need a drink or two, maybe even three. Fuck. It’s been that kinda day.”
Got it. Jane watched until Numa turned the corner for the ga
rage. Anyone else in here with me? Spinning the chair around, she double-clicked the mouse and opened the SecureVue access log. The last discharge entry read: 9:48 PM, Unit #111. The associated black and white still photo capture was so distorted and grainy it could have come from Mars. Jane relaxed. Crap software, but at least the exit camera is online again.
I’m alone. Normally she waited until after she saw Numa’s black Honda CR-V on the exit turnstile monitor to patrol, but Jane itched to see the crime scene where Fancy’s corpse was recovered. Because you never know. NOPD CSI might’ve overlooked something. They were careless about bagging Fancy’s hands. What else did they miss?
Grabbing her security fob, Jane headed for the stairwell, trotting up to Level Three, anticipation pushing her to take the concrete steps two at a time. Swiping the keypad, she shouldered the heavy steel fire door open, her eyes immediately tearing up. Industrial ammonia-based cleaner. That and bleach are two giveaway crime scene tells. Pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she blanketed the smell and studied the scene.
Unit #301’s rolling accordion gate was down, but the Guardian Storage installed locking bolt had been ruthlessly drilled out. Curly metal shavings littered the floor. The unit was now padlocked secured by a heavy chain, its square steel frame cobwebbed with yellow NOPD CSI roll tape. The court ordered search warrant Numa mentioned was prominently taped to a support pillar. Standard protocol. Numa was right. Sealed up tight as a clam. No way I’m getting in there. Jane chewed her lip. What did CSI find in there besides Fancy’s corpse? I might pry that intel out of Dupree, but he’ll be keeping the case details close to his vest. She dropped her hands to her hips. What’s my next step? What more can I do? We need to catch this killer! I need more data.
Got it. Jane raced back to the office. Sliding behind the security console, she launched the SecureVue application. Scrolling through the menu options, she hovered the mouse over the MasterStore archive. Probably shouldn’t be doing this. Her conscience prickled uneasily. Owner records are confidential. Not open to the public. She settled in. But I’m not the public. I’m Security, right?