by Anne Frasier
“It would be cool if you could lift DNA that triggers a CODIS match,” David said. “I’m also hoping you can determine cause of death.”
“CODIS is a long shot.” The fumes in the room seemed especially strong, and Elise adjusted her mask before continuing. “The database was just getting off the ground when this person died, and those early entries were exclusively sex offenders. I honestly think our best chance is uploading a photo, along with an aged image, to the police-department website so the media can grab it.” As much as she bitched about reporters, they were often essential players when it came to catching criminals.
“Is that a knife wound?” Avery pointed to an area near the clavicle that had been stitched closed.
John shook his head. “Incision made by the mortician to reach the common carotid artery.”
Avery stared at the corpse’s chest. Under his breath he muttered, “Sweet kitty.”
“I can already tell you the probable cause of death.” John stepped to a laptop covered in soft plastic, hit some keys, and brought up a series of digital images he then navigated. “I X-rayed the body.” He enlarged a JPEG of the skull. “He’s got a broken neck. And without even cutting him open I noted signs of blunt-force trauma.” He returned to the table.
David pointed, drawing their attention back to the body. “His fingernails look well manicured. I mean, as much as I can tell in his present condition.”
“Good catch,” John said. “I noticed that too, and I think you’re right.”
“If someone were just looking for a body, any body, to take the place of Remy,” Elise said, “I’d think they would have targeted a homeless person. And the suit he was wearing doesn’t appear to be high quality. That doesn’t really fit with the manicured hands.”
“The suit’s too big,” John said. “Probably something the funeral home picked up or had around.”
“Or meant for the larger Remy.” Avery squeezed the metal nose clip on his surgical mask. “Anybody else’s eyes burning?”
“He’s leaking formaldehyde,” John told them. “You don’t want to breathe too much of that stuff. I’ll probably grab goggles and a respirator before I cut him open.”
Elise took a step back. “I don’t think we need to see anything else.”
They all agreed, although John seemed sorry to see them go. He clicked off the recorder. “We need to get together. Don’t forget about Johnny Mercer Day. You’re all invited,” he said, including Avery. “Significant others too, if you’re so inclined. Our place is small, but it has a nice courtyard.”
David pulled his mask below his chin. “Let us know if you find anything unusual once you cut him open.”
“Will do.”
In the prep room, they snapped off gloves. Elise was relieved to find no Mara in sight.
Avery tossed his gown in the biohazard container. “Gotta head back downtown and prepare for the press conference. The mayor wants you both there. Those were his last orders before being taken into surgery. And you know I’m not great when it comes to answering questions.”
True. Avery wasn’t good at speeches or good at planning or even good at bossing people around. His strength was thinking fast in the field. That was an important quality, like today when he’d saved the mayor’s life.
“Who’s in charge here?” David asked. Not such a weird question, all things considered.
Avery shrugged. “I think I am.” Then he nodded as if agreeing with himself. “Pretty sure I am, but I’m open to any and all suggestions.” His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, read a text, and tucked it away again. “Mayor is out of surgery. Everything went smoothly. Right now I think you should both go to the mortuary. Research was able to dig up information. Looks like the body was embalmed at Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell. And, as we all know, they’re still in business. See if you can pick up any details. We need to determine where Remy’s trail ended. I’ve also got someone checking prison records to see if we can pull anything together.”
“Good ideas,” Elise said. “I’d also suggest searching Chatham County news archives for anybody who went missing just before Remy’s burial.”
Avery agreed.
It had to be strange, telling her what to do when she’d been bossing him around barely a month ago. But that role hadn’t suited her any more than it suited Avery. Or maybe it hadn’t suited her mind-set at the time, just coming out of her encounter with Tremain, a big reason she’d been forced to slam and lock that door and never open it again. The head of Homicide couldn’t indulge in meltdowns. She still felt resentful about that sometimes. But she’d done okay in Chicago. It had been good to drop into a new location, meet new people. It helped her forget.
Coming back made her remember.
She and David left the morgue. It was probably 120 degrees in the car. Simultaneously they lowered the windows while the AC blasted hot air in their faces.
David slipped on his sunglasses and rested his arm in the open window. “This day sure went to hell fast. Six hours ago we were heading to Laurel Grove to take in an exhumation from a safe distance. Just one of many curious bystanders. Now here we are.” He pulled out the leather case that held his badge and tossed it on the dash.
Elise was having a hard time figuring out his take on returning to Homicide. Part of her suspected he was enjoying this, which was something he knew she wouldn’t want to hear.
She pulled onto Abercorn to head for the funeral home. “For a while back there in the hospital I got the sneaking suspicion you might be happy about the turn of events.”
“I hate that the mayor was shot, but I gotta admit I didn’t at all mind seeing him grovel.”
“I mean being back, regardless of the mayor.”
Like a kid with ADD, or more likely desperate for a way to evade her question, he suddenly took note of something beyond the interior of the car and beyond their conversation. “Hey, pull over.” He pointed to a food shack she’d never noticed before. “This place is supposed to have good barbeque. I haven’t had anything to eat since those boiled peanuts.”
“That seems a lifetime ago.”
“Back when we were carefree and unencumbered kids.”
CHAPTER 12
Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell Funeral Home, with its green awning and ornately carved door, was located off Montgomery Street, between Laurel Grove Cemetery and the old Candler Hospital.
“Brings back fond memories,” Elise said.
Inside, their feet sank into red carpet as they located the office. They flashed their newly returned badges, the woman behind the desk frowning at David’s unprofessional attire of jeans and a T-shirt.
Elise could see the second she recognized them, because her demeanor changed—became friendly, a little awe filled. Being in the public eye opened doors even a badge couldn’t. Elise noted the nameplate on the woman’s desk. Camilla Bowen. “By now you’ve probably heard about the shooting at Laurel Grove,” Elise said.
“Yes.” The woman’s expression went sad. “So awful.”
David didn’t tell Camilla about the body not belonging to Remy—that wasn’t yet for public consumption—but he let her know they needed to see the records from the Remy burial.
Somewhere below their feet, a motor kicked in and Elise felt a blast of cool air from a nearby vent. “We especially need to know who was in charge of the embalming and burial.”
“That could take a while.” Camilla got to her feet. “All records that old are in a storage area. The business was bought out over twenty years ago. Those old files were just kind of shoved in a corner.” She made an apologetic and slightly embarrassed face. No surprise. Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell had a history of losing things, even bodies.
“Maybe we can help speed up the process,” Elise said.
Camilla reached for the phone. “I need to call my supervisor. This might require a search warrant.”
David did one of the things David did best. Flirt.
He looked into the woman�
��s eyes. “This is a matter of urgency. Life or death. The mayor has been shot. I’d hate to see the investigation delayed with a phone call and a warrant request. At this point you can just plead ignorance if your supervisor ends up unhappy with your decision. Make the call, and all of our hands are tied.”
She was about twenty years older than David. Not old-old, but past the turning-head stage. Probably some gray under her dyed hair. Maybe single. Maybe married.
In that second, Elise saw him through the receptionist’s eyes. His dark hair hadn’t been cut for a while, and he had those areas that always bleached out a little from the sun. Once he got a trim, the light hair would be gone, only to appear again over time.
There was a sexuality to him, but that wasn’t what made David so appealing to women. It was the sexuality combined with what she considered David’s exclusive brand: a charming sense of tragedy.
Elise hadn’t responded to Mara’s comment about how she’d feel if anything happened to him. They’d become such a team, two halves of a whole. With shock, she realized losing him would be unthinkable. In the pyramid of those most important to her, Audrey and David took the top spots.
The woman caved. Of course she did.
She smiled, and David smiled back. “I don’t think it would hurt,” she finally admitted.
“It’ll only help. And believe me,” he said with sincerity—it was the sincerity that always got them—“you’ll be doing the city of Savannah a great service.”
Camilla led them down a set of ancient stone steps, through a narrow tunnel, to a dark storage area of crumbling stone walls and a damp floor of tabby cement. It was a place Elise had been before. Not the exact room, but one not far away. Like many old buildings in Savannah, the mortuary had a tunnel, this one leading to the old Candler Hospital and Laurel Grove Cemetery.
It seemed the receptionist wanted to stay and either watch or help, but she reluctantly excused herself. “I need to get back to my desk.”
“Camilla grossly downplayed the condition of their filing system,” Elise said once she and David were alone.
The room had suffered water damage, and many of the cardboard containers at the bottoms of the stacks had collapsed, crushed by the weight of the ones above.
David surveyed the mess. “At least the dates are readable.”
Thirty minutes into their search Elise tugged out the year they were looking for. She placed the box under a bare lightbulb, opened the lid, and riffled through the contents. Ten minutes later they had the file containing receipts and the signature of the mortician who’d handled the body. A man named Abraham Winslow, the previous owner of the funeral home.
Elise’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen. Audrey. “I have to get this.” She hit “Answer” and remained in the basement while David carried the file upstairs to the receptionist’s office.
“Mom. Are you okay?” Audrey was talking fast. “We just heard about a shooting. The news is saying you and David were there and that you caught the guy.”
“I’m fine. David is fine, but Victor Lamont is dead and the mayor has a nonlethal injury. The perpetrators are still at large.”
Audrey’s voice lost clarity as she addressed someone else in the room. “She’s okay.”
“Give me the phone.”
Elise recognized Thomas’s voice. She heard footsteps; then Thomas was speaking to her, asking his version of the same questions. “Are you okay?”
“I’m surprised you care.”
“Of course I care.” His voice caught. “How could you think otherwise?”
She felt a rush of sorrow for the loss of those days when they’d been a family. Thomas was a good man, and a good father. He just hadn’t been able to deal with her long hours and the constant worry. He’d wanted her to quit Homicide, but she’d refused. And now he had a lovely wife and twin boys, along with Audrey. “I’m fine,” she managed, her ears tuned to her own voice, hoping she hadn’t revealed any of what she was feeling.
He let out his breath in relief. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
“We were all worried. You know that, right? We care about you. I want you to stay alive, not only for Audrey, but for us too. For me.”
She moved the phone away from her ear, a hand pressed to her mouth. Two deep breaths and she was back, reassuring him, sounding calm. “It was just a strange turn of events that I can’t really discuss right now.”
“I don’t understand why you were even there. You don’t work for the Savannah PD anymore. Thank God.”
“About that . . .” The conversation about her return to Homicide was coming earlier than she’d anticipated.
“Elise?” He’d picked up on the hesitation in her voice.
“David and I were just sworn back in. We’re working the case.”
“My God. What the hell are you thinking? I’d hoped getting Audrey out of Savannah would make you come to your senses. We all care about you. We just think you’ve fallen in with the wrong people.”
David. He’d never liked David.
“You could move out here. To Seattle. Get a job as a private investigator for an insurance company. Or for a divorce lawyer. Something safe. You know what the temperature is right now? Seventy degrees and sunny. I don’t know why I stayed in Savannah as long as I did. Audrey loves it here. You’d love it too.”
She’d been to Seattle a couple of times. “When I was last in Seattle, it rained the whole time.”
“We get rain, but that’s not a bad price to pay for less crime. Less weird crime.” He always thought he knew what was best for her. Always. There would never be any convincing him otherwise.
“I’ve gotta go.” Thank God her daughter was headstrong. “Put Audrey back on the line. I want to tell her good-bye.”
Despite his growl of frustration, he passed the phone to Audrey.
“I tried to call Grandpa, and he didn’t pick up,” she said. “Is he okay?”
Elise would have liked to know the answer to that question herself. “He was fine last time I saw him.”
“You should get Strata Luna to make you a protection spell. I’d make you one, but I don’t have the right ingredients. And if Dad found out . . .”
“Don’t let him walk all over you.” Elise didn’t like to say anything negative about Thomas to Audrey, but this called for it. “He’ll try.”
“Don’t worry. He finally gave up on trying to make me wear pastel clothes.”
They both laughed.
“And it might be nice today, but it rains here. A lot. It’s like Blade Runner without the flying cars.”
Elise laughed again. God, she missed her daughter. “Be careful.”
“Right. Like you would know all about careful.”
They said their good-byes and disconnected.
“The mortician who handled the Remy account is retired but still alive,” David said when Elise caught up with him in the foyer of the funeral parlor. “Living at an assisted-living center on Abercorn.”
This time around they didn’t have to pull out their badges. The regal black woman at the assisted-living-center reception desk recognized them immediately and led them down a hall smelling faintly of urine and strongly of cooked cabbage.
“Mr. Winslow is in the early stages of dementia,” the receptionist explained. “He has good days and bad days. I haven’t seen him yet today, so I don’t know how he’s doing, but I can tell you this is the best time to visit. Evening is the worst, when confusion is the most pronounced. It’s called sundowning, and many dementia patients suffer from it, bless their hearts.”
In the TV room, she introduced them to Abraham Winslow, who sat off by himself, staring at small yellow birds hopping from branch to branch in the indoor aviary, the caged birds themselves seeming a condensed echo of the human story going on within the walls of the care center.
The man was painfully skinny, knee bones sharp below loose jeans. He wore wide red suspenders and a T-shirt that had turned a sad shade o
f yellow.
“I think he’ll be glad to have the company,” the woman whispered, meaning even if they were cops.
Once she was gone, Elise and David grabbed chairs and sat a few feet from the man. Elise dug in her bag, pulled out a tablet and pen, prepared to take notes.
Without much pause or consideration or question, Winslow said, “Good to see you,” as if he knew them. Elise’s neighbor had developed Alzheimer’s, and Elise knew early-stage patients were notorious for faking name and facial recognition. Still concerned and embarrassed by their memory loss, they pretended to know things that had slipped away. Given Winslow’s reaction to meeting them, Elise was afraid they weren’t dealing with a reliable source.
She asked him if he had any memory of a funeral-home client named Frank J. Remy.
“Sure I do.” Winslow wore a faded cap that he removed and slapped back down on his head, as if preparing for some kind of job that might involve hard labor.
“How do you remember him?” David asked. “Was there something that stood out?”
“You could say that.” The words that followed assured Elise of Winslow’s reliability. “He was a murderer. We didn’t get many murderers at the funeral home. I think I only embalmed a few in my career.” The hat action was put into play again. “And there was the other thing.” The words were spoken as if Elise and David knew exactly what that other thing was.
“What thing?” David asked.
“It was in all the papers. Didn’t you read about it?”
Another sign of dementia, when thirty years ago seemed like yesterday. But dementia patients could also exhibit acute recall, the brain banishing the most recent to shine a bright light on the far distant. “I must have missed it,” Elise said.
“That’s not very good police work.”
She smiled. “That’s why we’re here. So you can tell us what we don’t know. We need your help, your memories. Can you give us any interesting details?”
He did seem happy to have company. Did he have family? If so, did any of them come to see him?