by Anne Frasier
“The body was in the cooler and I pulled it out, like always.” Winslow related the story as if he’d told it a million times. “I wheeled it into the embalming room, unzipped the bag. Next thing I know I’m waking up in the hospital.”
Elise and David looked at each other. Winslow continued, seeming to relish having an audience. “That’s right. You can read about that too. I almost died. Was in the hospital for two, maybe three weeks.”
“What happened to Remy’s body?”
“The guy who worked for me, name was Gerald Sanchez, did the embalming, far as I remember.”
“We’re going to need to talk to him,” David said. “Do you know where we can reach him?”
“That’s gonna be kinda hard.” Winslow chuckled. “Sanchez died about a month after I took sick. They thought it was the air in the mortuary that brought us both down. I installed a new exhaust system, but it was too late. My business was ruined. Had to file for bankruptcy. Place sat empty for maybe fifteen years; then somebody bought it and started over. Don’t remember the name.”
“Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell,” David said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“By the time it reopened, people forgot about what had happened to me.”
Elise closed her notebook. “I’m sorry about your business, Mr. Winslow.” The funeral home certainly had a dark history.
“What did they think was wrong with you and Sanchez?” David asked. “Did you ever have an official diagnosis?”
“Toxicity due to formaldehyde fumes. That’s bad stuff, you know. Carcinogen. But some people said it was rootwork, a mojo. People were afraid. Didn’t make any difference what caused it. Poison in the air, or some kind of spell. People quit bringing their dead to me.”
“Do you think you’d remember what Frank J. Remy looked like?” David asked.
“Don’t know. My memory’s not what it used to be.” He quickly went on to defend himself. “But it’s not bad. Everybody forgets things now and then, ’specially when you get to my age.”
Elise opened her phone app and scrolled to the image she’d downloaded of Remy. If Winslow identified the face correctly, they’d know the body switch took place at the funeral home. “Is this the face of the man who was in the body bag before you took ill?”
Winslow squinted at the screen. “Who’s that? Some relative of yours?”
His inability to identify Remy correctly might mean the body had been switched before it reached the funeral home. Or it could mean Winslow just didn’t remember what Remy looked like.
Elise tucked her phone away and dug out one of her old Savannah PD business cards with her cell number on it. It seemed pointless, but she handed it to the old man, hoping he didn’t stumble across it in the middle of the night and call her just because it was a phone number that was somehow in his possession.
With the card in his hand, he turned his head to watch the birds again, a vacant half smile on his face. He seemed to prefer a yellow one that was more active than the rest. Did the birds like it in there? Elise wondered. Did they want to fly? Really fly? Or was it a relief to never have to worry about anything? Not that birds worried, but what about migration? Building a nest? All of those things birds did?
“Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Winslow,” she told him. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
“Was I any help?”
Elise smiled at him. “Yes. A lot.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
Maybe she would come back. Just to visit him.
“That was unexpected,” David said once they were outside melting in the sun once again. As they approached her car, Elise hit the unlock button on the key fob.
“Do you think he knew what he was talking about?” David asked. “Or was he just diving into some dream from his dementia vault?”
“I’m not sure what to think. He was convincing.”
“I agree.” David pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Research to see if they can corroborate his story.” He moved to a spot of shade, dialed, and lifted the phone to his ear. “We’ll need hospital records on Abraham Winslow,” he said when the specialist answered. David provided the month and year. “Also any newspaper articles pertaining to the Winslow Funeral Home. See if Winslow filed for bankruptcy. See if any police investigation was ever launched.”
A pause, a thanks, then he hung up.
“Over thirty-six years ago,” Elise said, feeling skeptical. “Another long shot.”
“So let’s say it’s all fairly factual,” David said.
“Was Sanchez in on it?” she wondered aloud.
“That’s what I’m thinking. Something is used to put Winslow out of commission while Remy is revived and replaced with a dead body. Maybe whatever knocked Winslow out was supposed to kill him, but he was young and healthy and he didn’t die.”
Elise picked up the thread. “Sanchez helps with the body switch, and then he’s killed too so he’ll never reveal what happened.”
“Why did they even bother with a body? I don’t get that. And we can’t dismiss the fact that Winslow didn’t recognize Remy.”
“So they had a record of the process? So a body would be there if any other mortuary worker came across it? Maybe they wanted the casket to have the true feel of a body. Even if they’d added weight to the casket and sealed it for the burial, a dead body has a different heft than say, cement blocks.”
“Or was our John Doe somehow connected to the case? Maybe not so randomly, and the casket simply was a handy way to get rid of him?”
“Maybe.”
David adjusted his sunglasses and flexed his shoulders as if his body ached. “What an awful place.”
“That could be us one day,” Elise said.
“We should make a pact right now.”
“To do what?”
He raised his eyebrows. You know.
“A pillow?”
“A nice fluffy one.”
They opened car doors, slid inside, and lowered windows. Then it was back downtown to prepare for the press conference.
CHAPTER 13
David was pretty proud of the press-conference-in-the-cemetery idea. Avery had been skeptical, but he’d quickly come around after David explained the advantages of sticking with the cemetery theme. They needed the public’s help, and with the possibility of Remy still being alive and having lived in more than one state, they also needed media coverage. Lots of media coverage. Lamont had called David a media whore, and maybe it was true. Not that David was proud of the title, but they were living in an age in which social media had an alarming and disturbing amount of power. He wanted to plug directly into that power.
A press conference in a Civil War cemetery, with its ancient, lichen-encrusted tombstones and curtains of Spanish moss, would guarantee good coverage. David hoped by tomorrow morning the story would be in thousands of Facebook feeds. The shooting of a mayor in a cemetery was news, but a press conference held in one made it bigger news.
They were almost ready to begin, the exact presentation location carefully chosen. Mics were in place near the area of the cemetery that butted up to the back of the three-story brick Savannah PD building. Cables snaked across grass, and people sat on altar stones chatting and drinking from to-go cups while waiting for events to get under way.
Cemeteries had once been used as gathering places. Years ago families packed picnics and spent entire days among the dead and buried, much like people went to parks or beaches today. So holding the event in Colonial Park Cemetery didn’t seem a stretch, really.
David spotted Elise heading his way. Even from a distance he could see she wasn’t happy.
“A press conference in a cemetery?” she asked. “Are you kidding me? Who ordered this circus? Avery? The mayor? I’ll bet it was the mayor. It reeks of his media pandering.”
“I’ll give you one guess. Who was recently accused of being a media whore?”
She lo
oked at him in surprise. “This was your idea?”
He nodded and rocked back on his heels.
“You should have run it past me.”
“You might not have noticed, but you aren’t in charge here anymore. But hey, do you wanna be in charge? I’m sure that could be arranged.” The mayor would jump on that. “Maybe you could even take Coretta’s job as head of the criminal-investigation department. I hear they haven’t found a permanent replacement for her.”
“I can’t believe you’re joking about Coretta.”
“I’m not joking about Coretta. I would never joke about Coretta.”
She blinked. It was actually more like a short, two-second nap; then she was staring at him again.
It seemed he was always struggling to keep their relationship in that safe place, that somewhat neutral place, but things were slipping; things were getting weird between them again. He was pretty sure he knew the cause. He’d tried to hide it, but he was glad to be back in Savannah and he was glad to be back with the Savannah PD. Surprised him too. And deep down, maybe in a place Elise hadn’t yet acknowledged, she was pissed that he was glad to be back.
“I don’t care about the press conference,” she said. Such an obvious attempt to convince herself of her lack of interest.
“Of course not.” It came out with a little more sarcasm than he’d intended.
Avery strode toward them—a welcome diversion. “Showtime.” His hair was damp, and he was sweating through his light-gray jacket. They took their places in front of the brick wall embedded with tombstones. Above them the wind gently wafted Spanish moss almost as if a director had shouted “Action” and given a nod to turn on the fans. Avery tapped one of the mics, winced at the feedback, and announced they’d be starting soon. People gathered closer, growing quiet in anticipation.
Avery coughed into his hand, then began.
He did a good job filling in the basics, recounting the events of that morning, beginning with Lamont’s death. “The mayor is going to be fine,” he assured them. “One woman, a reporter with WTOC, was also hit. Her injury was less severe, and she’ll be back to work in a week or so.” Then he got to the good stuff. He told them about the body in the coffin and how it didn’t belong to Frank J. Remy.
All hell broke loose with that information. Questions came fast and furious. Reporters began shouting at the same time.
Avery sweated harder and panicked more.
He had the same reply to almost every question. “I don’t know the answer to that.” He’d point, and three people would shout more questions at him. His replies were all variations on the same: “I don’t know.” Avery wasn’t skilled at redirecting, giving them a little something no matter how vague. David felt sorry for him and wondered how long he should wait to jump in. He didn’t like to see a friend sinking so fast and hard, but he also didn’t want to undermine Avery’s position by answering for him.
Now came the time for the more astute questions, the most intense from none other than Lucille Bancroft, Avery’s girlfriend. “What’s the consensus among you?” she asked. “Do you think Frank J. Remy is still alive?”
With no outward sign of recognition, Avery didn’t hesitate to give her the same unhelpful reply he’d given the others. “At this point we don’t know the answer to that.”
She looked down at the tablet in her hand, read from her notes, then plunged ahead before other reporters could break in. “We’re all aware of the situation in Florida. Of the bodies that were found in and around Ocala. Children, hidden in the walls of houses. That’s a pretty sick mind and a unique and disturbing image. Would you say the recent discovery at the house here in Savannah matches the Florida MO?”
Avery gave her a long, wounded look. Poor guy. “It’s close.” He pressed his lips together and scanned the crowd for someone who might have an easier question, one he could answer.
But Lucille was tenacious, and David was getting a good idea of who the alpha was in the relationship. “Do you think it’s the same person?” she asked bluntly.
Sweat ran down Avery’s neck. “Possibly, but it could be a copycat.”
“If it is the same person, can you tell us more about the abduction of Zane Novak? Doesn’t it seem logical that the Florida killer has moved his killing field to Georgia?”
Other reporters jumped in, several talking at once. “What’s the danger to residents? What’s the police department doing to protect citizens?”
It was time to come to Avery’s rescue. “This investigation is just unfolding, and we’re still gathering information,” David said, holding up his hands. “And in that light, we’re asking for the public’s support and help. If anyone knows anything, if anyone has seen anything, please call the local Crime Stoppers number.”
Elise did her part in helping to cut through the chaos. “Also, within the next few hours we’ll have a media file available online that we’ll be updating as information comes in,” she said. “By tomorrow morning we hope to have an aged composite of Frank J. Remy, and we’d appreciate your help in getting that photo to the public. If Remy is still alive, he might be someone’s neighbor. He might be someone’s father. He might be a regular patron at a bar or café. We need your eyes and ears in order to catch the perpetrators.” She stepped away from the mic. Cool. In charge. Not a tremble to be seen, not even from David’s close proximity.
Hands shot up. Avery pointed.
“This is for Detectives Sandburg and Gould.” The question came from a young man who hardly looked out of high school. “Are you back?” he asked. “We know you were in the cemetery this morning when everything went down, and we understand it was Detective Sandburg’s gunshot that hit the escape vehicle. But what I think most of us want to know is—are you back? Are you both working on this case? And if you are back, are you back for good?”
Knowing how much she hated their return to the department, David looked at Elise and gave her a half smile. He felt bad for her, but not as bad as he should.
In answer to the question, he reached into his pocket. When she saw what he was up to, she did the same. They both pulled out their leather cases and flipped them open.
David hadn’t been going for praise or even approval. Not even drama. It just seemed a nice visual reply. But as soon as the badges were out, applause erupted.
Two minutes later the press conference was over. Crews appeared to dismantle mics and break down equipment while officers congratulated David and Elise on their return. Elise handled it well, all things considered. It was one thing to be congratulated on a job you wanted, another to be congratulated on one you didn’t.
David spotted Lucille moving toward them through the crowd, and before he could silently warn Elise and give her the chance to vanish, the reporter caught up with them, giving Avery a smile of familiarity now that she was no longer firing questions at him.
Elise appeared ready to say something, probably thought better of it, and simply turned and walked away. As the remaining group stared at her back, Avery muttered something about Elise’s recent bad experience with a reporter. Then, shrugging off the awkwardness of her departure, he let David know Lamont’s belongings were being removed from the building behind them. “Your old office will be ready for you tomorrow.”
Before he lost his ride, David excused himself and caught up with Elise, relaying Avery’s news.
“Oh good. One of us will get a dead man’s desk. I’m sure there’s no bad mojo there.”
Minutes later, in the car heading in the direction of his apartment, David said, “I know you aren’t happy about this, but think of it as kind of a do-over.” He raised his window and turned the air down a notch so he didn’t have to talk so loudly. “This is our chance to do things differently. Retain some kind of life in the midst of all the chaos and horror.”
“Is that possible?”
“Here’s my plan, and it’s simple. We don’t go for full immersion. We try to have a life at the same time. Something completely separa
te from what’s going on back there, at the department.”
“I don’t even have a life to get back to, not with Audrey gone.”
“You make it. You make the life.”
“When did you get so positive? Aren’t you the one with the dark soul and I’m the one who’s practical?”
It occurred to him that he was hungry. Was he the only one who ever thought about food? If he never suggested it, would Elise eat at all? Maybe. After a blood-sugar crash, once she realized the cause. She was one of those people who could probably live on nothing but food pills if they ever became a viable thing. “I think we should run the marathon.”
Before Elise could come up with an argument, before she could point out that she could barely walk not all that long ago, he plunged on: “Just give it a try. Start out slow. Run a block, walk a block. You have old injuries you’re worried about. I get that, but you’ll know pretty quickly if it’s too soon.”
“When’s the marathon?”
He pulled out his phone and searched the Internet. “Three weeks.”
“Three weeks. Thirteen miles. That’s ridiculous.”
“If you aren’t ready, just walk like Avery said. And if you can only do a few miles, do a few miles. These are fund-raisers. They don’t have people who monitor and shame you.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Tell you what. I’ll stop by your place tomorrow morning. Say, six o’clock. We’ll walk-slash-run for thirty minutes, tops. No big deal. You’ve been saying you want to start something new, something that has nothing to do with crime.”
“I was thinking more along the line of a baking class. Like sourdough or something.”
“Really? Baking? You?”
“Yeah, I can bake.”
“I’m the baker.”
“Maybe I want to outdo you.”
“I have nothing against challenging you to a bake-off. Bread? Cookies? Pie? How about pie?”
“I’d have to take the class first.”
“Running is more fun.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Tomorrow morning. Six o’clock.”
“That’s ungodly.”
“I usually hit the streets at five. I’m slacking for you.”