Truly Dead

by Anne Frasier

  Moments later, in what seemed an afterthought, Avery returned to find David. “I’m out,” he said. “I hate to leave this mess with you and Elise, but I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.” He put a hand to his chest. “Lucille was killed because I was dating her, because I’ve got a target on me. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go home and board up my house, booby-trap it, then sit facing the door with a loaded gun while I wait for that son of a bitch Remy to come for me.” He stormed off. David picked up the discarded badge and stuck it in his pocket. Avery would be back. Then David and Chilton joined Elise and the cluster of crime scene techs in black slacks, blue polo shirts, and latex gloves.

  Lucille had dropped in what was called a dead-man’s fall, ankles crossed, pitched forward, probably dead before she hit the ground.

  Crouched next to the body, Elise pointed with a gloved finger. “No sign of struggle. No bruising.” She carefully lifted one hand, gently, by the wrist. “Nothing under the nails.” She looked up at Chilton. “I think you’re right. She didn’t see this coming.”

  A crime scene tech moved close and bagged the victim’s hands to keep any evidence from escaping during transport. “I think we’re ready to roll and body bag her,” she said.

  Elise stepped back, and the crew stepped forward.

  Dead bodies weren’t easy to move, and Lucille wasn’t a small woman. Three people rolled the victim into the bag. Then it was zipped and sealed and signed by Hollis Blake, John’s replacement, who appeared out of nowhere, acknowledging Elise and David with a nod but no verbal greeting.

  Elise snapped off her gloves. “I examined her phone,” she told David. “Checked her e-mail, texts, voice memos, and Facebook. Nothing.”

  “Deleted?”

  “That’s my guess. I called in a subpoena so we can access her records.”

  “Why Lucille? She’s no friend of Sweet’s.”

  “Maybe Remy was sending a message to anybody who might be thinking of sharing information with us. Plus, he probably had no idea Avery and Lucille were no longer dating. Speaking of Avery . . . I’m going to stop by his house and check on him.”

  “Need the car keys?”

  “I’ll take an Uber.”

  Seemed safe enough. “Text Avery before you approach his house. He’s setting booby traps. And here, take his badge in case he changes his mind.” He slapped it into her palm.

  The other night, after she’d given him “the talk” in his apartment, David had thought moving to Ohio might be a good idea. Once this case was over he just needed to dive in and do it. But then that damn call from Strata Luna had come, and he’d slid right back to square one, thinking he needed to be here, to watch out for Elise.

  His phone rang. A call from the hospital. He answered immediately, expecting a nurse or doctor, surprised to hear John’s voice.

  “You gotta get me out of here.”

  CHAPTER 38

  David dropped the suitcase on his bed. “This’ll work, right?”

  John stood watching from the doorway, looking shaky and pale. It was the day after Lucille Bancroft’s body had been discovered, and John, dressed in pajama bottoms, a white T-shirt, and slippers, had just been released from the hospital—with his surgeon’s extremely reluctant consent. On the way to Mary of the Angels, they’d swung by John’s house, and David had gone inside to fill the suitcase with clothes and a toothbrush and anything else that looked like it might come in handy. Being there, seeing Mara’s things, was tough. David understood why John had chosen to wait outside. And he wondered if his friend would ever be able to enter the house again.

  The hospital release hadn’t gone smoothly. John’s parents had insisted he come home with them. “We’ve cleaned out your room,” his mother said. “We have the backseat of the rental car ready for you, with pillows and blankets.”

  John had protested, reminding them that the memorial service was the next day.

  “We can stay for it,” his father had assured him. “We’ll get a hotel suite. It’ll give you time to rest away from a hospital environment before we head home.”

  On the surface, if they’d been anybody else, the plan would have seemed a solid one. Seeing the panic on his friend’s face, David had intervened, letting them know in no uncertain terms that John would be coming home with him.

  “I’m not going to take your bed,” John now said, looking ready to pass out.

  “Don’t worry about it. I sleep on the couch half the time anyway.” David fluffed a pillow. “Clean sheets, towels in the bathroom.”

  John pushed himself away from the wall and dropped to the mattress while David hung clothes in the closet and stuffed what remained in the top dresser drawer he’d emptied. Beside the bed went pain meds and sleeping pills, along with the antidepressant doctors hoped would get his friend through the next few months. David felt doubtful, but from experience he knew they helped. They made it possible to hang on to a certain and specific post-trauma numbness a little longer.

  Suitcase unpacked, he helped John under the covers, returning to place a glass of water on the bedside table. “Isobel hates most people, so I don’t think she’ll bother you.”

  He’d barely spoken the words when the Siamese appeared and jumped lightly on the bed. “Make a liar out of me.” David grabbed her, ready to remove her from the room when John stopped him.

  “That’s okay. She can stay.”

  David didn’t think of Isobel as a particularly warm cat. In fact, “bitch” was how most people described her, but she further surprised him by plopping down on the mattress. Not close, but not so far that John couldn’t reach her if he tried. Maybe she’d be good for him.

  “Okay, yell if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  It was impossible for David not to think of the John Casper he’d first met upon arriving in Savannah. That electricity, his energy, the nervous way he couldn’t seem to sit still. The two of them had immediately bonded over some stupid joke, both dropping into a riff that had annoyed the hell out of Elise. They’d been buddies ever since. David was pretty sure that John wouldn’t be back. Someone would take his place. Maybe someone with no light, maybe someone who was bitter and angry, maybe someone who was broken and could only move through the days in a fog.

  David was going to miss the old John, but he would do his best to help this one.

  His phone rang. It was the girl from Black Tupelo.

  “Would you like me to come over tonight?” she asked.

  David walked into the living room. “No, that’s fine. And honey? Don’t call me again, okay? The other night was nice, great, and you’re a sweet girl, but it was a onetime thing.”

  She didn’t completely fall for it and said something about coming whenever he needed her.

  Before grabbing a couple of hours of sleep, David logged in to the LIMS to check for updates. He was surprised to see that both the baker and the piano teacher had dropped by for fingerprinting. Both passed, and an e-mail from Meg let David know that their stories held up. Marshall Hughes had indeed lived in Indiana and had indeed recently lost his wife. David called Elise to let her know, telling her to check them off her suspect list.

  “That leaves the clown, the homeless guy, and the sports-store employee,” David said. “It can’t be the clown, right? That’s too obvious, right?”

  CHAPTER 39

  Mara, for all of her love of dead bodies, had preferred cremation. No box for me, Elise remembered her saying. So there was no body to view at the memorial, just a photo on an easel, along with flowers and candles and sad music.

  There had been some hesitation about a public memorial, because it was the perfect place for Remy to make an appearance, and some even worried about a repeat of the cemetery incident, and an all-out massacre. But John had insisted, saying it might be an opportunity to flush Remy out. He was right. And 75 percent of the attendees were involved in some sort of police work, all aware of the situation, all keeping their eyes open. T
wo armed guards stood at the door, screening guests as they entered, and the police cars parked in front of the church provided a visible presence. The press was not allowed inside, but that didn’t keep them from setting up on the front steps and sidewalk.

  Inside, people tried to be upbeat as they stood at the podium sharing stories about Mara. But it was impossible to bring the slightest bit of lightness to the occasion, no matter how hard people tried. Added to that was the underlying hostility carried into the room by Mara’s parents. They would probably always blame John for their daughter’s death and would always be convinced that he’d somehow sacrificed her to save himself. Elise knew the opposite was true. John would have died for Mara, but unfortunately loss often brought anger and pain. And she could see the extra dose of pain they were causing him. As soon as the service ended, she touched him lightly on the arm and whispered, “At least they live far away.”

  He was dressed in a suit and a tie she suspected David had knotted for him. She recognized the style. On his feet were the only things that looked like John—his red sneakers, something she also suspected had been David’s doing. He was trying to remind John of who he was. The old John would have worn the sneakers.

  John rewarded her comment with a small smile. “I’m staying at David’s for a while.”

  “I heard.” She nodded softly, approving. “I also heard Isobel has taken a shine to you. Believe me, that doesn’t happen.”

  “She sees me as no threat.”

  His words were sad because they were probably true.

  Others were waiting to speak to him, so she told her friend good-bye. “If you need anything, you have my number. Day or night.”

  Her words might or might not have registered. He numbly turned to the next person in the long line of attendees.

  David emerged from the crowd. “I haven’t seen anything suspicious.”

  “Me either.”

  “Be sure and stop by my place when this wraps up,” he said. “Strata Luna is coming, and I think Sweet will be there. Maybe Avery. Just a small, private gathering of close friends.” He scanned the crowd. “Once this place clears out. Maybe in an hour.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Physically he’s coming around, but mentally . . .” David shook his head.

  “If you need to hire someone to help out, don’t forget what we talked about.”

  “Right now I think he’s better off by himself.”

  Elise’s phone vibrated. Her initial reaction was to ignore it, but a glance at the screen told her the caller was James LaRue. She answered.

  “Got some interesting news,” he said. “Something I think will surprise you.”

  “Not sure anything can surprise me anymore.”

  “This might.”

  “That kind of buildup almost always ends in a letdown.”

  “Okay, let’s see how this plays out. Got a lead on someone who bought TTX from someone.”

  “A lot of ‘someones’ in that sentence.”

  “I can’t divulge my source, and I want to stress again that I’m done with TTX unless I can get a grant to continue studying it.”

  She didn’t have time to get into a long conversation with LaRue. “Who was the buyer?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I’m not going to guess.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Just tell me, LaRue. I’m at a funeral.”

  David was watching Elise’s frustration, curiosity on his face.

  LaRue sighed. “The reporter. The woman who was recently found dead on the walking path.”

  “Lucille Bancroft?”

  “That’s the one. You sound surprised.” He sounded pleased. “Please tell me you’re surprised.”

  “How much confidence do you have in your source?”

  “I wouldn’t give him a hundred percent rating, but I’m ninety-five percent confident in the information.”

  “Can you share anything else, like when this was purchased?”

  “Not if I want to live.”

  “Got it.” She disconnected and looked at David. “Lucille Bancroft purchased TTX from a dealer.”

  David was surprised too. LaRue would have been proud of himself.

  “I don’t get it,” Elise said. “Did Lucille have some connection to Remy? Is that why he killed her? She knew too much?”

  “I’d be surprised to find there’s a connection at all. I don’t think the TTX had anything to do with Remy. Maybe Lucille just wanted to take you down.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Medical examiner Hollis Blake wasn’t thrilled about her temporary position at the Savannah city morgue, which was somewhat up and running again even though areas of the building were still partitioned off and under repair due to smoke and water damage. She might have been in charge, but she still saw the job as a step down, or at least a detour from her goal to become chief medical examiner at one of the most prestigious medical centers in Atlanta. Savannah was too small, too weird, and the coroner’s office was a mess. The fire might have wiped out records and evidence, but she got the idea it had been a mess before. If a young woman hadn’t lost her life, the fire itself could have served as a much-needed and thorough cleaning. Now Hollis was working long hours to try and organize what was left and try to make sense of the previous ME’s record and filing system.

  She’d thought of attending Mara Casper’s memorial the day before, but had decided against it. It might have been awkward. She’d talked to John Casper on the phone a few times over the past couple of years, but they’d never met in person. She was beginning to hope they never would, because it was going to be hard to keep her mouth shut about his sloppiness.

  That very sloppiness said a lot about the police department itself. They didn’t seem to care. Nobody seemed to care. They didn’t even have a chief of police. From what she’d heard, the position had been vacant for almost two months. Detectives had been fired and rehired. The city was a joke. And now she was here, working for that joke, missing opportunities in Atlanta that might come about only if she remained visible and did an excellent job.

  She was all about excellence, and having to clean up someone else’s mess, a mess that had taken years to make—it pissed her off.

  Right now she was working late in order to upload the full autopsy report of Lucille Bancroft into the database. Expedient uploading of files was something she was adamant about, and it was also something John Casper had neglected to do, thus meaning important evidence had been lost in the fire. Proof that you shouldn’t wait.

  She heard a bang from the back of the building. Hands on the keyboard, she listened, waiting to see if it repeated. It wouldn’t be unusual for criminals to return to the scene of the crime. She’d even been advised against working at night, and Detective Avery had suggested she carry a gun.

  A gun.

  Ridiculous.

  But now, as the banging continued and it became obvious it was at the back door, the very door the criminals had entered when they beat up the previous ME and killed his wife, Hollis checked the industrial wall clock. After two. Maybe she should have looked into that gun. She hit some keys, still having the presence of mind to log out of the database before checking on the noise.

  The soles of her sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. At the back door she found herself wishing for a peephole. “Who is it?” she shouted, wondering if her voice would carry through the solid-metal door.

  The banging continued, and she imagined an angry fist pounding away just inches from her.

  She shouted her question again, louder this time. And this time she got an answer.

  “John Casper!”

  She heard fumbling, like someone trying to open the door with a key.

  They’d installed new locks after the break-in, and from what she understood, Casper hadn’t been out of the hospital long. Common sense said this wasn’t him.

  “You’re lying.” She felt for the cell phone in her pocket. “I’m calling the pol
ice.”

  “Check the cameras.”

  It took her a moment to understand. She turned and strode down the hall to the office. A few key clicks brought up live images of the new cameras they’d installed after the attack. She moved the cursor over the frame of the man standing at the back door. She enlarged it to fill her screen.

  The image was murky, but suddenly a driver’s license appeared. She leaned closer and read the name. John Casper.

  Moments later the license vanished, and she got a view of the back step and parking lot. He was alone. Not a car in sight other than hers.

  She wasn’t heartless. The man out there had lost his wife under the most horrific of conditions. And he’d survived. And it had happened right here. But she wasn’t a shrink. And she certainly couldn’t be a shoulder to cry on, if that’s what he was looking for.

  Calling 911 wasn’t a solution, but she thought about contacting Elise Sandburg or David Gould. They were friends of his, and she vaguely recalled hearing that Casper was temporarily living with Gould. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. She’d been so mad about her new position that she’d kept her head down, focusing on the tasks at hand while hoping Casper finally recovered so she could go home.

  She returned to the back door. Silence. Had he left?

  She listened, then, against her better judgment, unlocked the door. It flew open, slamming against the cement-block wall. A man lurched inside.

  Everybody said John Casper was a sweet and gentle guy. She’d seen photos of him. Smiling, friendly, with wildly curly hair. This man was bald. Not completely bald. His head was covered with a shadow of new hair. And his face was not friendly. His eyes were deep black pits, and his skin was the color of paste. One hand was in a cast. Then she saw the red, swollen line across his skull. Evidence of a recent incision. The staple holes were still visible.

  She’d heard Casper’s injuries had required surgery to relieve pressure in his skull. What she hadn’t been told, and what was beginning to seem apparent, was that he’d suffered brain damage.