“Yeah, yeah. All’s fine. It’s just that this case I’m helpin’ out on may have taken a twist or two. There’s a murder case up in Warrensburg that I’m goin’ go take a look at.”
“Warrensburg? Missouri?”
“Yeah. Up at the university there.”
“Kel.”
“Hmm?”
“Kel, you remember Oppie?” Mary Louise was referring to an orange cat that Kel had had all through college and graduate school.
“Oppie the cat? Of course I remember Oppie.”
“You remember what Oppie’d do when he was up on the counter and you’d yell at him?”
“Ahhh, Mary Louise, I don’t—”
“Kel, what would he do?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Apologize?”
“No. He’d begin to lick himself.”
“Ah. Right. Are you tellin’ me to lick myself?” He checked to see if Shuck was listening. He was, and Kel just smiled and shrugged and turned back to the window.
“Kel.”
“’Cause you know, I usually have to pay money for calls like this.”
“Kel.”
“Ma’am?”
“Just stop talkin’. Just stop.”
Kel went silent.
“That’s better. No, what he’d do was lick himself rather than look at you. He’d avoid the confrontation. It was a displacement activity.”
“That’ll teach me to marry a psych major.”
“Too late, buster. But seriously, Kel, is that what’s goin’ on? Chasin’ around all over. First Iraq and now, bless your heart, Oklahoma. Are you avoidin’ the confrontation? Sooner or later you have to jump down from that counter.”
Kel stared at his dim reflection in the side window. He didn’t respond.
CHAPTER 47
Warrensburg, Missouri
TUESDAY, APRIL 22, 2008
As was common in rural America, the coroner of Johnson County, Missouri, was a funeral director, and although the coroner’s office officially was located amid the other governmental offices in downtown Warrensburg, the refrigerated body of Doan Minh Tuyen was not.
Deveroux and Kel had managed to get lost the previous evening, finding themselves, not once, but twice, on the wrong side of the Kansas-Missouri state line, and it had taken almost nine hours, and a good deal of mutual name calling and eye-rolling, to complete their anticipated five-hour journey. It was well past midnight when they checked into the Slumber-Sack Motel on the outskirts of town, much too late to do much more than tumble into bed and drift off to a quick sleep.
Morning broke in good humor and so did Deveroux, but Kel’s goodwill was still jet lagged somewhere over the Pacific and proved slower to respond as he staggered out of his room into the bright sunshine. He groaned and threw an arm up as if warding off an attacker. Deveroux was sitting in the cab of his truck reading a local newspaper and drinking coffee from an enormous, insulated plastic mug with The Chug-a-Lug Club silkscreened on it.
“Mornin’, Doc,” he said as he watched Kel wobble to the hood of the truck, eyes clamped down against the light. “Coffee? It’s black; didn’t know how you take it.” He gestured to another plastic mug balanced on the cracked dashboard.
“I’m blind,” Kel groaned, his arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster’s.
Deveroux lowered his newspaper and watched him intently. He leaned over to speak out of the passenger window. “Are you like one of them Mole People? I saw a movie about them when I was a kid. There’s this whole race of these Mole People that live underground; can’t come out in the daylight except to kidnap voluptuous women in their nightgowns…”
“I come from a long and noble line of Mole People.” He began groping the air with his outstretched arms.
Deveroux put his coffee mug on the dashboard and began folding his paper as he spoke. “How about seein’ if you think you can grope your way over here to the passenger door, so we can get started. Just home in on the sound of my voice. Marco…”
“Polo,” Kel groaned.
“That’s right. Warmer, warmer, there you go,” he said as Kel worked his way to the side of the truck and opened the door. “Not a mornin’-type person, huh Kel?”
“Might be if it was truly mornin’. What the hell time is it anyway?”
“Almost seven-thirty.”
“Holy sheep shit, Batman,” Kel groaned. Three-thirty in the morning. Hawaiian Standard Time.
Deveroux sat with one hand on the steering wheel as he took a sip of coffee and looked at Kel. “Sorry to rush you and all, but I called and arranged a meetin’ with the coroner in about,” Deveroux paused and looked at his watch, “in about thirty-two minutes from now. Got directions, and the motel clerk says we’re only about fifteen minutes away, but I figure after that stellar job of navigatin’ that you did last night, we’d better allow for some extra time. I mean, you had the use of your eyes last night, and we still ended up in Kansas.”
“Yeah, well the second time wasn’t my fault,” Kel responded as he groped about for his seatbelt, his eyes still clamped shut. “That was your short-cut. Topeka my ass.”
Deveroux laughed and turned the ignition and backed the truck out of its parking space. He pulled onto West Market Street headed east and drove for several minutes in early morning silence. After a while, Deveroux caught Kel out of the corner of his eye and renewed the conversation. “Like I said, made a couple three calls this mornin’ while I was waitin’ on you to rouse. Scheduled a visit with Mr. Walter Mann, the coroner here in Johnson County. Also called a buddy of mine with the INS for some additional intel.” He moved his newspaper on the seat and exposed the list of names they’d discussed the previous night. He tapped one of them. “I think your hunch might be right about this Ngo Van Thu livin’ down in Rolla bein’ the one we’re after. He’s the only one in proximity to a military installation, and that seems to be the pattern.”
Kel shrugged. “Good a place as any to start—given we’re so close anyhow.”
“Roger that. Anyhow, I’m not goin’ to be of any help at the morgue, so I figured on drivin’ on down to Rolla and see if we’re right. If so, I’ll try and interview this Ngo Van Thu.” Deveroux’s tongue tripped on itself, and he pronounced the name as if he had a thick glob of peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Never know…he might just have the key to this whole thing. I should be back this evenin’.”
“Don’t want any company?” Kel was working hard at getting an eye to stay open.
“Actually I do, but I ’spect you’re goin’ to be tied up with the body all mornin’. I’m goin’ leave my truck with you and rent a car. Figure I can justify the expense on my voucher easier than I can get you reimbursed. I’ll try and get one of Mr. Mann’s folks to take me to the rental place after I help get you situated. Best I can tell, it’s about a four-hour drive down there, so I’d better get started as soon as I can.”
“I’ve seen your drivin’. I’d figure five. Remember to turn around when you see a sign sayin’ Welcome to Louisiana.”
“You’re awful funny for a prick. So you figure five?”
“Five-and-a-half, if I were you. Seriously.”
“Yeah? That’s what General Fick said. I called him too. He lives down near Rolla, and I thought he might like to sit in on the interview. You know, he spent a whole lotta time investigatin’ Tenkiller and the Brotherhood way back when. Figure he might still be interested.”
“Is he?” Kel asked.
“Says he is.”
Deveroux slowed down and blinked for a left turn onto North Warren Street. “Looks like you better get your other eye warmed up there, Doctor. I do believe we’re almost there.”
Walter Mann’s official office in downtown Warrensburg was purely administrative and wholly unsuited to the sometimes pungent reality of the job. When bodies had to be dealt with—outside a hospital setting—they were taken to his family-run funeral home on the eastern edge of town. The Mann and Sons Funeral Home had been a
fixture of Warrensburg since 1896 when Adolphus A. Mann had arrived from St. Louis, Missouri, with two toe-pincher cast-iron coffins and a desire to assuage the earthly sorrow of Warrensburg’s more well-heeled first families. Over the years, the business had prospered, becoming hereditary in the process, although the most recent generation was showing no interest in continuing the tradition, and Walter Mann was now seriously considering selling the whole operation to a company in Texas.
Mann and Sons Funeral Home was a large two-story building made from mustard-colored bricks and topped with a steep, brown, composite-shingle roof. It was nicely landscaped, but the well-tended yard only served to help accentuate how singularly ugly the building itself was. A wide circular drive centered on the entrance made the place look more like a franchise motel than a funeral home.
Deveroux pulled his truck to a stop under the green canvas portico that extended out from the front door and killed the engine. He looked at his watch and then at Kel. “Not bad,” he said as he tossed him the truck keys. “Two minutes early.”
The interior entryway was lit by a row of recessed lights in the ceiling that projected a measured, subdued wash of light calculated to comfort rather than illuminate. It was remarkably successful in minimizing the appearance of puffy eyes and reddened noses. Soft, orchestrated Beatles music seeped out from somewhere, and it took Kel a moment to trace the origin to a small, brick-sized speaker hidden behind a large, silk tropical plant beside the door. As they stood, letting their eyes adjust to the inside dimness, a small, energetic woman rounded the corner at a high rate of speed with a face full of purpose.
“Welcome,” she said, pulling up short and offering her hand to Kel. “You folks must be Mr. Deveroux and his doctor friend. I’m Margaret Loy. Call me Peg. I’m Mr. Mann’s office manager.”
“Glad to meet you, Peg. Almost right. I’m Robert McKelvey. Call me Kel. I’m Mr. Deveroux’s sidekick…and this here’s Mr. Deveroux.” As he shook her hand, he motioned with a nod of his head to his partner.
“My apologies. Glad to meet you, Kel,” she replied. She then took Deveroux’s hand. “And you too, Mr. Deveroux. You’re right on time.”
“Shuck. Call me Shuck. Glad to meet you too, Peg.” Deveroux smiled. “You gave good directions.”
Margaret Loy was approaching sixty but projected much younger, at least from the standpoint of exuded energy. Her hair was still mostly dark, with considerably more pepper than salt showing, and it was pulled back into a loose knot at the back of her skull that was starting to untangle. She was dressed in old blue jeans and a sleeveless checkered shirt with the tail out. She seemed slightly embarrassed to be seen dressed so informally, and she paused awkwardly and then clapped her hands. “Well, in addition to office manager, I’m also the plumber, part-time janitor, and full-time you-name-it. I was just heading out to plant some marigolds in the bed out front. Did I say I was also the groundskeeper?”
“You sound busy.” Deveroux laughed. “Is Mr. Mann around?”
“He surely is. He’s waiting for you in the embalming room. Left through the parlor, right past my office—the one with all the pictures of grandbabies taped up—and through the double set of doors. You’ll see it easy enough. If you get lost just holler; someone will find you.” She smiled again and waited for them to begin moving before she opened the front door. “Nice to meet y’all,” she said behind them as she stepped quickly outside.
As Margaret Loy had told them, it was easy enough to find, left through the parlor, right past her office—the one with all the grandbaby pictures—and through the double set of doors. Even without directions, the rising smell of gardenia and lilac air freshener applied to mask the pungent smell of formalin signaled proximity to the prep room.
Walter Mann was waiting for them. Tall and willow-stick thin, he looked exactly as he should. At seventy-four years old, he was hairless and his taut, smooth, tallow-colored skin was soft and devoid of any signs of age—the occupational side effect of having worked with embalming chemicals for thirty-five years before OSHA complicated things by requiring gloves and respirators. He was dressed in dark-gray, pleated slacks and a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His conservative blue tie was tucked into his shirt out of the way. He was reading from a brown folder and looked up as the double doors parted.
“You gentlemen must be Mr. Deveroux and Mr. McKelvey,” he said. His voice was deeper than it should have been for his spare frame and had a buttery richness to it that, like his complexion, owed much of its character to a lifetime of inhaling formaldehyde fumes.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mann,” Deveroux said, stepping forward and extending his right hand. “I’m Chief Warrant Officer Deveroux, U.S. Army CID. Glad to meet you, sir, and thanks for agreein’ to meet with us on such short notice. I know how busy you must be. This here’s Dr. McKelvey.”
Kel stepped forward and took his turn at shaking hands. “Sir,” he said.
Deveroux continued. “Doc McKelvey’s the forensic anthropologist I mentioned to you on the phone. He’s with the army lab in Hawaii that identifies all the POWs and MIAs and such. He’s the director out there, actually.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor. You the gentleman who identified the Vietnam Unknown Soldier?”
“Yes, sir,” Kel answered. “That was our lab.”
“He was a Missouri boy, you know.”
“Yes, sir. Just outside St. Louis.”
“And now you want to take a look at Warrensburg’s Jack-the-Ripper case? Not sure I see the connection to American POWs.” Mann’s bifocals made his gray watery eyes look like huge pale grapes.
“Ahhh…”
Deveroux quickly answered. “No connection, Mr. Mann. That we know of. Doc McKelvey’s actually doin’ this as a professional favor for me. Kind of a consult. You see, I have reason to believe that our…ahh…that your victim, here, might be connected to a case that army CID is interested in. Looks that way on the surface, anyway.”
“I don’t see,” Mann said. “But go on.”
“Well, actually, Dr. McKelvey and I were headed over to Nashville and then Louisville to look at two possibly related homicide cases when I got the call about this one here in Warrensburg. Similar MOs, and since we were down in Oklahoma when we heard the news, we decided to detour up here first. Just in case.”
“Please, Mr. Deveroux, I intend no offense by this, but I am the coroner of Johnson County, you see, and I have to ask this. What jurisdictional interest do you have in this matter?”
Deveroux smiled. “None. That’s a fact. The other two happened on military reservations, and so fall square under my umbrella, but this one, this one is in your AO, sir—ahhh, your area of operations. I’m just interested because it looks like it could be connected, and if it is, then a whole lotta folks are goin’ get interested and the lid will get unscrewed from this peanut butter jar real fast.”
Walter Mann nodded as if he’d already arrived at a similar answer. “I’m not a doctor, you understand. I’m a funeral director by training and a coroner by public election. Cases like this are well beyond my comfort level…”
“Cases like this are beyond everyone’s comfort level,” Kel interjected. When the old man looked over at him, he continued. “Leastways they sure should be.”
Mann nodded before responding. “I suspect you’re right about that, Doctor. But some people are more comfortable in situations like this than others. In fact, I’ve arranged for this case to be sent over to Columbia for examination. That’s a little east of here. Boone County has a medical examiner, you see. I think he’s better suited to this than I am.”
“J. D. Cooke?”
“You know him?” Mann asked.
“Yes, sir. Used to at least. Years ago. I did some work in this area. Haven’t seen him for quite a while. He’s good though. One of the best, I’d say.”
Mann nodded again, slowly. Most of his movements were slow and practiced, designed to evoke calm and sympathy, and his slow m
anner stood in sharp contrast to the percolating energy of his office manager. “Yes, he certainly is. I was planning on transferring the body today—that was before you called.” He looked back at Deveroux.
“Yes, sir. Understood,” Deveroux re-engaged the conversation. “Doc here doesn’t need long—right, Doc? You can be finished up by early afternoon, can’t you?”
Kel affirmed with a slight bob of his head.
“So if he can just take a quick look, see what he can tell, make a few notes,” Deveroux was nodding at Kel as he spoke. Kel was mimicking the movements. They looked like two bobble-head dogs in the back of a car window. “Then you can get the body over to your ME buddy.”
“That was the agreement,” Walter Mann said. His tone never changed, and neither Deveroux nor Kel could figure out what he really thought of the agreement. For that matter, they couldn’t figure out what he thought of them.
“Good,” Deveroux said. He put his hands in his hip pockets and rocked back and forth on his toes in the awkward silence that followed. Finally he spoke again. “So…the plan, Mr. Mann, is for Doc here to look at the remains. While he’s doin’ that, I’m goin’ to go and interview someone who may have some information related to this case. So I’m not goin’ to be here while y’all are at it.”
Mann nodded.
Deveroux nodded.
Kel nodded.
Once again, it was Deveroux who broke the silence. “So…ahhh…I need Dr. McKelvey here to take me out to the car rental place. I’m goin’ be leavin’ my truck with him, and I need him to run me out there. Ahhh…so as soon as he gets back, if you can have the body ready, he can get started. Right, Doctor?”
“Right, Chief,” Kel answered in his best Boy-Friday tone.
As if she’d been listening behind the door for her verbal cue to appear onstage, Margaret Loy plunged through the double doors into the embalming room. The knees of her jeans were muddied, as were her hands, and a few more stray clumps of hair had come loose from their knot and were seriously worrying her face. She made a direct course for the sink.
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