“Good morning, Chief Crane,” Beelock said. “You’re very punctual.” Also dressed in scrubs, Beelock stood six feet tall. A thick nose separated beady brown eyes with heavy lids, and a lock of dark hair dangled from beneath his cap.
“That’s just ‘acting chief,’ Doc. I’m still pulling for Walt Butler’s return.”
“This is your first autopsy, isn’t it?”
Matt nodded, trying not to frown. The pathologist’s breath reeked of whiskey. “That’s right. Under the circumstances, I figured it was time I sat in on one of them.”
Beelock eyed the water dripping from the brim of Matt’s hat. “Don’t tell me it’s raining?”
“‘The angels are crying.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say.” Matt lowered his eyes to the cadaver on the table. A straight line across Johnny’s throat separated his dark red face from his blue body. His lips had turned black, and a white film covered his open eyes. Fine black hair crisscrossed his chest, and his abdominal muscles resembled a six-pack. His testicles were bloated, and the big toe of his right foot had been tagged with an identification number.
Matt had seen his share of dead bodies. They came with the territory: mangled corpses in car wrecks, heart attack victims, even a suicide-hanging. But something about Johnny’s death didn’t sit well with him, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He removed a set of photographs from his coat pocket and held them out. “These are for you.”
Beelock nodded at a bare counter. “Would you mind spreading them out over there?”
Matt laid out a half-dozen photos of Johnny slumped over inside his car.
Beelock clucked his tongue. “What a waste. Susan and I already took X-rays and fingerprints, scraped under his fingernails, drew blood, and took pubic samples and anal swabs. But you haven’t missed the good stuff.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Beelock pointed at large plastic containers on the counter, each translucent and identified by a sticker. “We’re finished with the clothes, which can go back to the family. Speaking of clothes, Susan, please take Chief Crane’s hat and coat.”
“Certainly.” Susan took Matt’s garments into an adjacent room.
Beelock leaned over Johnny’s torso. “Would you like a stool?”
“I think I’ll stand.”
Beelock offered a faint smile. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” He pulled a cart closer, metal instruments gleaming on a tray. Susan returned, pulling on a pair of latex gloves that snapped tight around her wrists. Matt steeled his nerves, the antiseptic odors playing havoc with the digestion of his breakfast.
Beelock adjusted a microphone suspended from the ceiling and activated it. Leaning over Johnny’s body, he announced the day and date. “I’m Doctor Ronald Beelock, assistant medical examiner for the county of Chautauqua, in the state of New York. This is case 02-021, John Vincent Grissom. Assisting me is Susan Wong, and observing is Matthew Crane, acting chief of police for the village of Red Hill. The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished, seventeen-year-old Caucasian male with black hair and brown eyes. It is seventy-two inches high and weighs one hundred and forty-six pounds. Rigor mortis is present in the extremities, and lividity has set in.”
He pulled Johnny’s lips back and inspected his mouth. “The victim’s teeth are generally in good shape, with three fillings.”
I’m not a horse, goddamn you!
Beelock circled the table, and Susan stepped out of his way. “There’s a mole on his left forearm, and scars on his right knee, upper lip, and right shoulder. There’s a tattoo of a bat on his right bicep. I see a bruise on his right breast and an abrasion on his jaw—”
“He was in a fight the morning before his death,” Matt said.
Beelock raised one hand for silence. “Vessels are occluded, and his face and neck are congested and dark red, indicating cyanosis.” He reached up and switched off the digital recorder. “That concludes the external portion of our examination.”
That wasn’t so bad, Matt thought. Then Susan sponged the body down and he swallowed.
Beelock crossed the room to a metal desk. He opened the drawer and took out a half-full bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. “Can I interest you in a belt, Matthew?”
Matt shook his head. “Not while I’m on duty.” And not when I feel sick to my stomach.
Beelock poured a double shot of whiskey into one glass. “Very commendable, but I think I’ll have a splash by myself, if you don’t mind. I know it’s unprofessional, but it fights off the cold in here.”
“Do what you have to.” I’d probably drink, too, if I had to deal with dead bodies all day.
Beelock drained the glass in a single gulp, then returned the bottle to its hiding place. At the table, he switched the recorder back on and selected a scalpel from the instrument tray. Gleaming beneath the overhead light, it sliced into Johnny’s flesh.
What the fuck?
Beelock made a Y-shaped incision in Johnny’s chest, starting at each shoulder, meeting in the sternum, and continuing down to the pubis, cutting Johnny like a deer. He set the bloodied scalpel on the tray, then peeled back the folds of Johnny’s flesh like rubber, exposing his glistening red rib cage. For a moment, Matt regretted passing up Beelock’s offer of a drink.
Susan handed Beelock a pair of cutters that resembled pruning shears, and he positioned the blades over the lowest portion of the rib cage. Squeezing the long handles, he cut his way through Johnny’s ribs. The ensuing sounds reminded Matt of the crunching he made while eating breakfast cereal. Reaching the top ribs, Beelock started over at the bottom rib on the other side of the cage. Once finished, he returned the cutters to Susan. He leaned over Johnny and gripped opposite ends of the cage, then popped Johnny’s chest plate off like a manhole cover and set the bloody ribs down on a smaller autopsy table.
Johnny’s lungs and intestines sat fully exposed, pink and gray and surrounded by muscles and tissue. Susan photographed the organs from various angles, and Matt felt moisture on his forehead despite the frigid temperature.
Beelock removed Johnny’s lungs, heart, esophagus, and trachea. He weighed each organ on a hanging scale, and Susan set them aside in plastic containers for further dissection. Beelock described their condition while Susan used a syringe to withdraw fluids from the various cavities.
Matt stared at the wall clock: only 12:10. The second hand crawled around the face in slow motion. He could not decide which he wanted to do more: pass out or vomit.
Beelock stepped behind Johnny’s head. Selecting a fresh scalpel, he cut an intermastoid incision from behind Johnny’s left ear, along the top of his head to behind his right ear, then set the scalpel down. He parted the hair along the incision, seized the scalp in both hands, and yanked it down over Johnny’s face like an obscene mask, pink flesh out. Matt appreciated that the music on the CD player muted the squishy sounds of the scalp separating.
Susan handed Beelock a small electric bone saw, which hummed as he cut away the front quadrant of Johnny’s skull. He removed the skull fragment and set it down like a jigsaw-puzzle piece, exposing the soft pink brain. He took another clean scalpel and severed the arteries and connections that held the brain within the skull. He set the scalpel down, reached inside the skull with both hands, and removed Johnny’s quivering pink brain.
“Meet John Vincent Grissom.”
Matt felt the blood rushing from his head.
“This was a healthy young man,” Beelock said as he set the brain down on the scale. “Clean lungs, strong heart.” He picked up yet another scalpel. “Now, let’s get to the heart of the matter.” He made a vertical incision in Johnny’s throat, exposing his larynx, then picked up an instrument with a light on its end and prodded the damaged tissue inside Johnny’s neck. “The larynx has been crushed. There is a fracture of the hyoid bone and the thyroid cartilage.” He paused to set the instrument down. “It’s my opinion that John Grissom, a seventeen-year-old male, died as a result of severe and intensive inj
ury to his neck, causing accidental asphyxiation.” He flicked off the microphone.
Matt leaned closer, gazing at the grisly mass where Johnny’s face should have been. “You’re sure this was an accident?”
Finally!
Beelock peeled off his gloves and deposited them in a metal wastebasket. “Are you suggesting someone else was in that car when it went off the bridge?”
“No, but that bruise on his neck—”
“It’s true that most ligature strangulations are homicides, but that’s not the case here. Look at your own photos. You and I both know that toxicology is going to show this boy was drunk when he drove off that bridge. The steering wheel crushed his throat on impact, depriving him of oxygen. Plain and simple.”
Matt bobbed his head. “You’re the expert.”
Nice going, Barney Fife.
“Join me for that drink now?”
“No, I think what I need is fresh air.”
“Understandable. Susan, would you mind fetching the chief’s garments?”
Susan disappeared into the adjacent room. Staring at the corpse, Matt said, “So what happens next?”
Beelock motioned to the plastic containers on the counter. “We’ll perform some additional dissection, then put all the pieces back together. They couldn’t do it for Humpty Dumpty, but Susan and I can do it for young Mr. Grissom.” He indicated the jagged edge where the skull fragment had been removed. “This special jigsaw cut makes reassembly easier.”
“Like a puzzle,” Matt said.
You couldn’t solve a crossword puzzle!
Chapter 12
Karen sat on the living room sofa, one leg folded beneath her, gazing at the television and flipping through the channels, searching for distraction. Rain spattered the windows, an unusual occurrence for winter.
She hated being alone.
Her mother had left work early the day before to comfort her, but Karen knew that couldn’t last. How would she survive without Johnny? Young women tended to either leave Red Hill after graduation or remain in town until their dying day. She and Johnny had discussed moving to LA, or to New York City, or to Florida. But they had discussed those trips in tones reserved for daydreams. Though Johnny had never said so, Karen had always believed they’d marry some day. The dream had died with Johnny, and she didn’t know how to pull herself together. She’d been “Johnny’s girl” for two years, and she didn’t know how to be with anyone else.
Tossing the remote control aside, she wandered into the kitchen and surveyed the leftover diner food in the refrigerator. She hadn’t been hungry for a day and a half. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, she had smoked the remainder of the joint Gary had given her; even that had failed to revive her appetite. Thinking of the marijuana made her want to get high, not eat. She opened the cabinet where her mother kept her liquor and withdrew a blue bottle with an inch of cognac in it. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the liquor, her nostrils flaring.
Good, she thought. She raised the bottle to her lips and took a single sip, believing her mother would never notice her theft. The cognac numbed her tongue and burned her throat, its heat traveling down to her belly. What the hell. Taking a second sip, she gasped. Then she held the opening of the bottle beneath the faucet of the sink and turned the water on and off. The bottle appeared as full as it had before her indulgence. She put it away and closed the cabinet.
The doorbell rang and she froze.
Who could that be? Not Chief Crane again, she hoped. He’d stopped by the previous evening, and she’d recited her story exactly as Gary had instructed. She thought he believed her, but maybe something had changed his mind. Darting into the bathroom, she gargled mouthwash. The doorbell rang again as she hurried into the living room and peeked around a curtain. Gary stood on the porch, hands stuffed in his pockets as usual. She let out a relieved sigh and opened the door, allowing cold air to snake around her. The rain had reduced the snow in the driveway to slush.
“I saw your mom’s car parked at the diner,” Gary said, “so I thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting along. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” She stepped back, allowing him to pass her, then closed the door.
Gary unlaced his boots, stepped out of them, and entered the living room. He sat on the sofa, close to the middle, so she had no choice but to sit beside him. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m glad it’s the weekend.” Friday had been unbearable for her. She had wept when Mr. Milton reported Johnny’s death, and had run to the girls’ bathroom to hide.
“I know what you mean. It takes the pressure off us. You want to get something to eat?”
Having no desire to show her face in public, she shook her head.
“You sure? We could do something else, just to take your mind off things.”
She shook her head again, holding back the emotions bursting to escape.
“I hear you. Let me know if you change your mind.”
He put one hand on her shoulder and she tensed up. He had used that hand to kill Johnny.
Not his fault, she thought.
Gary reached into his shirt pocket and took something from it. “I want you to have this.”
She looked at the metal foil packet, three inches long. “What is it?”
“Just take it.”
She did. Holding it in the palm of her left hand, she peeled back the edges of the foil, revealing small white rocks and sparkling powder. She’d never snorted cocaine, had never been interested in doing any drug stronger than weed. She looked at him with skepticism in her eyes.
“It’ll make you feel better,” Gary said. “Trust me.”
She folded the foil edges. She could not tell how much the packet contained without opening it, and she didn’t know how to measure the drug anyway. Did she want to try it? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it would make her feel better. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stood. “And call me if you need someone to talk to.”
She set the packet on the coffee table and it reflected light at her. “I will.”
As soon as Gary had driven off, she snatched the packet and ran upstairs to her bedroom. She set the foil on her bureau and peeled back its edges, revealing its contents. Holding the rocks in place with her thumb, she tapped the loose powder onto the wooden surface. Recalling drug usage she’d seen in movies, she slid the painted fingernail of her right pinkie into the coke and raised it to one nostril. She hesitated, debating whether or not she really wanted to go this far to try to forget what had happened. Then she snorted the powder.
A slow tingling sensation numbed her brain. She scooped more coke up her other nostril, and a dreamlike feeling spread through her. Sniffing, she touched the coke with one fingertip and examined it. She licked it and a pleasurable tingling followed the bitter taste. She gazed at the framed photograph on top of the bureau. Dark eyes stared back at her.
Johnny.
She switched on her CD player and heavy-metal music filled the room. Then she flicked off the light and lay down on her bed, losing herself in a jumble of confusing thoughts and sensations. She slid her hands between her legs and imagined Johnny on top of her.
Chapter 13
The rain had frozen by dawn, encasing the village in ice. Tree limbs cracked, split, and crashed to the ground with thunderous fury and ice rained down.
Wearing street clothes beneath his police coat, Matt stepped through his front door with a bemused look on his face. “It’s a winter wonderland out there, all right. I bet hell froze over, too.”
Carol rubbed her arms. “Shut the door and keep hell at bay, please.” A thick robe covered her nightgown.
Matt closed the door and the flames in the fireplace shifted direction as the door latched. “The street looks dangerous. There’s going to be some bad accidents today.”
Carol knew what that meant. “Chief Crane to the rescue?”
“I’d better at least make a trip to the station and make sure everythin
g’s running smoothly.”
“It’s your day off.”
“A policeman’s duty is never done, ma’am. Besides, I want to check in on Charlie.”
Raising her right hand, she rubbed the sash of her nightgown between two fingers. “You’re a good man, Chief. I’d hoped to spend some quality time with you this morning, if you catch my drift.”
He set his hat on the wooden rack. “Shoot, Miss Carol. Why didn’t you just say so?”
Harold Lawson wheeled the cart supporting Johnny’s naked corpse out of the refrigerated storage room in the funeral home and into the embalming room. His son, Willard, had delivered the body from the morgue earlier. Wearing a respirator over his protective outfit, Harold transferred the body onto the stainless-steel drainage table and pushed the cart out of his way. He covered Johnny’s genitals with a dark towel, then turned on his CD player and selected a disc: Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits. He and Kitty, his wife of twenty-eight years, had seen Babs perform in Las Vegas when they had been in town for a funeral directors’ convention. It had been a great show.
Oh, God, don’t make me listen to this shit!
With Barbara’s music filling the room, Harold washed Johnny’s body with a germicide-insecticide-olfactant. He swabbed the mouth and nose with the same solution, then plugged those orifices with cotton, to prevent leakage later on, and to protect the patient from insect infestation. He enjoyed being a mortician; his father, Lawrence, preferred the human aspect of funeral directing, interacting with the bereaved. But Harold preferred his dead patients to their living relatives. This John Grissom needed him, and the boy’s open eyes didn’t bother him. If he’d learned one thing in his years in the business, it was that death was a natural stage of life.
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