by Alex P. Berg
I looked through the office windows toward the waiting area in question. I spotted a puff of blond hair peeking over the backs of one of the leather couches.
“Did you get her name?” I asked.
“Sure did,” said Rodgers. “Heather Cleary-Wilson. Take that as you may.”
13
Shay knocked on the doorframe to the waiting room. “Excuse me? Ms. Cleary-Wilson?”
The woman on the couch looked up. Wavy, blonde hair framed her face, similar in length and style to Chaz’s own locks but with traces of a darker color at the roots. She wore a faded denim jacket over a black crop top that emphasized her considerable assets, paired with a set of black leather pants that hugged her lower body. Garish makeup covered her face: bright lipstick, heavy eyeliner, eye shadow, and blush. It all worked in concert to create a very specific look, but I wondered if there wasn’t perhaps another reason for the quantity. Under the concealer and blush, her right cheek seemed puffier and darker than the rest of her face.
“Yes, that’s me,” she said. “But you can call me Heather. Everyone else does.”
“Heather, then,” said Shay, entering the waiting room. “I’m Captain Steele. This is my partner, Detective Daggers. We understand you asked for us?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Benson—Benson Forsythe?—he sent word that I needed to come down here. Something about Chaz?”
Apparently, Benson had found a way to avoid making a trip through town during daylight hours. Surprise, surprise…
“So…he didn’t tell you why we needed you to come down here?” I asked.
“No,” said Heather. “Why?”
What a guy, that Benson. Shay sat down on the couch across from Heather, and I joined her.
“What’s your relation to Chaz Willy Wilson, Heather?” asked Steele.
She played with her fingers and rolled her eyes. “He’s my…husband. Sort of. We’re separated.”
“And how long have you been apart?” asked Shay.
“I don’t know,” said Heather. “A year. Year and a half. What’s this about? Is Chaz in trouble again? I didn’t bring bail money.”
Shay looked at me. I gave her a slight nod. She was better at this stuff than I was.
Shay leaned in. “Heather, I can’t believe Benson didn’t tell you, but the reason we needed you to come down is that we need someone to…positively identify Chaz.”
“What?” she said. “Like from a lineup? Did he commit a crime?”
Shay shook her head. “He’s dead, Heather.”
“What?” The woman’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“Our officers found him in Rucker Park this morning,” said Shay. “He’d passed several hours earlier. I’m sorry.”
Heather leaned back into her cushions, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I gazed into her eyes, but she seemed to have left the mortal coil.
“Heather?” I said. “Are you still with us?”
“What?” She blinked. “Yeah. I guess I’m…having a hard time taking it in, is all. I saw him last night.”
“You did?” I said. “Do you remember at what time?”
“I’m not sure.” She moved her head slowly, as if in a daze. “Around one o’clock. Maybe one fifteen.”
That would’ve been before Chaz’s foray into Club Midnight. “Where was this?”
“At my apartment.”
“Would you mind telling us what happened?” asked Shay.
“Uh…sure. He dropped by,” said Heather. “With Sammy and Ritchie.”
“But not B. B.?” asked Shay.
“No.”
I made a mental note of that, then realized I’d promptly forget my mental note, so I tore my pad out of my jacket and started furiously scribbling. “What happened after they arrived?”
“They were all wasted,” said Heather. “Like, high out of their minds. I don’t know if I’d ever seen Chaz quite that bad. Whatever drugs they took messed with them something fierce. Anyway, they knocked on the door. I was still up, so I opened it, and they helped themselves right on in. I hadn’t seen Chaz in at least a month, so I asked him what he wanted. He started babbling about us and our bond and how I was the only one who could ever really make him happy, but he was drunk and I could barely understand two-thirds of what he was saying. I told him to go home. He kept going though, telling me he loved me and trying to touch me and getting handsy. I think in his mind he could just pop over and apologize and suddenly I’d get wet for him, like none of the last year and a half ever happened. As if…”
Heather drifted off. Shay gave her a moment before pressing her. “And? What happened then?”
The young woman didn’t respond, but I noticed a sparkly shimmer form in the corner of her eyes. She turned her head to hide it, but—whether consciously or unconsciously—she also turned her head so as to hide her bruised cheek.
“It’s okay, Heather,” I said. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
She took another deep breath, but when she spoke, her voice broke. “He got angry when I told him no, but he kept going. Trying to grab me. Force himself on me. I screamed and bit him on the arm. That’s when he punched me. Knocked me right to the ground. Thank the gods Sammy and Ritchie were there. They pulled him off me. Dragged him out of my apartment and slammed the door shut behind them.”
“Was that the end of it?” asked Shay.
Heather nodded. “I cried myself to sleep. Woke up late. That’s when I got Benson’s message.”
I tucked my notepad away. The case had taken a dark turn—though to be fair, it had already started on a shadowy path, albeit a different sort of one. “Had Chaz ever been abusive in the past?”
Heather shook her head. “No. Never.” She gazed toward the floor. Her voice caught. “And you know the crazy thing? Despite everything he’d done, and everything I’d said? Part of me did still love him—until that moment when he hit me. It…broke me. Inside, I mean.”
Heather trailed off. I got the impression she’d said about all she intended to on that subject.
“I know this is a difficult thing to ask of you in this situation,” said Shay, “but as we mentioned at the start, we need someone close to Chaz to identify him. We have his band mates here, though, so if you don’t feel up to the task…”
“No,” said Heather. “It’s fine. I’ll do it. Maybe it’ll give me some sort of…closure.”
Shay started to rise, but I stuck out a finger. “Excuse me. One more question, if I may Heather.”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“What can you tell us about Chaz’s obsession with vampires?”
Shay leveled me with a gaze to match her last name. “Really? Daggers, this is so not the time.”
I considered her statement for about a fraction of a second before coming to the conclusion that she was right. Even if she wasn’t, I realized I’d better listen to her unless I wanted to find out if our old Captain had ever splurged on a police issue dog house.
“My apologies,” I said. “Mrs. Cleary-Wilson? Perhaps you could follow Captain Steele and I downstairs.”
14
I led Heather down into the dungeon, which really wasn’t as horrific a place as it sounded. Rather than a damp, dark, dreary coffin of stone for the living, it was a clammy, dim, bleak coffin of stone for those who were already dead. To my knowledge, its moisture-slicked granite halls had never been used for torture or imprisonment—at least not during my lifetime. Given New Welwic’s long history and penchant for using buildings far past their expiration date, who knew what sorts of uses the 5th Street Precinct had been put to hundreds of years ago?
I shivered as I reached the bottom of the stone steps, more from the persistent aura of death than the temperature. At least in the winter, the subterranean morgue tended to be a bit milder than outdoors. It never stopped being creepy, though.
I spotted our coroner, Cairny Moonshadow, on the f
ar side of the morgue’s main room. She stood next to the wall of cadaver vaults, their shiny steel faces and handles gleaming in the room’s muted, artificial lighting. A half dozen examination tables dotted the floor between us, most of them bare except for stacks of folded white linens, collections of neatly arranged surgical instruments, and the occasional clipboard. A human-shaped protrusion sprouted from underneath one table’s white cloth.
I wrinkled my nose as I walked into the space, not from any unpleasant aroma but rather the overpowering scent of the lemon cleaner the janitor used to sanitize the floors. He often went overboard in the morgue, probably based on unempirical assumptions about the rate of decomposition of human bodies and their effect on air quality. I’m sure Cairny, with her extensive scientific knowledge, could put him on the straight and narrow. Of course, that would require her to talk to the man, and given her absentminded nature, chances were she’d never even noticed him.
My shoes clacked off the tiles, as did Heather’s and Steele’s behind me. Apparently it wasn’t enough to announce our presence. I cleared my throat. “Hey, Cairny.”
She turned and gazed at me with her big moon eyes, the only physical characteristic that gave away her part fairy, or fae, heritage. Long, midnight black hair fell on either side of her face, contrasting sharply against her pale, ivory skin. For as long as I’d known her, she’d always employed a monochromatic clothing style, which is why I didn’t bother to ask who’d died upon seeing her black trousers, held up by her black belt, partially covering her black shoes, and paired with an airy blouse of purest black. I did, however, gape a little at the pink scarf around her neck.
“Oh,” she said, blinking as she focused on me. “Hello, Daggers.”
I gave her a nod. “Nice scarf.”
She pushed past me, noticing who stood behind my shoulder. “Steele! Oh my goodness, congratulations! I heard the news when I got in this morning. This is so exciting!”
“For you maybe,” said Shay. “For me, not so much.”
“Nice to see you, too…” I mumbled.
Cairny glanced at me with narrowed eyes before turning back to Steele. “No? Why not?”
“It’s…complicated,” said Shay. “Look, can we talk about this later? We have other business to attend to first.” She tilted her head at Heather.
“Oh. Of course.” Cairny stuck her hand out in the glam rock woman’s direction. “Cairny Moonshadow, 5th Street Precinct coroner. Pleased to meet you.”
Heather took note of her hand but neglected to take it, instead eyeing the surroundings with revulsion. “Uh…likewise.”
“Heather’s here to identify Mr. Wilson,” said Shay. “He’s here, I assume?”
Cairny nodded. “Officer Phillips delivered him a few hours ago. Right over here.”
She led us to the exam table covered with the white sheet, grabbed the sheet’s corner, and flipped it up, revealing Chaz’s still form, torn throat and all. “Here you go. One body, ready for identification.”
“Way to showcase your empathy,” I said.
“Pardon?” said Cairny.
“This is Mr. Wilson’s wife, Heather,” I said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
I glanced at the woman in question, but despite the shedding of a single tear upstairs, she’d reverted back into a state of shock. She stared at Chaz’s lifeless body, her face a mask, devoid of emotion.
We all gave her a moment, but eventually Shay prodded her. “Heather?”
“What?” she said. “Right. Sorry. It’s Chaz. Without a doubt.”
She continued to stare, especially at the wound in Chaz’s neck. Was it my imagination, or had she started to pale?
I stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Chaz and hopefully keeping her from passing out. “Thank you, Heather. That’s all we needed. You’re free to go.”
She looked up and swallowed. It wasn’t my imagination. Blood had definitely drained from her face. “What happened to him?”
“We’re working on it,” said Steele. “But you can be sure we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve sorted out the details.”
Heather nodded. I held my hand toward the stairs. She started to move, her heels clicking on the tile. She paused halfway to the exit.
“Wait,” she said, turning. “So, if Chaz is dead…what happens to all his stuff? And his money?”
She made the remark in such a casual, offhand way, her tone almost innocent enough to prevent suspicion.
“You’re still married, correct?” I said.
She nodded.
“Then I imagine you’ll inherit the entirety of his estate. Whatever’s left, anyway,” I said. “Unless he made other legal arrangements, but that’s for the lawyers to decide. You can leave your address upstairs with the officer at the front desk. If we hear anything, we’ll be sure to keep in touch.”
“Right. Thanks.” Heather started once again, this time making to the stairs without interruption. As the sound of her heels faded, I turned back toward the action, important questions at the forefront of my mind.
“Seriously,” I said. “What’s with the pink scarf?”
Cairny shrugged. “Quinto thinks I should experiment with color more. What do you think?”
I pursed my lips. “He might be right, but pink? It’s not you.”
“Well, I like it,” said Shay. “It makes your eyes pop.”
“Thanks,” said Cairny. “But for once I think I agree with Daggers. Still, I’d rather talk about you. You’re not excited about the promotion?”
“It’s too much responsibility,” said Shay. “I’m not prepared for it. Seriously, let’s talk about it later. What can you tell us about Chaz?”
“And before you apply the caveat that you’ve only performed a preliminary investigation and that your analysis is subject to change as you perform more tests, yes we know,” I said. “But with that all said—how’d he die?”
“Well,” said Cairny. “You noticed the gaping wound in his neck, right?”
“Was that sarcasm?” With her, it was hard to tell. “Of course we noticed. But you always ingrain in us the need not to make assumptions.”
“It wasn’t sarcasm,” said Cairny. “I’m always puzzled by the things you miss. I figured I should ask. But to make sure we’re all on the same page, that’s almost certainly what killed him. The enormous neck wound.”
“And what time did he die?” asked Shay.
“If I had to guess, based on lividity—sometime between four and six AM.”
I reached up and pulled the white sheet down to Chaz’s midsection. Cairny had removed his shirt. I pointed a finger at his chest. “And this?”
“You mean the tattoo?” said Cairny. “What of it?”
Shay smiled. “Told you.”
I snorted, unwilling to accept as gospel any explanations lacking supernatural origins. “What makes you think it’s a tattoo?”
“And you’re concerned about my sarcasm?” said Cairny. “Do you understand how confusing these questions are to me? It’s a tattoo based on the damage to the epidermis. Fresh, too.”
“How fresh?” asked Shay.
“I’d guess he got it sometime last night,” said Cairny. “Pre-mortem, based on blood coagulation.”
“So if Vance was right,” said Shay, “then Chaz got this tattoo sometime after his exit from Club Midnight but before his death. Between two and six, then.”
I snorted, dissatisfied with the conversation’s direction. “Enough about the presumed tattoo. Let’s talk about the death wound. What caused it?”
“Well, I’m still working on that,” said Cairny. “But based on the jagged edges? It must’ve been something that applied a substantial force but through a pointed instrument versus a sharpened one. Based on the size, it could’ve been…teeth.”
“Aha!” I cried, turning to Shay. “See?”
Cairny furrowed her brow. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
>
“Don’t mind Daggers,” said Shay. “What else can you tell us?”
“Quite a bit, depending on what sort of information you’re after.” Cairny plucked a scalpel from the edge of the examination table and began using it as a pointer. “For one thing, this man lost a lot of blood very fast, which is undoubtedly what led to his death. His left internal and external jugular veins are severed, as is his common carotid artery on this side. Honestly, I’m surprised the man didn’t have more blood on his person given the highly vascular nature of the injury. Rather, instead of blood, his face and neck are covered with what I can only describe as an organic film.” Cairny prodded a spot on his neck covered with the light brown, translucent substance. It flaked off in response to the touch.
“We noticed that,” said Shay. “Any idea what it is?”
“I have some guesses, but only that,” said Cairny. “Nothing I’d be willing to share at the moment. I was, however, able to isolate the source of the foul odor attached to this man as he was brought in.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. I took a quick sniff, but the pungent litter box smell was almost completely absent, or at least hidden behind the janitor’s zeal for lemon scents. His clothes, which Cairny had removed, must’ve harbored the stink.
“So,” said Shay. “What was it?”
“Fecal matter,” said Cairny.
I grimaced. “Eww. And to think I touched him. But to be honest, I thought he smelled more like the proverbial number one than the number two.”
“And you’d be right about that,” said Cairny, “because this particular fecal matter is quite high in urate.”
Cairny possessed dual degrees in chemistry and biology. I tempted fate by asking a follow-up question. “What does that have to do with the smell?”
“Urate, or uric acid, creates ammonia gas upon chemical breakdown. Urea, which is present in human urine, undergoes the same transformation upon reaction with water in the presence of certain enzymes. The ammonia gas creates the smell you’re referring to.”
I tried to wrap my head around the implications. I failed. “So…you’re saying Chaz was covered in poop, but a special kind of poop?”