The Corpse Whisperer

by H. R. Boldwood

  10

  Who’s Killing Who?

  “What do you mean BOLO guy’s dead? Who killed him?” Rico slammed his palm against his desk and glared at Weston. “We needed to talk to that son of a bitch. Jesus. Cap’s going to have a meltdown.”

  “It’s not like we had a choice,” Weston said. “He went biter. We had to put him down.”

  Biter?

  My ears perked. “With a head shot, right? You put him down with a head shot?”

  Visions of Carnage in the Coroner’s Office, Part Deux made my stomach roll.

  Weston snickered. “Nighthawk, after your training session in the auditorium with Donald and Hannibal, I don’t think there’s a cop in this city who will ever make that mistake again.”

  Vindicated, at last. I knew a successful training session when I gave one.

  “Your guy didn’t have any ID on him,” Weston said, “but he had two grand in cash, in his wallet. Facial recognition software came up empty and his prints didn’t hit in AFIS. We did find a scrap of paper in his pocket with Metropole Hotel #312 scribbled on it.”

  Rico leaned back in his chair, eyes bloodshot, face drawn and shadowed with a day’s stubble.

  “What’re you waiting for?” he growled. “Check it out. We’ve got to go babysit Leo. Call me when you’ve got something.”

  “Already in progress, boss,” Weston said. “No worries. I’ve got your back.”

  It hadn’t taken us long to settle into a routine at the safe house. We brought Leo lunch or ordered in from Ricardo’s. Rico scrambled to juggle his case load, like a plate spinner at a circus. I scanned the Internet for outbreaks of strange Z-virus activity, making sure to check in with Nonnie from time to time. And Leo, bored to death watching the same three local TV channels, would annoy the crap out of both of us.

  As I sat at the kitchen table, scouring sites for research articles on the recent Z-virus mutation, Little Allie kept clamoring about the alternative possibility—manipulation. An abundance of dark genius saturated cyber-land, but the amount related to viral manipulation could fit in a thimble.

  Rico took a break and joined Leo in the living room, to watch Days of Our Lives and play gin rummy at the commercial breaks. I wasn’t listening in on their conversations. Hell, maybe I was. But even if I hadn’t been listening, I’d have heard them anyway.

  Out of nowhere, Leo asked Rico why he became a cop. I scooted forward and peeked around the kitchen corner.

  “None of your business,” Rico said.

  Rico could get testy when he was running on empty. But then, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality when he had a full tank, either.

  “C’mon,” Leo chided. “You’re like the fucking sphinx over there. All stoic and pissing vinegar. If I wanted to get bitch-slapped, I’d go in the kitchen and talk to Nighthawk.”

  Well. That was uncalled for.

  Rico sat forward on the edge of what had become his favorite plastic-coated chair and glared at Leo. “Why do you care?”

  “I like to know what makes people tick. Especially people who are supposed to keep me alive.”

  “Don’t read too much into it,” Rico said. “It’s a living.”

  Leo wrinkled his nose. “I don’t buy that. You got passion. People like you, they get up every day and believe they’re going to make a difference. What’s the real story?”

  “You’d have made a decent detective, Leo.” Rico leaned back in his chair, making the plastic fart. “I’m a third-generation cop. My grandpa, Marco, died on the job trying to stop a bank heist. He was a good man. Maybe I’m just trying to be a good man, too.”

  “Third generation. That must mean your dad was a cop, too.”

  “Your point?”

  “No heroic stories about him? No, ‘I wanted to be like my daddy’?”

  A cone of silence descended over the living room.

  Apparently, Leo sensed he’d hit a nerve and let things settle a minute before he mined for gold. “So, how’d you end up with Nighthawk for a partner?”

  I scrambled to turn up the audio on my phone. I didn’t want to hear this story again. But Rico’s answer came too quick.

  “Six of us drew straws. I lost.”

  The bastard.

  Leo burst out laughing. “You lying bastard! You dig this paranormal shit. Hell, you even like working with Nighthawk. What’s more, you like her. The truth this time, hand to God, no bullshit. How’d you end up her partner?”

  I ducked back behind the corner, afraid to hear his answer, but too intrigued to stop listening. What came next blew me away.

  “I saw the position posted and asked Cap for it. There were a few other guys who posted too, but I scored highest. Cap offered it and I accepted. End of story.”

  Shut the hell up!

  What a lying sack of shit. Someday, when he least expected it, I would throw out that little pearl and watch the color drain from his face. But, in that particular moment, I almost cried. Almost being the operative word. There’s no crying in corpse whispering.

  “Ha! I was right,” Leo said. “Let me guess. She don’t know that, does she?”

  “No. And keep it that way, unless you want to die young.”

  I cringed and waited for the awkward moment to pass.

  “Sorry,” Rico said, “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Leo cleared his throat. “No sweat. Sometimes, I almost forget about it…dying…you know? Then pow. Something brings it back and the air whooshes out of my lungs. It sucks to have that hanging over my head.”

  I was thinking he was right about that when my phone rang. It was Ilse.

  “Allie, dear. I’m so worried. When I wasn’t able to reach Sandy at home or on his cell, I went to his house. The back door had been kicked in and there’d been a struggle. His car was still there and his wallet too, along with his phone with all our messages on it. I’ve called the local police. They’re at his house now. My God,” she blurted between sobs. “What could have happened to him?”

  Little Allie spit out more theories than I wanted to contemplate. “Jesus, Ilse. I’m so sorry. Please, please let me know the minute you hear something. If I can help in any way, let me know.”

  As I was about to disconnect, a thought occurred to me. “I hate to ask about the tissue samples now, with Sandy missing, but maybe the potential findings could have something to do with his disappearance. Is Dr. Christian qualified to do the tests Sandy intended to run?”

  “Absolutely. He’s worked with Sandy every step of the way. In fact, he thought about starting the tests, but didn’t want to interfere with Sandy’s protocol.”

  “Since we don’t know when,”—or if, I thought,—“Sandy will be back, it might be a good idea to have Dr. Christian get started on them. Ask him to call me the minute he has the results, okay?”

  Poor Ilse hung up sounding scared to death. She had every right to be scared. I was.

  When I started into the living room to tell Rico about Sandy, I heard Leo’s voice and realized he was still pursuing their prior conversation.

  “You never did answer my question about why you wanted to work with Nighthawk, or what got you so interested in this paranormal crap in the first place.”

  Rico balked. Once again, it seemed Leo had hit a nerve, but after a short, stony silence, Rico’s answer stunned me.

  “Back when I was a kid and my dad was on the force, biters seemed more like bogeymen. Not real, nothing anyone ever had to worry about. And that was close enough to the truth, at least, close enough for a ten-year-old. Then, one night, my old man came home drunk. That wasn’t unusual, he did that a lot, but he was crying. I hid in the stairwell, while he told my mom what happened during his shift that night.

  “He and his partner, Conner O’Dell, took a call for a prowler at the projects over on Twelfth Street. They got there and heard noises coming from inside an abandoned building, so they went to check it out. Dad first, Conner taking his six. Next thing dad knows, Conner lets loose this high-pitched scr
eam. Dad turns around and this biter’s got his teeth sunk into Conner’s face, chewing it off his skull. Conner’s screaming for help, calling for my dad, over and over.”

  Rico stopped for a minute and rubbed his hands through his hair. When he settled himself and continued the story, his voice shook. “My dad was so scared shitless, he ran out the door and left Conner. Just left him to that son-of-a-bitch biter. By the time dad called it in and backup arrived, Conner was gone.”

  I stood silently at the corner of the kitchen and watched the light fade from Rico’s eyes.

  “My father left his fucking partner to die. You want to know why Allie? And why the paranormal crimes unit? That’s why. That’s also why I can’t tell you stories about wanting to be like my dad. You heard enough of my life story? Or is there some other scab you’d like to pick?”

  Rico’s phone rang. I’d never been happier for an interruption in all my life. He strolled into the kitchen with the phone pressed to his ear, and I pretended to be absorbed in my research.

  “Hey, Weston. Whatcha got?” Rico listened without speaking, nodding here and there, before finally blowing a gasket. “What do you mean he’s dead? Stop shooting the damn dirtbags before we have a chance to talk to them, will you?”

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “Hold on a minute, Weston.” Rico filled me in. “They checked the registry at the Metropole. Room 312 was registered to a Joey Fingers. He checked in three days ago, and was supposed to have checked out this morning, but didn’t. They went to his room and knocked. Nobody answered, so the manager let them in. They found Fingers dead, with a single stab wound to the heart, just like Miriam. His ID matched the registry and his phone showed he made a couple calls to Jersey. They’re checking out the numbers.”

  Leo scurried in from the living room. “Joey Fingers? I know that name. That’s an alias for Joey Fingerello. He’s a lieutenant with the Giordano Family. Holy crap. He ain’t here, is he?”

  Rico nodded. “What’s he in charge of?”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” The color drained from Leo’s face. “He’s like three pay-grades above me, De Palma. I don’t know. He’s over high-level shit, not penny ante crap. I’m turning state’s evidence here. Somebody want to connect the dots?”

  I grabbed Rico’s arm and held my head near his phone, so I could listen in.

  “Did you get all that, Weston?” Rico asked. “A Jersey mob boss shows up in Cincinnati, while Leo here is under wraps. First, Miriam dies of a stab wound to the heart, then roughly twenty-four hours later, her killer ends up zombified, and the Jersey mob boss gets murdered the same way Miriam did. That’s way too hinky for me.”

  “It’s obvious why the mob wants Leo dead,” Weston said. “And I get why they tried to blackmail Miriam for his location. But how did Miriam’s killer end up a biter? And who killed the mob boss?”

  Rico pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Damn it. There’s a connection here. We’re just not seeing it. And now that these dirtbags are dead, we may never know what happened.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, joining the conversation. “Weston, have Fingerello’s body taken to the M.E.’s office. Tell Doc Blanchard to look for hidden injection sites, just in case. But tell him to hold off on the autopsy for now.”

  “Sure thing, Nighthawk.”

  “Good job, Bill,” Rico said. “Thanks. Keep me in the loop. Later, man.”

  As soon as the call ended, I told Rico about Sandy.

  “Just when I think this case can’t get any stranger,” he said, “something happens to prove me wrong.”

  Suddenly, he cocked his head and smiled. The fire had returned to eyes. “You told Weston to have Doc Blanchard hold off on the autopsy. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yep. First thing tomorrow, you and I need to have a chat with the recently-deceased Joey Fingers.”

  11

  Genghis Khan: Corpse Whisperer

  Imagine my delight, returning home around twelve-thirty, after my shift at the safe house, to find Nonnie and the terrible twins, Headbutt and Kulu, waiting for me at the door. Nonnie handed me her shoe—at least, I think that’s what it had been, before Headbutt turned it into a leather chew toy. To an uneducated eye, Headbutt, who lay prostrate on the kitchen floor, might have appeared to be wallowing in shame. But I knew this dog. He was laying low, waiting for the Payless Shoes storm to pass.

  Kulu, roosting on Nonnie’s shoulder, cast him an unsympathetic eye, ruffled her feathers, and muttered, “Bad golem. Bad. Bad. Bad.”

  That bird had her head stuck so far up Nonnie’s ass, we were going to need a headlamp and barbecue tongs to pull it out.

  And as for Headbutt, it’s a good thing he had a nose for deadheads. That stubborn, fur-covered basketball was stretching my non-existent patience.

  I pulled thirty bucks, the last of my money, out of my wallet. “Ah, geez, I’m sorry, Nonnie. Will this cover it?”

  She pushed my hand away and shook her finger at Headbutt. “Bad Golem. Bad. Bad. Bad.”

  Was Kulu learning from Nonnie, or was Nonnie learning from Kulu?

  “Is okay, Miss Allie. Keep your money,” Nonnie said, shooting Headbutt the evil eye. “He will learn. I make him learn.”

  Headbutt moaned and rolled his sad brown eyes toward me.

  “Nice try, you four-legged doorstop. Don’t give me that poor little puppy crap. You do the crime, you do the time.”

  I thanked Nonnie and sent her home with a spare copy of my house key, telling her I’d be leaving early again, in the morning.

  When I finally turned out the lights, deadheads filled my dreams.

  Something invisible pinned me to the ground. An army of deadheads stretched as far as I could see, shuffling, crawling, dragging themselves closer and closer still, until they nearly covered me.

  The rotters snapped their mossy teeth in my face and clawed at my skin. Their stink flooded my nose, and their raspy growls rumbled in my ears.

  A tall hooded figure commanded the battalion of biters, urging them on. The zombies weren’t randomly attacking like they usually do. They were organized and following the hooded man’s direction.

  Headbutt fought the horde, trying to protect me. The deadheads took him down, biting him again and again, tearing the flesh from his bones and drinking the blood from his veins.

  I watched, powerless to save him.

  His high-pitched cries morphed into screams, and I sprung awake to find that the screams were actually mine. Headbutt, who had been sleeping at my feet, now stood over me, head held high, nose to the air, peering into the darkness.

  “Good boy,” I murmured, kissing his muzzle.

  He might be a shoe-chewing, fur-covered basketball, but he’d give his life for me in a heartbeat.

  I lay back in bed, closed my eyes, and wondered who the hooded commander of my dreams had been. But part of me, the part I keep buried deep inside, was afraid to accept the truth.

  Little Allie whispered a name. It whirred like a fly through the darkness, into my ear. And as I drifted off to sleep, there came a dark, familiar laugh. The hooded man had returned.

  In that soft gray space between sleep and wakefulness, I wondered if he’d ever really been away.

  I arrived at the M.E.’s office bright and early. Nothing like dreams of being devoured by an army of deadheads to get the blood pumping. The lobby door was already unlocked.

  I walked down the hall, around the corner, and dipped into Doc Blanchard’s conversation. He was having a hissy.

  “No disrespect, Cap, but I’ll strap myself to an ant hill, covered with honey, before I let Nighthawk raise that gangster in here. It’s not going to happen. Did you see pictures of what she did to my morgue when she took Miriam down? I thought she was supposed to be good at this shit.”

  Ouch. Low blow. But I had to have some sympathy for the guy. This really hadn’t been his week.

  I opened Doc’s office door and his jaw dropped. “She�
��s already here, Cap. I’ll let you talk to her.”

  I took the phone with a smile. “Good morning, Captain Sunshine. How’re you today?”

  Cap was short and not all that sweet. “Do what you need to do, but give Doc a break. You’ve pissed in his Wheaties enough this week. Is that clear?”

  The call disconnected.

  Rico walked in the door with Lloyd on his heels.

  “I’ve got shit to do,” Rico said. “Let’s get this party started.” He threw his jacket across Doc’s guest chair. “How we gonna do this?”

  Doc’s quiet tone made me nervous. “I lost two day’s work after that mess with Miriam. You can’t do that to me again, Nighthawk.”

  “Doc, we can argue about who’s fault that was later. But you’re right. We need to think this through.” I spun toward Rico. “Remember all those stupid rules of mine about who gets raised? Keep in mind that if putting down mild-mannered Miriam made a big-ass mess, raising and putting down Funky Fingers Fingerello—a freaking mobster—will be like spitting into a tornado and hoping you don’t get F5’d all the way to Kansas. Get my drift?”

  Rico nodded, but Doc squished his eyebrows together and frowned.

  “Think of it this way, Doc. This guy was a bad-ass mobster. When I bring him back, he’ll be a bad-ass freshy. And a bad-ass freshy is a corpse on crack.”

  “That’s exactly why,” Doc said, “you cannot do this in my morgue.”

  “What’s in the basement?” Rico asked.

  “Supplies—body bags, sterilized trays, surgical gowns, embalming fluid. Why?”

  Rico glanced at me. “We could raise him down there.”

  “For God’s sake,” Doc said. “Embalming fluid is flammable. Let me move it upstairs, before you light the building up like the Fourth of July.”