Crossroad

by W. H. Cameron

  “Too bad she hit face first,” Carrie says. “Open casket is out of the question.”

  My eyes pop open to a white ceiling, not the satin lining of a casket. My cell smells faintly of blood diluted with embalming fluid. My mouth feels like it’s caked with wax. A shooting pain runs from my neck to the base of my spine. The light hasn’t changed since they locked me in. It could be midnight or noon. A cobweb hangs from the surveillance camera, still in the dead air.

  But I’m not thinking about any of that. I’m thinking about remains on the New Mortuary preparation table. It was last September, a chilly morning threatening rain. Carrie met me at the back door.

  I’d been working at Bouton less than five months, mostly doing setup and teardown for memorial services, and assisting caterers and florists. By then I’d decided to enter the mortuary sciences program at the community college, but I didn’t expect to work in the prep room—except to mop the floor and sanitize equipment—for a while.

  So I was surprised when Carrie said, “Elodie and I thought you might want to assist me this morning.”

  I tried not to seem too excited. “Of course.”

  In the prep room, the body of a young woman not yet out of her teens lay on the table. Her left side was almost colorless while her right was blotchy and purple. This, Carrie explained, was because the body had lain on its right side, allowing the blood to pool. “The discoloration is called livor mortis. Postmortem stain to us folks in the trade.” She rolled the body onto its side. The darkest purple ended at the shoulder blade, but the rest of the back was also discolored, if less intensely. “It starts to develop immediately after death but doesn’t become visible like this for a couple of hours. The body must have remained in one position for a few hours, then been moved or repositioned. That’s why we see this secondary lividity.”

  Carrie rolled the body flat again. Purple stained her face and neck as well, darker and less evenly than on her back. “Those bruises are ante mortem.” From before she died. The girl’s mouth hung open, revealing broken front teeth caked with dried blood.

  That was when I made the connection. The story had dominated the Samuelton Ledger website for days. A Wilton girl had been reported missing a week earlier after she failed to check in with her family. She’d been hiking and camping her way through central Oregon with her dog and was last seen at the Painted Hills in Wheeler County. Authorities didn’t start to worry until the dog turned up on a ranch near Sutton Mountain—beaten to death. A day later, the girl was found at the Wheeler fossil beds. Strangled and dumped in a trench. At present, there were no suspects.

  “This is the murder victim,” I said.

  Carrie’s eyes focused somewhere below the tile floor. “Her name was Michelle Duerte. She was taking a gap year between high school and college, with plans to travel through Southeast Asia after she finished her camping trek. She’s someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend. Her loved ones will never forget what happened to her,” Carrie said, “but when I’m finished, I hope they can see her at rest. At peace.” Carrie’s voice shook. “I want you to help me get her ready for her funeral.”

  “There’s still time to apply at Walmart, Mellie.”

  I shook my head at Fitz, a gesture Carrie misinterpreted. “Are you up for this?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  For the rest of the morning, I stood by Carrie’s side, handing her instruments, watching her apply the wax, glue, and makeup that would transform the corpse from a battered ruin into a young woman again.

  Now, I swing my legs off the bench. There’s crud in my eyes. My back aches and my feet tingle with the rush of blood.

  “What is it, Mellie?”

  If Pride hit facedown, why were the backs of his arms purple with postmortem stain?

  Because he was dead before he fell from the bridge.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Counsel

  As I bang on my door, two white guys with three-day beards appear in the cell window across from me. I recognize the dudebros from the Whistle Pig, one with a swollen, gauze-packed nose, the other sporting a black eye. When they spot me, they start hooting and making kissy faces.

  I flip them off, then bang my door again.

  “Anybody actually work here?”

  A voice shouts for everyone to shut the hell up, answered by a drunken, “G’fug yerse’f!” Someone calls out an order for eggs over easy, bacon, and a short stack with real maple syrup.

  A glowering deputy storms into view. He stops at my window. “What the hell is your problem?” His voice comes through a small grill beside the door.

  “I need to speak with the sheriff.”

  “You and every other shitbird in this joint.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I thought you were waiting for your lawyer.”

  “This isn’t about me. But I think he’s going to want to hear it.”

  The glower never fades. “The sun is barely up—on a Sunday no less. Wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  He continues along the corridor, shouting for quiet and cracking doors with a baton.

  “Is that a no on the syrup, Dippity?”

  While he works on quieting the others down, I use the toilet and rinse my mouth with tepid water from the washbasin. My stomach feels like a sinkhole, but the uneaten cheese sandwich offers no temptation.

  It’s some time before the cell door opens and Dippity Glower waves me out.

  “Is the sheriff here?”

  He doesn’t answer, just guides me to the second floor and into a conference room. The chairs are cushioned, and the windows look out over the park. The early morning sun casts long shadows through the trees. A digital clock on the wall reads 6:18.

  “You gonna behave?”

  “Sure.”

  He offers me another bottled water. “Breakfast isn’t till seven thirty, but if you’re lucky they’ll cut you loose before—unless your thing is a cold hard-boiled egg and white toast.”

  “And rich creamery butter?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Somehow, he manages a darker glare. “Just wait here.”

  Breakfast time comes and goes before the door opens again. Not Dippity Glower and not the sheriff. A tall white man in baby-blue slacks and a neon yellow polo shirt enters, carefully juggling two coffee cups and a thin leather briefcase. His smooth skin is deeply tanned, setting off his white eyebrows and the hair on his forearms. He’s wearing a smartwatch and a diamond pinkie ring, without apparent shame.

  “Melisende Dulac?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Pax Berber. I’m your attorney.” He sets down the briefcase and offers me a cup. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got lattes for both of us. Quad shots since I heard they left you in solitary holding all night.”

  I gratefully accept the latte as he takes a seat. When he opens his briefcase, the brass latches pop like gunshots.

  “I understand you asked for the sheriff this morning. Were you intending to waive your right to counsel?”

  “No. It’s about something else—”

  He holds up his hand. “We’ll get to that.” He takes out a round-barreled pen as thick as my thumb, a yellow notepad, and several printed sheets. “Okay, good,” he mumbles as he scans first one document, then the next, aligning each page on the table beside the pad. At last he slides the last page across the table. “This is a representation agreement. Read it over and sign. Then we can get started.”

  With the proffered pen, I add my scrawl and push the agreement back to him.

  “Not a reader then.”

  “Not if it’s printed in Courier.”

  “I’ve lobbied my partners to switch to Comic Sans.” He adds his own signature. “Now then, you haven’t said anything to the chief deputy, or anyone else, correct?”

  “No.” Helene trained me well. I’d like to say I’m not stupid, but I wouldn’t be here if that were true.

  “I’d move to suppress anything you might have said,
but best if I don’t have to try.” He smiles, his teeth so white they seem to fluoresce. “Especially since all three judges in this county think Jesus put them on this Earth to pre-populate Hell.”

  I have a more immediate question. “Mr. Berber, how did you come to be my lawyer?”

  “The usual. I got a phone call on the golf course. We had a six thirty tee time—to beat the heat, you know.” He laughs, but it fades when I don’t join in. “I’ve spoken with Elodie Bouton. She’s your aunt?”

  Strictly speaking, no, but I don’t have the energy to explain. “Yes.”

  “Lovely woman. She asked me to tell you she’s thinking about you, and she hopes you’re doing okay.”

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep this from getting to Aunt Elodie, but I’d hoped to tell her on my own terms. The sheriff must have called her, which makes Pax Berber one more debt on my ledger. If Elodie keeps me on, I should just work for free.

  I reach for my latte and fumble instead, nearly knocking it over. Unseen, Mr. Berber presses the cup into my hands.

  “If you need some time—”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.” My hands tremble as I raise the cup to my lips, indifferent to the sudden heat on my tongue. “I said I’m fine.”

  “He wasn’t arguing with you, little sister.”

  “You sure?” the lawyer asks.

  I wipe my eyes. My face feels hot and raw. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ve read the complaint. It’s ticky-tack. What did you do to piss off Omar?”

  “Besides existing?”

  He chuckles. “Yes, well, you and everyone else. He’s been testy since Hayward took over.” His expression grows serious. “Here’s what we’re dealing with. The chief deputy is calling it tampering with evidence at the scene of a death investigation. He wants to toss in trespassing, but Hayward did bring you there himself. Given that the incident seems to be an accidental death, we can argue—”

  “I don’t think Kendrick Pride died from the fall.”

  Mr. Berber’s mouth freezes, half open. One hand finds his chin, the pinky diamond winking. “What are you suggesting?”

  The words feel dangerous in my mouth, so I just spit them out. “I think he was already dead when his body fell from the bridge.”

  He takes his time responding. “Dr. Varney has made a preliminary determination of cause of death—massive trauma subsequent to the fall. As of this morning, I understand that will stand in his final report.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

  Because I had one or two other things on my mind. Bullets and babies. Mystery cars and the exact nature of Pride’s investigation itself. Jeremy said Pride had been all over the county asking questions. But what, and of whom? For that matter, what happened to the bullet casings and to his portfolio with the collision diagram? Duniway said Pride’s car had been broken into. All I’d seen was that folder with the photograph, but perhaps the rest was in the trunk or hidden under the seats. Was the evidence he’d collected gone?

  Was the evidence he collected what got him killed?

  Mr. Berber stares, waiting. If I spill all this to him, what will it get me? More time in a cell? Or dropped off a bridge?

  “No, you’re right. It’s probably nothing.”

  I can see the calculation in his eyes. When he looks at me, does he see Crazy Melisende?

  After a long, uncomfortable silence he says, “Best you tell me. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing.”

  Still, I hesitate.

  “I’m your attorney, Ms. Dulac.” His voice is soft, yet earnest. “I’m here to help you, but I can only do that if I’m informed.”

  I exhale, long and slow. Aunt Elodie wouldn’t have called him if she didn’t trust him.

  “Something bothered me at the scene, but it didn’t fully register till this morning. There was discoloration on the back of his arms and neck, as if his blood pooled there. That takes time and gravity.” I pause for emphasis. “Mr. Pride fell face first.”

  He licks his lips. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that Dr. Varney is the deputy medical examiner. You’re—”

  “Someone who moves dead bodies for a living.”

  He nods, thoughtful, then looks at one of his other printed sheets. “Do you think there’s a connection between Pride’s death and the missing bodies?”

  There has to be, but it’s not like I can prove it. “I’m not sure.”

  “This situation with the locket won’t lend you any credibility.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “It was stupid.”

  He doesn’t contradict me. “Omar also believes you’re somehow connected to the man’s death—though he has yet to suggest how. Turning an accident into wrongful death—or worse—does not move you into more comfortable territory.”

  “I’m just saying what—”

  He holds up his hand. “Here’s the thing. You’re suggesting something very serious, not the least being incompetence on the part of the deputy medical examiner. It’s one thing for me to go tell Omar you’re just a young woman who, let’s say, grabbed a pretty bangle on impulse—”

  “I’m not a goddamn magpie.”

  “Nor do I think you are. Like I said, I’ve spoken to Elodie. She insisted you must have had a good reason for taking the locket. She has faith in you.”

  I clench my teeth. I don’t deserve Aunt Elodie’s faith.

  “Anyway, to finish my thought, it’s one thing for me to argue you made a foolish mistake and you’re sorry. I could probably get the sheriff or the DA to tell Omar to step back. But it’s something else altogether for me to allege a homicide.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I usually advise my clients not to invite trouble.”

  “Do you get a lot of clients volunteering crimes the cops don’t even know about?”

  “You have no idea.” Mr. Berber’s teeth flash. “How about this? You walk me through the last few days, and then we’ll figure out how best to proceed. I may need to talk to the sheriff, though that might just rile Omar up. My job right now is to get you out of this building as soon as possible, ideally without any further legal entanglements—but one step at a time.”

  My fingers clench in my lap. I’ve barely slept, I’m hungry, and I’m still wearing my bloody shirt. Unruly on the best of days, after last night my hair must make me look like Medusa’s less-attractive little sister. Pax Berber seems straight, but the thought of rehashing the last week makes me want to bury myself.

  I saw a ghost at the crossroad.

  I press my hands against the tabletop. “You know about the crash?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay then.” I skip the crazy and focus on the concrete and confirmable. One hurt and three dead at the crossroad. The baby in the desert. The bodies stolen from the New Mortuary. Pride and I discovering another crash victim the next day even as Duniway searched the Old Mortuary, then finding ashes in the crematory.

  Mr. Berber knows about the search warrant. He seems unperturbed. “Why don’t you tell me about the locket?”

  I’d rather not, but I give in and describe stopping at the crossroad Friday evening, how I was nearly trampled by a deer, how I spotted a metallic gleam in the dirt. I avoid any mention of the Shatter Hill Spirit.

  “How did you know it belonged to Kendrick Pride?”

  “It has his picture in it, his and a woman’s.”

  He nods, making notes. “And you returned it to him when you met for coffee yesterday?”

  “It was a chance encounter. He’s the one who insisted on coffee.”

  “At the Mercantile? Must have been his first visit to Barlow County.” He smiles at his own joke. “What did you discuss?”

  “Just what I remembered about the crash. Honestly, I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t public knowledge.” This would be the time to mention his theory about the fourth car if I was going to. I don�
�t.

  “What happened after that?”

  “I went to my friend Barb’s house out at Dryer Lake. Around three, Jeremy Chapman stopped by to say hello.”

  “You’re friends with Deputy Chapman?”

  I only hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

  It’s harder to explain why I wanted to meet with Pride again. That with Duniway fixated on me, I thought Pride might be more likely to find out what happened to the missing bodies is all I can say. “Despite what Duniway thinks, the one thing I know for sure is I didn’t take them.”

  “And that’s when you went looking for Mr. Pride.”

  “Yes. I mean, I tried calling him, but I didn’t have his cell number, and his office said he was on some kind of sabbatical.” That led me to the Downhill, then the Long Grass, and then to Pride’s car outside the school. Celeste and Lydia Koenig, Landry and my escape to the old asylum. What a fucking day, but at least there were witnesses at points along the way.

  Mr. Berber takes notes, pressing me on timing. It’s hard to be specific. I don’t wear a watch, and I didn’t look at my phone that often. “Why does it matter?”

  “If you’re right about Pride’s time of death, knowing where you were, and when, could help if Omar pushes the idea you’re involved.”

  “Do you know why he’s so hard set on me in the first place?”

  He spends a moment examining his fingernails. They’re well manicured, with a clear-coat polish. Once, on a trip to Bend, Barb treated us to a mani-pedi. I did my best to relax and enjoy it as much as she did.

  “The thing you need to understand, Ms. Dulac, is law enforcement has its own agenda. To serve and protect, sure, but whom? People don’t go into law enforcement to fight The Man. They value order and authority. They believe the simple answer is the correct answer, because often it is. Crimes aren’t puzzles to be solved, but disruptions to be eliminated.”