by Robin Cook
With the reassurance that there was little he could do, Jack drove off. As he put some distance between himself and the whole episode, beginning with Franco slamming into the back of his car, he got progressively more anxious, to the point that he was noticeably shaking. In some respects, such a response surprised him more than the experience itself had. It hadn’t been that many years ago that he would have relished such a happening. Now he felt more responsible. Laurie was depending on him to stay alive and be at Riverside Church at one thirty the very next day.
When Jack pulled into the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home twenty minutes later, he’d recovered enough to recognize he had a responsibility to report what he knew about Franco’s accident, although he didn’t want to take time to go to the Boston police. Remaining in the car, he got out his phone and Liam Flanagan’s business card, which had his cell number. Jack placed the call. When Liam answered, Jack could hear a babble of voices in the background.
“Am I calling at a bad time?” Jack asked.
“Hell, no. I’m in line in Starbucks to get my mocha latte. What’s up.”
Jack told the story of his latest run-in with Franco from its beginning to its dramatic and decisive conclusion.
“I’ve got one question,” Liam said. “Did you return fire with my gun?”
“Of course not,” Jack said. It was hardly the question he expected. “To tell the truth, the idea never even occurred to me.”
Liam told Jack he’d relay the information to the state troopers who patrol the turnpike, and if there were any questions, he’d have them call Jack directly.
Pleased that the reporting job was as easy as it had been, Jack leaned forward and examined the bullet hole in the car’s plastic interior trim, knowing Hertz was not going to be happy. It was relatively neatly punched out, as he’d frequently seen with entrance wounds in victims’ skulls. Jack inwardly shuddered at the thought of how close it had been to being his skull, which made him wonder if Franco’s attacking him with his vehicle had been plan B. Plan A could have been either waiting for Jack to come out of the Bowmans’ house or, worse yet, breaking into the house during the night. Maybe the police surveillance had been the deterrent, making Jack shudder anew at how sure he’d felt the previous night that there would be no intruders. Ignorance was bliss.
Making a conscious decision not to dwell on “what ifs,” Jack got the umbrella from the backseat and went into the funeral home. With no services apparently scheduled, the establishment was back to its silent, sepulchral serenity, save for the barely audible Gregorian chants. Jack had to find his own way back to Harold’s heavily curtained office.
“Dr. Stapleton,” Harold said, seeing Jack in his doorway. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Please!” Jack urged. “Don’t say that. I’ve already had a bumpy, difficult morning.”
“I got a call from Percy Gallaudet, the backhoe operator. The cemetery has him on another job, then he’s going off-site to dig out someone’s sewer line. He said he won’t be able to get to your job until tomorrow.”
Jack took a breath and looked away for a moment to calm himself. Harold’s unctuous manner made this new hurdle that much more difficult to bear. “Okay,” Jack said slowly. “How about we get another backhoe. There must be more than one in the area.”
“There are a lot, but only one is currently acceptable to Walter Strasser, the superintendent of the Park Meadow Cemetery.”
“Are there kickbacks involved?” Jack said, more as a statement than a question. Only one backhoe operator smelled suspiciously like small-town graft.
“Heaven knows, but the reality is that we are stuck with Percy Gallaudet.”
“Shit!” Jack exclaimed. There wasn’t any way he could do the autopsy in the morning and still be at the Riverside Church at one thirty in the afternoon.
“There’s another problem,” Harold said. “The vault company’s truck is not available tomorrow, and I had to call them and tell them we were not going to use them today.”
“Wonderful!” Jack commented sarcastically. He took another breath. “Let’s go over this carefully so we know what our options are. Is there some way we can accomplish this without the vault company?”
“Absolutely not,” Harold said indignantly. “It would mean leaving the vault in the ground.”
“Hey, I don’t mind if the vault stays put. Why do you have to take it out anyway?”
“That’s the way it is done. It is a top-of-the-line vault stipulated by the late Mr. Stanhope. The one-piece lid has to be removed with care.”
“Couldn’t the lid be removed without lifting the whole vault?”
“It could, I suppose, but it might crack.”
“So what difference would that make?” Jack questioned, losing patience. He felt that burial practices in general were bizarre and was a fan of cremation. All someone had to do was look at mummies of Egyptian pharaohs gruesomely on display to realize allowing one’s earthly remains to hang around was not necessarily a good idea.
“A crack could compromise the seal,” Harold said with renewed indignation.
“I’m getting the picture the vault can be left in the ground,” Jack said. “I’ll take responsibility. If the lid cracks, we can get a new one. I’m certain that would please the vault company.”
“I suppose,” Harold said, moderating his stance.
“I’m going to go and personally speak to Percy and Walter and see if I can resolve this impasse.”
“As you wish. Just keep me informed. I must be present if and when the vault is opened.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Jack said. “Can you give me directions to the Park Meadow?”
Jack walked out of the funeral home in a different frame of mind than he was when he had gone in. He was now irritated as well as overstimulated. Three things that never failed to rile him were bureaucracy, incompetence, and stupidity, especially when they occurred together, which they often did. Getting Patience Stanhope out of the ground was proving to be more arduous than he had expected when he first insouciantly suggested doing a postmortem.
When he got to the car he looked at it critically for the first time since the turnpike ordeal. Besides the broken window and the bullet in the windshield post, the whole left side was scraped and dented, and the rear was pushed in. The back was so damaged he feared he might not be able to open the trunk. Luckily, his fears were unfounded when he was able to pop the lid. He wanted to be certain he’d have access to the autopsy materials Latasha had given him. What Hertz’s reaction was going to be to all the damage he didn’t want to think about, although he was happy he’d opted for full insurance.
Once inside the car he got out the map, and combining it with Harold’s directions, he was able to plot his route. The cemetery wasn’t far, and he found it without much effort or incident. It dominated a hill within sight of an impressive religious institution that looked similar to a college, with numerous separate buildings. The cemetery was quite pleasant, even in the rain, and looked like a park with headstones. The main gate was an elaborate stone structure that spanned the entrance road and bristled with statuary of the prophets. The individual gates were black, cast-iron grates and would have been forbidding except that they were permanently propped open. The entire cemetery was encircled with a fence that matched the entranceway gates.
Just beyond the portal and tucked behind it was a Gothic building comprising an office and a multi-bay garage. It stood on a cobblestoned area from which roads led up into the cemetery proper. Jack parked his car and walked through the open door of the office. There were two people at two desks. The rest of the furniture included several old four-drawer metal filing cabinets and a library table with captain’s chairs. On the wall was a large map of the cemetery depicting all the separate plots.
“Can I help you?” a dowdy woman asked. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly as she gave Jack an appraising look. It was a deportment Jack was beginning to associate with New England.
“I’m looking for Walter Strasser,” Jack said.
The woman pointed toward the man without looking at him or back at Jack. She had already returned her attention to her monitor screen.
Jack stepped over to the man’s desk. He was of indeterminate late middle age and corpulent enough to suggest he indulged in his share of the seven deadly sins, particularly gluttony and sloth. He was sitting stolidly at the desk with his hands clasped over his impressive girth. His full face was red like an apple.
“Are you Mr. Strasser?” Jack asked when the man made no attempt to speak or move.
“I am.”
Jack made a rapid introduction that included flashing his official ME badge. He went on to explain his need to examine the late Patience Stanhope to help with a civil lawsuit and that the required permits had been obtained for the exhumation. He said all he needed was the corpse.
“Mr. Harold Langley has spoken to me about this issue at length,” Walter said.
Thanks for telling me straight off, Jack thought but did not say. Instead, he asked, “Did he also mention there’s a scheduling problem? We had planned on the exhumation happening today.”
“Mr. Gallaudet has a conflict. I told him to call Mr. Langley this morning and explain the situation.”
“I got the message. Why I came over here in person is to see if some small extra consideration for your efforts and for Mr. Gallaudet’s could get the exhumation back on today’s schedule. I’m afraid I must leave town this evening.…” Jack trailed off with his vague offer of a bribe, hoping that covetousness was as much a part of Walter’s foibles as gluttony seemed to be.
“What kind of extra consideration?” Walter asked, to Jack’s gratification. The man’s eyes flicked warily toward the woman, suggesting she was not to be party to his shenanigans.
“I was thinking of double the usual fee in cash.”
“There’s no problem from this end,” Walter said. “But you’ll have to talk with Percy.”
“How about another backhoe?”
Walter chewed on the suggestion for a moment, then declined. “Sorry! Percy has a long association with Park Meadow. He knows and respects our rules and regulations.”
“I understand,” Jack said agreeably, while guessing Percy’s long association most likely had more to do with kickbacks than with rules and regulations. But Jack was not going to belabor the issue unless he struck out with Percy. “Word is that Mr. Gallaudet is doing work on-site as we speak.”
“He’s up by the big maple tree with Enrique and Cesar, preparing for a noontime burial.”
“Who are Enrique and Cesar?”
“They are our caretakers.”
“Can I drive up there?”
“By all means.”
As Jack drove up the hill, the rain lessened and then conveniently stopped. He was relieved, since he was driving without a passenger-side window, thanks to Franco.
Jack turned off the windshield wipers. As he rose, he got a progressively better view of the surrounding area. To the west near the horizon was a band of clear sky promising better weather in the near future.
Jack found Percy and the others near the crest of the hill. Percy was in the glass-enclosed cab of his backhoe, scooping out a grave, while the two caretakers looked on, leaning on long-handled shovels. Percy had the backhoe’s scoop down in the deep trench, and the vehicle’s diesel engine was straining to draw it near and then up and out. The fresh soil was piled in a cone on a large, waterproof tarpaulin. A white pickup truck with the cemetery’s name stenciled on the door was pulled to the side.
Jack parked his car and walked over to the backhoe. He tried to get Percy’s attention by shouting his name, but the roar of the diesel drowned him out. It wasn’t until he rapped on the glass of the cab that Percy became aware he was being accosted. Percy immediately eased up on the controls, and the diesel’s roar became a more bearable purr. Percy opened the cab’s door.
“What’s up?” he yelled as if the backhoe’s engine was still making considerable racket.
“I need to talk to you about a job,” Jack yelled back.
Percy bounced out of the cab. He was a short, squirrelly man, who moved in sudden, quick jerks and had a perpetually questioning expression on his face, with fixed raised eyebrows and a furrowed forehead. His hair was short but spiked, and both forearms were heavily tattooed.
“What kind of job?” Percy asked.
Jack went through an even more elaborate introduction and explanation than he had used with Walter Strasser, in hopes of evoking whatever pathos Percy might have possessed in order to reschedule Patience Stanhope’s resurrection for that day. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.
“Sorry, man,” Percy said. “After this job, I got a buddy with a backed-up sewer and newborn twins.”
“I heard you were busy,” Jack said. “But as I told Mr. Strasser, I’m willing to pay double the fee in cash to get it done today.”
“And what did Mr. Strasser say?”
“He said there was no problem from his end.”
Percy’s eyebrows hiked up a smidgen as he mulled over Jack’s offer. “So you are willing to pay twice the cemetery fee and twice my fee?”
“Only if it gets done today.”
“I still have to dig out my buddy,” Percy said. “It would have to be after that.”
“So what time would you be able to do it?”
Percy pursed his lips and nodded his head as he pondered. He checked his watch. “For sure, it would be after two.”
“But it will get done?” Jack questioned. He had to be certain.
“It’ll get done,” Percy promised. “I just don’t know what I’m going to run into with my buddy’s sewer. If that goes fast, I could be back here around two. If there’s a problem, then it’s anybody’s guess.”
“But you’ll still do it even if it is late in the afternoon.”
“Absolutely,” Percy said. “For twice my usual fee.”
Jack stuck out his hand. Percy gave it a quick shake. While Jack returned to his beat-up car, Percy climbed back into his backhoe’s cab. Before Jack started the engine, he called Harold Langley.
“Here’s the story,” Jack said in a voice that implied there was no room for discussion. “We’re back on for digging up Patience sometime after two this afternoon.”
“You don’t have a more precise time?”
“It’s going to be after Mr. Gallaudet finishes what he has scheduled. That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”
“I only need a half hour’s notice,” Harold said. “I’ll meet you graveside.”
“Fine,” Jack said. He struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Considering the fee he would be paying the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home, he felt Harold should be the one out running around and strong-arming Walter Strasser and Percy Gallaudet.
With the sound of Percy’s backhoe grinding away, Jack tried to think of what else he had to do. He checked his watch. It was close to ten thirty. The way things were going, Jack’s intuition told him that he’d be lucky to get Patience Stanhope back to the Langley-Peerson Home in the mid- to late afternoon, which meant that Dr. Latasha Wylie might be available. He wasn’t sure her offer to help was entirely sincere, but he thought he’d give her the benefit of the doubt. With help the case would go faster, and he’d have someone to bounce ideas off of and to offer opinions. He also wanted the bone saw she offered to bring. Although he didn’t think that the brain would be important in this particular case, Jack hated to do anything half-assed. More important, he thought there might be a chance he would want to use a microscope or a dissecting scope, and Latasha’s presence would make that a viable possibility. Most important was her boss’s offer of help with toxicology, which Latasha would be able to make happen. Now that Jack had the idea of an overdose or a wrong medication given at the hospital, he definitely wanted a toxicology screen, and he’d need it done immediately for it to be included in the report.
Such tho
ughts made Jack concede a distinct possibility that he had been unconsciously avoiding, namely, that there was a good chance he might not make the last shuttle flight from Boston to New York, meaning he’d be forced to fly in the morning. Since he knew the first flights were at the crack of dawn, there was no worry about making the one thirty church service, even with a stop at the apartment for his tuxedo. The concern was telling Laurie.
Acknowledging that he was not up to such a conversation and rationalizing that he didn’t know for sure he wouldn’t make the flight that evening, Jack opted not to try to phone at that time. He rationalized further that it would be far better to speak to her when he had definitive information.
Leaning to the side to facilitate getting his wallet from his back pocket, Jack got out Latasha Wylie’s card and dialed her cell number. Considering the time, he wasn’t surprised he got her voicemail. Undoubtedly, she was in the autopsy room. The message he left was simple. The exhumation was delayed, so the autopsy would be late in the afternoon, and he’d love to have help if she was inclined. He left his cell phone number.
With his telephoning out of the way, Jack switched his attention to a practical problem. Thanks to his amateurish bribing of Walter and Percy in which he’d obviously offered too much considering how rapidly they had accepted, he was now obligated to come up with the promised cash. The twenty or thirty dollars he normally carried in his wallet wasn’t going to get him far. But cash wasn’t a problem, thanks to his credit card. All he needed was an ATM, and there had to be plenty in the city.
When Jack had done everything he could think of, he resigned himself to going back to the courtroom. He wasn’t excited about the idea. He’d seen quite enough of his sister being humiliated, and the initial slight twinge of schadenfreude he’d felt but barely admitted to himself at Craig’s comeuppance had long since disappeared. Jack had come to have strong empathy for both individuals and found it distasteful to witness them being skewered and their relationship debased by the likes of Tony Fasano for his venal self-interest.
On the other hand, Jack had promised both individuals he’d show up, and both had in their own ways expressed appreciation for his being there. With these thoughts in mind, Jack started his rent-a-car, managed a three-point turn, and drove out of the cemetery. Just outside the elaborate statue-encrusted gate, he pulled to the side of the road to glance at the map. It was a good thing, because he immediately discerned there was a much better way to get into Boston proper than retracing the route back past the funeral home.