Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he corridor ends in the receiving area with its walk-in stainless steel coolers and freezers, the gauges on the doors constantly giving updated readings. When patients are wheeled in from the vehicle bay, the first stop in here is the floor scale. Height is measured with an old-fashioned wooden measuring rod, case numbers assigned and written on stiff manila paper toe tags.

Across from the door leading out of the building is the security office, and through bulletproof glass I can see that no one is inside. On the desk are a Bojangles takeout bag, a large drink with a straw next to a stack of napkins and packets of condiments. I can tell from the 3-D printer that Wyatt Earle was doing a run of radio frequency identification (RFID) labels when he was interrupted.

I watch him on the video displays walking through the vehicle bay where the white cargo van remains parked out of the way of traffic, the exterminator high up on her ladder. Wyatt looks formidable in his new uniform, black with the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner (OCME) patch featuring a caduceus and scales of justice. On his belt are pepper spray, a tactical baton, a cellular phone that also works as a walkie-talkie.

Since the governor allocated additional funding for our security, I’ve hired new guards and gotten rid of others. I’ve upgraded equipment, offering training and more competitive pay. We don’t have what we need, but the morale has never been better. I watch on the live feed as a gleaming black hearse backs into the bay to the loud beeping that large vehicles make when driving in reverse.

It comes to a stop as Wyatt strides up, the driver’s door opening. Jesse Spanks steps out, sleazy with slicked-back black hair and a widow’s peak like Eddie Munster in the 1960s sitcom. That’s if you ask Marino. This afternoon the mortician is loudly dressed in a powder-blue suit, a polka-dotted tie and matching pocket square. He opens the hearse’s tailgate with a flourish like a magician about to impress us with a trick.

My office isn’t on good terms with Shady Acres Funeral Home, a thriving enterprise less than a mile from here. The expectation is that I’ll give them referrals and other considerations in exchange for favors. I’m expected to do exactly as my predecessor, Elvin Reddy, did and maybe still does in his new capacity. But that didn’t happen the first time I was chief, and it won’t happen now.

“Shit,” Marino mutters under his breath, staring at Spanks on the security monitor. “What’s he doing here? I got an updated list of all pickups and deliveries scheduled so far and Shady Acres isn’t on it.”

“He’s been calling about Luna Briley.” I hold open the pedestrian door leading into the vehicle bay, the hearse’s engine rumbling.

“I saw on the log that she’s not being released yet,” Marino says.

“That’s right,” I reply as we haul our bags and cases down the concrete ramp, the exterminator spraying high above our heads.

We give her ladder a wide berth, Marino’s eyes nervously darting in that direction. I smell the odor of pesticide while keeping up my scan for hornets, a few darting around. Most are dead or dying on the epoxy-sealed concrete floor beneath the nest, and I’m depressed by the sight. But venomous insects can’t be relocated like a mouse, a chipmunk or some of our other misguided guests.

“… Those aren’t my instructions,” Wyatt is saying while watching our approach, and Jesse Spanks is none the wiser.

His back is to Marino and me as he stands at the hearse’s open tailgate, a stretcher inside with a folded blanket on top. He doesn’t see us coming as he continues to misrepresent and manipulate.

“I think you weren’t informed and that’s the problem,” he’s saying in his self-important way.

“When the chief gives me the go-ahead, you’ll get a call just like always,” Wyatt answers. “You can’t just show up like this under false pretenses.”

“Clearly, she forgot to tell you I was on my way,” Spanks replies.

“You were told the body’s not ready.”

“I’m sorry to say but Doctor Scarpetta’s the weak link here. Not me. I hear she was ill tempered and overly emotional at the scene yesterday. And it’s understandable at her stage in life and with all she must have on her mind.” Spanks continues his audacious lies, and Marino and I have stopped to listen.

“The body’s not going anywhere,” Wyatt flatly states.

“We can’t get started on preparations until we have little Luna in our care.” The mortician has a habit of unctuously dropping his voice when asserting himself. “The Brileys are expecting you to comply with their wishes immediately.”

“I don’t answer to the families,” is Wyatt’s sharp response.

“Most of all the Brileys want to be assured that their loved one is handled properly—”

“What’s going on?” I interrupt.

“Why, good afternoon, Doctor Scarpetta. How long have you been standing there?” Spanks gives me an insincere smile.

“Long enough,” I reply as Marino and I walk up.

“As always, nice to see you, ma’am.” Another big grin that could be a tooth whitening ad.

He shakes my hand, squeezing it painfully hard as he always does. This time I return the favor, my grip strong from decades of cutting through stubborn tissue and bone. He winces, sliding his hands in his pockets, his cloying cologne blending with the acrid odors of death and insecticide.

“I was just explaining our earlier communications,” he says to me.

“And what might those have been since I don’t recall the last time we talked,” I reply.

“There’s just too much to remember these days,” he says sympathetically.

“You and I haven’t communicated this entire year so far.” I set the record straight.

“And besides that, the doc’s got a fucking photographic memory,” Marino feels compelled to say.

“I’ve been telling Mister Spanks that you’re not releasing Luna Briley yet.” Wyatt speaks up heatedly.

“Such a tragic accident.” Spanks sadly shakes his head. “It’s appalling what little children know about these days. Nothing’s safe. Apparently, she could be quite stubborn and willful for such a cute little thing.”

“Who asked you to testify?” Marino fires back at him. “And why are you here?”

“To pull something, that’s why.” Wyatt nails Spanks with an accusatory stare. “The only reason I let him through the security gate when he just now showed up unannounced is he said he left a stretcher here and needed to pick it up.”

“What stretcher?” Marino stares at the folded one inside the back of the hearse.

“The one he brought to make the pickup.” Wyatt is so irate he’s practically sputtering. “In other words, he lied so he could come in and body snatch.”

“Luna Briley’s not going anywhere until I say, and that could be a while. Days, at least, as I’m sure you’ve been told.” I look at Spanks in a way that gives him fair warning.

“I can’t help but find it strange that you’re not done with her yet. To do what else?” he says accusingly.

“The case is pending for now.” That’s as much as I’m going to tell him.

“I’ll be sure to let them know you’re not interested in honoring their wishes. But I don’t think it’s the best idea riling them any further. Mister Briley in particular. He’s awfully powerful, knows folks in high places. I’m talking as high as places get.” Spanks is on the brink of threatening me. “He’s already complaining about your office.”

“Ask if we give a shit,” Marino says, his grip white-knuckle hard on the handles of the heavy Pelican cases, his muscles straining.

“You need to leave now,” I tell Spanks. “Don’t pull another stunt like this or we won’t be so forgiving next time. Wyatt, please make sure he’s escorted out of the parking lot.”

“You got it, Chief,” he says as Spanks slams the hearse’s tailgate.

The vehicle bay’s door is retracted, the sun directly overhead as Marino and I leave the building. Virginia and U.S. flags flap loudly, their swivel hooks clicking against tall metal poles in front of the padlocked glass entrance. The wind is picking up, the barometric pressure dropping, and I can feel the storm front’s approach.

“What we just witnessed was a crime. There’s no other way to slice it.” Marino continues venting as we put on our sunglasses. “The attempted removal of a dead body is a felony. And it’s all recorded on our security cameras. I should get Jesse Spanks’s ass arrested.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I reply as we walk past rows of cars, a few people coming and going on their lunch breaks.

I find myself constantly looking for the white Escalade, relieved that there’s no sign of it. Marino’s blacked-out Ford Raptor pickup truck is halfway across the parking lot tucked at an angle near the fence where no one will ding the doors.

“How come you parked way over there?” I ask him.

“Didn’t want to be anywhere near a bunch of pissed-off hornets. Not to mention poison. Maybe I need to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau or something, get Shady Acres in a shitload of trouble.”

“It will likely make things worse,” I reply as we near the semi tractor-trailer hooked up to its generator, the REMOTE that I presumed we’d use in Sal Giordano’s case.

“We can’t let Eddie fucking Munster get away with it, Doc.”

“Best not to make a thing of it. Now we’re onto him if we weren’t before. He won’t try that again if he has a brain in his head.”

“Well, he doesn’t. And obviously, he’s doing what the Brileys instructed. So, tell me, what’s the point of snatching the body after you’ve already done the autopsy?” Marino digs in a pocket for his truck’s keyless remote. “What did they think they were going to accomplish? It’s a little late to destroy the evidence.”

“I don’t know the motive but I’m not finished. I haven’t verified the most important finding if I’m right about the fingertip bruises. They’d show that she was violently grabbed by the shoulders and neck not long before she was shot. And that would be very bad for the parents.”

“You thinking they somehow know about the bruises?”

“Hopefully they don’t,” I reply as I think about who does.

I told Fruge. And Shannon could know if she’s looked at the paperwork I left on my conference table. Fabian wasn’t with me while I examined the body.

“All to say, it’s actually not too late to destroy evidence,” I add as Marino points the remote at his truck, and the lights flash. “Did you remember to bring your motion sickness medicine?”

“Already took it and have more in my pocket.” He stares up at the wall of dark clouds in the distance. “I hope Lucy knows what’s she’s doing, because everything I’m hearing sounds like a nightmare. I sure as hell hope we don’t get stranded in the mountains or worse.”

We place our gear inside the truck’s covered bed, and momentarily he’s starting the powerful engine, maneuvering out of the crowded parking lot. At the security gate, we wait for other cars to drive through. When it’s our turn, Marino begins easing forward, when suddenly the black-and-white-striped arm begins chopping up and down like a scene from The Exorcist .

“ SHIT! ” He shoves the gearshift into park, the front bumper just inches from the guillotining gate. “This is what I’m talking about! Everything’s haywire around here!”

Climbing out, he finds the power cutoff switch in a small gray box and disables the arm. It’s barricading the exit lane, and two cars are behind us, employees leaving. I feel curious eyes when Marino orders me out of the truck as if I’m about to be arrested. He motions like a traffic cop, indicating for me to take the driver’s seat.

Lifting the security arm, he holds it above his head as I drive through. Then I’m parking out of the way of traffic. I return to the passenger’s seat as he switches the power back on, giving me an incredulous shrug while the waiting cars drive out. The gate operates as if nothing was ever wrong.

“Now it’s fine?” He climbs into his truck, pulling the door shut. “How does that make sense?”

“Maybe when you flipped the switch off and back on something got reset?” I suggest.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Possibly a power surge or glitchy sensor?”

“Dammit, Doc. I hope we’ve not been hacked again.”

“Don’t even say it,” I reply as we drive away from our four-story building in the hinterlands of the Northern Virginia district government center.

The fenced-in OCME complex is off to itself at the back of the state government office park. On three sides of my building are kudzu-choked wetlands, and an electrical substation that’s been shot at several times. We have a smokestack on the roof for the anatomical division’s crematorium, and I don’t blame people for wanting to be as far from us as possible.

Several acres away are the Departments of Health, Public Safety and Emergency Medical Services and the Bureau of Vital Records. Those buildings are modern and attractive by comparison, with tinted glass and tidy flower beds, fountains and reflecting pools. Some have cafeterias, rooftop terraces and underground parking. There are benches beneath shade trees, the lobbies unlocked, visitors welcome.