Authors: Tim Waggoner
He opened the drawer one last time and removed his hand. The fingers were bent and twisted, and there was blood where the skin had torn. But there were no more gray-green wigglers on his flesh. The filth was gone. Still, he knew it could return anytime, and would — if he didn’t do what was expected of him.
The phone was shouting now, its voice nearly deafening, and a red-hot railroad spike was lodged in his skull. Sobbing, broken fingers shaking, Ronnie reached for the phone.
• • •
Coroner was an elected position in Cross County, and Terry had a regular medical practice in town. But when he needed to perform an autopsy, he did so in the county morgue facility housed within the county building. That’s where Joanne found him, already gowned and gloved, wearing a clear plastic face shield. Ray Porter lay spread out on an aluminum table with faucets and drains for washing away and collecting blood. The boy was naked, no trace of blood on his body.
The room was small, colors institutional pistachio and tan, tiled floor, and fluorescent lights. One autopsy table, a counter with hose, sink, drain, surgical tools, hanging scale, bottles of chemicals, and a half dozen freezers for cadavers built into the wall. The facilities were modest, but they usually served the county’s needs well enough. And if for some reason they didn’t — like the after the fire in the historic district a few years ago — Terry would use the morgue over at Resurrection Hospital, near the county line.
Terry looked up as Joanne entered, and despite the morbid surroundings, her heart warmed when he smiled at her.
“I just finished washing him off and was about to start cutting.”
“His name is Ray Porter,” Joanne said. “We found his wallet out at the Deveraux Farm.”
Terry frowned. “By
we
, I assume you mean you and Dale.”
She smiled. “Jealous, table for one.”
Terry smiled back. “Very funny.” He turned to look at Ray’s body. “Nice to meet you, Ray Porter, though I wish to hell it had been under better circumstances.” He faced Joanne once more. “What was his wallet doing at the farm? That’s weird.”
“Tell me about it. I’m going to talk to his parents. How long until you finish and get him sewn up so I can bring his folks in to identify him?”
“If you like, I can just do a preliminary examination now, and then wait until after the parents have been here to do a full autopsy.”
Joanne considered a moment. “No, the sooner you start, the better. Plus that way you can also sew up the gash in his throat so it doesn’t look so bad, and we can cover the design on his stomach with a sheet. It’s bad enough his folks are going to have to see their son’s corpse this afternoon. No need to make it any worse for them.”
“Right.” Terry glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was closing in on noon, and Joanne realized she hadn’t anything to eat since breakfast. She looked at Ray’s lifeless body and decided to skip lunch.
“I should be finished by three. You can have the parents stop by any time after that. But call first, just in case I’m running late.”
Joanne nodded. “So … what’s your schedule look like later this evening, Dr. Birch?”
“I had to cancel my morning patients so I could be here, and a few of them are going to see me after five. But I should be free as the breeze around seven.” He removed his face shield and set it down on the counter. “Got anything in mind?”
She stepped close, put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned up to kiss him. He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her tight against his body. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue sought her, but she gently pushed him away.
“Sorry, but this isn’t exactly the most romantic of settings.”
He grinned. “I guess not. How about I come over to your place around eight or so? We could have a late dinner … or whatever.” He comically waggled his eyebrows and Joanne laughed.
“Whatever
sounds good. I’ll call you if anything changes, okay?” She gave him a last quick kiss, studiously avoiding glancing at Ray Porter. But she did give the boy’s corpse a final look as she turned to go. She was not looking forward to what she had to do next.
• • •
Marshall stepped into the coroner’s office just as Terry Birch was using a scalpel to make a deep incision from Ray Porter’s right shoulder down to the boy’s breast bone. He was glad to see the autopsy was just beginning in earnest. Ronnie’s call had been well timed.
“I apologize for interrupting, but I doubt your patient will mind very much.”
Terry looked up, startled, but Marshall noted the hand holding the scalpel remained rock-steady. He approved. Power was useless without control.
“Believe it or not, Mr. Cross. There are some places even
you
aren’t allowed to go. As you can see, I’m in the middle of an autopsy. You need to leave.
Now.”
The only person Marshall took orders from was his mother — and only then because it was his duty. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, and he imagined his hand shooting forward, fingers digging into the soft flesh of the coroner’s neck, and squeezing until the man’s windpipe collapsed. But he maintained iron-clad control of his anger, and the most his hand did was twitch once then fall still. When he spoke, his voice was calm and relaxed, even if he himself was not.
“I’ve come to pay my respects to the young man.”
Behind his face shield, Terry raised an eyebrow. “This is rather an odd time for it, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. My family often performs such tasks in private. We … have a tendency to draw much attention when we’re in public, and we have no wish to diminish the loss of the boy in any way.”
Terry looked at Marshall for several seconds, as if the coroner was attempting to gauge the sincerity of his words.
“Very well. You’ve paid your respects. Now leave and let me get on with my work.”
Marshall took several steps closer until he stood within six feet of the autopsy table. He saw the line of blood where Terry had cut Ray Porter’s chest, but there wasn’t a lot of it. Blood didn’t well forth very strongly when one no longer possessed a beating heart. Marshall could smell the blood too, an acrid slightly spoiled scent just beginning to filter into the air. It was the odor of blood with no life left in it. He found the stench offensive, but he kept his facial expression neutral. Control was everything.
“I would appreciate it if you could share with me any preliminary impressions you’ve gleaned so far from your examination of the body. As you might imagine, my family is shocked by this brutal and senseless crime, and we’d like to do whatever we can to help.”
“You sure you’re not just getting off on being this close to a dead body?” Terry asked. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Marshall allowed his lips to form a smile, but his gaze remained cold. “I could ask you the same thing,
Doctor
, but my manners are better than that.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “Besides, I’ve been in the presence of the dead before. So often, in fact, that the experience long ago lost whatever novelty it may have once held for me.”
Terry opened his mouth, his facial expression indicating he was about to ask Marshall exactly what he meant by that. But the coroner closed his mouth fast, his teeth clacking together as he did so.
Wise man
, Marshall thought.
Marshall took another step forward and inhaled deeply. Mixed in with the smell of dead blood was something else, something familiar. And it wasn’t coming from the boy’s corpse.
He looked at Terry. “You’ve got Cross blood in you. I can smell it. Not a lot and” — he sniffed again — “a generation or two back, but it’s there.”
Terry lifted the scalpel from Ray’s body, a small dark ruby of blood clinging to the instrument’s tip. He made no move to put the scalpel down, though. “Don’t think your amateur magician’s tricks are going to impress me. It’s not generally known, but my great-grandmother was a Cross. Her name was Thelma.”
Marshall thought for a moment. “If I recall correctly Thelma Cross married a local barber, and the two of them moved out of state.”
The coroner might put up a good front, but Marshall could tell Terry was both impressed and disturbed by his knowledge.
“That’s right. But they didn’t move by choice. Your family drove them out because you thought she’d married beneath her and tarnished the Cross name.”
Marshall took another step forward. Now he was within arm’s reach of Terry — which meant he was in range of the coroner’s scalpel should the man decide to use it as a weapon against Marshall.
“And now, two generations later, you’ve returned to you ancestral home. How commendable. So … as a member of the family, I’d appreciate it if you call tell me what you’ve learned so far.”
Terry looked at Marshall, gaze clouded with confusion. Marshall gave a little mental push — not too much — but it was enough to at least loosen Terry’s tongue.
“I haven’t learned anything beyond what you can see. The boy’s throat was slashed and a design carved into his stomach. A design resembling the one Carl Coulter cut into his victims. But I imagine you were already aware of those details.” Terry hesitated. “We do have a name now …”
“Ray Porter. Yes, I know.”
Thanks to Ronnie
. “If you wouldn’t mind, Terry, I’d like a few minutes alone with the poor boy.”
Terry blinked several times, and his cooperative manner of a moment ago vanished.
“You can’t be serious! I can’t leave you alone with a body. Not only are you no relation to the boy, I’ve already started my autopsy. If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call Joanne and have her come here and throw you out.”
Marshall smiled tightly as he took a final step forward. Now he stood only inches from Terry.
“Hiding behind your woman like a coward? I’m not surprised. Joanne is twice the man you’ll ever be.”
Terry raised the scalpel, and for an instant Marshall thought he’d goaded the man too far and that he was going to attack. Marshall almost hoped he would. But the coroner lowered his hand to his side and in a low, dangerous voice said, “Get the hell out of here.”
Marshall considered his options. He could try pushing Terry further, but the man had a strong will. It would take a significant effort to make him give in, and Terry’s mind might well suffer damage in the process. If this was the only time Marshall could get access to Ray Porter’s body, he’d have gone ahead and risked damaging the coroner’s mind. But there would be other opportunities. Perhaps he could make use of Ronnie again.
“Very well. I understand your position and accept it. Take good care of the boy. He’s suffered a great deal.”
Before Terry could respond, Marshall turned and headed for the door. He’d be back and he’d find a way to get some time alone with the corpse. And then he could do what
he
needed to do to take care of the boy.
Once out in the hall, Marshall considered going to speak with Ronnie, but his cell phone rang. He took the call, and when the short communication was over, he forgot about Ronnie. He walked out of the building, got into his Hummer, and drove out of the lot.
• • •
Ray Porter’s parents lived on the north side of Rhine. When Joanne was a child, this had been one of the nicer, if somewhat generic, neighborhoods in town. Ranch homes, spacious well-landscaped yards, new sidewalks and freshly blacktopped roads. But in the decades since Rhine’s economic health had declined, property values began to fall, and people moved out in droves. Before long, what had once been an upper middle-class neighborhood became only a step or two above poverty level. Houses in need of repair, yards overgrown or dotted with bare patches of earth, streets and sidewalks cracked and uneven. Dented, rust-nibbled cars were parked in driveways or in yards, usually several vehicles per property, and groups of people who were either malnutrition-thin or swaddled in multiple rolls of fat gathered on porches. The men wore jeans and nothing else as long as the weather was halfway warm, the women dressed in too-tight T-shirts and shorts. Alcohol, substance abuse, and domestic violence were daily occurrences on the Northside, and the Sheriff’s Department spent a lot of its working hours here. Sometimes Joanne thought she spent more time on the Northside than she did in her own home.
Joanne should’ve been surprised to see Marshall Cross’s Hummer parked on the street in front of Isaac and Georgia Porter’s home, but she wasn’t. She was, however, royally pissed. It was one thing for Marshall to show up at the Caffeine Café this morning, but to intrude
now
, when she had come to inform the Porters about their son’s death … It was inexcusable.
She pulled her cruiser in behind Marshall’s vehicle, resisting the urge to bang his back bumper only through a supreme act of will. She parked, turned off the engine, and got out of the car, mind filled with images of what she intended to do to
Mr. Cross
when she got hold of him.
She had settled on either a punch to the windpipe or the classic kneecap to the testicles by the time she reached Marshall’s driver’s side door. The glass was tinted and she couldn’t see inside, but she knew the sonofabitch was in there, getting off on seeing how worked up she was. She reached out, intending to rap her knuckles on the window, but before she could make contact, the glass lowered with an electronic hum.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” Marshall held up a hand before Joanne could start yelling. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“I don’t give a damn why you’re here, and I don’t give a damn how you learned Ray Porter’s name. All I want you to do is leave.
Now.”
“Don’t worry. I have no plans to speak directly with the boy’s parents. I would never do anything so crass. But I wanted to speak with you before you went inside. First, I want to warn you. I received a phone call from an acquaintance of mine who works for a Cincinnati television station. He told me reporters have finally gotten word of last night’s murder, and they’re on their way to town even as we speak. They will undoubtedly be at the county building before you get there with the Porters. I imagine identifying their son’s remains will be hard enough on them without a mob of idiots shoving microphones and cameras in their faces. So if there’s anything you can do to spare them that indignity, I urge you to do it.”