Page 4 of Sharp Force
“Right behind me.”
“Please keep me informed,” I reply, dropping the handset in its cradle.
CHAPTER 2
I turn up the volume on the boom box, and the music has given way to more news updates, nothing good. Holiday travel is at an all-time high as the fierce storm rolls in from Canada. The governor is asking Virginians to stay off the roads.
An intoxicated teenager rammed his car into a police motorcycle. Meals on Wheels is asking for volunteers and contributions, food insecurity at an all-time high. A local research lab reports that three monkeys have escaped.
“… Jane and Kong were quickly captured. Their buddy Peanut is still at large. We’re assured there’s no danger of him spreading diseases like monkeypox…”the radio news goes on.
Then Keith Urban is strumming and sweetly singing “I’ll Be Your Santa Tonight” as I work my hands into clean gloves, picking up where I left off before Marino called. I place the enlarged heart into the hanging scale, saving it for last. I’m all but certain it has important things to tell me.
Grabbing a long-bladed knife, I begin slicing on my cutting board. I squeeze water from a sponge over sections, and the thickened muscle of the myocardium shows old transmural ventricular scars. The right coronary artery is completely occluded with calcified atherosclerotic plaque that crunches as I cut through it.
I imagine Rowdy O’Leary sitting in his folding chair on the pier fishing in the glow of a camping lantern, a cooler of beer next to him. At some point, he probably experienced sudden chest pain. It may have radiated to his arms, back and jaw. He might have gotten dizzy and nauseous before collapsing and toppling into the water fully clothed with his boots on.
When police arrived at his fishing spot after his wife reported him missing, they discovered his iPhone and five-shot Colt .38 revolver on the pier as if dropped there. Two spent cartridge cases in the cylinder indicate the handgun was fired twice. Possibly, this happened at an earlier time and is unrelated to his death. But I doubt it.
My preoccupations are interrupted by the buzzer blaring over the intercom, alerting me that we have company. In the video display, a hearse waits to enter the vehicle bay, the engine rumbling in the background. I can see flakes of snow blowing in the glow of streetlamps.
“Peace Brothers,” the driver announces himself in the squawk box. “Here for a pickup.”
The massive rolling door lurches to life, retracting with a lot of loud creaking and clanking. The noises are amplified as they bounce off concrete and metal. The hearse roars inside, exhaust swirling, the dark parking lot and smudges of streetlights showing in the huge square opening.
I watch Wyatt Earle on the live video feed as he hurries down the stretcher ramp. Striding with purpose past pallets of PPE and jugs of formalin, he looks ominous in his dark blue uniform, a pistol on his duty belt. I’m still getting used to my security officers being armed.
I’ve wanted better protection here for years, and now it’s thelaw. Certain state employees are expected to carry guns on the job. That’s both good and bad depending on who we’re talking about. Not everyone should be armed, and I don’t like politicians deciding for me when I need a concealed weapon.
Wyatt speaks to the funeral home attendant, their voices picked up by security camera microphones, the acoustics terrible. It’s hard to understand what they’re saying, but clearly the attendant is in a hurry. Several times he mentions that it’s Christmas Eve and he has young children. He’s visibly annoyed as he’s told to stay put.
Wyatt needs to “check with the chief” on whether Rowdy O’Leary’s body is ready for release. The attendant shrugs unhappily as Wyatt walks away, looking at something on his phone. Whatever’s caught his interest, his attention is riveted. He almost trips over a pressure washer hose. A few minutes later, he’s in my doorway.
“You don’t want to come inside,” I warn.
“The funeral home is here for him.” Wyatt holds a surgical mask over his lower face.
I notice him returning a Vicks inhaler to his pants pocket. At least I’ve cured him of swiping the ointment version into his nostrils. All it does is trap the molecules of putrefaction. Wyatt doesn’t like the morgue and can be squeamish.
“I’m almost finished.” I glance up at the hearse on the security monitor.
“Dana Diletti’s on TV claiming she saw the ghost from the Slasher murders,” Wyatt informs me. “It’s all over the news.”
I wonder if Marino and Fruge are still with her. I don’t trust Dana Diletti, never have. I hope to hell she’s not creating a spectacle that could impact my office. Not to mention interfering with an investigation, something she does regularly and with no compunction.
“What is she saying?” I stoop down to remove the plastic bag of sectioned organs and other tissue from the bucket under my table.
“She said the ghost floated through her window.” Wyatt looks away as I place the bag inside the empty chest cavity.
“Well, she didn’t waste any time going public about it.” I cut a long section of cotton twine from the dispenser on a countertop.
“She took a video with her phone, and the ghost looks real,” Wyatt reports as I thread a large surgical needle.
“I’m not sure what arealghost looks like,” I reply.
“You’ll see when you watch the video I just sent you.”
“Let’s be mindful that what she and others have described isn’t a ghost.” I begin suturing the Y-incision. “Think of it as movie special effects. A computer-generated optical illusion, a hologram.”
