Page 7 of Cold, Cold Bones
I had no clue the meaning of that, but based on her delivery, had to agree.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now I call the ME.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s the law if this is a human body part.” I nodded toward the box.
“It’s Sunday night.”
Good point.
The current Mecklenburg County medical examiner was hired when her predecessor, Dr. Margot Heavner, got the ax due to unprofessional conduct. For almost a year, Heavner, who liked to be called Dr. Morgue, had made my life pure hell. Don’t get me started.
But Heavner was history. Her replacement, Dr. Samantha Nguyen, was both competent and congenial.
Still. Itwasa weekend.
I was reaching for my mobile when Katy demanded, “Call the cops.”
I turned to her, brows raised.
“Who leaves a fucking eyeball on a porch? This could be a threat.”
Another good point.
“Christ, Mom. Who did you tick off?”
Too many candidates.
Birdie chose that moment to make an appearance. He looped my ankles, then lifted his gaze, eyes full of hope that a treat might be forthcoming.
I ignored him.
“What if this person was murdered?” Katy jabbed a thumb toward the box.
“Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?”
“Is it? Living people don’t get eyeballs removed and do nothing.”
“Why don’t you have a shower while I sort this out,” I suggested.
A full ten seconds passed. Then, “Fine.” Tone clearly indicating that it wasn’t.
After locking the back door with a resolute flick of her wrist, Katy disappeared into the dining room. As her footsteps receded up the stairs, I sat at the table, removed my gloves, and dialed a familiar number.
Thumbing more keys, I worked my way through the directory. Eventually, a human voice answered. One I’d heard for more years than I want to admit.
I explained the situation to Joe Hawkins, the death investigator working morgue intake. A job he’d held since before the invention of the wireless.
“An eyeball in a box.”
“Yes,” I said.
“On your back stoop.” Hawkins speaks in clipped phrases. And at the rate a slug navigates mud.
“Yes.”
