Page 14 of Identity Unknown
“Maybe she was sneaking something she wasn’t supposed to have, and Mom or Dad got pissed.”
“If she was diabetic as the parents claim, then she definitely wasn’t supposed to have candy,” I explain.
“Any insulin in the house?”
“When I asked Ryder Briley about it, he said they’d collect her medications and get them to me later. That they were too upset to do it then.” I envision the arrogance in his cold eyes. “He also said they didn’t keep sweets in the house.”
“So, what would happen if Luna ate sugar?” Marino asks.
“She could have gone into ketoacidosis and ended up in the hospital.”
“You try Bluestar around the bed in particular? Making sure Mom and Dad didn’t clean up the blood in there thinking we won’t figure it out?”
“Yes, and Fruge took video while I sprayed.”
We’re talking about a chemical reagent that causes nonvisible bloody residues to glow blue. The headboard, the walls, even the ceiling lit up, I explain.
CHAPTER 6
The 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 caduceusand 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 lifeand 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.”