David Levien - Where the dead lay

Knute took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Terry, who looked it over. It had figures written all over it in no particular order, including one fat number that was double stroked and circled in felt pen.

“This?” Terry glanced up. Knute nodded. “Every month?”

“Yeah, but we have to have ’em all good and organized and under control. Not piecemeal. No holdouts. Not just the near Northside, but far Eastside and all the way through Speedway, too. Lot more heavy lifting to go-”

“As discussed. We’re on our way. We’ll have ’em all by winter, wrapped and ready to present to our buyer,” Terry said. He ripped up the scrap, wadded it, and tossed it in the garbage can. “Couple a bandy-bellied pirates gonna carve out a fortune is what we are…” Terry smiled. But Knute looked nervous.

Behr arrived at the McCarty Street building that housed the coroner’s office and parked. He grabbed the paper bag holding what he’d had to drive around to three stores to find-a box of Lindt truffle chocolates and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red-and entered the building. It had become a routine between Behr and Jean Gannon over the years he’d known her. On her birthday, and Christmas, and whenever he needed a little access, he’d drop by and they would share a drink and a talk. At first it was just the whiskey, but then he’d seen the candies on her desk one time and added them in, too. His name was at the front desk and he was allowed back to where Jean worked. The smell of formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde and other chemicals hung in the chill air.

“The candy man can,” he said, entering and waving the bag in front of him.

Jean looked up from her work. She’d put on weight since he’d last seen her and the glow of her computer screen was finding the lines on her face. Divorce wasn’t treating her too well, but then it usually didn’t.

“Frankie,” she said.

“Doctor…” Behr smiled, opening his arms.

Jean pushed away her keyboard and came around the desk. She skipped the hug for a squeeze of Behr’s forearm and grabbed the sack out of his hand. She glanced inside, then bunched the top of the bag and put it in her desk drawer.

“My spare tire thanks you,” she said.

“I’ll bring you a spirulina muffin next time, you want.”

“That’d be great. Better still would be if there is no next time.” Her tone was harsh, but they shared a smile and she waved him out of the office toward the exam rooms.

“I never asked you, why Johnnie Red?” Behr wondered as they went.

“Because I can’t afford Blue.”

“Course.”

“Nah, that’s not why. Way back when Greg and I were buying our first house we had this Chinese Realtor. At the closing, he gave us a bottle of it, because after a transaction the Chinese are supposed to give something red for luck. Been drinking it ever since.” They walked down a long corridor and Behr couldn’t tell if it was actually getting colder as they went or if it was his imagination.

“So you’re trying to stay lucky.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said.

They passed a tall, middle-aged man who nodded to Jean but didn’t give Behr a second glance, and then they entered one of the cutting rooms.

It was colder inside. Laid out on a slab beneath harsh surgical lights was Aurelio’s body. The thing that had made him him was now far away and would never be seen again. The body hadn’t been opened up, but the damage to his face had dried into a blackish purple mask. They hadn’t bothered topping him with a sheet.

“No relatives scheduled to see the body here, that’s why he’s uncovered. I can-” Behr cut her off with a head shake.

“Full autopsy planned?”

“Not unless someone requests it. Cause of death’s pretty clear. Pellets have been removed for evidence.” She picked up a tin dish and rattled it, lead shot rolling around inside. Behr took a look.

“Double-aught buck,” she said.

“Twelve-gauge?” Behr asked, pro forma.

“Nope, ten.”

“Damn, a goose gun.” This was a bit of a surprise. A 10-gauge was a lot less usual than a 12. “Handload or store bought?” Behr asked.

“Can’t really tell unless casings were recovered. Probably store bought. If you’re thinking about fingerprints on the buckshot, forget about it. Not after this kind of cavitation.”

Behr’s eyes skimmed over the body. There were old scars covering Aurelio. His knees looked like they’d been gone over with a belt sander, and other patches of skin sported abrasions-mat burns-that would’ve taken years to heal down completely. His right ear was mostly gone from the gunshot, the left one was a bit cauliflowered. Aurelio didn’t generally advocate the headfirst wrestling style that had caused it, but he hadn’t developed the finer points in his game until he’d already sustained some damage. Behr looked for major swelling or contusions, perhaps a broken bone that would tell a story. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to keep his mind clear, so he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t missing it. The initial notes from the exam rested on a table beside the slab and Behr picked them up, but the words swam in front of his eyes.

“Closed casket for certain,” Jean mused. “Screw the damn thing shut. Or get him a George W. Bush mask.”

“Bodies don’t bruise postmortem, right?” Behr wondered aloud.

“Right, generally speaking.”

“So if there were any injuries like that, they’d have to have been sustained while he was alive.”

“That’s the way it works.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “First day at the carnival?”

“Sorry, I’m just trying to think straight.”

“What are you doing on this anyway, Frank? You didn’t say and I didn’t think to ask.”

“He’s my friend, Jean. Was.”

“Ah, fuck me Uncle Sal!” she said. “Jeez, that’s a real V8 move.” She smacked herself in the head. “I thought it was business.”

“Forget it. It is business now.” Behr looked around at the white tile and steel surfaces of the room, scrubbed clean and disinfected of germs and meaning. “What about… what about the back of the body? Did he get hit from behind? Was there any evidence of bludgeoning?”

Jean grabbed the exam notes from Behr and threw on a pair of cheaters. She snapped on a latex glove and began going over the body carefully as she referred to the notes.

“Okay,” she said, her tone suddenly businesslike, “posterior side was checked. It’s clean. No contusions or skull fracture caused by bludgeoning.”

“What about bruising on the scalp. The ones caused by rod-shaped-”

“Tramline bruises. You think he got hit with the gun barrel?”

Behr shrugged.

“That’s a special dissection if there’s any indication,” she said gravely.

“They’ll have to peel the scalp?” Behr asked.

She nodded and continued. “According to X-rays, we’ve got calcification in knuckles, wrists, and some toes. This guy was, what, a professional fighter? There are lots of fractures that healed up over the years.” She got near what was left of Aurelio’s lower jaw. “My colleague who caught this one, Dr. Rodale, he’s real thorough…” She leaned in close in a way Behr did not envy. “He found broken lower teeth and lacerations inside the mouth that bled up. That means before the gunshot.”

“He was hit.”

“Or the gun was jammed in his mouth. Shotgun barrel can do that real easy.”

“But the shot?”

“Not in the mouth.”

Behr nodded. Now he could see powder tattooing, and that the muzzle had been placed beneath Aurelio’s chin. After another minute or so of inspection with no talking between them, Jean stripped off the latex glove and put the notes down.