Diana Rowland - Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues

I had a bit of fun making up a name for myself along with all sorts of improbable educational background. Honors programs? Sure! Summers abroad? Hell, yeah! The stack of papers for the background check wanted me to list every job I’d ever worked at, everywhere I’d ever lived, and provide an insane number of references. Needless to say, I lied about every single one of those. Mostly because there was no way in hell I’d be able to remember all the jobs I’d had.

After about half an hour I’d plowed through the whole stack of paper. And, sadly, no asteroid had yet landed on Mr. Steve Lombardo. Gathering up the papers, I made ready to return to the desk and once more try to bluff my way into an interview, when the man I recognized as the head of security walked past me and to the coffee stand. Hard to miss with that square jaw, military-grade haircut, and Secret Service-type suit.

“Morning, Sandra,” he said to the barista. “Medium Americano, please.” He paid then casually scanned the area while he waited for his order. His eyes rested briefly on me, and he gave me a polite nod with no hint of recognition in his eyes. I returned the polite nod with a chin lift of my own, though I had to do everything in my power to keep my face as neutral as possible.

Because, after hearing his voice, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the man who’d held me up at gunpoint and stolen the body of Zeke Lyons.

I gave the stack of fiction-heavy employment paperwork to Mr. Lombardo, and got the hell out of there, doing my best to not draw any more attention to myself than possible. Head Security Guy hadn’t seemed to recognize me as the chick he’d held up, but I wasn’t going to give him any more opportunity for that little fact to click in.

Besides, I’d already confirmed what I’d suspected: someone in that lab was up to something completely fucked up. And Sofia was either involved or in a shitload of trouble.

I headed straight for the sheriff’s office and the entry marked “Investigations.” I didn’t take any chances and identified myself to the receptionist as “Angel Crawford with the coroner’s office” before asking to see Detective Ben Roth. However, I was told that Detective Roth was out observing an exhumation.

Ding! “Of Zeke Lyons?”

“That’s the one,” she replied.

I thanked her and left. I knew exactly where Zeke was buried. Since no one had come forward to claim his body, he’d been given a pauper’s burial at Riverwood Funeral Home.

Ten minutes later I pulled up at the cemetery. The area set off for the pauper burials was distinct mostly because it lacked any headstones. Riverwood had a contract with the parish to bury any body that remained unclaimed. However, since they didn’t want everyone to get the idea that this would be a great way to get around the cost of having a proper funeral and burial for their loved one, the graves weren’t marked, which meant that if the families wanted a grave they could actually visit, they’d have to pay for a plot. Riverwood kept track of who was buried where using markers and GPS coordinates, which was how they now knew where to dig.

I’d stupidly expected there to be men with shovels, but instead a backhoe was busily excavating earth—which really did make a lot more sense. Standing on the other side of the backhoe was Allen Prejean, looking as sour as ever. He was facing away and didn’t see me, which suited me just fine.

Detective Roth was on this side of the grave, saving me from having to pass by Allen. Ben looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since I’d last seen him—and had probably slept in them as well, to judge by the impressive array of wrinkles that patterned his shirt. As I approached he jerked his head up in a way that made me suspect he’d been dozing standing up, or at least close to it.

It took him a couple of seconds to focus on me. “Oh, god, not you again,” he moaned. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Stunned, I groped for something to say, finally coming up with, “What the fuck, dude?”

He sighed, scrubbed both hands over his face. “Sorry. But you have no idea the shitstorm that’s been going on,” he said, face falling into mournful folds.

“Um, you mean because the dead guy was someone who was supposed to already be dead?” I ventured, gesturing at the backhoe.

“God. Yes.” He let out a groan. “You should hear the various theories being thrown around. People are batshit insane.”

“Sorry, Ben,” I said. “I was only hoping to help y’all figure out why someone would want to steal the guy’s body.”

He heaved a sigh. “I know. But on one side I have people insisting that the first victim was identified wrong and couldn’t have possibly actually been Lyons, though the prints that were taken from that body have been checked three different times now and still come up the same as the ones taken from the watch. So now I also have people trying to figure out how the dead guy from the lab could have the headless dead guy’s watch—without getting any of his own fingerprints on it.”

“And the scar…” I said.

“Yeah. That’s the part that’s freaking everyone the hell out. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve looked at those crime scene pics and compared them to the Driver’s License pics I have of Lyons.” Ben spread his hands helplessly. “It looks exactly like the same guy. So, what? A father and son who happen to have the same scar?”

“They wouldn’t have the same fingerprints,” I said.

He smiled grimly. “Yeah. Well, I also have the people who say that the older guy’s from an alternate dimension, or that the killer who took the head somehow managed to regrow the guy’s body.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, the crazy theories are all over the place. But the ‘real’ Norman Kearny hasn’t been back to his apartment since the night his imposter died, according to his neighbors. They also confirmed that he worked at NuQuesCor.”

I had no doubt that the real Norman Kearny was dead. But did Zeke kill him to take his place, or did someone at the lab kill him to help cover up an escape attempt of a captive zombie? Either way, I doubted we’d ever find a body.

“Wow,” I said. “Well, I don’t know if it’ll help you figure out what the deal is with Zeke Lyons, but I’m pretty sure I know who held me up.”

He perked up at that. “Seriously? And how do you know that?”

Shit. I couldn’t tell him that I had a grand plan of somehow sneaking in, albeit as legally as possible, under the guise of applying for a job there under a fictitious name. “I, uh, was over at NuQuesCor to see a friend of Marcus’s.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Sofia was a friend of Marcus’s. And I might have been interested in seeing her. “I overheard the head of security,” I told him. “And I swear to god it’s the guy. I’d know that voice anywhere.”

“His name is Walter McKinney,” he said absently. I wondered briefly how he’d know this, then realized he probably got the guy’s name and info on a witness statement. Ben pursed his lips while he considered what I’d told him. Hope flared in me as it seemed that he wasn’t rejecting it outright. But the hope sputtered as he grimaced. “I don’t know if I can get a warrant just on the basis of recognizing his voice, Angel. The brass is going to want a lot more to go on before they risk making waves with NuQuesCor and their backers. Besides, why would this guy want to steal a body?”

I knew why. Because he knew that the body would be ID’ed during the autopsy, and it would come back to someone already dead. And it totally would have worked if I hadn’t put the watch into property storage.