My Life as a White Trash Zombie

our cooler. It had been almost two weeks. Surely some next of kin had been found by now?

I went looking for Derrel and found him hunched behind the desk in the investigator’s office, his eyes flicking between the screen and the keyboard as he painstakingly pecked out letters.

“Hey, Derrel, ya got a sec?”

He looked up with an almost grateful expression. “If it keeps me from having to fight my way through writing this report, sure.”

I laughed and plopped into the chair in front of the desk. “I’ll try. What’s the deal with the pizza guy? Still no next of kin?”

A grimace flickered across his face. “Well, we’re not sure. There’s some sort of screw-up.”

“Like how?”

He sighed and sat back. “We ran his prints and it came back to a Peter Plescia.”

I nodded. “Right. The pizza guy. So what’s the deal?”

Derrel lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “The problem is that Peter Plescia is eighty-seven. That is, he would be if he wasn’t supposedly already dead.”

I felt as if a cold wind dove down my spine. And Kang looks like he’s my age. . . .“What do you mean?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“I mean,” he said, leaning forward again, “that the records must be screwed up somewhere along the line. It happens with identity theft, sometimes. The pizza guy is probably someone who stole the real Mr. Plescia’s identity. Pizza guy’s real name is probably buried somewhere. Since his fingerprints match the fingerprint records that come up for the original Mr. Plescia, that means he was never fingerprinted while the fake one was—while using Plescia’s stolen identity. We may never know who pizza guy really is.”

“Wow.” I paused as I tried to get my jumbled thoughts in order “But how do you know that this isn’t the real Peter Plescia? Maybe he faked his own death or something.”

“The age,” Derrel replied. “The people at Pizza Plaza said he was only in his thirties or so, plus Dr. Leblanc says there’s no way that the guy was in his late eighties. He can tell by looking at the bones and that sort of thing.” Then he chuckled. “Besides, I can’t see an eighty-seven year old delivering pizzas.”

He could if he was a zombie. So he wasn’t killed by a rogue—at least not for his brains. An eighty-seven-year-old zombie. Holy shit. The brains healed me of any injury and made me feel like a million bucks. It made sense that brains would somehow heal the stuff that made us get old. Kang was probably close to seventy and sure as hell didn’t look it. An odd chill skimmed over me. I’d realized he was old, but the full impact of it hadn’t hit me until now. Had Kang been forced to fake his death at some point? Did he have to move before people got suspicious? And how long would it be before people noticed I wasn’t aging? And how long did it last? Would the virus or parasite eventually die off on its own? Great . . . I wasn’t really alive, but the good news was that I could be that way for a really long time.

“So, what will you do now?” I asked, masking my inner turmoil as much as I could. “Check into this old guy’s death? Maybe the imposter was a friend or the real Peter Plescia’s kid or something.”

He gave me a nod and a smile. “You’d be good at this. That’s exactly what I’m doing now. The original Peter Plescia lived in Littleton, Colorado. I called the Coroner’s Office over there yesterday and asked if they could pull any records and get copies to me. They should be faxing it all this afternoon. But unfortunately that doesn’t necessarily give us any info on the guy in our cooler.”

“What about getting information on the pizza guy . . . like where he’s been living,” I suggested. “Even though the name might not be his”—which I figured it probably was, but I wasn’t going to argue that point—“there should be info in Lexis Nexis under that name, right? So maybe you could at least track down possible acquaintances or stuff like that, find someone who knew him and might know more about the real him.”

His smile widened. “Damn, Angel, you should be a cop!”

I gave a casual shrug that didn’t feel terribly casual. “Can’t. Convicted felon, remember?”

Derrel looked briefly abashed. “Sorry.” Then he gave me a wink. “Well, that means we get to keep you.”

A warm flush spread through me as I tried not to show how much the comment meant to me. “You mean, you’re stuck with me!” I teased.

“Either works.” He tugged the keyboard toward him. “But I still like your idea about Lexis Nexis.” He fell silent while he did the hunt and peck thing again. A part of me wanted to yank the keyboard away from him and do it myself, but the more rational part pointed out that I sucked at typing even worse, and it wouldn’t speed things up at all.

“You have good ideas,” he said after a moment. “The original Peter Plescia died in 1988 and this one showed up here in 1990.” He clicked a few more keys. “Lived at various apartment complexes.”

“Is there a way to find out where he worked?” I leaned forward eagerly. “I mean, other than Pizza Plaza.” If he’d ever worked in a morgue or funeral home, that would clinch my theory that he was a zombie. Plus that would surely make it easier to fake his death.

Derrel gave me a funny look but didn’t question my interest. “Not on here. The system we use tells us stuff like residence history, possible relatives, phone numbers, that sort of thing. Basically, anything available in a public record search. That’s pretty much all we need, since the main reason we use it is for locating next of kin.”

I sat back and nodded. “Okay, that’s cool.” It didn’t matter anyway. I was pretty damn positive that the dude was a zombie. “What about the guy we picked up this morning? Has the ID on him been confirmed yet? Was it Zeke Lyons?”

“Yep. That came through about an hour ago. Zeke Lyons, forty-three years old, white male. No hiccups with that one at least.”

Okay, so he wasn’t an old zombie. I had no idea if he’d really looked forty-three, since I’d never seen him at his “best.”

“How ’bout the guy from Sweet Bayou Road?” I pressed. “And the two guys this week who died of head injuries?” I asked. “Was there anything strange about them?”

This time he gave me a funny look. “You’re stretching now, girl,” he said, though with enough of a smile to take any sting out of it. “The victim from Sweet Bayou was Adam Campbell, fifty-three years old, and no apparent anomalies there either. But as far as the other two—totally different means of death with those.”

“But—” I stopped myself before saying anything about the missing brains, took a deep breath instead, and made myself nod. “Yeah, I guess.”

“However, to answer your question, no. Nothing weird about those two. No connection or similarities. Families were notified. All the usual stuff.”

They were within a few miles of each other. But for the first time I had to wonder if I was seeing something that wasn’t there. Squished-head guy’s brains might have been picked up by a damn dog for all I knew. And decomp drug dealer dude . . . well, his brains could have liquefied and leaked out by the time we arrived.

Damn it. I’d been so certain that Zeke had killed those two. Was I missing something obvious? But even if those deaths really had been accidental, there sure as shit wasn’t anything accidental about Zeke and Peter and Adam getting their heads whacked off.

“All right,” I said. “Well I figured it was worth thinking about.”

“Keep it up and you’ll get promoted to Investigator,” Derrel said. Then his eyes flashed with amusement. “And we all know how much that would piss Nick off.”

“Ooh, something to shoot for!” I said, laughing.

* * *

I’d lost track of time and had to run back to the morgue to get everything set up for the autopsy before Dr. Leblanc got there.

I hadn’t assisted at the autopsy of the other headless body, and I felt kind of useless without a head to deal with. Usually as soon as Dr. Leblanc finished his removal of the organs, I’d start on the head while he did the more meticulous examinations and dissections. But since there was no head, I pretty much stood there and watched, all the time feeling as if I was forgetting to do something.

“So it’s pretty obvious it’s a serial killer, right?” I asked Dr. Leblanc.

He glanced up, scalpel poised above a kidney. “Why do you say that? Do you think it is?”

I was starting to get used to Dr. Leblanc and his way of answering questions with questions of his own.