“It’s not a date, Ryan.”
“Then perhaps a little
“I promised Birdie I’d make him deviled eggs.”
“I also phoned the Lumberton PD.” Ryan’s vowels went longer than Dixie. “Nice friendly boys down thataway.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Some Lowerys still live there. Guy I talked with actually remembered John, promised to go to the library and copy the kid’s yearbook photo.”
“Why were Lowery’s prints in the system?”
“Because of some part-time job he held during high school. Nurse’s aide? Orderly in a mental facility? Something like that.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’m a detective. I detect. I’ll be down when Lowery’s face faxes in.”
By noon, the plastic head bag and body wrap hung on drying racks in the hall. The breathing tube turned out to be a common snorkel. It had been photographed, swabbed, and sent upstairs for analysis.
So had a small piece of plastic found bow-tied around Lowery’s penis. That would also be tested for bodily fluids.
Lowery lay supine on stainless steel, face distorted, scrotum bloated, gut swollen, and going green. But, overall, the guy was in pretty good shape. A skeletal analysis would not be needed.
“White male, fifty to sixty years old,” LaManche dictated. “Black hair. Green eyes. Circumcised. No scars, piercings, or tattoos.”
I helped Lisa maneuver the measuring rod.
“Approximately one hundred and seventy-five centimeters in height.” Five foot nine.
Ryan arrived as LaManche was circling the body, checking eyes, hands, scalp, and orifices. He handed me the Lumberton fax.
The image was so small and so blurry, it could have been anyone. But a few things were evident.
The boy had dark eyes, curving brows, and regular features. His black hair was worn side-parted and short.
“Victim shows no signs of external trauma.” LaManche looked up. Nodded in greeting. “Detective.”
After explaining its source, Ryan handed the fax to LaManche. He and Lisa studied it.
“Clean him, please,” LaManche requested.
Lisa used a spray nozzle on Lowery’s head. After toweling him dry and side-combing his hair, she positioned the printed image beside his right ear.
Eight eyes ping-ponged from the fax to the face and back.
Four decades of life and two days of death separated the man on the table from the boy in the photo. Though the nose was more bulbous, the jawline more slack, the pond victim had the same dark hair and eyes, the same Al Pacino brows.
Was the Hemmingford floater an older version of the kid from Lumberton?
I couldn’t be sure.
“Think it’s him?” I asked LaManche.
The chief gave one of his inexplicable French shrugs.
I looked at Ryan. His eyes were glued to the man on the table.
No wonder. The sight was bizarre.
John Lowery had died wearing the following: a cotton soft-cup bra, Glamorise brand, color pink, size 44B; ladies’ polyester hipster panties, Blush brand, color pink, size large; a cotton-polyester blend nurse’s cap, one size fits all, white with blue stripe; one steel-toed boot, Harley-Davidson brand, side left, color black, size 10.
And that was just the wardrobe.
Lowery had taken two tools inside the plastic with him: a proctoscope, for sport I didn’t want to envisage; a Swiss Army Knife, for escape when the party was over.
The proctoscope remained in a fabric sack suspended from his neck. The knife had ended up at his feet.
Bite marks on the snorkel’s mouthpiece suggested this wasn’t Lowery’s first attempt at making subsurface solo whoopee. But somehow, this time, things went bad. Most likely scenario: the tube slipped from his mouth; the knife dropped from his hand.
The setting was unusual, but the chief’s initial impression was most probably correct. Lowery’s death would go down as accidental asphyxia associated with autoerotic activity.
John Charles Lowery died playing naughty nurse underwater in a self-made ziplock.
