colored brick. On either side of the ornate front door were matching bushes in large concrete pots, carefully pruned to resemble corkscrews.
Herb and I entered. It looked like the inside of any funeral home; tasteful, somewhat opulent, with deep rugs and fancy lighting fixtures. The air-conditioning smelled faintly of lilacs.
'You okay, Herb?' Benedict had been walking funny.
'I strained a muscle in my back.'
'Working out?'
'Making nookie. Viagra ought to come with a warning label.'
We passed two parlors, and located the arrangement office at the end of the hall. Empty.
'May I help you?'
He'd come from a side door, next to the office. A squat man with a carefully trimmed beard that accentuated his double chin. He wore black slacks, a solid blue dress shirt, and a paisley tie, which hugged his expansive stomach.
'Derrick Rushlo?' Herb asked.
The man nodded, shaking Herb's hand.
'I'm Detective Benedict, Chicago Police Department.'
Rushlo's eyes were bright blue, and spaced widely apart. The left one was lazy, and it appeared to be staring at me while the other stared at Herb. When Benedict mentioned the CPD, both eyes bugged out.
'I'm Lieutenant Daniels.'
Rushlo hesitated, offered his hand, then let it fall when he realized I wasn't going to offer mine.
'Do you know why we're here, Derrick?'
'I haven't a clue, Lieutenant.' His voice was high-pitched, breathy.
'We'd like to take a look around, if you wouldn't mind giving us a tour.'
He blinked a few times in rapid succession.
'Normally, I wouldn't mind. But I'm in the middle of an embalming right now. If you could come back in . . .'
Benedict held up the search warrant.
'Now would be good.'
Rushlo nodded, his chins bobbling.
'The embalming area is back there?' I indicated the door he had come through.
'Uh, yes. Come on.'
We followed him behind the scenes. White tile replaced the beige carpet, and the area lacked adequate lighting. We walked through a hallway, which led to a large loft complete with two garage doors. A hearse and a van were parked off to the side. A gurney rested by the far wall.
'This is the, uh, back area. Feel free to look around.'
'We'd like to see the embalming room.'
His features sank, but he led us to another door.
When I stepped inside, I winced. It smelled like the morgue, but fresher. Brown spills marred the floor and the walls. Several buckets, crusted with dried bits of something, were stacked in the corner. An embalming machine, which looked like a giant-sized version of the juicer I bought last night, sat on a table. Behind it, bottles of red liquid in various shades lined the shelves.
In the center of the room stood a large, stainless steel table. It had gutters on all four sides, which drained into a slop sink at the foot. The table was currently occupied, a bloody sheet covering the body.
'Take that off.'
Rushlo hesitated, then tugged the cover to the side and let it drop to the floor.
On the table were the remains of a woman. Caucasian, young, eviscerated from her pubis to her sternum. Her body cavity was empty, and I could see the ribs from the inside.
She had roughly the same build as Eileen Hutton, but I couldn't make a positive ID because her head was missing.
'Who is this?'
'Her name is Felicia Wymann. Just got her in yesterday.'
'She's an autopsy?' I asked. That would explain why her organs had been removed.
'Yes. Not local, though. She's from Wisconsin. Hit and run. I know the family, and they asked me to take care of her. I've got the paperwork right here.'
Herb looked over the death certificate, and I took a closer look at the corpse. The skin around the neck stump was smooth; it looked to me as if the head had come off cleanly. The likelihood of that happening from a car was slim.
Even more unlikely were the marks on her hands. Her fingertips were just fleshy stumps; they'd been cut off.
