Esprit de Corpse

move. I probably should have started with something even smaller, like a single staple, but I’ve developed an aversion to staples. Go figure.

Now Dante, Shannon and I traipsed after the prisoners and their escorts. Glad to be on the move, I belted out a show tune I’d learned from Char. “I love a parade, the tramping of feet. I love every beat, I hear of a— What?”

Shannon gave me a hurt look before turning away.

“Kirsty, show some decorum. Her father is facing serious charges,” Dante hissed. “Plus he just passed away.”

I refrained from pointing out the inherent conflict in those two statements, settling for a whiny reply. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” I mumbled. “Like you’re Mr. Sensitivity now.”

He’d certainly hurt my feelings often enough today.

As soon as the door to the parking lot opened, the hubbub hit us like a wave. The small group of prisoners and escorts we followed pressed through the ring of reporters waving pens and recording devices in their faces.

“Detective Leo. Peter Mercer, CBC. Can you give us a statement?”

“Ms. Iver. Rick Mansbridge, CTV News. Will you be pleading guilty to the murder of your best friend and your father?”

“Shannon. Over here. Gurvender Awatramani, Sun News Corp. Did you do it? Did you really club her to death with a stapler?”

Wow. And Dante had called me insensitive. I’d seen this kind of mob scene in movies, but I’d always figured it for a Hollywood invention. These people were serious journalists and here they were practically clubbing each other to get the scoop. I hope there were no staplers out here tonight or someone could get seriously bonked.

“No statement. No comment.” Detective Leo hustled Conrad toward the waiting van, but Conrad had other ideas.

With an unexpected jerk, he pulled out of the detective’s grip and sprinted toward a broken lamppost. He looped his cuffed hands over it, shouting: “I’m Con—Shannon Iver. I’d like to make a statement and I want you all to get it down.”

Of course Theresa and the detective charged after him. I bet they were sorry they’d recuffed him in front. As they tried to get him free without uncuffing him, the media ringed them. And not in a nice way.

“She’s got a right to be heard.”

“The public has a right to know.”

“Ever hear of the First Amendment?”

“Yes, I have.” Theresa stepped up to the crowd. She displayed a commanding presence, silencing the media by sheer will and seeming much taller than her five-foot-seven frame. “The First Amendment is actually American law, but we do have something similar here in Canada. Ms. Iver, please speak your piece.”

My ex-boss glared at Leo until the detective took a step back. Unlooping his hands from the broken pole, Conrad turned to face the crowd. He smoothed Shannon’s skirt and straightened her suit jacket as best he could with bound hands. He turned his daughter’s head left, then right, no doubt hoping they’d catch her good side.

Cameras and camera phones flashed and clicked. All over the parking lot, recording devices switched on.

“My name is Shannon Iver and I. Am. Innocent!”

As one, the crowd emitted a gasp. Those who preferred recording methods whose batteries didn’t fail scratched frantically with pen and pencil.

Conrad’s gaze jumped from reporter to reporter, daring them to challenge him. His expression broadcast arrogance and defiance. Then a light seemed to come on over his head, despite the broken light fixture he stood beneath. One feature at a time, his face crumpled in despair. Well, Shannon’s face, to be exact.

For one moment, I hoped he might be genuinely sorry, sincerely filled with grief. Then the same light came on over my head. Mr. Manipulative had realized that in order to win sympathy, a young woman must present herself differently than a successful middle-aged man.

We’ve come a short way, baby.

Conrad raised his head again, a tear trickling down one cheek, just as he’d done when giving my crappy memorial speech that day. His chin trembled and now he leaned on Detective Leo for support.

Oh, brother.

“It . . .” He sobbed once, then faked inner resolve and started over. “It wasn’t me who clubbed Kirsty to death.”

“One steamboat. Two steamboats.” I counted the beats in my head. He’d taught me a good, dramatic pause must last at least five seconds. “Four steamboats and go!”

Right on cue, Conrad managed to compose himself enough to continue. “Sadly, when Kirsty d’Arc, my best friend, awoke suddenly from her coma, she became disoriented and attacked me. My father, noble, caring man that he was, leapt to my defense. Using the only tool at hand, he was forced to incapacitate poor, delusional Kirsty with the stapler.”

What? That’s not how it happened. He’d attacked me!

What a load of bull-skeg. How dare he? I was about ready to try scything him again when I realized this sympathy thing would work in our favor. Our immediate goal was to get Shannon off the charge of murder, so the more sympathy he gained for her, the better.

Conrad appeared to be waiting for something. He tapped one high heel on the pavement impatiently, keeping his head down.

“Ms. Iver, why was there a stapler in a long-term care room?”

His head shot up. This must have been the question he’d been waiting for.

“I visited Kirsty often, finding solace in her quiet company. I would bring office work with me to make productive use of the time I spent at her bedside. The doctors say that sometimes coma victims can hear what goes on around them, so I’d read her articles and reports to keep her up to date for when she returned to us.”

A murmur of approval traveled through the reporters.

Conrad made a show of using his cuffed hands to wipe a tear from his eye before continuing. “When he realized his blow had accidently ended her life, my father died of grief and guilt and the strain of it all.” By now her voice was cracking in strategic places.

Conrad turned to Detective Leo. “You can charge him posthumously if you must,” he sobbed, still speaking loudly and clearly enough to be heard and recorded across the parking lot. “But it would be a waste of all our hard-earned tax dollars. And put an unnecessary burden on our overworked law-enforcement officials and court system. I thank you all for coming out this evening to hear the truth about the accidental death of Kirsty d’Arc.”

I was so blown away by Conrad’s absurd retelling of my death story that I couldn’t even process my feelings. A survey of the news teams showed people hurriedly adding their own tags to their video and audio recordings, or hastily texting or phoning in their notes.

I glanced at Dante to see if I could determine his reaction. The blood drained from his face as I watched, and he shook with anger. For once he didn’t have his arm around Shannon as he turned to me. “Is that how it happened, Kirsty? Did you attack Shannon?”

“Did I—? What, no. Of course not. You were there.” But even as I said it, I recalled he’d teleported into the room after I’d died. “No, Dante,” I said coldly. “That’s not what happened and you know it. And you know what? I expected you to be more supportive.”

“Kirsty, you know that as Reapers, we are out of contact with our superiors much of the time. We are, therefore, required to use our own judgment. To that end, I must gather all the facts. While I know you’re a trustworthy witness, Conrad’s version of events is also plausible. I must listen to and investigate all possibilities without bias.”

Without bias, my ass. How many times had people told me, “This is Hell, we play favorites”?

“But Dante, we got Conrad to confess to stealing my soul in the first place. It’s why Judge Julius said you were off the hook about my wrongful reapage.”