Hell-o.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she really call you a snideybutt?”
Dial tone.
After the bout with my ex, I needed physical exertion.
Birdie watched as I laced on my Nikes.
“What do you see in that bimbo?” I asked.
No response.
“She has the depth of a powder-room sink.”
The cat offered nothing in his defense.
The weather was still August-hot. Eight-fifteen and already eighty-two degrees.
I opted for the short course and ran the loop up Queens and through the park. By nine-thirty I was back home, showered, and dressed.
Thinking Slidell might call with information on Lynn Hobbs, I worked through e-mail and paid some bills. Then I read an article in the
By eleven the phone hadn’t rung.
Needing a change of venue, I opted for the MCME. I’d finish my report on the landfill John Doe, then package the bone plugs. Should DNA analysis be needed, the specimens would be ready to go.
I’d barely hit my office when Tim Larabee burst through the door.
The look on his face told me something was wrong.
“WHERE’S THE JOHN DOE?” LARABEE’S BLOODSTAINED SCRUBS suggested he’d already been cutting.
Not surprising. Mondays can be hectic for coroners and MEs. Especially Mondays coming off hot summer weekends.
“Sorry?”
“MCME 227-11. Barrel boy. When you finished on Saturday, what did you do with him?” There was a sharp edge to Larabee’s voice.
“I told Joe to return the body to the cooler.”
“It’s not there.”
“It has to be.”
“It’s not.”
“Did you ask Joe?”
“He’s off today.”
“Call him.”
“He doesn’t answer.”
Slightly annoyed, I hurried to the cooler and yanked the handle. The door whooshed outward, carrying with it the smell of refrigerated flesh.
Five stainless-steel gurneys sat snugged to the far wall. Four others occupied the sides of the room. Six held body bags.
As I stepped inside, Larabee watched from the hall, sinewy arms folded across his chest. Moving from bag to bag, I checked case numbers.
Larabee was right. MCME 227-11 was not present.
Shivering and goose-bumped, I exited and closed the door.
“Did you look in the freezer?”
“Of course I looked in the freezer. No one’s in there but the oldman Popsicle we’ve had for two years.”
“A corpse can’t just walk away.”
“Indeed.”
“You didn’t sign a release for removal of the body?” I asked. Stupid. But this was making no sense.
Larabee’s scowl was answer enough.
“You did your autopsy Saturday morning. I finished with my skeletal analysis around four Saturday afternoon. The body must have been moved after that.”
Tight nod.
