The apartment door opened abruptly and Morgan stepped in, agitated and apologetic. “Something’s come up. Dave, I need you to come with me. Helen, we’ll talk again before you leave.”
Gurney followed Morgan down the staircase and out onto the lawn.
“We have to get back to town,” Morgan said as he strode toward the police vehicles under the portico.
Kyra Barstow was already there, by the tech van, tapping the screen of her phone. Morgan got into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, motioning Gurney to the passenger seat.
“The lab results are in,” he said, starting the engine. He didn’t say anything more until they’d driven through the allée and past the uniformed officer at the gate.
“The scalpel that Slovak found in the conservatory? The blood on it is Angus’s. And the bloody prints on it? They belong to Billy Tate. That piece of fabric in the dog’s mouth? The trace of blood on it belongs to Billy Tate. And there were micro-particles of glass in the fabric that match the smashed pane from the conservatory door. As for the blood traces on the staircase and hall carpets? The blood on the shoe prints is Angus’s—probably from being stepped in. But one of the droplets on the carpet is Tate’s.”
“Tate is definitely dead, right?” asked Gurney.
“I saw it happen. I saw the lightning hit him. I saw him fall. I saw the ME pronounce him dead. I saw the body get wheeled into the mortuary.”
“Sounds pretty definite. You have a next step in mind?”
“I told Kyra to call Brad, fill him in on the lab findings, then meet us at headquarters. I called Peale, asked him to check the mortuary.”
“To make sure your dead suspect is still dead?”
Morgan’s eyes widened in desperation. “I guess. I don’t know. Dead is dead, right? It’s not a temporary condition.” His phone rang. He pushed the speaker button on his steering wheel.
“Chief Morgan here.”
“This is Danforth Peale.”
“Thanks for getting back so quickly. You checked?”
“Where are you?” There was a harsh note in the man’s patrician accent.
“On Waterview Drive. On my way into the village. Is everything . . . all right?”
“You wouldn’t have sent me on this peculiar errand if you expected everything to be all right, would you? You knew damn well something was wrong.”
Morgan’s mouth was slightly open—the look of a man staring at calamity.
The waspy voice went on, ragged at the edge. “The body is gone.”
“Say that again?”
“Gone. Somebody stole Tate’s goddamn body.”
10
Morgan pulled into the parking area behind the big Victorian funeral home, stopping next to the silver Lexus with the jacked-up rear axle.
After he made calls to Slovak and Barstow, giving them the missing-body news and telling them to come directly to the mortuary, he turned to Gurney. “What do you think’s happening here?”
“Hard to say. But it’s an interesting development.”
“Why the hell would someone steal the body?”
Gurney didn’t answer him.
Morgan got out of the Tahoe, lit a cigarette, and began sucking on it as though the smoke were oxygen. Slovak came barreling up the driveway in an unmarked Dodge Charger, followed by Barstow’s tech van.
Morgan ground out his cigarette on the pavement. Barstow opened the back doors of her van and produced four sets of crime-scene coveralls—which would have been overkill at a normal burglary, but was appropriate here, given the missing body’s connection to a murder.
Slovak was the first to speak. “So, what’s the theory? Somebody snatched Tate’s corpse and dragged it into Russell’s house to leave trace evidence? Doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“Not necessarily the whole corpse,” said Barstow lightly. “All the killer needed to bring was a little blood for the carpet, maybe some for the fabric in the dog’s mouth, plus a finger or two to make the prints. We know from the mutilation of the victim’s hand that the killer was adept at cutting off fingers.”
Slovak winced. “Then why go to the trouble of carrying the whole body away?”
“Good question.” She looked at Gurney. “Any ideas?”
“Too soon for ideas. We need more information.”
On cue, the back door of the funeral home opened, and a man stepped into the parking area. His pink cashmere sweater and green slacks struck Gurney as being more suited to a golf course than a funeral home.
“Morgan! Get in here.”
It was the same arrogant voice Gurney had heard on the speaker in the Tahoe. The man who’d called himself Danforth Peale looked to be in his late twenties. He had neatly combed blond hair, a pale complexion, and a pouty mouth.
Morgan offered a brittle smile. “Be with you in a second, Dan. Just getting prepared.”
With everyone in coveralls, shoe covers, and nitrile gloves, they followed Peale into a hall that smelled of antiseptic. At the end of it was a closed door.
Peale turned to Morgan, his voice tight with anger. “That’s the embalming room with the cadaver-storage unit. When you called, I came down from my office and discovered the damn mess in there. I didn’t touch a thing.”
He led them into a large clinical-looking space, similar to an ME’s autopsy room. The disinfectant odor was stronger here. In the center was a gleaming white embalming table, hooked up to specialized plumbing equipment for irrigation and draining. An operating-room lighting fixture was suspended from the ceiling above it. Glass cabinets lined the walls. The glass door on one of them had been smashed.
What captured Gurney’s attention, however, was the cadaver-storage unit on the other side of the embalming table. Seven feet high and at least that wide and as deep, it resembled a giant safe or industrial walk-in closet. Its door, nearly the full width of the unit, was wide open. Inside, a casket with its lid raised rested on a mortuary trolley, similar to the rolling stretchers used in hospitals. Inside the casket was a bloodstained fabric liner. Gurney could see an area on the edge of the lid where the wood was splintered.
“Damned idiots did that,” said Peale, following Gurney’s gaze. “There’s a latch under the side rail, but they didn’t take the time to find it. They just pried open the lid.”
“They?” said Gurney. “You have reason to believe it was more than one person?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it? Tate’s body weighed at least a hundred fifty pounds. And the trolley is still where I left it in the unit. Meaning the body was lifted out of the casket and carried out of the building. Damn near impossible for one person.”
Slovak was stroking his chin in a near-parody of thoughtfulness. “Unless he, or she, rolled the casket out to the back door on that trolley thing, pried the top off, dragged the corpse into the trunk of their car, then rolled the trolley back in here.”
Barstow was staring at him. “Why would they take the time to replace the trolley?”
Morgan, who Gurney knew abhorred any conflict he might be called on to resolve, interrupted with a raised hand. “Let’s debate the scenarios later.” He turned to Peale. “Have you seen any signs of forced entry?”
Peale pointed to a doorway off the main room. His sweater sleeve rode up a few inches on his wrist, revealing what appeared to be a gold Cartier watch. “The window in there is open. It was closed the last time I was down here.”
“Closed and locked?”
“Maybe not locked. I’m not sure.”