The task of getting all the evidence from the scene back to the office is our next challenge. Not only do we have to haul the two body bags and all the evidence we have obtained through the woods to our vehicles, there is the matter of the news gauntlet waiting back at the road. Given my current state of attire and the fact that I’ve made myself plenty newsworthy already today, I’m desperate to avoid anyone with a camera. And as I watch the tow truck guys do their thing, I have a brainstorm.
“Izzy, why don’t we load the evidence onto the flatbed of the tow truck along with the car and take it back to the office on that?”
Izzy shakes his head. “We need to ensure our chain of evidence.”
“Easy enough,” I counter. “I’ll ride with the truck and the evidence. In the meantime, you and Arnie can carry a few items back to the cars the way we came in and give the news crew that sound bite they’re so desperately seeking.”
Izzy considers the idea for a moment. “Maybe,” he says thoughtfully. “But how would we secure everything down on that flatbed?”
Damn, I hadn’t considered that. And I’m guessing the image of the ME’s office won’t be enhanced much by body bags flying off the back of the truck and onto the highway. I’m about to kiss my brilliant idea good-bye when Arnie saves the day.
“I’m pretty sure they have tarps they use to strap stuff down to the bed. Put everything under the tarp and it should be fine.”
Izzy nods approvingly and I feel hope spring once again in my chest—at least I pray it’s hope I’m feeling, and not another maggot.
Izzy says, “Let me run it by the truck driver,” and then he walks over to the tow truck’s head guy and starts talking and gesturing up a storm. The driver is frowning pretty hard, and just when I’m thinking it doesn’t look good, Izzy points to me. Suddenly the guy’s face splits into a broad, slightly lecherous grin and he nods vigorously.
A second later Izzy trots back over to us. “They’re willing to do it,” he says.
“What the hell did you promise them for payment?” I ask, watching as the head guy says something to the other two men and they all turn to stare at me.
“Just the usual,” Izzy says enigmatically.
I’m hardly reassured since we’ve never done this before and there is no “usual” established for this situation. I chew on my lip, debating my alternatives, and decide I’d rather spend half an hour squeezed into the cab of a tow truck with three sweaty, drooling men than have to face the news cameras again.
But then Hurley walks up to me and whispers low in my ear, sending a little tingle down my spine. “Those guys look a little rough. If you want me to ride with you, I will. I can leave my car out here and pick it up later.”
I look up at him, an action that carries a thrill all its own since there aren’t a lot of men who are taller than me, and flash him a grateful smile. “Thanks. That would be great.”
An hour later, we have everything loaded onto the truck except for a few evidence envelopes that Izzy and Arnie are carrying. The Caddy is secured and tarped at the front end of the flatbed and all the other evidence is tied down under a second tarp at the back.
A member of the truck crew approaches me, chewing on the large wad of “tobacky weed” I heard him borrow from his buddy. That’s how he worded it—“borrow,” like he was going to chew it and then give it back. He looks directly at my chest, smiles at me with a handful of brown stained teeth, and says, “You kin ride in the back seat with me.”
I look to Hurley for help but he’s wearing a cocky grin that tells me he’s enjoying my predicament far too much to intervene. Resigned, I climb into the back seat of the king cab, sandwiched in between Mr. Tobacky Weed and his supplier, while Hurley climbs into the front seat with the driver, a huge behemoth of a guy named Manny. We are about to take off when Mr. Tobacky Weed sniffs the air a few times and makes a face.
“Holy shit,” he says. “What on earth is that smell?” He sniffs the air a few more times and his nose eventually settles somewhere in the neighborhood of my cleavage. His eyes drift up toward my face with a look of disgust. “It’s her,” he says, rearing back. “Lord, lady, you smell worse than the rat what died under Bubba’s outhouse.”
Mr. Tobacky Weed’s supplier wrinkles his nose and rears back like he’s been slapped. “Man, you ain’t kidding,” he says, pinching his nose shut. He pushes open the little vent window beside him and sticks his face in the crack. “Aw, that’s bad. I don’t think I can take it, Manny.”
“Me neither,” Mr. Tobacky Weed says, opening his window vent and mimicking his partner. “Aw, geez,” he says, gagging. “I think I’m gonna ralph.”
Hurley turns around and looks at me with a sympathetic smile. “You are kind of ripe,” he says, making a face like he just tasted something rancid.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” I snap back. “It’s not like there’s a shower out here anywhere. I don’t see what I can do short of stripping naked and wiping myself down with the chemical cloths.”
All four men stare slack-jawed at me for a moment before Mr. Tobacky Weed breaks the trance. “I can’t ride with that smell,” he declares, taking a last, woeful look at my chest.
“Me either,” says his partner.
“Well, I have to ride somewhere,” I tell them. “I can’t leave my evidence.”
They all look at each other, temporarily dumbfounded. Then Mr. Tobacky Weed’s one mental light bulb turns on, sealing my fate.
Banned from the truck’s cab, I am forced to ride on the flatbed along with the car and the evidence. My ride isn’t exactly legal, but Hurley pretends not to notice, an act I vow to make him pay for.
I’ve never understood the appeal of convertibles. It sounds romantic—the wind in your hair, the sun on your shoulders, Mother Nature all around you—but the truth is, nature has nasty things like stinging, cold raindrops, and the wind can tie knots in your hair.
The flatbed of the tow truck is the convertible ride from hell and by the time we arrive back at the morgue I look like something the dog barfed up. Since Izzy and Arnie aren’t back yet I’m able to get into the office garage without any further camera incidents, but it also means I have to sit and wait for them to arrive to ensure the security of our evidence.
Hurley heads outside to make some phone calls—the morgue garage is a dead zone for signals as well as people—and the tow truck crew head down the street to the Nowhere Bar for a bite of lunch and a pint or ten of ale. I perch myself on the back end of the flatbed and start scraping chunks of God-knows-what out of my hair while dreaming of a long, hot, soapy shower.
The door opens and I get excited thinking my shower is imminent, but it’s only Hurley coming back from his phone calls. His presence causes an excitement all its own, but when I see him look at me and purse his lips to bite back a laugh, I figure now isn’t the best time for me to make a move.
“Christ, Winston, you certainly are a sight.” He holds his camera phone up and sights me through the viewer. “Can I snap a picture of you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, smiling sweetly. “Can I snap your family jewels?”
His phone clicks closed and disappears into his pocket. The garage door opens again and I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the van pulling in with Arnie behind the wheel. As he parks alongside the truck, I see Izzy in the front passenger seat, staring out his window at me with an expression of shocked disbelief. Once Arnie shuts the engine down, Izzy hesitates for a few seconds before slowly opening his door. But instead of getting out, he stares at me from the safety of the van’s confines like he expects me to spring on him and eat him alive.