Dead Man's Song

Page 36

(3)
Ferro and LaMastra lingered with Gus after Terry and the others left. They stood at a window that looked down at the parking lot, watching SAC Spinlicker and Agent Henckhauser get into their car. Even through the soundproof glass the watching officers could feel the vibration as the FBI agents slammed their doors. Their car laid an eight-foot patch of burned rubber across the asphalt.
“So,” Gus said dryly, “I guess we won’t be sharing the case with the feds.”
“So it seems,” Ferro agreed. His face still wore its funeral director moroseness, but there was a drop of humor in his voice. “Nice that they said they would keep in touch and advise. Very helpful of them.”
“Funny thing is,” LaMastra said, “that if you told me that a small-town mayor could bitch-slap a couple of feds like that I’d have called you a liar.” Ferro just nodded at that.
“So we’re on our own again,” Gus said.
“Once this thing starts winding down,” LaMastra said, “I expect we’ll see those two again. Right around the time when someone gets to take credit.”
“Mmm-hm,” Ferro said, smiling faintly.
(4)
After a long and rather giggly breakfast with Sarah and Val, Crow showered and dressed and began packing the few belongings he’d brought from the hospital. In ten minutes Sarah was going to drive them out to the farm and he knew that would pretty much be the end of the incredible feeling of joy that was still bubbling inside of him.
A baby. His baby. His and Val’s, which was even better. Son of Crow—he’d already decided that it was going to be a boy for no reason more mature than hoping that the kid would like science fiction, blues, jujutsu, and gory horror flicks. He couldn’t quite see “Daughter of Val” grooving on any Rob Zombie films side-by-side with ol’ dad. On the other hand, Daughter of Val would probably be smarter and better looking than Son of Crow, so there was that. On the other other hand, the kid could be Grandson of Henry, in which case he’d be smart, good-looking, tough as nails, and a lot taller than Son of Crow.
Crow…my love…I’m going to have a baby. If there had ever been a more beautiful set of—and here Crow had to count on his fingers—nine words, he had never heard them and could not imagine them. Son of Crow. Sounded great. Very heroic, very comic book superhero. “Wait till I tell…everyone!” he said aloud. As he packed he started singing, “I am a daddy,” to the tune of “I’m in the Money.”
Crow sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his cell phone out. There were only two bars so he got up and moved around the room until he got four of them. Getting a clear cell phone signal in Pine Deep was always a crapshoot. He had to sit in the window seat and wedge his shoulder into the corner to get enough bars to make his calls.
The first person he called was Terry Wolfe. Terry answered on the second ring with a terse, “Go.”
“Terry…it’s me.”
“Crow? What’s up, everything okay there?”
“Yeah, man. You in the middle of something?”
“Not really. I just wrapped up a meeting with the cops.”
“Are they anywhere with this?”
“No,” Terry said, and his voice sounded like all the weariness in the world. “And no one has floated a useful theory as to why Boyd would risk breaking into the morgue just to steal Ruger’s corpse.”
“Sounds like Boyd is off the rails,” Crow offered. “Maybe there’s no one in the driver’s seat anymore.”
“Who knows. There’s another wrinkle in this, too.”
“Jeez, Wolfman, I’m not sure how many more wrinkles this town can take.”
“Now you’re singing my song. Keep this between us, okay?”
“Lips are sealed, bro.”
“We think Boyd has at least one more accomplice.” Terry told him about the hospital door being opened and the alarm disabled. “He had to have inside help.”
Crow chewed on that for a minute. “I find that hard to buy. If there was an inside man, why didn’t he just dump Ruger onto a gurney and wheel his ugly ass to the back door? That way Boyd would never have been spotted at all.”
“Saul Weinstock raised the same concern, but Ferro said that the inside man may have known about the security camera. The hallway surveillance camera has been broken since the middle of September, so anyone who went into the hall to unlock the doors would not have been spotted. Only if he’d actually entered the morgue would the tape have picked him up.”
“Okay…I can see that, but that means that this inside guy had to know all of this. The broken camera, the morgue camera, everything, and he’d need access to the keys.”
“Right. They checked out everyone who was on duty last night and got nowhere. Just dead ends and no leads.”
“This doesn’t make me feel too good, Terry.”
“Me, neither, but at least you’re out of it.”
“And I’m happy as hell about that, too. So’s Val.” Then he slapped his forehead—and winced all the way down to his toes. “Geez, Terry, I am the world’s biggest idiot.”
“Not a news flash there.”
“No, I mean I forgot to tell you why I called.”
“If this is more bad news I’m going to go lay down in traffic.”
“Terry…Val and I are going to have a baby!”
There was a silence followed by a sound that Crow was absolutely sure was a sob. Just the one, and then more silence. Finally, in a strange, choked whisper Terry said, “Thank God.” And then without warning he hung up.
Crow looked at the phone in his palm. That was certainly not the kind of answer he expected to get. “Weird,” he said, and then punched in a new number.
(5)
Saul Weinstock stood in the small morgue office, watching the cleaning staff put the finishing touches on the room. The forensics teams had finally left and the last streamers of crime scene tape had been torn down and stuffed into trash cans. Ferro had given him an all clear to reopen for business, and with three autopsies still pending, it was going to be a long day. All of this should have been done ages ago, and Weinstock didn’t like how much the delay made him look like the top idiot at Dumbass Rural Hospital. His cell phone rang; he saw it was Crow and answered, “Hey, buddy.”
“You sound chipper,” Crow said,
“I’m not, but thanks for your lack of perception,” Weinstock said with a grin. “How are you doing? How’s Val?”
“That’s what I was calling about,” Crow said and went into a two-minute rant about impending fatherhood. By the time he reached the point where he was planning to coach Little League, Weinstock was laughing.
“I know already, you chucklehead. Oh, don’t act so surprised—she’s my patient, I’m her doctor, remember? Confidences become fast and loose in such circumstances. You don’t want to know the details—they’re so sordid.”
“How long have you known?”
Weinstock paused a bit before answering that one. “Since, um, last Saturday. When you guys were brought in after all that happened. She asked me not to say anything until she had a chance to tell you first, for reasons that should be obvious even to someone of limited intelligence, such as yourself.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“Got your back, man. In any case, when you guys were brought in Val told me that she’d taken an EPT that morning and came up positive. She said that she was going to tell you that night, but then Ruger showed up and everything went to hell in a handbasket. Now that she has, and having heard your plans to be the most annoying parent in history, can I assume that you’re happy about this? You didn’t ask for your ring back, did you?”
“Geez, Saul, what kind of a dork do you think I am?”
“Should I answer that or would you prefer a long awkward pause?”
“Bite me.”
“Anyway…I do want to congratulate you, Crow, and to tell you, all kidding aside, how happy I am for you and Val. With all the crap that’s been happening around here it’s sure as hell nice to have something really good happen. Mazel tov!”
“Thanks, and corny as it sounds, it’s like a fresh start. Shame Henry’s not here to see his grandkid. Or his daughter get married.”
Weinstock moved across the room to allow the cleaners to mop where he was standing, and he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Remember yesterday when I said that I wanted to keep Mark and Connie here for a bit longer? Well, between you and me, I think Connie is in some deep shit. This morning I talked with the staff psychologist and the news just isn’t encouraging. Long story short, Connie is exhibiting all of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder consistent with having been the victim of a completed rape, which we both know was not the case. If I were a superstitious man I’d say that Ruger put some kind of hex on her, but since I’m not a superstitious man, I’m going on the assumption that Connie may have had some preexisting psychological problems. Point is, she’s not responding to the treatments—and even this short-term there’s always some kind of forward movement, at least to the professional eye, but my people say no—and the meds we’re giving her to ease her stress are just making her retreat into sleep. She goes hours and hours without talking, and then she’ll break down into hysterical tears for no visible reason.”
“I tried calling Mark again today. He blew me off like he’s been doing.”
“He’s been a real bear to the nursing staff, too. Bites the head off anyone who comes in the room. He had one nurse in tears and another who wanted to strap him to a wheelchair and shove him down the fire stairs. I can hold on to them maybe—and I mean maybe—another couple of days and then I have to kick them both out of here.” He considered. “Or…I think I’ll decide that I don’t like the way the reseating of his teeth is going. I mean he does have the blue liptinting you can expect from ecchimosis, so I guess I can use that to keep him in a little longer, at least until we take the gum sutures out.”