Chapter 4
Once upon a time, when I first started working at the Coroner’s Office, I’d thought it a waste of gas and money to have the death investigator and the “body snatcher”—me—in two separate vehicles. After all, why couldn’t we both ride in the van? It didn’t take me long to realize the death investigator did more than simply help babysit the body. They often had to stay at the scene to speak to next of kin and hunt down paperwork and medical records long after I headed back to the morgue. Not to mention, it was the investigator’s duty to give death notifications to the decedent’s loved ones—something I had absolutely zero desire to ever do. I knew damn well I’d break down crying right then and there.
And I was never more grateful for separate vehicles than right now. Bideau was at the very north end of the parish—a twenty-five-minute drive with no traffic. If Nick and I had been trapped together in the van, it would’ve been twenty-five minutes of torturous silence broken by occasional stilted conversation. And then twenty-five minutes back—with a corpse who was unlikely to be talkative.
I’d only been to Bideau a couple of times, and I murmured a prayer that the GPS would be up to the task of getting me there again. On a map it looked easy—highway, then another highway, then another highway, then yet one more highway. But in reality, each highway was smaller and less traveled than the last, with wickedly easy-to-miss turnoffs.
Yet it wasn’t the GPS that helped me find the first turn. It was the brand-spanking-new billboard at the junction with Saberton splashed across the top in enormous letters.
I pulled to the shoulder and glared up at the sign.
Opening soon
Saberton Agricultural Equipment Manufacturing
Now hiring all positions
Turn left here then head south on Old Haybarn Road
Interesting. And odd. A couple of years ago, Saberton Corporation bought the tractor factory that had been up and running for near fifty years, and they’d immediately laid off all the employees. They’d promised to hire everyone back once they nailed a juicy defense contract and started production on some sort of new tank. But the defense contract had fallen through, and therefore so had the jobs.
Now, it seemed they’d decided to return to making tractors. Though it wasn’t a complete surprise, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this turn of events. Saberton had a nasty bent for unethical research on zombies, and no good would come of them having a stronger toehold in the zombie Tribe area. Yet I couldn’t help but be relieved for all the people who’d get their jobs back.
Naomi might know more about how this crap came about, especially since she was the daughter of Saberton’s CEO. I made a mental note to ask her when I next saw her, most likely later today since she worked for the Tribe, and I’d be taking the Douglas Horton samples to the lab as soon as my shift was over.
I snapped a quick phone pic of the billboard then pulled back onto the highway.
• • •
At the scene, Nick’s Durango and a Sheriff’s Office vehicle were parked on the street in front of a snug house with missing shingles and a tidy yard. I joined Nick inside where a Mr. Carlton Prince lay in his bed. Sixty-seven years old, skinny as a rail, no muscle tone, a history of heart disease, and a pack-a-day smoking habit. Dr. Leblanc might not even autopsy him, especially considering the dead man’s skin was flushed red from mid-chest up—a strong indication of a heart attack. Most likely the doc would simply check for signs of suspicious wounds and run a tox screen to make sure Mr. Prince hadn’t been hurried off to the afterlife with a little physical or chemical help.
&nb
sp; I laid out the body bag while Nick interviewed a middle-aged woman with generous curves and kind eyes—the neighbor who’d found the body. She’d spoken with Mr. Prince the previous evening and agreed to give him a ride to his doctor’s office today. After he didn’t answer the doorbell, she let herself in and found him still in bed and clearly deceased.
“Went to sleep and never woke up,” Nick murmured after she left. “Not a bad way to go, I’d say.”
“Only if you know it might be coming,” I said. He gave me a quizzical look, and I added, “What scares me the most about dying is dying unexpectedly. I want to be able to say goodbye to people. Tie up all the loose ends. That sort of thing.”
His eyes met mine briefly before his gaze darted away. “Yeah,” he said, voice oddly rough. He’d seen me come close to dying a few weeks ago. “Here, I’ll help you.”
Together we got Carlton Prince into the body bag—though the guy was so light I could have managed it easily on my own, even without any sort of zombie-aided strength. A shiver of unease trailed up my spine as I wheeled the gurney out of the house. My dad had a similar scrawny and unexercised build. An image of a body bag zipper closing over my dad’s lifeless face burned itself into my brain.
Blinking hard, I continued to the van, oddly grateful the uneven sidewalk meant I had to concentrate on keeping the gurney upright, with no mental space free to worry about my dad dying.
Yet once I got the gurney loaded up and started toward the morgue, the unsettling image returned full force. I swiped at my eyes then turned the music way up and sang along, making up my own lyrics when I didn’t know the real ones. By the time I passed the Saberton billboard, I’d shaken the worst of the morbid thoughts, and my spirits had recovered somewhat. It was silly for me to compare the body in the back of the van to my dad. Carlton Prince was fifteen years older than Jimmy Crawford. And my dad didn’t have heart disease. Not that I knew of, at least.
Ugh. I didn’t even know when he’d last seen a doctor. Somehow I needed to convince him to get a physical. And quit smoking for good.
I sighed. Or maybe I could reverse climate change. That would be easier.
• • •
My half-shift was all but over by the time I made it to the morgue with Mr. Prince. Allen helped me get him entered into the system and tucked away in the cooler then let me know he’d collected the samples Dr. Nikas needed.
“They’re in your lunch box,” he added. “I put another cold pack in there as well, to keep them fresh.”
“My lunch box?” I shuddered. “Ew.”