Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“Straight from hospital to cemetery in one easy payment?”

“It is cheaper, no doubt.”

“Everyone who’s died lately has been on the ‘do not pass go, do not stop for a funeral’ plan?”

“Not everyone. There is one service tomorrow for the family of an Alzheimer’s victim.” He lowered his voice on the last two words, as if afraid that just by speaking them aloud he’d give the disease the power to rise up and grab him.

“There was nothing unusual about any of these deaths?” I asked.

“Unusual? In what way?”

“Seems strange to have so many.”

“It happens that way sometimes, Sheriff.”

“I

guess you’d know.”

Grant beamed. “Been in the business for forty years. Be sure and come to see us when you’re ready to plan ahead.”

I don’t care what anyone said, Grant Farrel was ghouly.

I thanked him for his time, and as I headed for the door, Grant’s phone rang.

“Hello?” He paused, listening. “Another one?”

I turned.

Farrel’s eyes met mine. “All right. Send him over.”

* * *

The most recently deceased citizen of Lake Bluff was an octogenarian by the name of Abraham Nesersheim. There hadn’t been a thing wrong with him until he’d come down with a summer cold that had turned to bronchitis.

His doctor, not Ian Walker, had ordered amoxicillin and rest. The next day Abraham’s niece had found him in his bed after a long night of eternal rest. She’d called 911 and his doctor. In a replay of Ms. G.’s death, the doctor had pronounced the body and the EMTs had contacted the funeral home for direct delivery. I gave in to temptation and called the medical examiner, Dr. William Cavet.

Grant was beside himself. “Can you just order an autopsy, Sheriff, without even consulting the family?”

“When there’s suspicion of foul play, yes.”

“What foul play? You didn’t even see the body.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” I said in my best cop voice.

“Of course.” Grant practically bowed as he back-pedaled. “Police business. I’ll just get the embalming room ready. Doc Bill has used it several times before.”

I don’t know that it had been several. We didn’t have a lot of suspicious deaths in Lake Bluff—until last summer anyway—which is why we shared a medical examiner with the nearest town, Bradleyville.

Still, I supposed Doc Bill had used the room enough to feel comfortable there. I doubted I ever would. Not that I fainted at the sight of blood. Far from it. But I’d never been thrilled at observing an autopsy.

Looked like I didn’t have much choice in this case. I wanted it done, I’d have to suck it up and watch. Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Doc Bill walked in.

He’d been a doctor for over fifty years, beginning as a GP, then becoming the ME. The man knew more about the human body than anyone I’d ever met. He also knew more about werewolves than anyone in town, even Malachi.

According to Doc Bill, Adolf Hitler had ordered Doctor Death, aka Mengele, to create a werewolf army. Doc had been there when that army had been unleashed, just after the Allied landing. The fruits of that experiment were still running around causing havoc at every opportunity.

“Sheriff.” He lifted his bushy white eyebrows.