The Corpse Wore Stilettos Page 3

  I reached up to my own neck and sighed at the missing diamond cross. I’d sold it to cover Grand’s insurance. “And those shoes!” I closed my eyes, remembering them. “Stilettos to die for.”

  They were glaring at me when I looked up.

  “Oh. Poor choice of words. Anyway, that’s when they arrived, the men. Right as I began recording the information on her external examination, the door slammed. At first I thought Dr. Hawthorne had arrived sooner than I had expected, until I heard the voice.”

  “How did they get in?” Driscol asked.

  “He must have had a badge. They came in through the badge-controlled door.”

  “So you didn’t let them in?” Driscol asked again.

  “No. I wouldn’t have let some strange men into the morgue while I was there alone.”

  “So you didn’t know this man?” Lambert followed up this time. Conversations like this were why people thought their tax dollars were being poorly used. The repetition was becoming annoying. If they had a point, I wished they’d get to it. With every minute that went by, the trail to the girl was getting colder.

  “No, as I’ve said, I didn’t know him.”

  “Can you describe the man?” Lambert leaned back again, her posture slumping. Apparently, my moment for saying anything worthy had passed.

  My mind wandered to the thought of him, how intense yet casual he looked, all wrapped up in a rugged package. And those sad eyes when he talked about his dead friend. “He said he was military, and his sharp looks and efficient movements seemed to back that up. Although, he’s been out for a bit, I’d guess, with the handsome North Face vibe he had going.”

  “You thought he was handsome?” Lambert asked.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. You asked me to describe him. That’s what he looked like.”

  “Did he say who they were?” Driscol had gone back to furiously writing notes in his notebook, not looking up as he asked questions.

  “Yes, the first man who came in said his name was Burns McPhee.”

  “McPhee?” Driscol snapped his head up, his eyes growing wide at the name, as if he knew who I was talking about but wasn’t exactly happy to hear it.

  “He said the victim was his sister.”

  “His sister?” Driscol looked puzzled.

  “Yes, he said he wanted to say goodbye to his sister.”

  Driscol whispered something to Lambert and, without saying anything to me, left the room.

  “Sorry,” Lambert said to cover her partner’s rudeness. “Please continue.”

  “Well, he was lying,” I said, returning my thoughts to the detectives.

  “How did you know?” With Driscol gone, Lambert had taken to writing in his notebook.

  “He wasn’t very good at it. Slow speech, repeating questions, lack of contractions. Or maybe he was, and I’m good at spotting liars. I can’t decide in my current state. I’m sorry.” I laid my head down in my hands.

  I was not the world’s best decision maker. My trip through fifteen different college majors and a host of minors was a testament to that, and my decision-making impairment tended to get exacerbated when I was tired, and the interviews were dragging on. The room had no windows. I wondered if it were morning yet. Maybell had fallen asleep, and she snored under the table next to my feet. “Anyway, that’s when he told me about the death of his friend, but before I could figure out if that was more of his con game, the second man I told you about came in. Flynn.”

  Lambert didn’t blink at the mention of McPhee’s dead friend, which puzzled me. It seemed as though everyone knew more about what was going on than I did.

  “It’s pretty brazen, don’t you think, to come to the morgue and lie to an attendant to try to get access to a body that’s part of a murder investigation,” Lambert said.

  “Look, why are we dwelling on this? I have no idea why Mr. McPhee thought he could stroll into a morgue and have his way with a body. You seem to know him, so why don’t you call him and ask?”

  “We did,” Driscol said as he reentered the room.

  Maybell startled awake at the sound of the door and padded over.

  “Great, finally some progress. So why did he say he was here?” I asked.

  “He’s unable to corroborate your story.”

  “What does that mean?” I flipped the phrase around in my head. It sounded like detective speak. “Unable to corroborate my story.” Of course he could corroborate it. He was there. Neither of them answered. “What does that mean?” I asked again, looking from one to the other of them.

  “Mr. McPhee has an alibi for the whole evening.” Driscol leaned against the wall.

  “He’s lying.” My heart sank as I racked my brain to figure out why McPhee wouldn’t admit he had been there.

  “And you can tell?” Lambert asked.

  “Yes.” I petted Maybell for comfort. She wouldn’t abandon me.

  “Because he’s bad at it?” Lambert was mocking me at this point.

  “That probably wasn’t even his real name. The tall, dark lumberjack was probably in on it from the start, and I played right into it.” I took a deep breath. If I were going to avoid ending up on the front page of the paper for body snatching, I was going to have to change directions. “I’m sure the surveillance video will back up my story.”

  “There has apparently been some issue with the surveillance system tonight.” Driscol ran his hand across the back of his neck, squeezing as he went. Since returning from checking out my alibi with Burns McPhee, he was noticeably crankier.

  “What do you mean ‘some issue’?” That video was my one ace for getting out of this mess. There was no way it could be an issue.

  “It appears the footage has been tampered with,” he said matter-of-factly, as though he hadn’t dealt my world another strong blow.

  “What do you mean ‘tampered with’?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Not at liberty? This is my life we’re talking about here!” I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on my inner calm.

  “The video from Billy Idol’s song ‘Body Snatcher’ plays in a continuous loop for the entire time period the body was stolen.” Driscol’s face twisted in disbelief at what he had just said.

  Lambert glared at him for giving away the information. Surely they would now see the absurdity of my being involved in this.

  “McPhee didn’t steal the body, anyway, so really, I guess it doesn’t matter that he’s denying involvement,” I said.

  “The other man, Flynn, did?” Lambert asked.

  “No. As I said at the very beginning, the creepy Russian mobster with great shoes did.” I took them through the whole hospital chase and how I had watched as the mobster disappeared with the body and then McPhee disappeared.

  “And it didn’t occur to you that these alleged three men may have been playing you for a sucker?”

  Her snippy tone on “alleged” snapped me back from my memory of the chase to the cold reception in the dank room and Lambert’s questions. “No.”

  “Let’s try a different angle, Ms. Waters. Would you like to tell us how much you were paid to help whoever took the body?” Lambert sat up tall in her chair again.

  “Excuse me?” I accidentally crushed my cup in my hand. Maybell snorted. So this was it, the reason for all the skepticism and tough questioning.

  “A tip was called in to Dr. Hawthorne while he was on his way from the crime scene, alerting him to the fact that you had been paid off to help steal the body.”

  “That’s preposterous! Who would make such an accusation?” I stood up from my chair.

  “We aren’t at liberty to say,” Driscol said, becoming alert from where he leaned on the wall.

  Of course they weren’t. First the mess with my dad, and now this. “Here’s what I think, Detectives. If you actually had a clue about who called in the outlandish accusation, you would have already arrested me. Further, you”—I pointed at Driscol—“don’t believe I�
�m smart enough to have pulled off this whole insane scenario from planting Billy Idol songs to snatching bodies out of the hospital.”

  Driscol lowered his gaze.

  “And you”—I pointed at Lambert—“know that I’m too smart to have concocted such an outlandish story.”

  “A young girl has been murdered, and her body is now missing, and somehow you’re involved in all of this. We’re just doing our job, Ms. Waters,” Lambert said.

  “I know you are, Detective. Now, I’ve tried to cooperate because I really do want you to find that poor girl. But I’m tired, and Maybell is hungry. So unless you’re going to arrest me, I’m going home.”

  When neither of them said anything, I walked out of the room, Maybell following.

  ON MY WAY OUT THE MORGUE doors, I met Dr. Hawthorne, the coroner. His green tweed jacket with its large brown patches bulged at the elbows and opened to reveal the white band where the rim of his brown slacks had folded down under his slightly portly belly. His shaggy gray hair poked out from beneath the temples of his wire-rimmed glasses. The bags under his eyes were puffier than usual, perhaps from his lack of sleep, but he forced a smile when he saw me.

  Dr. Hawthorne had been working at the St. Louis County morgue for most of his career, some twenty-five years, and was counting the days to retirement. From my first day, he’d taken me under his wing, spending a large amount of time teaching me about autopsies. Even though I’d been there only a few months, he allowed me to do more internal work than other attendants who had been there longer. I found his presence reassuring, and I really did appreciate being taught.

  He looked pained as he explained that I was being referred for disciplinary action—on probation for body snatching. I could end up being suspended without pay or even fired. I hadn’t believed this night could get any worse, and now it had. He knew how important the paycheck was to me, that my morgue income was the only thing standing between Grandma Waters and me dining at the soup kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine. I know what a shock this is for you,” Dr. Hawthorne said. He rubbed his hand up and down my arm.

  “I swear I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I don’t believe that you did, but I also don’t know why someone would call and say that you did either. The best way to sort it out is to keep talking to people who can help us.”

  “You mean the police?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Because they’ve been so helpful to my family lately.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily share that point of view with them. The goal is to get you out of trouble, not get you in deeper. At least there’s going to be a hearing. That gives us some time. I’m sure we’ll be able to clear all of this up.”

  He left me standing in silence and went and yelled at one of the detectives who was trying to put crime scene tape over the instrument cabinet. I was alone for the first time since before I’d met Burns McPhee, and my body reminded me how exhausted I was. All I wanted to do was go home and climb into bed.

  I buckled Maybell into her seat belt and climbed into my beater 1997 Ford Escort with a quick pang of desire for my hybrid. That was another thing I had lost when Dad was arrested. The repo man was at least nice and gave me a lift to my apartment before he took my car. I had bought this one off the internet, sight unseen, after my research revealed the Escort as one of the top ten best beater cars to buy. That there was a list, I found amazing. The man asked if I wanted to look at it, as if I would have had any idea whether it was the best car ever or, alternately, if it were going to spontaneously burst into flames the next time I turned it over. True to its hype, the little red car with the dented-in fender managed to get me from Boston to St. Louis with few complications. Occasionally it had issues starting and, depending on its mood, required me to either talk nice to it or open the hood and bang on the battery wires. Today, though, it started on the first try.

  For a moment, I sat there trying to absorb it all, wondering how this could be happening. I didn’t think it was possible for things to get worse. If I thought about it too much, I was going to cry. If I started, I might not stop. So crying was not allowed. Instead, I beat the steering wheel hard while shaking my head like a wild banshee and shouting expletives. Maybell hid her snout under her hooves. My hand hurt, but the rest of me felt better.

  I eased the car into Drive and headed home. Over ninety cities divided St. Louis County into four main sections—North County, West County, South County, and Mid County. Southerners never ventured north for anything and vice versa. West County folks had everything delivered, and in the Mid County, they “borrowed” what they needed. The morgue operated in a transitional neighborhood in North County, still more blue collar than white.

  When my mom was thrown out of our house in the better-off burbs of West County, Grand’s boyfriend, Claude, hooked us up with a flat in Mid County, specifically in University City. The move from West County to U City felt the way I imagined it would feel to move to a foreign country. We’d gone from gated communities with impeccably manicured lawns—where status was determined by the number of maids employed and who installed the security system—to one of Literary St. Louis’s Top 100 Places for Small Houses, where security was determined by the number of pit bulls in the living room and guns in the cookie jar.

  At first, Mom was in denial about what was happening. Never having rented an apartment before, she had no clue how little my salary could afford. Thankfully, Claude was willing to help out, and I was able to swap my time as a personal stylist to the landlord’s wife for some of the rent. Even then, getting Mom and Grand to go look at the place was a feat. The only time either of them had previously ventured out of richburbia was to attend the symphony downtown.

  But when they learned that U City was founded in 1903 by the owner and publisher of the Women’s Magazine and Woman’s Farm Journal, Edward Lewis, they agreed to go look at the place Claude offered to sublet to us—at a cost to him, I was sure. Lewis had constructed many buildings to support his growing publishing empire that still stood today. Mom and Grand had screwed up their courage to follow in the footsteps of the founder of the American Women’s League.

  U City was now culturally diverse, and it was home to a mini Chinatown. The main drag in town was the Delmar Loop, a name left over from when it marked the end of the streetcar line that originally anchored the city. There was something cosmic about a place that once nurtured both Tennessee Williams and rapper Nelly.

  I’d done the drive enough times that my mind was on autopilot. That allowed me to think about the night’s events.

  First Martin and now this. The realization that I could be fired was overwhelming. In a strange way, I would miss the morgue. It had become routine. The assembly of odd characters there kept mostly to themselves and ignored the sensationalism of my situation. No one asked too many questions. Especially the ones on the exam table.

  I couldn’t lose my job. Not only was this the only way I could see to get closer to the evidence the police had against my dad, but also we desperately needed the money. Mom was trying to find work, but for a fifty-something woman who had never held a job before, finding someone to hire her, and somewhere she would find acceptable, was slow going. To keep Mom and Grand calm, I’d have to look for something else quickly and quietly, but that would mean a setback in helping Dad’s lawyers clear up this whole mess.

  Although I was quite sure Mom would celebrate my morgue exit, she would be apoplectic at the news of my canceled engagement to Martin, the coming nuptials viewed as the last bastion of respect for my station. Maybe it would slip my mind to tell her we were on a break.

  I switched gears. I had to keep this job, and the only way I could do that was to do everything in my power to get to the bottom of things and prove my innocence.

  First, I had to deal with the possibility that someone in the morgue had not only set me up but also ratted me out. Only someone with access to the morgue schedules could have k
nown that I would be at the morgue last night instead of DC. They’d used my name specifically when calling Dr. Hawthorne and the police about my supposed involvement in the corpse-napping.

  It could have been Burns McPhee and that Flynn, whoever they were. But I was at a loss about why they would have set me up. I would not start believing that my social radar was malfunctioning. McPhee had seemed sincere when he talked about the death of his friend being somehow connected to this body. Plus, they appeared genuinely surprised by the man who stole the body. And who was he, anyway? None of this made sense.

  Flynn had addressed him by name. “McPhee,” he’d called him. That must have been his real name. And he was there looking for DC. Hopefully, DC would have answers to some of these questions.

  The only option was to find McPhee and get him to corroborate my story so I could get off probation. DC would know where to find McPhee. That meant that instead of a good cry and a date with my lovely bed, I’d be doing a quick turnaround.

  I pulled into a curbside parking spot and unbuckled Maybell. Seventy-five percent of all houses in the city had been built before 1959, and most of them, including ours, were tiny, coming in at less than nine hundred square feet. The little brick structure with concrete steps was shaped like a tiny Monopoly house with its pointy roof and perfectly centered door, flanked by tiny square windows on each side. Unfortunately for us, there was no trading up to a hotel. The whole neighborhood had undergone a resurgence before the recession. Even with the economy starting to bounce back, St. Louis still wasn’t faring great, and many half-renovated buildings sat empty or in foreclosure.