Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (13 page)
“Sure. What names?”
“Start with this district, then the surrounding districts, until you get all twenty-six.”
Fuller furrowed his brow. “Cops? You think this might be a cop?”
I had to play this carefully, lest the rumor mill begin to turn.
“No. But if I find out which cops visited the morgue during the past week, I’ll be able to start questioning them to see if they noticed anything strange.”
“Got it.”
“There’s no rush. You can get started tomorrow.”
He nodded, offered a grin, and left my office.
I finished typing the report of the interview with Colin Andrews (leaving out the powdered sugar fiasco), and then decided to head home. Perhaps Latham had left a message on my answering machine.
He hadn’t. Neither had Mom. But Mr. Friskers, the lovable ball of fluff, had shredded both of the living room curtains.
“Tomorrow,” I promised, “you get declawed.”
I changed into an oversized T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, cat litter sticking to the bottoms of my feet. I swept it all up, dumped it back into the litter box, and was surprised to find that Mr. Friskers had made several deposits of his own.
“Good kitty,” I called to him, wherever he was hiding.
I went to the fridge to get him some milk, and stepped barefoot into another deposit he’d made, on the floor.
This required a shower. After the shower, I finished cleaning the kitchen, gave the cat some milk and food, and searched my cabinets for dinner. I found a can of soup. I wasn’t in the mood for soup, especially mushroom, but it was expiring next month, so I ate it before I had to throw it out.
Halfway through, Mr. Friskers wandered in.
“I like the curtains,” I told him. “Very feng shui. The whole room flows much better.”
He ignored me, sticking his face in the milk.
I didn’t finish the soup, so I set that on the floor for him as well, then I went into the bedroom and stared at my nemesis, the bed.
My sheets were in the dryer. I put them back on, climbed in, and closed my eyes.
It took all of five seconds for me to realize that I had a better chance of winning lotto than falling asleep. So instead, I flipped on the television.
Reruns. Sports. Crap. Movie that I’ve seen before. Crap. Crap. Reruns. Crap. Home Shopping Network.
I finally let it rest on an infomercial about the antiaging effects of juicing. A tiny ninety-year-old man did dozens of push-ups and exclaimed how celery shakes were life’s elixir.
Did anyone buy that?
I did, and sprung for the rush delivery.
I also bought a Speedy Iron, guaranteed to do the job in half the time, a Bacon Magic, since the show proved beyond any scientific doubt that bacon was a health food, and a new home waxing system that promised it wouldn’t hurt as much as the four other new home waxing systems gathering dust in my bathroom closet.
The only thing that saved me from plunking down serious cash for a countertop rotisserie oven was the fact that my counter space was barely large enough for a toaster. I toyed with the idea of buying one anyway, and keeping it in the bedroom. Even though I’m a single woman and rarely home, the novelty of roasting two entire chickens at the same time more than made up for that.
I drifted off sometime in the middle of a seminar on how to improve your memory, and slept on and off until seven
A.M.
, when the phone rang.
I bolted up in bed, hoping it was Latham or Mom.
“Lieutenant? This is Officer Sue Petersen on the Osco stakeout. I just followed a man who bought a twenty-dollar phone card. ID’ed him as one Derrick Rushlo, thirty-six years of age. He’s the owner of the Rushlo Funeral Home on Grand Avenue.”
“Hold on a second.”
I’d left Fuller’s report in the kitchen. Rushlo’s name was on the second page. He’d been to the county morgue last week.
“Are you still watching him?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Stay on him. Call if he moves. I’ll be there within the hour.”
The Rushlo Funeral Home faced the busy street of Grand Avenue, its storefront only ten yards wide. It was book-ended by a thrift shop on the left and a dental office on the right, all three of them done in the same cream-colored brick. On either side of the ornate front door were matching bushes in large concrete pots, carefully pruned to resemble corkscrews.
Herb and I entered. It looked like the inside of any funeral home; tasteful, somewhat opulent, with deep rugs and fancy lighting fixtures. The air-conditioning smelled faintly of lilacs.
“You okay, Herb?” Benedict had been walking funny.
“I strained a muscle in my back.”
“Working out?”
“Making nookie. Viagra ought to come with a warning label.”
We passed two parlors, and located the arrangement office at the end of the hall. Empty.
“May I help you?”
He’d come from a side door, next to the office. A squat man with a carefully trimmed beard that accentuated his double chin. He wore black slacks, a solid blue dress shirt, and a paisley tie, which hugged his expansive stomach.
“Derrick Rushlo?” Herb asked.
The man nodded, shaking Herb’s hand.
“I’m Detective Benedict, Chicago Police Department.”
Rushlo’s eyes were bright blue, and spaced widely apart. The left one was lazy, and it appeared to be staring at me while the other stared at Herb. When Benedict mentioned the CPD, both eyes bugged out.
“I’m Lieutenant Daniels.”
Rushlo hesitated, offered his hand, then let it fall when he realized I wasn’t going to offer mine.
“Do you know why we’re here, Derrick?”
“I haven’t a clue, Lieutenant.” His voice was high-pitched, breathy.
“We’d like to take a look around, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a tour.”
He blinked a few times in rapid succession.
“Normally, I wouldn’t mind. But I’m in the middle of an embalming right now. If you could come back in . . .”
Benedict held up the search warrant.
“Now would be good.”
Rushlo nodded, his chins bobbling.
“The embalming area is back there?” I indicated the door he had come through.
“Uh, yes. Come on.”
We followed him behind the scenes. White tile replaced the beige carpet, and the area lacked adequate lighting. We walked through a hallway, which led to a large loft complete with two garage doors. A hearse and a van were parked off to the side. A gurney rested by the far wall.
“This is the, uh, back area. Feel free to look around.”
“We’d like to see the embalming room.”
His features sank, but he led us to another door.
When I stepped inside, I winced. It smelled like the morgue, but fresher. Brown spills marred the floor and the walls. Several buckets, crusted with dried bits of something, were stacked in the corner. An embalming machine, which looked like a giant-sized version of the juicer I bought last night, sat on a table. Behind it, bottles of red liquid in various shades lined the shelves.
In the center of the room stood a large, stainless steel table. It had gutters on all four sides, which drained into a slop sink at the foot. The table was currently occupied, a bloody sheet covering the body.
“Take that off.”
Rushlo hesitated, then tugged the cover to the side and let it drop to the floor.
On the table were the remains of a woman. Caucasian, young, eviscerated from her pubis to her sternum. Her body cavity was empty, and I could see the ribs from the inside.
She had roughly the same build as Eileen Hutton, but I couldn’t make a positive ID because her head was missing.
“Who is this?”
“Her name is Felicia Wymann. Just got her in yesterday.”
“She’s an autopsy?” I asked. That would explain why her organs had been removed.
“Yes. Not local, though. She’s from Wisconsin. Hit and run. I know the family, and they asked me to take care of her. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”
Herb looked over the death certificate, and I took a closer look at the corpse. The skin around the neck stump was smooth; it looked to me as if the head had come off cleanly. The likelihood of that happening from a car was slim.
Even more unlikely were the marks on her hands. Her fingertips were just fleshy stumps; they’d been cut off.
I looked higher, and discovered several bruises on her shoulders and arms. Angry, oval shapes. Some had flesh missing.
Bite marks.
Her legs were splayed open, knees bent as if she were giving birth. I noticed some soft tissue damage to the vagina, felt my stomach becoming unhappy, and looked away.
“Where’s her head?” I asked.
“Her head? Um, it was crushed in the wreck.”
“Shouldn’t it still be here?”
“I cremated the head and vital organs earlier today. The family wanted her cremated.”
“Why didn’t you cremate her as well?”
Rushlo scratched the back of his neck.
“I was going to do that later today.” One eye on me, one on Herb. “The crematory is sort of on the fritz, and it works better in sections.”
“Where’s the autopsy report?” Herb asked.
“The autopsy report? I have no idea. It should be around. You’d be surprised how often paperwork gets misplaced.”
He giggled, manic.
“Do you have a cell phone, Derrick?”
“Um, sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Is it the kind that you buy phone cards for, so there’s no contract with the provider?”
He opened his mouth, lips forming a yes, but he stopped himself.
“I think I’d like a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest, Derrick. Why would you need a lawyer?”
He folded his arms.
“I’m not saying anything else without my attorney present.”
I glanced at the corpse, 90 percent sure it was Eileen Hutton. I recalled seeing a hairbrush when we’d searched her apartment. All I needed was one strand of hair with the end bulb still attached, and I could get a DNA match.
But, contrary to cop shows on television, DNA testing took weeks, even the rush jobs.
In the meantime, we couldn’t arrest Rushlo for anything. I needed something immediately incriminating. We needed to find the TracFone.
“I’m going to call my lawyer now.”
He walked out of the room. I nodded at Herb, who followed. He’d watch who Rushlo called, making sure he didn’t alert whoever his accomplice was.
I pulled on some latex gloves and began by searching the cabinets lining the rear wall. I found tubing, trocars, scalpels, a box of something called “eye caps,” gallon jugs of various fluids, and a few extra scrubs.
The closet held a foul-smelling mop and bucket, some dirty rags, and several containers of bleach. Looking at the bleach, I thought of Davi’s severed arms. Nausea be damned, I went back to the corpse and sniffed her cold hand.
Bleach. She’d been washed down, the same as Davi.
Several stained embalming books sat on the counter, along with a tray of sharp instruments. One drawer was stuffed with a large wad of cotton. Another had several unopened packs of large, curved needles.
In the final drawer, near the back, rested a small metal box with a wire handle. A cash box. It had a combination lock on the front.
I took it out, gave it a tiny shake. Something bumped around inside. Something that didn’t sound like cash.
I picked up a clean-looking scalpel and spent about a minute trying to pry open the top. It held.
I left the prep room with the box, and found Herb and Rushlo in the arrangement office. Rushlo sat behind his desk, looking six kinds of nervous. Herb busied himself searching the bookshelves.
“What’s in the box, Derrick?”
I tossed it onto his desk. The thud made him jump.
“That’s private.”
“We have a blanket warrant. That entitles us to search anything we’re interested in. Open it up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Did he contact a lawyer?”
Benedict nodded.
“Not cooperating with us is just making it harder on yourself, Derrick. Open the box.”
He folded his arms and tucked his chin into his chest, like a petulant child.
“I’ve got a crowbar in the Camaro. Want me to get it?”
“Thanks, Herb.”
Benedict waddled off. I sat in the chair across from Rushlo, leaning toward him.
“Let me tell you what I think, Derrick. I think you faked that death certificate. I think that woman in the embalming room is actually Eileen Hutton. I think I’ll be able to prove that. The head may be gone, and the fingerprints may be gone, but we’ve got more than enough DNA to make a positive ID.”
Rushlo began to rock back and forth, humming to himself.