Always Kiss the Corpse (6 page)

“I have here,” he took an envelope from his shirt pocket, “a letter to you from Andrei Vasiliadis, Sandro's uncle. It says you are to let me see the body.”

Martin's eyes widened. “That's not possible.”

Philip contained his irritation. “Why not?”

“Because I don't have the body.”

“What?”

Martin shrugged. “As I said. The body's gone. Back to the morgue.”

Philip stifled his anger. “Why?”

“I told you. We don't take unidentified bodies.”

“But you also said the body arrived with the proper papers.”

“Until the lady who should know her son announced this wasn't him.”

“Wait a minute. Didn't Mr. Vasiliadis tell you to do nothing till he contacted you?”

“He may have. In the meantime, I was holding a body and its identity was in dispute. Oceanside is not a place for derelicts.”

“Did you embalm him?”

“Of course.”

Philip folded his fingers together and stared at them. “At the morgue, you say.” He watched Martin nod as he pulled out his cellphone. “Do you have the number?”

“Use my phone, press two.”

Philip did, wondering whom he'd get if he pushed one. From a pleasant but unbudging bureaucratic voice at the other end he learned it was impossible for a citizen to see a corpse without the approval of Burt Vanderhoek, Sheriff of Island County. And where could Sheriff Vanderhoek be found? Check out his office. Which Philip tried, to be told the sheriff would be on duty this evening. If Dr. Deriades arrived at the office at seven-thirty, the sheriff, barring emergencies, would see him. Philip got the address.

He turned to Claude Martin. “Mr.Vasiliadis won't be happy you returned his nephew's body to the morgue.”

“I'm not certain this was the nephew—” the curved lip non-smile, “after the mother's repudiation.”

“Your responsibility was to—”

Martin held one hand up, limp fingers curved toward Philip. “I will apologize when the matter is settled.”

When—that is, if—Andrei pays you, you mean, Philip thought as he stood. “Thank you for your time.” He turned, opened the door, walked through the white hall and out to his car.

Dinner. He remembered restaurants along the waterfront. He found a red false-fronted place, Toby's; looked like a pub. Inside, most tables were full. He was given a place near the door, ate mussels and fries, drank some draft ale, and was finished by 7:20. He drove uphill to the sheriff's office.

The door was locked. As he turned around, a truck pulled into the parking lot, two dogs on the bed. They growled at Philip. The driver's door opened. Philip noted a rifle hanging on a rack inside the rear window. A man unwound himself and stepped out. Tall and corpulent. Khaki uniform.

“Sheriff Vanderhoek?”

“Who wants to know?” Philip introduced himself. “Well, come in then.”

In the office, desk and tables cluttered with files, many open and enmeshed with each other. He showed Vanderhoek the letter from Andrei and explained his need to see the corpse.

“Stupid case,” said the sheriff.

Why stupid? What cases were less stupid? “Can I get your okay to take a look?”

“Tonight?”

“I'd prefer not to have to come back.”

“Not supposed to get morgue entrance 'cept during the day.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody official there.”

“Isn't the morgue part of your jurisdiction?”

The sheriff considered this. “Probably. Just as soon get rid of this one.”

Philip couldn't help himself. “Why?”

“Bodies complicate things.”

That they do, Philip thought; alive or dead. “Possible to speak with the coroner?”

“Tomorrow.”

“May I see the report?”

The sheriff searched through a precarious pile of papers on the table behind him. He handed Philip a thin file.

Labeled Vasiliadis, Alessandro. Little information. Description of the body, but Philip would do his own exam. Cause of death, respiratory arrest. Puncture marks in left arm, noted as intravenous administration of heroin. Overdose? Found in the blockhouse at the cemetery. Sloppy report. And an embalmed body can't tell much of a story. He handed the file back to the sheriff.

Philip followed the sheriff's truck up two streets to the hospital. The sheriff parked and told the dogs to be good guys.

The hospital was a neat one-floor facility; sixty-eight beds, in double and single rooms, the sheriff told Philip, and two operating theaters. In the basement, storage. And the morgue, with an attendant, reading a small-format
Archie and Veronica
comic book, seated near the door. “Billy, you want to show the doctor here the corpse? I got to get back to the office.”

Philip said, “Only one corpse?”

“Coupeville's a quiet town.”

The sheriff left. Billy wheeled a gurney to the far end of the room. Philip followed. Billy opened a small door, slid a slab holding a sheet-covered mass onto the flat bed, unveiled the face.

Drained, the face suggested what Sandro might have looked like without a beard: narrow cheeks, small chin, full lips. The rest of the face showed some likeness to the Sandro whom Philip had seen over the years at Vasiliadis parties—brow, cheekbones, eye-hollows, nose, ears. “I'm going to examine the body, Billy.”

Billy shrugged. “Sure.” He returned to his chair and comic book.

This was Philip's least favorite medical role. Here was a major cause for his interest in preventive medicine. He should have brought Herb Feverel along. Not only was Herb a fine endocrinologist, it'd be good to react out loud right now. Herb did owe him a couple of favors. Gloved, gowned, and masked, Philip found his mind returning to medical school days when they'd each had their own cadaver. Okay, here goes.

Face, devoid of facial hair. Dark hair on top of the head, looking black but technically a dark brown, before always short, now long and arranged along the brow, behind the cheeks, along the sides of the neck; Claude Martin's doing, Philip assumed. He didn't recognize the chin line, and couldn't say for certain if the lips were fuller, as a mustache had always drooped there. He reached over and with some difficulty raised one of the eyelids; the pupil was clouded, but dilated. He drew the sheet further down and was struck by the heavy breast tissue. Not huge, a fat man's breasts. But the corpse was slender. Nipples normal size. A bluish tinge to the skin. No chest hair. He'd never seen Sandro in a bathing suit so had no image to compare. He examined the arms. Again, almost no hair. On the inside of the left upper arm, nine puncture marks, small red spots irregularly placed, tissues surrounding injection sites variously bruised. Had Sandro sold his blood to buy dope? Wrong place. What kind of needle marks? Best guess was heroin tracks, don't try to force conclusions. He pulled the sheet down to show Sandro's genitals. Penis normal. Testes enormous, size of a couple of small grapefruit. Strange. Who was Sandro's physician? Legs normal. Again, very little hair.

He covered the corpse, de-gloved, de-gowned, made preliminary notes. “Thanks, Billy.”

He got to the last ferry for Mukilteo with twenty minutes to spare. From the car he called Herb in Seattle for an instant consult, describing the body. It sounded to Herb as if Sandro had been undergoing substantial hormone treatment. For what? Impossible to tell without examining the corpse. Maybe some kind of sexual readjustment, some hormone combination that had increased both the man's masculinity and his femininity. With the facial hair gone and the enlarged breast tissue, the best guess was he'd been treated with a range of female hormones. Hormonal shifts that powerful could lead to strong mood shifts, possibly contributing to suicide. Philip should definitely locate Sandro's doctor.

Would Herb be willing to look at the body? Herb was pretty busy—Philip would appreciate it
very
much. Well, Herb could take a quick trip up early tomorrow.

On the ferry Philip mulled over what he'd learned. A new level of confusion.

≈  ≈  ≈

Noel and Kyra returned to her condo around nine. The answering machine flashed. She pressed Play. Jerome's voice, asking her to call. Background voice of Nelson, bark, bark.

Kyra, hand on the phone, said to Noel, “Vodka's in the freezer.” She glanced at the sofa. “Oh, I haven't done your bed.”

“Make you a drink?”

Yes, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. “I'll see what Jerome wants first.”

She'd look up Jerome's number—Oh, here it was, memorized already. Hmm.

He answered on the second ring. “Hello? Shut up, Nelson!”

“Hi. What's up?”

“Any idea how many vegetarians you're having on Thursday?”

“Not me, not Noel.” Oh dear, Kyra thought, she still hadn't reached Jacquie and Margery—oops. Sarah and Mike were set.

“I was going to bring Oysters Rockefeller.”

“Oh my.”

“And Crab Cardinale.”

“Yum. But that's a lot for a potluck. And neither of those are one-potters.”

“They're one-dishers.”

“If you say so.”

“I'm looking forward to Thursday.” His voice had softened.

“Me too.” She realized she wanted to continue talking with him, just for the pleasure of it. But she'd better phone the others before it got too late.

“How's it going with the woman whose son it wasn't?” Jerome, moving into relaxed.

Jerome, the potluck, the case. Her brain felt a little jerked. She got up, waved from the doorway to get Noel's attention, made drink-pouring motions. “It's all still confusing, Jerome. We might have to go to Whidbey Island tomorrow.”

“You be careful,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Take my phone numbers with you.”

“They're in my book.”

He hesitated. “Kyra? Please take care.”

“Always.”

Noel handed her a vodka and tonic water. She drank. Her ice clinked. A nice, lingering hang-up. Kyra fast-dialed Margery, apologies for the lateness—yes, she could come, and may she bring her sister's friend Bettina, just moved to Bellingham? Sure. Jacquie declined, an evening with her mother. Kyra collapsed on the sofa with Noel's TV news and sipped her nightcap. Did the rearranged room actually feel more comfortable?

FOUR

Wednesday morning Kyra and Noel were on the road shortly after nine. Yesterday's wind had blown the clouds away, and uncommon March sunlight soaked the greening earth. The Tracker bounced along. Noel gloried in crocuses, hyacinths, flowering cherries, plums, and magnolias. Miraculous spring! Hard, on a sopping winter day, to believe spring will someday return. The sun warmed his face.

Before leaving, Kyra had handed him a key. “Here.”

“What?”

“Yours. To the US office of Triple-I.”

“Your place?”

“I have the Triple-I Canada key. Your place.”

“Thanks.” He smiled and pocketed it.

“Coupeville's about an hour. Time for coffee.” She hesitated. “Uhmm—our appointments are at ten-thirty.”

“The same time?”

Kyra flicked him a glance.

“The only morning time for both the sheriff and the funeral guy.” She sensed his irritation.

“Sweetheart. We're partners, right? Partners consult, right? As you have frequently pointed out.” Noel closed his eyes against the sun.

She caught a muscle jumping by the corner of his mouth. “You were shaving and all that. I thought it'd be okay.”

He clicked his tongue in exasperation.

“Which do you want, the law or the funeral parlor?”

“Doesn't matter.” But it did.

“Toss, then.”

Noel dug a quarter out of his pocket—Canadian, should've raided his American change jar back in Nanaimo, hoped he wouldn't need to feed a parking meter—and flipped. “You call.”

“Heads.”

“The Queen it is.” Noel put the quarter away.

“I'll take the sheriff.”

He'd known which she'd choose. He would have to walk into a mortuary. Again. “You know where these places are?” He saw Brendan in the small, silent room, lying still and white. He—No, not now.

“Coupeville's not big. We'll find them.” Kyra's voice softened. “And, sorry, I should've yelled louder than your ablutions.”

“Doesn't matter.” Though it did. He rubbed his nose. “So. What do we know?”

“We know Garth believes the body is Sandro. Maria doesn't. Why not? Because it isn't, or because she's denying her son's dead? Whoever it is, he died of a heroin overdose.”

”I'll make a note.” Noel opened his laptop. “We know Sandro had good friends and hated sports.”

“Two people remarked on the absence of his heavy beard.”

“Actually,” Noel recalled, “no facial hair at all. Different from not having a beard. What makes facial hair disappear?”

“Chemotherapy? You mean, did he have cancer?”

“Hair on his head. Maybe electrolysis?”

“Would one take heroin for pain relief?

“Maybe marijuana?”

“Marijuana's more for nausea and poor appetite,” Kyra stated. “Anyway, not in this US of A. Canada can legislate marijuana for medical purposes, but not us. Marijuana's the Official Weed of the Devil.”

“Some states have done so.”

“It's not federal.”

Noel nodded. “Are we sure he was on heroin?”

“That's what the report says, apparently.”

“Are we sure he was an addict?”

Kyra thought for a moment. “Both his mother and Garth insisted, no way would Sandro take drugs.”

“Which could mean it isn't Sandro. Which is what we have to focus on. We're hired to find out if he's dead or not, that's all.” Noel stared through the windshield. They were entering the Skagit Valley, an alluvial plain given over to farms. Fields were brown and fallow, dotted with large puddles the strengthening sun tried to dry. Some showed the light green of early growth.