Final Words (21 page)

Her mental issues he would learn to deal with.

* * * * *

“Marta, it’s me.” Clutching her phone, Emma paced behind her
desk. Outside her office window, dusk painted the sky a deep violet so intense
it made her eyes ache. “Did you know a detective named Tyrone Sharpe who was
killed a few months ago?”

“Yes.” Keyboard clatter underscored Marta’s voice. “In fact,
he was shot the morning before your accident. He died that evening. I remember
because I had to deal with the media about it in the middle of worrying about
you.”

“Do you have any leads on who killed him?”

“None and it’s a sore spot. Any time a cop goes down—”

“There was nothing unusual about the case?”

“Well…” Marta hesitated and Emma realized that her friend
had stopped typing. “The DA’s office doesn’t like to slam the reputation of a
man who was once a good cop.”

“Once?”

Marta hesitated again. “Tyrone was a heavy cocaine addict. I
guess the job got to him. That happens to a lot of cops. He used the drug to
deal with it.”

Turning to her desk, Emma stared at the report on her
computer screen. “According to his tox reports, he had recently inhaled a large
amount of almost pure coke.”

“That isn’t common knowledge. Edgar did the autopsy himself
and he’s kept the results quiet.”

“I’m sure the police department appreciated that.”

“They did.” Marta’s tone changed, becoming more
businesslike. “Why are you interested in Tyrone Sharpe? Did you open him up
again? Did you find something new that I need to know about?”

“Open him up again? How could I do that?”

“His body was exhumed yesterday. He’s back at the morgue.”

“What?” Emma jerked toward her computer.

“Apparently the chief of detectives found some discrepancies
between Sharpe’s first autopsy and the crime scene. He wanted Edgar to
double-check a few things.”

“Thanks, Marta.” Without saying goodbye, Emma hung up.
Leaning over her keyboard, she pressed the down cursor and scanned near the end
of the listing on her screen. Sure enough, Tyrone’s body had been returned to
the morgue and was in drawer number seventeen in the cooler room.

Excitement rippled through her. Paul Sanders had killed
Graham Jones because he knew the boy would never be competent to stand trial
and would never be punished for his crimes. If Paul believed that Tyrone had
lost his usefulness as a police officer or that he would never be punished,
either…

At this point, only Tyrone’s spirit could tell her.

Grabbing her card key, Emma headed downstairs.

No one questioned her when she walked into the cooler room.
None of the attendants even blinked when she opened drawer seventeen and pulled
out the tray. Talbot Williams, the man she asked to transfer the bagged body to
a gurney, merely grunted and did as she asked. Within minutes, Emma had Tyrone
Sharpe on her table in the autopsy suite. Talbot returned to the cooler room.

Alone, she stood over the body. The murdered detective had
been about Jason’s age but he looked older, harder. Despite the best efforts of
the mortician and embalmer, stark lines revealed the hold cocaine had gotten
over him in the last months of his life. And the incisions from the first
autopsy—the ME who’d performed it had taken obvious care with his patient.

Emma lifted her hands. After a brief hesitation, she placed
them on the dead man’s cold arm. She lifted her eyes. Darkness lurked beyond
the golden ring cast by the task light above the table. Shadows of furniture
and stainless steel counters huddled in that darkness but she saw no sign of
movement.

She whispered, “Tyrone?”

A chill shuddered down her spine at the sound of her own
voice in that still, dark room. She took another breath and spoke a little
louder. “Tyrone Sharpe?”

“Yeah?”

The answer was little more than a breath. But it was enough
to draw her gaze to the vague figure at the foot of the table. The other
apparitions had been transparent but they had looked real. Tyrone looked like
what he was…a ghost.

As another shudder ran through her, Emma forced herself to
speak again. “I’m sorry you had to be brought back to the morgue, Tyrone.
Please tell me who killed you.”

“I can’t remember much about…anything.” He lifted a hand and
ran it slowly down his face. “Does it really matter?”

“It matters.” She moved down the table, closer to the spirit’s
chill. “Did you ever counsel with Dr. Paul Sanders?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. He didn’t think I’d beat the coke.
Said I didn’t want to beat it. It made me do things…lose evidence, lose my
temper.” A weary, eerie sigh eased out of him. “Lose my mind.”

“Who killed you, Tyrone?”

He watched her with dark, tired eyes. “That’s why I’m here,
isn’t it? To tell you what happened to me?”

“Emma?”

At the sound of the flesh-and-blood voice, Emma whipped
around. Jason stood in the doorway leading in from the prep room. The glow from
the task light just reached him and she saw his eyes widen as he looked at the
body on the table.

His face went pale. “Good Lord, what are you doing?”

Panic numbed her vocal chords. She had to tell him
something, to explain what she was doing with his friend. But could she take
this leap of trust and give up her complete secret to him?

“Hey, buddy.” Tyrone’s spirit drifted toward Jason. Life
sparked in the dark eyes. “Long time no see.”

Unaware of the spirit, Jason looked back at Emma. “What are
you doing?” he repeated, his voice hoarse.

“Your boss wanted Tyrone’s body exhumed.” Her own voice came
out only slightly deeper than a squeak. “To recheck some things.

“It’s already been done.
Your
boss took care of it
today.” He took a step toward her. “What are you doing?”

Emma glanced from the man to the spirit and back again. She
felt everything she’d been dreaming about earlier tonight slipping away. “I
needed to know some things.”

“Emma—” Jason’s voice caught. “Leave him be.”

Tyrone’s spirit smiled faintly and drifted near the couple. “Tell
him. Jason’s a good guy. He’ll help you.”

“There’s no time.” Emma took a deep breath and went on with
what she needed to do. “Tyrone, tell me who killed you.”

Striding forward, Jason grabbed her arm. His eyes were wild
now. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Tell him.” Tyrone drifted closer. “Tell him now.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I see the spirits of the
people I work on.” As horror darkened Jason’s eyes, she began to talk faster. “I
think Paul Sanders killed some of his patients, Jason. You told me about Tyrone
counseling with Sanders so I checked his autopsy record. When I found out his
body was here, I—”

“For God’s sake, Emma!” Jason looked at her just the way she’d
feared he would, as if she’d lost her mind. “Come with me. I’ll get you some
help.”

Across the table, Tyrone chuckled. “He always did believe
only what he could see. Have you slept with him yet?”

Emma glared at the apparition. “What?”

“It’s a simple question. From what I heard, you’d remember
if you did. The boy had quite a rep around the station.”

“I know all about his reputation,” she replied. “And that’s
none of your business.”

Jason shook her arm. “Emma, snap out of it!”

“Ask him where he got the scar,” Tyrone said. “Inside right
thigh. Up high. Only those who’ve been intimate—or drunk—with him would know it
was there.”

She looked at Jason. “Tyrone told me to ask you about the
scar on your right thigh. He says it’s in a place that only a lover…” she
darted another glare at the amused apparition, “or a drinking buddy would ever
see.”

Jason’s face blanched further and a shudder coursed through
him. Hands falling away, he backed off. “What did you say?”

“Your scar,” she said again. “How did you get it?”

“Never mind.” Tyrone stopped drifting as his form grew ever
fainter. “I’ll tell you and you tell him. He was balancing on a picket fence
one night after we’d tied one on.”

Emma looked back at Jason. Standing between her and Tyrone,
wide-eyed gaze fixed on her face, he seemed unaware of the trembling in his own
body.

Emma tucked her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “He
says you were climbing a fence one night after you’d been drinking together.”

“Sweet Dr. St. Clair, tell it like I’m tellin’ it, please.”
Tyrone heaved another great breath. “We’d gone off-duty but got called back in
to check out a case of cow-tipping.”

“You were checking out a case of cow-tipping,” Emma repeated.

Jason stared at her, horror growing in his eyes.

“He lost his balance and fell,” Tyrone said. “Straight down.”

Emma winced. “You lost your balance and fell.”

“Missed his jewels by half an inch,” Tyrone went on. “Bit
further to the left and he could kiss any future kids goodbye.”

“He says you hurt yourself on one of the pickets, just
inches from your…”

Jason’s eyes widened further and he stared at his friend’s
body.

Tyrone chuckled. “I laughed so hard I almost forgot to help
him stop the bleeding.”

“Tyrone laughed so hard he almost forgot to help you stop
the bleeding.” Emma spoke more slowly, her voice growing dry.

“He swore me to secrecy. Told me I’d better take this story
to my grave.”

“You made him promise to take the story to his grave.”

“And I did,” Tyrone said.

Emma swallowed. “And he did.”

Jason began to sway on his feet. But before Emma could reach
out to him, he leaned against the autopsy table and stared down at his dead
friend. His body began to shake.

Emma gave her full attention to Tyrone’s spirit. “Who killed
you, Tyrone?”

“I remember.” Tyrone’s voice grew breathier, his image
hazier. “Paul Sanders. He came to the club that night. Told me I’d never be a
decent cop again. That I’d be happier with the coke. Then he gave me a nice hit
and when I was flying, he shot me. He made it real easy, Dr. St. Clair. I
didn’t feel a thing.”

Emma reached one hand toward his spirit but then lowered it
to her side. “Tyrone. I’m so sorry.”

“Gotta go.” He inclined his head toward Jason. “Say goodbye
to my boy there, will you?”

“I will.”

Tyrone’s spirit faded.

Emma touched Jason’s arm. His flesh was cold and constant
shivers coursed through him. “He’s gone,” she said. “Let me get Talbot to put
him back in the cooler. Then we’ll get you up to my office.”

Jason tried to listen as Emma led him from the autopsy suite
to the shower area. But her words made no sense. Nothing made sense. Tyrone’s
body… It was ghoulish. Was she was so obsessed with the dead that she would
violate his friend?

That thought chilled him to the marrow of his bones. There
had to be some other answer that made sense.

“How did you know about the scar on my leg?” he demanded. “How
did you know about the cow-tipping? Only Tyrone—”

Putting her hands on his shoulders, she pushed him down on a
bench in front of the showers. Stripping off her lab coat, she tossed it into a
bin near the wall. “I should have told you before but I was afraid to.”

“Tyrone is dead.” Catching her hands, he pulled her down
beside him. “You couldn’t have talked to him tonight because he died months
ago. The same night that Brian died.”

“You felt his presence tonight, Jason. You felt the cold.
You shivered when he came close to you.”

Jason remembered the strange sensation in the autopsy room.
It had felt as if the blood drained from his flesh. But that must have been
from the shock of seeing Tyrone’s body. At the funeral, he’d seen a carefully
made-up version of his friend, at rest and wearing clothes. Tonight…those marks
from the autopsy…

Emma squeezed his hands. “I had a near-death experience. I
left my body and watched the ER staff work on me. I even saw you come into the
emergency room.”

Jason waited for a punch line he knew wasn’t coming.

“I saw it all, Jason. Everything you’ve ever heard about
near-death experiences. I left my body, entered a corridor—a tunnel. I saw a
light. It was so peaceful there and I wanted to stay. But it wasn’t my time. I
had to come back.” She leaned toward him. “You were part of the reason.”

He shook his head. “How did you know about my scar? How did
you know—”

“Tyrone told me. Just like the other spirits told me things.
Amalia Campanero. Robert Harris. Dennis Turner.” She tightened her hands around
his. “Since the night of the hit-and-run, since I died on that emergency room
table, I’ve been able to communicate with the dead.”

Her words punched him in the gut. He jerked his hands from
hers. “Stop.”

“I can’t communicate with everyone. Only the ones who come
to my autopsy table. Their souls speak to me, Jason.”

Jason stared into her eyes but saw no trace of madness or
levity or anything other than a solid belief in her own words. And that scared
the hell out of him.

Emma pressed her palms open on her lap. “At first I thought
I was hallucinating from stress or from my injury—”

“That’s it.” He latched onto that rational explanation. “You
were hallucinating. You’d been hurt and—”

“Then how did I know that Amalia Campanero’s brother killed
her? How did I know his name was Jaime and that they’d argued? How did I know
where to find Craig Potter and the gun he used to kill Dennis Turner? There was
no anonymous caller.”

“There has to be a logical explanation for all that.” He
forced himself to calm down so he could get through to her. So they could get
back to where they were this afternoon. In the park. In the sunlight. “People
cannot communicate with the dead.”

She gazed steadily at him. “Then tell me how I knew the
secret your friend took to the grave with him.”

No one had known. He hadn’t even gone to a doctor, had just
swabbed himself with alcohol and antibiotic ointment and then put a butterfly
bandage on the wound.

Nausea churned up his stomach. “Maybe you can read minds or
something.”

A patient smile played at the corners of her lips. “You
believe in psychic powers but not in spirits?”

“Hell, no!” Anger flushed his nausea away. “Why did you have
him on that table tonight? Who gave you the right to—”

“I found out that Tyrone had been seeing Dr. Sanders.” She
spoke quickly now, cutting him off when he tried to interrupt. “I autopsied a
young man the other day. Graham Jones. He told me that Dr. Sanders killed him.”

“Stop it, Emma.”

She raised her voice. “But he offered no proof. Then when I
found out that Tyrone had been seeing Paul and that his body had been brought
back to the morgue for more study, I thought maybe I could get the proof I
needed from him.”

Jason’s mouth filled with spit. He swallowed hard. “So you…”
He stopped, unable to say it.

“All I did was touch his arm. Please, Jason. Believe that I
would never have disturbed your friend if there was another way. But he told me
he was actually waiting to talk to me. I don’t know why but…” She lowered her
voice to a thoughtful tone. “It must have something to do with the fact that we
died on the same day.”

He shot to his feet, whirled away, shoving both hands
through his hair. “This is insane!”

“The others told me how they died and in every case they
were right.” Her voice trembled and grew thick. “I wanted to hear it from
Tyrone. I wanted him to tell me who killed him. And he did. It was Paul
Sanders, Jason. Just like Graham Jones and who knows how many others.”

“That’s nuts too.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her
wince again and knew that his words were hurting her. But part of him wanted to
hurt her for putting him through this, for dragging him through Tyrone’s death
again, for bringing back the bitter grief of his losses. For putting an end to
the dream he’d started to spin about a normal life with a woman he could love.

Another part of him wanted to comfort Emma, to help her find
her way out of this terrible fantasy world she’d built around herself.

Returning to the bench, he sat beside her and took her hands
again. “Emma, the dead can’t speak. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. You can’t
communicate with them.”

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “You’re still so hurt
that you can’t hear what I’m saying. I saw Rose that night. She spoke to me.
She wants you to let go of your guilt.”