Johnny Gruesome (13 page)

“Better, I guess.” Did he appear as sick as he felt?

“Glad to hear it. I know you’ve had a terrible shock.” He gestured with his hat. “Why don’t you have a seat? I need to ask you a few questions.”

Eric sat beside his mother on the sofa. He prayed this wouldn’t take long.

Returning to the chair, Matt leaned forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. “First let me say how sorry I am about Johnny.”

He had never dealt with the death of someone close to him before. How was a person supposed to respond to condolences? “Thanks.”

“I know he drove you to school yesterday. Did you see him after that?”

Eric nodded. “He picked me up after wrestling practice.”

Matt took a pen and a small notebook from his breast pocket. “When was that?”

“Around six o’clock.”

Matt jotted down the information. “Did you go anywhere after that?”

“He drove us around town—”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “‘Us?’”

“Gary and Karen—Gary Belter and Karen Slatter. Karen’s—was—Johnny’s girl.”

Matt recorded the names. “They were in the car when Johnny picked you up?”

“Yes.”

“And you just drove around town?”

“Uh-huh. You know, back road stuff. There isn’t a lot to do around here.”

“Don’t I know it. How long did you cruise?”

“An hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Did you drink any alcohol?”

Eric felt his mother’s gaze on him. “There was a case of beer in the car. I took one just so Johnny would leave me alone.”

“How about Gary and Karen?”

“They had some, too.”

“And Johnny—?”

Eric hesitated. “He had a lot. Half the case, I’d say.”

Matt stared at him, his expression unreadable. “How would you describe his behavior?”

Eric paused for dramatic effect. “Out of control.”

“How so?”

“He was angry that Mr. Milton suspended him for fighting Todd Kumler. Todd started the fight, and Johnny thought it was unfair he was the one who got punished.”

“Okay. So you’re driving around and Johnny’s drinking. What else?”

This is it.
“I never saw him like that before. He was speeding, and he played chicken with this car out by the cemetery. It was pretty scary. We told him to calm down, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept shouting about Todd and Mr. Milton and—” He stopped, uncertainty in his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Crane.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Why was he mad at my wife?”

“She broke up his fight with Todd and took him to Mr. Milton’s office.”

Matt pursed his lips. “I see.”

“We told him to stop speeding or we were getting out. He accused us of ganging up on him and pulled over and kicked us out.”

“Where was this?”

“Out on Route 20, near Willow Road.”

“What time was that?”

“I’m not sure. Around eight, I guess. He left us in the middle of nowhere, so we walked back to town. We thought he’d cool off and come back for us, but he never did.”

“When did you get home?”

“A little after ten?” Eric looked at Pat, who nodded, a blank expression on her face.

Matt furrowed his eyebrows. “It took you two hours to get back?”

“We went to Johnny’s house first, because Gary left his truck there. Then we drove around looking for Johnny.”

“Why?”

Eric held Matt’s unwavering gaze. “We were worried about him.”

Matt closed his notebook and put it away. “Okay, Eric.” He stood. “Thanks for your time. You’ve been a big help. At least I understand Johnny’s state of mind.”

“You’re welcome.”

Pat walked Matt to the door, and through the picture window Eric watched him climb into his vehicle and drive away.

We just might get away with this
.

Saturday morning

T
he smell of ammonia burned Matt’s nostrils as he followed the Asian woman through swinging doors set in blue ceramic walls. Dressed in green surgical scrubs, with her hair pulled back beneath her cap, she walked with authority despite her short height. They crossed a wide corridor before entering the autopsy room, and Matt’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the sterile floor.

Dr. Ronald Beelock, the county’s assistant medical examiner, stood over a stainless-steel table in the dark room. Johnny’s naked corpse lay faceup on the table, his blue skin and purple veins glowing beneath an overhead work light. A clock on the wall showed 10:15, and a waltz Matt didn’t recognize came from a CD player as frigid air-conditioning descended in sheets from a ceiling vent.

“Good morning, Chief Crane,” Beelock said. “You’re very punctual.” Also dressed in scrubs, Beelock stood six feet tall. A thick nose separated beady brown eyes with heavy lids, and a lock of dark hair dangled from beneath his cap.

“That’s just ‘acting chief,’ Doc. I’m still pulling for Walt Butler’s return.”

“This is your first autopsy, isn’t it?”

Matt nodded, trying not to frown. The pathologist’s breath reeked of whiskey. “That’s right. Under the circumstances, I figured it was time I sat in on one of them.”

Beelock eyed the water dripping from the brim of Matt’s hat. “Don’t tell me it’s raining?”

“‘The angels are crying.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say.” Matt lowered his eyes to the cadaver on the table. A straight line across Johnny’s throat separated his dark red face from his blue body. His lips had turned black, and a white film covered his open eyes. Fine black hair crisscrossed his chest, and his abdominal muscles resembled a six-pack. His testicles were bloated, and the big toe of his right foot had been tagged with an identification number.

Matt had seen his share of dead bodies. They came with the territory: mangled corpses in car wrecks, heart attack victims, even a suicide-hanging. But something about Johnny’s death didn’t sit well with him, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He removed a set of photographs from his coat pocket and held them out. “These are for you.”

Beelock nodded at a bare counter. “Would you mind spreading them out over there?”

Matt laid out a half-dozen photos of Johnny slumped over inside his car.

Beelock clucked his tongue. “What a waste. Susan and I already took X-rays and fingerprints, scraped under his fingernails, drew blood, and took pubic samples and anal swabs. But you haven’t missed the good stuff.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Beelock pointed at large plastic containers on the counter, each translucent and identified by a sticker. “We’re finished with the clothes, which can go back to the family. Speaking of clothes, Susan, please take Chief Crane’s hat and coat.”

“Certainly.” Susan took Matt’s garments into an adjacent room.

Beelock leaned over Johnny’s torso. “Would you like a stool?”

“I think I’ll stand.”

Beelock offered a faint smile. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” He pulled a cart closer, metal instruments gleaming on a tray. Susan returned, pulling on a pair of latex gloves that snapped tight around her wrists. Matt steeled his nerves, the antiseptic odors playing havoc with the digestion of his breakfast.

Beelock adjusted a microphone suspended from the ceiling and activated it. Leaning over Johnny’s body, he announced the day and date. “I’m Doctor Ronald Beelock, assistant medical examiner for the county of Chautauqua, in the state of New York. This is case 02-021, John Vincent Grissom. Assisting me is Susan Wong, and observing is Matthew Crane, acting chief of police for the village of Red Hill. The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished, seventeen-year-old Caucasian male with black hair and brown eyes. It is seventy-two inches high and weighs one hundred and forty-six pounds. Rigor mortis is present in the extremities, and lividity has set in.”

He pulled Johnny’s lips back and inspected his mouth. “The victim’s teeth are generally in good shape, with three fillings.”

I’m not a horse, goddamn you!

Beelock circled the table, and Susan stepped out of his way. “There’s a mole on his left forearm, and scars on his right knee, upper lip, and right shoulder. There’s a tattoo of a bat on his right bicep. I see a bruise on his right breast and an abrasion on his jaw—”

“He was in a fight the morning before his death,” Matt said.

Beelock raised one hand for silence. “Vessels are occluded, and his face and neck are congested and dark red, indicating cyanosis.” He reached up and switched off the digital recorder. “That concludes the external portion of our examination.”

That wasn’t so bad,
Matt thought. Then Susan sponged the body down and he swallowed.

Beelock crossed the room to a metal desk. He opened the drawer and took out a half-full bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. “Can I interest you in a belt, Matthew?”

Matt shook his head. “Not while I’m on duty.”
And not when I feel sick to my stomach.

Beelock poured a double shot of whiskey into one glass. “Very commendable, but I think I’ll have a splash by myself, if you don’t mind. I know it’s unprofessional, but it fights off the cold in here.”

“Do what you have to.” I’d probably drink, too, if I had to deal with dead bodies all day.

Beelock drained the glass in a single gulp, then returned the bottle to its hiding place. At the table, he switched the recorder back on and selected a scalpel from the instrument tray. Gleaming beneath the overhead light, it sliced into Johnny’s flesh.

What the fuck?