Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter 24

No case
I’
ve ever worked has made me hate being here like Megalo Do
n’
s.  None has ever made me more anxious to be standing right where I am.  Within minutes,
I’
ll know whether my investigation is moving forward, or stalling. 

I push into the Campbell County, Kentucky morgue, shrugging when I read the sign above the door. 
Cadavers are people, too
. 

The man, who many allege is my father, greets me.
 “
Hello, Detective Hawks
,”
he says, proudly, and then adds
,“
son
.
”

I can never bump into him, personally or professionally, and not come unglued when he calls me
,“
son
.
”
 
Does he use it with everyone younger than he is, or just me? 

“
You here to see the latest vic
?”
he asks.

I see why people say h
e’
s my daddy.  H
e’
s an older version o
f—
me.  Carrying himself with a tall ma
n’
s sureness, h
e’
s got blonde hair going gray, but i
t’
s his eyes that convince me
I’
m his son.  The
y’
re green like mine, and equally a
s—
I hate to say thi
s—
hawkish.  And handsome.

As they say here in Kentucky
,“I’
m his spitti
n
’ image
.
”

Have I also inherited his libido? 
I’
ve more than a little trouble imagining this old dude and my mother rolling around in the sack.    

“
Any time yo
u’
re ready
,”
I say, ditching my prurient thoughts.
 “
Le
t’
s have a look
.
”

Doctor Ed Smalle
y’
s been Campbell Count
y’
s coroner for three decades.  H
e’
s run up a liquor tab larger than the national debt at the Newport Country Club for far longer.  Wha
t’
s worse, h
e’
ll say anything that comes to mind in public.  But in here, in this world wher
e“
cadavers are people, too
,”
h
e’
s all business.  If he is, or even if h
e’
s not my daddy, I respect him for his professionalism.

“I’
ve already set her face, Aidan.  Here, son
,”
he says, handing me an armful of cottony material.
 “
You know the drill. 
I’
ll be right back
.
”

When he returns, wheeling in the gurney with Angie Mille
r’
s covered body,
I’
m gowned up, wearing the cotton face mask and sterile gloves he gave me. 

“
Her family will pitch a bitch if they find out what you want
,”
he says.

“
Wh
o’
s going to tell them
?
”
 
Hell,
I’
m not waiting for Angie Mille
r’
s famil
y’
s permission.  What I want,
I’
m getting now.
 “
Open up her mouth, Doc
,”
I say.
 “
I need a look
.
” 

“
Hawks, yo
u’
re a bossy little ba
s
—”

He catches his mistake in time, smiles apologetic.
 “
Good thing for you I never married your pretty mama
,”
he says.
 “
Yo
u’
d be a humbler boy today, son, I can tell you that
.
” 

I’
ve been hearing that since our first meeting six years ago, when I joined NPD and learned my mother was engaged to young Doctor Smalley in her twenties, and sh
e’
d gotten pregnant by him with me.  W
e’
ve kept an easy-going working relationship ever since our first meeting, this enigmatic man and I.
 “
Yo
u’
re just mad because she dumped you for the better man
,”
I joke, referring to my adopted dad, Judge Hawks.

“
Sh
e’
s been sorry ever since
,”
he jokes right back.  He and my dad play golf together.  I doubt the
y’
re best friends, but they put on a good appearance.
 “
No one services a mare like I do
,”
he adds, confirming my suspicion h
e’
s a lec
h—
and
I’
m a chip off the old Smalley block.

He smiles, but I sense deep remorse beneath his easy manner.  Maybe he likes it that we can joke about my mother, the love of his life and the woman he failed to tame enough to guide her into his stable.  I do
n’
t know, but if it keeps his memories alive, if it keeps him happy and helping me with the vics clogging his morgue,
I’
ll humor him.  All I want from him today is a peek inside my vi
c’
s mouth.

Doc parks the gurney near a ceramic embalming table.
 “
Watch your step
,”
he warns, side stepping the floor drain, unconcerned about the volume of blood that has flowed into it. 

“
Thi
s’
ll run me into overtime
,”
he says, checking the clock on the wall.

“
Who gives a ra
t’
s ass what time it is in here, Doc
?
”
 
I glance at the cadaver.
 “
Not Angie Miller.  Not any of your other clients, either,
I’
m betting
.
’” 

“
The county ca
n’
t afford the overtime
,”
he counters.

Hel
l’
s fire!  I know better.  He ca
n’
t wait to get out of here and go golfing, boozing, or hunting for the next piece of horseflesh, the next Kentucky Derby winner.  I applaud my mother, Barbar
a“
Babb
s”
Courtland-Hawks, for having the good sense to dump young Doctor Smalley all those years ago.

“
Never mind, Doc.  I do
n’
t have much time, eithe
r”
I say, giving myself a mental shake for even thinking about my paternity right now.  Mom did
n’
t marry him, but Doctor Smalle
y’
s still my dad, despite his lewd claims about servicing Lexingto
n’
s best mares. 

“
Alright, then
,”
he says
,“I’
ll open her up if yo
u’
ll spot me for breakfast tomorrow morning at Arne
e’
s.  No more ignoring me like you did this morning
.
”

“
Sure
,”
I agree.
 “
Happy to
.
”
 I’
ll suffer through breakfast with the old drunk.  H
e’
s the best damn coroner in Kentucky, and right now I need his help. 

“
Here we go, honey
,”
he says, talking out loud to her, gently consoling Angie Mille
r’
s corpse.  She, of course, remains speechless, while he pulls lines of surgical thread from her mouth.  The thread crisscrosses her upper canine bone arch, or technically, th
e“
maxilla
.
”
 
Threaded through the gum lines and the bone arch and then back into her nasal cavity, it holds shut Angi
e’
s mouth.  I
t’
s ordinarily the work of the funeral home, but sh
e’
s not going there until this investigation is over, so Doc went ahead and wired her mouth shu
t“
as a courtesy
.
”
 
H
e’
s such a southern gentleman, my dad.

“
Yo
u’
re coming along swell, honey
,”
Doc says, cajoling the vic like sh
e’
s a brood mare about to give birth. 

Impatient, I watch the vi
c’
s mouth start winching open, releasing post mortem fumes despite the embalming fluid pumped into her, again, by Doc instead of the funeral home because of the duration of Angie Mille
r’
s stay here in the morgue, which could be a while. 

Sh
e’
s in a state of arrested post-mortem decay.  Her ski
n’
s dried out, desiccated and falling from her bones.  Her body fluids are turning gaseous despite everything Do
c’
s done for her. 
I’
ve got on my cotton face mask, thankfully, and
I’
ve swiped on my Vic
k’
s mustache, but ther
e’
s no avoiding the deathly scent of her, or the sickly sweet disinfectant Do
c’
s sprayed on her body.  And all that does nothing to combat the smell blowing from Angi
e’
s mouth like fumes from raw dead meat. 

A cold breath from the grave, I ca
n’
t help thinking.  Recalling Do
c’
s motto over the morgu
e’
s doo
r—
cadavers are people, to
o—
I buckle down and start inspecting Angi
e’
s mouth. 

“
She has
n’
t had much time to dry out
,”
Doc says, defending the fact sh
e’
s not looking up to snuff.  What h
e’
s really telling me is that her facial tissue has yet to contract, pulling her eyeballs into the eye sockets. 

In life, sh
e’
d been pretty.  She was twenty-one, Alain
a’
s age.  I should feel guilty digging into Alain
a’
s past, but I do
n’
t.  I
t’
s my job, and
I’
m damn good at it. 
I’
ve learned she wants to make a tryout video for the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition.  Sh
e’
s athletic and can dance, or so Wes tells me, but with those surgeries I hope she knows sh
e’
ll never become a Rockette.  Every girl who practices ballet loves to make a video for the tryout, though.

The two victims were, like Alaina, coeds and dancers at Oma
r’
s.  These commonalities focus my mind on my present task: I want to check to see if Bite Doc was right, if Angie Mille
r’
s teeth were taken ante mortem.  Is she missing the same teeth Meera is missing?  Getting this info will help me answer whether NPD has a bona fide serial killer on our hands.  Most of the time,
I’
m sure Bite Do
c’
s cheese has slid clear off his cracker, but this time, no.  Either Bite Doc was spot-on, or h
e’
s hiding something.  Question is: what? 

I mull these and other issues over, waiting for Doc Smalley to remove the last bit of thread.  When he eases a stainless steel speculum inside Angi
e’
s mouth, I bend for a closer look.  Could Bite Doc
be
Megalo Don? 
I’
ve kicked this question around, but not too seriously.  Yet
I’
m not taking chances either way.  I need to rule him ou
t—
or i
n—
as a suspect, and quickly.  I glance at the clock on the wall and then down at the vi
c’
s shoulder.  Tim
e’
s running out.