Marked for Murder

9

“Police are continuing their investigation into the murder of Ms. Bonner.” TV reporter Ken Ford spoke in hushed tones into his handheld microphone as, in the background, the simple casket was carried into St. Anselm’s. “With me is homicide detective Lieutenant Tully. . . .” The picture widened to include Tully’s impassive face. “Lieutenant,” Ford asked, “is there any progress to report in this case?”

“We’re following leads. There’s been some progress. But there’s nothing really new to report.” Tully looked away from the camera, creating the true impression that he was uncomfortable being interviewed.

“Look at that,” said Sam. “That guy ain’t wearin’ no hat.” He was referring to reporter Ford.

Sam owned a small bump and paint shop on Second Avenue near Warren. Most of the other buildings in that block were either boarded up or gutted by long-ago fires.

“It was goddam cold this morning,” Sam persisted. “Why wouldn’t he wear a goddam hat? That’s what I wanna know.”

“I don’t know,” Arnold Bush said. “Maybe he’s trying to prove something.”

“What—that he can catch the goddam flu?” Sam laughed at his own humor. The laugh disintegrated into a hacking cough. When he finally got the cough under control, he retrieved the stub of a stale cigar from an overflowing ashtray, relit the cigar, and coughed some more.

Sam and Arnold had been friends for almost two years. They shared a natural mechanical ability, a love of working with their hands, a respect for tools, and an overpowering addiction to smoking. Sam smoked cigars, Arnold cigarettes.

Although Bush had recently been hired at the Wayne County Medical Examiner’s department, he still spent much of his free time with Sam, helping with an occasional auto repair or just doing some fix-up work for someone or for himself. At this moment, he was painstakingly constructing frames for his most recent photos.

“Oh, the hell with the news,” Sam said. “Maybe there’s a game show on . . . or maybe a basketball game.” He moved toward the television set, which was mounted high on the wall.

“No! Leave it!” Arnold almost shouted. “I want to see this.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam retreated from the TV and delicately balanced the cigar stub atop the pile of butts in the ashtray. “You don’t have to bite my ass off.”

Bush put down the aluminum strip he had been working on and gave full attention to the report of Louise Bonner’s funeral.

The TV camera zoomed in to a close-up of the coffin. It was a simple metal box. Louise Bonner would have been buried in the simplest coffin of all—a wooden box—except that her sister prostitutes had taken up a collection among themselves, raising, by almost anyone’s standards, a fairly generous amount. They ensured that she would be buried with dignity.

A smile appeared on Arnold Bush’s face as he contemplated the casket. It was as if he had X-ray vision. He pictured Louise’s body beneath the lid, under the silken lining. He could see in his mind’s eye those photos of her mutilated torso—the very same photos for which he was now making frames. He recalled the procedures that had followed the picture-taking and the autopsy. He remembered in great detail personally tucking Louise’s organs back inside her body and sewing her up. Painstakingly sewing her up preliminary to the mortician’s work.

In his as yet brief time with the medical examiner’s office, this was the first body that had been all “his.” He had reserved her to himself. He had almost come to blows over possession of her. He would have fought, too, had the other man pushed him further.

Yes, this was “his” first body. It was not likely to be the last.

Meanwhile, he was enjoying the pictures of the funeral.