Play Dead

Chapter 11

Gould was late.

Elise sat at her desk in Police Headquarters, reading a clipping about the first misdiagnosed death that had also ended up at the morgue. Name, Samuel Winslow. The subject had lived only a few hours after being found. In the article, the EMT said the body was lifeless and that he'd detected a strong odor, like decomposing flesh.

"Eyes were fixed," he said. "The skin on the arms was purple due to lack of blood circulation. I checked for a pulse in the carotid artery, but couldn't detect anything. The subject presented all the signs of death, and any medical professional in my position would have made the same presumptive diagnosis," the EMT said in his defense.

Her phone rang. It turned out to be Seth West, a coworker of Truman Harrison's-one of the last people on her interview list.

"Truman and I ate fast food the day he died-or the day we thought he died," Mr. West told her. "He had a hamburger, fries, and a soda."

"Any fish?" Elise asked. "Or seafood of any kind?"

"Nope."

After a few brief follow-up questions, Elise thanked him and disconnected.

No seafood. But that didn't mean he hadn't eaten any that day. He just hadn't eaten any in front of Seth West.

A sound in the hallway got her attention. David Gould came tumbling into the room, slamming the door behind him. Without looking left or right, he dived for his swivel chair and collapsed. "Oh, fuck." He spun around, crossed his arms on the desk, and dropped his head on them.

His hair was sticking up and bent. He reeked of alcohol.

He'd dressed himself, but not very well. His shirt-tail hung from below bis jacket, and Elise had noticed several buttons undone as he'd flown past.

Wow.

She'd wanted him to loosen up, but this wasn't what she'd had in mind.

"I spent last night at a softball game," she said, directing her words at the back of his head. "How did you spend your evening?"

"Something very similar," he mumbled, rolling his forehead back and forth against his arm.

"I'm sure."

"My head. My fucking head."

"You smell like you took a bath in beer."

He pulled open his jacket and took a whiff. "I don't smell anything."

"Take my word for it. You stink."

"All right, then."

She pulled a bottle of water from her bag, opened it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. "Why didn't you stay home? And now that you're here, why don't you go back?"

"I'll be okay." He straightened, eyed the bottle of water, then reached for it with a trembling hand.

Now that he was upright, she could see he hadn't shaved. And Gould was one of those guys who needed to shave twice a day.

"Go home," she cautioned. "Before somebody sees you."

He lifted the water to his mouth, quickly draining the entire bottle. "I said I'll be okay." He stood and buttoned his shirt, tucked in the tails. Then he tried to smooth down his hair. "There." He tugged at his jacket. "Fresh as a daisy."

"Only if a daisy smelled like Jack Daniel's and was in need of a shave."

"Are you making fun of me?"

His collar was twisted. She stood and adjusted it. "I'm only trying to tell you that you aren't exactly a favorite around here, and Major Hoffman might just be looking for a reason to send you on your way. Do you have an electric razor with you?"

He ran a hand across his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper. "A guy shouldn't be penalized because he doesn't kiss ass."

He seemed a little hurt to find he was regarded with a lack of favor within the department.

"I can't be telling you something you don't already know," she said, sitting back down and opening desk drawers until she found a bottle of Tylenol. She held it within his line of vision.

He shook his head.

She dropped the Tylenol and shut the drawer. Sighing, she decided that as long as he wanted to act like he could be productive, she might as well discuss the case. "I've talked with Harrison 's coworkers and all of them say they never saw him eat fish the day he collapsed."

She grabbed a pen and leaned back in her chair. "So, what I've been wondering is if there's a connection between the body that showed up in the cemetery last night, Truman Harrison, and Samuel Winslow, the misdiagnosed death of three weeks ago."

Gould perched himself on the corner of his desk. He wasn't wearing socks. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. It could all just be coincidence. A weird cluster of events."

Elise got on the phone and ordered a crime scene team to inspect and collect possible evidence at Mr. Harrison's home and workplace. His locker. Vehicles. Wherever he spent time.

As soon as she hung up, her phone rang.

John Casper.

"You know the guy who came in last night? Jordan Kemp?" he asked. "I've found something you might be interested in. Can you stop by?"

"Be there in thirty minutes." She disconnected. "Feel up to formaldehyde fumes and corpses?" she asked Gould. The morgue could be tough even on a good day.

"Formaldehyde and corpses?" He gave her a weak smile. "Two of my favorite things."

The morgue was located in a new building on the outskirts of town, next to the crime lab. Not handy for police detectives, but they'd needed the ground and space.

Elise and Gould followed Casper to the walk-in cooler, past several sheet-covered forms, to the body of Jordan Kemp.

"I wanted you to see this." Casper uncovered the body, which had been left facedown.

Elise leaned closer. On the lower spine, just above the tailbone, was a raised circle slightly bigger than a silver dollar.

"Teflon body art," Casper explained. "I was thinking it might be a gang symbol."

"It's not a gang symbol," Elise said, straightening. "Have you ever heard of Black Tupelo?"

"Isn't that a bar?"

"Among other things. A bar. Massage parlor. Plus a front for prostitution. It's located downtown, near the river."

"And what does this have to do with body art?" Casper asked.

"Black Tupelo belongs to a Gullah woman named Strata Luna."

"I've definitely heard of her," Casper said.

"This is the trunk of the tupelo tree," Elise explained, pointing. "And these three lines are branches. It's a very simple, effective design actually."

"You mean to tell me she brands her prostitutes?" Casper asked in a horrified voice. "Like cattle?"

"It's a mojo," Gould said.

"Mojo?" Elise frowned up at him. How did he know about mojoes?

He was staring at the emblem, looking queasy again.

"Who told you that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just something I heard somewhere."

"I don't know about a mojo, but it's definitely a logo."

Casper pulled up the sheet, covering the body. "That's not all. There's something else you need to know. We got the lab work back and you're never going to guess what we found."

Elise was afraid she could, but allowed Casper his moment.

"TTX," Casper said.

That news was still settling when Elise's phone rang.

It was Major Hoffman. "Truman Harrison is dead," she said. "For real this time."