Serpentine

Chapter 42

Friday, four forty-five a.m. Inky morning, the chill blunted by the electrochemical heat of hearts racing in anticipation.

A black tactical van blocked the street, its arrival a near-silent coast. Moments later Bain and his crew had been egested, all six officers vanishing into the darkness.

Milo, Reed, Binchy, and I waited five houses south. Reed had brought Milo in his work-ride, a gray Dodge Charger; Binchy showed up seconds later in his, a maroon Chevy Caprice.

My orders were per usual: Don’t get in the way. The Seville was parked well behind the police wheels.

Dark windows checkered Galoway’s place and every other house on the block. If any of the neighbors had noticed the van, they weren’t complaining.

Another ten minutes of nothing to make sure. Just as Bain was about to go in, headlights flashed a block north and swelled as they neared.

Bain and two of his officers ran toward the intrusion waving small-beam flashlights. The car stopped. Bain jogged to the driver’s window and said something. The headlights died. Another officer got in the van and angled it so the car could pass.

Black Audi sedan, frightened-looking woman at the wheel. She drove for a block before switching her lights on.

Bain came over. “Poor thing, heading to LAX for a flight to Denver to see her daughter. Okay, no sense waiting for another disruption, we’re a go.”

Silent approach, dual entry punctuated by a single thump in front, followed by a second at the rear door, muted by distance.

Several more minutes of silence, then the front door opened and Mac Bain ambled out.

“All clear.”

Milo said, “Shit, she’s not there.”

“I didn’t say that.”

The door opened to a small, neatly kept living room. The smell began at the mouth of a narrow hallway that paralleled the kitchen.

Bedroom to the left, another on the right, bathroom in between.

The smell became a stench that directed us to the left-hand bedroom. Another well-kept space if you didn’t count what was on the bed.

What remained of a woman lay under heavy, deep-green covers. Odd color for a duvet; I’d seen it before on a string of beads. Maggots wriggled at the upper hem where cloth ended and flesh began.

Gray-brown flesh, matte finish. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, a tumble of red hair on the pillow. White at the roots where dye had dissipated.

Reed gagged and ran out. Binchy uttered a silent prayer and stayed.

Milo covered his nose and mouth with a fresh handkerchief. I used my sleeve. It didn’t help much.

Everyone knew the rules: The scene belonged to the cops, the body to the coroner. No one would lift the covers and look for wounds — crimson parabolas and slits resulting from stabbing; the crushing and corrosion effected by blunt trauma; the obscenely precise mini-craters caused when bullets raped soft tissue.

What police euphemize as “defects.”

Mackleroy Bain had already made the call to the crypt. A coroner’s investigator would be here within half an hour to inspect and pronounce and identify.

No need for an official I.D. We knew who this was.

Pill bottles on her nightstand. Fighting back nausea, I got close enough to read.

Most recently, she’d called herself Martha Dee Ensler.

The prescribing physician was someone I knew. Edwin Rothsberger, a first-rate neurologist, practice in Encino. Years ago, Ed had rotated through Western Peds, one of the best interns from the med school where I taught. He’d been great with the kids and like a lot of sensitive trainees had decided to spend his career treating adults.

I examined the labels. Hyoscine hydrobromide for excess salivation, diazepam for anxiety, quinine bisulfate for cramps, dantrolene for muscle stiffness.

Symptomatic treatment, nothing curative. The palliative stage of a neuromuscular disease.

I took in the rest of the room. Stack of adult diapers in the corner, a hoist partially disassembled. Cartons of bottled water, bottles of liquid diet.

Whatever Du Galoway’s sins, he’d taken good care of the woman he loved, had been tripped up by overstepping as he strove to cover up her sins.

I’m no pathologist but dull skin, and eyes depressed so deeply they resembled miniature lunar craters, said plenty and I was willing to bet on cause and manner of death.

Immobilized by disease, she’d spent four helpless days in bed without food, water, or attention.

Cause, dehydration.

Manner, accidental.

Milo said, “What the hell am I gonna tell Ellie?”

I said, “Nothing.”