Lucky Stiff (14 page)

Maybe I’m going about this thing the wrong way. I do love my job, but is it really worth it? Am I making the wrong decision? Now that I have the money from my divorce settlement, is there a way to stretch it out, to live off it for years to come? Realistically, I know I can’t. Without my job, I have no benefits. All it would take is one health disaster and I’d end up broke. I suppose I could go back to work at the hospital, but facing all those pitying, knowing eyes, day after day—not to mention David and his new love—is more humiliation than I can deal with right now. I could probably get away with a few years working at some lower-paying job, long enough to explore my relationship with Hurley. But then what? And what if the relationship doesn’t work out?

My settlement, while generous, just isn’t enough. But if I could somehow double the money, I might be able to make it work. That makes me think about the casino and Jack’s lucky win. If he could do it, why can’t I?

Our ride back to the barn goes off without a hitch, and the two uniformed cops help Izzy and me transfer the body from the Gator to the hearse that is waiting.

As Alison heads off to her car, Hurley hollers after her, “I want to see anything you write up about this before it goes to print! And no speculations until I give you something official!”

Alison rolls her eyes but nods her agreement. “I’ll have something for you by tomorrow,” she says. She climbs into her car, and moments later, she peels out.

I follow the funeral home hearse in my own. By the time we get back to the office, I am itching like crazy from all the mud. I head straight for the shower and scare myself so bad when I look in the mirror that I almost scream. With all the mud on my hair and skin, I look like the wife of Swamp Thing. I spend a long time under the hot spray, cleaning off and chastising myself for my foolish romanticism. Given the way I looked, I’m willing to bet Hurley had no such illusions. When I’m done, I put on a fresh pair of scrubs and head for the autopsy suite.

Izzy and Arnie have already done the preliminary processing on the body, including the weight, X-rays, and paperwork. The body bag has yet to be opened. It’s laid out on the autopsy table waiting for our ministrations. Hurley isn’t here yet—he’s probably somewhere washing off the mud and stink of river smell.

Our autopsy proceeds along at a good clip and I monitor our progress with photos. I watch, fascinated, as Izzy degloves the victim’s hands, removing the wrinkled, waterlogged outer layer to reveal skin beneath that is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The fingerprint ridges on this under layer are intact, which enables us to get a full ten-card. When we undress the victim, we find a wallet in the pocket of his jeans. It contains two dollars in cash, a driver’s license, a debit card from a local bank, and a MasterCard. Despite their time in the water, the contents are all in surprisingly good shape. We set them aside to dry. The name on the license and cards is
Donald Strommen.
Izzy verifies this as the name of the man who went missing from his fishing boat a few weeks ago. His age is noted as thirty-six.

We also find a handful of photos in the wallet: two of a blond-haired girl, who looks to be in her early teens, and two of a towheaded boy, who appears to be eight or nine. The fifth picture is a family one, showing both of the children, Donald, and a smiling blond woman.

About the time we finish stripping off all of Donald’s clothing, Hurley shows up. He is cleanly dressed, with his hair wet from the shower and his fresh, clean scent is a welcome respite from the smells of death and musty river water.

Izzy makes his Y incision and cuts out the breastplate so we can begin inspecting, removing, and analyzing the organs. He removes the lungs first. When he opens them, we find them filled with water.

“Does that mean he drowned?” I ask.

Izzy shakes his head. “Not necessarily. If a body is in the water long enough, it will eventually get into the lungs.”

“Then how can we know if drowning was the cause of death?” Hurley asks.

“There are a couple of clues that might help,” Izzy says. “If a person inhales water, there is typically evidence of hemorrhaging in the sinuses and airways, and foaming in the lungs. The foaming might have dissipated by now, but a lack of both of these findings would suggest he was already dead when he hit the water. I’ll also need to examine that head wound to determine if it might have been fatal. And there is one other way. We can look for diatoms in his blood and bone marrow.”

“What are diatoms?” Hurley asks.

“They’re microscopic, single-celled organisms found in most bodies of water. If Donald was breathing and his heart was still pumping when he went into the lake, he would have inhaled diatoms along with the water. The diatoms are then absorbed into the bloodstream and from there into the bone marrow. The types and amounts of diatoms existing in any given body of water will vary, based on how much light they get and what nutrients are available. Given that, we should be able to tell if the lake was the actual site of his drowning by comparing the diatoms we find in his body to those in the lake water. We might even be able to narrow down the specific part of the lake he drowned in.”

Izzy takes a small sample of the lung water and drops it onto a microscope slide. After applying a cover slip, he puts it into the microscope on a side table, makes some adjustments, and then calls us over. “Those are diatoms,” he says, gesturing toward the scope.

I step up first and look through the eyepiece. I can see a variety of tiny, transparent shapes shifting about on the field below: triangular, round, cigar-shaped, needlelike, and one that resembles a miniature piano keyboard. As I’m looking, another drifts into view. It resembles an oval-shaped rug with an undulating fringe around its edges.

I step back and let Hurley have a look-see.

“Wow,” he says. “Who knew all that was in the water? Makes me never want to swim again.”

We return to the autopsy table, where Izzy removes and dissects Donald’s trachea, examining the inside of the breathing tube closely. The only finding of any consequence is a puzzling one: a small worm, about half an inch in length, caught up in the vocal cords. I photograph it and place it in ajar to send off to our entomologist in Madison for identification.

The rest of our work on the body reveals nothing of consequence, so we move to the head. Izzy cuts an incision over the top of Donald’s scalp from one ear to the other. He then grabs the front end of this incision and pulls the skin back and down over Donald’s face. He retracts the skin on the back of the scalp as well, revealing the skull. I cut a circular path through the bone with a special saw, taking care to avoid the area of the head wound. When I’m done, Izzy pries off the newly created skullcap and looks at Donald’s brain.

“Well, the head wound didn’t kill him,” he announces. “In fact, he was already dead by the time this injury occurred.”

“How can you tell?” Hurley asks.

I field this one. “If he was alive and his heart was pumping when the injury occurred, there would be evidence of hemorrhaging at the site, bruising, clots, that sort of thing. But there isn’t any, not on the scalp, the skull, or the brain tissue.”

“Which would make drowning the more likely scenario?” Hurley posits.

“I don’t think so,” Izzy says, frowning and examining the man’s sinus cavities. “There’s no evidence of bleeding in the sinuses. Let’s take a look at some bone marrow and see what it has to offer.”

Izzy uses a special drill with a coring bit to drill a hole into Donald’s pelvic bone. A few minutes later, he has a small sample of bone marrow prepped on a glass slide and positioned on a microscope. Hurley and I stand by, waiting, as Izzy adjusts the focus, moves the slide, and adjusts again, repeating these steps about a dozen times. Finally he steps back from the microscope.

“I don’t see any diatoms,” he says. “And that, combined with my other findings, means drowning is ruled out, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe the tox screen will give me something more when it comes back, but for now I can’t give you a cause, or a manner.”

Hurley nods solemnly, frowning. “Are you comfortable making an ID?” he asks.

Izzy thinks for a few seconds. “Given the damage to his face, I don’t want to ask his wife to come down and identify him, but there is enough of it still intact to do a comparison with his driver’s license picture. Based on that, I’m willing to make a preliminary identification. However, I won’t make an official one until I have fingerprint or dental-record verification.”

“Good enough for me,” Hurley says. “When do you want to make the notification?”

Izzy looks grim. “I should have a definite identification by tomorrow, so we can do it then.”

Notifying someone that his or her loved one is dead is never a fun task. It’s even more difficult when the deceased is someone so young and there are small children involved.

“If you want, Hurley and I can do it,” I say.

Izzy shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

I know he will be, but I can tell from the sagging lines in his face and the gloomy look in his eyes that this will be a tough one. You can only deliver heartbreaking news to people so many times before the weight of it all begins to wear you down. Izzy has been at this for over two decades. Even in a town as small as ours, that adds up to a lot of sadness. Most of the time, he bears the burden well; but at other times, like now, the cumulative effects begin to show.

I have a strong urge to walk over and hug him, to tell him I’ll be there for him if he needs to talk. But I don’t, for two reasons. One, Izzy doesn’t respond well to coddling of any sort. And two, we discovered during the one and only hug we shared a few years ago that our disparate heights lead to near suffocation for Izzy, whose face ended up buried in my cleavage.

“It’s late,” Hurley says, glancing at his watch. I look over at the clock on the wall and see that it’s after five already. “I think we should call it a day. I already called Joe Whitehorse and rescheduled our meeting for tomorrow night. The nursing agency, the motel visit, and our second talk with Serena can wait until tomorrow. We’ll squeeze the notification in there whenever you’re ready, Izzy.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter 12

The next morning dawns with a continuation of the wonky warm weather; everything outside is a muddy, wet mess. By the time Hoover returns from his morning bathroom rituals, his feet are encased in mud. It takes me half an hour to clean them off and wipe up the trail he left through the house.

After my shower, I inspect my body in the mirror, checking out the status of my tan. The redness from my burn is finally turning to brown, and that’s when I discover that tanned cellulite looks like the top of a toasted English muffin—lots of nooks and crannies. Resigned to once again jump-starting my diet, I have berry yoghurt for breakfast, a choice made easy by the fact that it’s the only thing I have to eat in the house that doesn’t carry a pet food brand. I’m even out of ice cream, since I killed off the last of my Ben & Jerry’s last night before going to bed. I consider it an omen, a sign that I need to revamp my eating habits. My conviction holds strong when I stop at the coffee shop on my way to work and order sugar-free flavoring in my skinny latte. But as I drive past the grocery store, the uncharacteristically warm weather seems to scream “ice cream” at me. I start thinking maybe I can switch to a lower-calorie brand instead of giving it up altogether. I spend the rest of my drive wondering how much Healthy Choice ice cream I can buy and eat before it ceases to be a healthy choice.

After checking in with Izzy and finding out that we are still waiting on test results for Donald, I give Hurley a call and meet him outside so we can go to the Sorenson Motel to check out Catherine’s alibi.

The owner of the Sorenson Motel is a sixty-something curmudgeon by the name of Joseph Wagner, who is best known in town for his constant flow of “Letters to the Editor” criticizing the local government. Rumor has it that Joseph holds a long-term grudge against our current mayor, Charlie Petersen, because Charlie stole Joe’s girl, Marla, some forty years ago. I find this obsession a bit odd, especially given that the mayor’s wife looks like the red-haired troll doll whose head I kept on the end of my pencil in high school. This leads me to believe one of two things: either both men have odd tastes in women, or Marla Petersen has some serious bedroom talent.

Speaking of bedrooms, the Sorenson Motel is nearly as old as Joseph. Though he has done an admirable job of keeping things running and repaired, the place shows its age. The bedspreads and sheets are clean, if a bit threadbare, and the décor screams 1980s—the last time Joseph redid any of the rooms. The outside of the place looks like your typical 1960s-era roadside motel: a long, narrow building with two wings of units—front and back—divided by an office in the middle. Joseph does provide a few modern conveniences, such as free Internet access, cable TV, and pay-per-view porn, and the end units on both wings are suites that include a kitchenette and sitting area. It is in one of these units that my ex, David, has been living for the past few weeks, ever since our house burned down.

Hurley and I head for the office, where we find Joseph parked behind his desk, watching the Weather Channel. He has large, loose bags beneath his eyes, and his flannel shirt looks as threadbare as his bedspreads. While the top of his head is nearly bald, his gray hair is thick and curly on the sides, making him look like Larry Fine from the Three Stooges.

On the TV, the Weather Channel reporters are predicting Armageddon in the form of a huge winter blizzard moving our way and due to strike late tomorrow before it cuts a swath through the southern states. The voices of the reporters are heightened and excited; their eyes are big with worry; their faces marked with concern. They cut from radar images of the national weather map to scenes in grocery stores down in Missouri, where the shelves are stripped bare. For some reason, snowstorms turn otherwise normal people into hoarders. Larders everywhere within the strike zone get filled to the brim with bread, milk, eggs, and the like . . . except here in Wisconsin, where people are more likely stocking up on beer, brats, and snowmobile gas.