Already dead, p.8
Already Dead, page 8
“Mrs. Griffith, my name’s Tate Abernathy with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Montgomery.”
The women’s differences were further accentuated when considering their attitudes toward visitors on their doorsteps.
“I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
There was no call me Meredith, no please, come in, no would you like a coffee?
“Yes, I understand that, and we’re very sorry for your loss,” Tate said.
He sounds like a broken record, Floyd thought.
“But we just have a couple of questions for you,” Tate finished.
Meredith crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t say anything. Tate took this as a cue to continue.
“Mrs. Griffith, can you think about anyone who might want to hurt your husband?”
Meredith’s expression did not change when she answered, “Yeah, the homeless bitch who killed him.”
Okay, she’s got a point, Floyd thought. I’ll give her that.
“Of course, but what about someone else? Can you think of anyone else?”
Meredith’s expression became hard.
“My husband was a respectable plastic surgeon. Nobody wanted to hurt him.”
“Again, I’m sorry to ask these difficult questions, Mrs. Griffith. And as of now, we are treating your husband’s murder as a closed case. We just want to wrap up some loose ends.”
No response.
“Can you think of a recent patient, maybe, who wasn’t happy with their surgery results? And I recognize that you aren’t—”
“No,” Meredith said sharply.
Sensing that Tate was nearing the end of this line of questioning, Floyd chose this moment to speak up.
“Thank you, Julia.”
Everyone froze. Meredith, Tate, and time itself seemed to come to a standstill.
Then Floyd’s phone started to buzz, and he scrambled to pull it out of his pocket. He was positive that he’d turned it on silent before the interview.
“Sorry,” he grumbled. This comment, or perhaps it was the phone ringing, seemed to restart time.
“My name is Meredith.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Tate said, shooting Floyd a look. “My partner’s terrible with names.”
Floyd barely noticed because he was staring at his cell phone. Taking your phone out during an interview was one thing, answering it was another.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, his eyes locked on his phone. “I have to take this. Meredith, I’m very sorry for what happened to your husband.”
Both Tate and Meredith said something, but Floyd didn’t hear them. He was already moving toward the stinking car, his heart pounding in his chest with the same authority as when Tate had joked about him talking to Meredith on his own.
The last time he’d spoken to her, they’d been sitting on church steps, discussing what had happened to Father David. In the end, no definitive conclusion had been agreed upon.
With a sigh, Floyd finally accepted the call.
“Chase? Everything okay?”
There was a short pause, during which time he heard Chase breathing.
“Chase?” he asked again, alarm creeping into his voice.
“Floyd, it’s nice to hear your voice.”
Floyd allowed himself a small breath. Chase sounded lucid, normal.
Normal for her, anyway.
“What are you… what are you up to?”
Even the awkwardness of Chase’s attempt at small talk was normal.
“On a case.”
“Need any help?”
Floyd raised an eyebrow and then looked back towards the house. Meredith had since closed the door and Tate was hurrying toward him.
“Naw, I don’t think so.”
“What’s the case about?”
“Chase, you sure you’re okay?” Floyd knew that this sort of conversation was torture for Chase.
“Fine, just… just need someone to talk to.”
Floyd cleared his throat.
“I’m in Columbus. Vagrant murdered a prominent doctor and then immediately slit her own throat.”
There was a pause during which Chase expected Floyd to add more. He resisted.
“Why are you guys there, then? Why is the FBI involved?”
“Because there was another killing like this over in West Virginia just a couple of days ago. Same MO: seemingly random vagrant murders someone with a knife and then kills herself.”
“Right.”
Floyd smiled. Time had apparently stopped when his phone had rung and then worked itself backward when he’d answered the call.
Chase had said the same thing when Floyd had called her and asked for help on the Suicide Girls’ case. The only difference here was that Chase was calling him, asking to help, and not the other way around.
“What can I say, I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”
Chase grunted.
“And you don’t need any help at all?”
Floyd finally grasped the notion that Chase wasn’t asking him if he needed help on the case but stating that she wanted to help.
No—not wanted but needed.
Tate caught up to Floyd and waited patiently for the call to wrap up.
“Well, I’m in Columbus and—”
“I heard it’s beautiful this time of year.”
“I’m not sure it’s beautiful any time of year,” Ford remarked. “Where are you?”
“Tennessee.”
Floyd’s concern returned with fervor. He could only think of one reason why Chase would be down south, and it didn’t bode well for her.
“You know what? Why don’t I talk to my partner and then give Director Hampton a call? If—”
“Already called Hampton. He cleared it. So long as you’re on board, I can fly down and meet you today.”
Floyd looked at Tate who appeared lost in thought. He knew that he should probably ask him if this was okay, but then Floyd remember the man’s joke in the car.
About him interviewing Meredith Griffith alone.
Besides, it was about time the two met, given how much Floyd had talked about Chase with his new partner.
“It’s fine by us.”
Tate lifted his head and Floyd smiled.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“See you soon, Chase.”
Floyd hung up, and Tate was immediately on him.
“Oh, was that the famous Chase Adams? The only FBI Agent in the Bureau’s illustrious history to have been killed and resurrected?”
“Yeah, that was her.”
“And did I hear you say, see you soon, Chase?” Tate teased as he opened the door to their foul-smelling car and got in. “Does this mean that I’m finally going to get to meet her?”
Floyd massaged his temples. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what it means.”
Tate clapped his hands together.
“Goodie! I’ll make sure to have my Sharpie at the ready for an autograph. Maybe I’ll get her to sign my chest. What do you think, Floyd? Think she would like that?”
“She would love that, Tate,” Floyd said with a sigh. “Just fucking love it.”
What in the world have I just done?
PART II – Disease
Chapter 16
Chase pulled her sunglasses down her nose as she entered the cafe. There had been a time in her life when these shades would have been designer but that had been long ago. She still enjoyed good-quality fashion, but most of her gear had been highly impractical for living in the country.
As for her sunglasses, well, she had no idea where those had gone. Lost either during her travels or in the course of the move.
When she spotted Floyd, Chase took her no-name brand glasses off completely and tucked them into the V-neck of her white shirt.
“Floyd,” she said with a smile. He rose from the booth, and they hugged.
“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” Floyd remarked when they separated. “Makes you look distinguished.”
“Distinguished or old?” she asked with a halfhearted grin.
Floyd shrugged.
“Both, I guess.”
“Fair enough.”
Chase peered over Floyd’s shoulder at the other man seated in the booth. He was in his late forties, maybe even older, and was clearly going for early Tom Selleck vibes: dark mustache, short hair, slightly unkept. The only thing he was missing was the dimples.
“That,” Floyd said, following her gaze, “is my partner, FBI Special Agent Tate Abernathy.”
Chase cocked her head.
Tate Abernathy? Sounds like a discount men's clothing line.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. Tate stood and held out his hand. “Yeah, I don’t really do that.”
Instead of being offended, Tate held up his hand as if to say, no problem. Then he opened his arms, offering a hug.
“I don’t do that either,” she remarked, knowing and not caring that she’d embraced Floyd but a few seconds ago.
Tate didn’t appear to mind this, either.
“Okay, well, how about this, then?” Tate turned, grabbed a napkin and a pen off the table, and held it out to her. “An autograph?”
“Sure,” she said. Chase scrawled FUCK YOU in capital letters on the napkin, folded it, and then handed it back with a warm smile.
Tate, who had seen what she’d written, nodded and put the napkin in his pocket.
“Thank you, and I do apologize for all my fangirling.”
“No problem,” Chase said as she slid into the booth. There was half of a hamburger on a plate with some French fries and she helped herself to the latter, dipping a fry into ketchup before tossing it into her mouth. “So, what's this case we’re on?”
Floyd and Tate sat.
“Go ahead, Floyd.” Tate took a big bite of the hamburger that was in front of Chase. “Let Chase in on our crazy mission to save the world.”
Chase was normally excellent at reading people, but Tate was impossible. He seemed half-goofball, half-serious, half-sarcastic, and a whole lot of strange.
The worst part is she thought she was gonna like him.
“So, we have two murders…” Floyd began, taking out the folders and laying them out on the table. He gave Chase a quick rundown of what had happened, including interactions with the vagrants in Junkie Row, the girlfriend, and the wife.
Afterward, several things stuck in Chase's mind.
“This girl—the killer—how old is she?” Chase asked, dropping a finger on the image of the vagrant from the morgue.
“That's the thing, the ME couldn't tell us. Just gave us a range. Sixteen to twenty-six, something like that,” Tate said.
“What do you mean? Can’t they tell by her femur size?”
“Yeah, usually,” Tate confirmed, “but in this case, all he could tell us is that she hit puberty and stopped growing. Her growth plates were fused, but beyond that… impossible to tell. Just too malnourished and neglected.”
Chase just stared at the man, confused.
“I don't think I did an adequate job describing what kind of state this girl or woman was in,” Floyd said.
“Clearly not,” Tate agreed.
Both Chase and Floyd shot the man a look, but he was already back to eating the hamburger.
“The doctor said he’d never seen anything like it, that she was basically dead before she was dead. Smelled like…” Floyd shuddered and let his sentence wane.
Chase frowned.
“What about the other girl?”
Floyd flipped through the photographs before he found one of the woman who had murdered Roger Evans in West Virginia. They all inspected it and then Chase said, “It looks like the same person.”
“Yeah, but it can't be, because they're both dead in different states.”
On closer inspection, the two perpetrators weren’t exactly twins. They did have several things in common: both were women of an indistinguishable age, Caucasian, although this was concluded based on bone structure and not skin color, and both were covered in a thick layer of filth.
The list went on: sunken eyes, chapped lips, weeping sores on the face and neck. Hair like grease-soaked spaghetti.
Then there was the gash in their necks. They, too, looked eerily similar.
“What about the murder weapons?” Chase asked, turning her eyes away from the haunting images. She was no longer interested in the fries, but Tate continued to munch on his burger as he answered.
“Not the same, but similar.” He swallowed. “Generic knives primarily used for hunting.”
Chase banked this information.
“What about,” she slid the photographs aside and read the case report, “NEON? You guys head over to the club?”
Tate shook his head.
“Me and Floyd here are more NASCAR than rave types. Local PD, led by this super nice guy, just all class, Lieutenant Lehner, reviewed security tapes, asked employees. Nobody saw the girl outside.”
Chase found this hard to believe but had no basis to contradict and didn’t think there was any value in going to the club herself.
“It’s freezing here,” she remarked, eying Floyd who was tucked into his overcoat. “Who’s up for a road trip to West Virginia?”
“I am!” Abernathy said. “And I'm driving.”
He stood but neither Chase nor Floyd followed.
“What?” he asked, drawing out the word.
Chase and Floyd just stared at him.
“Oh, come on,” Tate whined, stomping his foot. “I wanna go with mommy and daddy to West Virginia.”
“I think it’s better if one of us stays here,” Chase said. “If we discover something in the Mountain State and want to check on this case, it’s best if we keep someone local. It can't be me because I need to be partnered up at all times. Director Hampton says that I’m something of a loose cannon.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Chase expected the remark from Tate, but it had been Floyd who had said it.
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “And it obviously can’t be you, Floyd, because you wet your pants if you have to do anything on your own.”
Tate burst out laughing.
“Floyd, a joke! You never told me she does jokes!”
“She doesn’t,” Floyd growled.
Chase flicked her hair.
“New hair, new me. In all seriousness, though, you’re the odd one out, Tate.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t like him—on the contrary, while his shtick was a bit schlocky, Chase thought that Tate would be a good partner… for anyone else but her. Chase knew that she could be difficult—could, ha! Look, another joke—and she didn’t want to fuck things up for Floyd with his new partner when she went back to her house in the woods.
“Guess I’m riding the short bus.”
Tate was taking this surprisingly well. Not the fact that he was staying behind by himself, per se, but that Chase had immediately taken over since walking through the cafe doors. Not only did she have no jurisdiction, but Tate had more experience in the FBI than both she and Floyd combined, and she’d just come on the scene. On her way to Columbus, Chase had told herself to just let things happen, to mostly observe and bide time until her date with Brian.
But a zebra can’t change its stripes and the scorpion is always going to sting the toad.
Fuck it, she thought. What can they do? Fire me?
“To be honest, we’re just here to ask a few questions, then wrap things up. Gimme your number and we’ll call you if anything interesting pops up.”
Tate held up a finger and then retrieved the napkin that Chase had written on. He scribbled on it, refolded it, and handed it back.
“I'll stay here with the fart car and discuss the historical merit of the Confederate Flag with Lieutenant Lehner.”
Chase wasn’t sure what any of this meant, so she ignored it. They said their goodbyes and went to their separate vehicles, with Floyd joining Chase in hers.
Only then did she unfold the napkin that Abernathy had given her and read it out loud.
“Fuck you, too.”
Chase grinned, balled up the napkin, and tossed it to the floor of her rental car.
“Let’s take us some country roads, Floyd. West Virginia, here we come!”
Chapter 17
“I'm not going in there, Chase. Been there, done that.”
Chase’s gaze drifted from Floyd to the morgue door.
“It's that bad?”
The officer standing behind Floyd, the one who had led them here, nodded emphatically.
“Oh, it's worse. Trust me. You’re going to want to cover your face.”
Chase ignored the suggestion and knocked once. The door opened and she was confronted by a prepper. Gloved from fingers to elbow, thick black apron, dark green gas mask.
“Sorry about the mask—you want one?” the ME’s voice was muffled, but Chase was able to understand.
“No, I'm—Jesus.”
The smell was so cloying that it coated the inside of her mouth. Chase clucked her tongue, but that only made it worse.
The ME chuckled.
“Here, take this.”
Chase accepted the offered gas mask and slipped it on. Even with it on, it took a handful of breaths to rid herself of the taste of rot and decay.
Wow, that was… fierce.
“Can I see the body?”
“Bodies,” the ME corrected.
“Sure, bodies.”
“Over here. But even with the mask, I suggest standing back a little.”
This time, unlike in the hallway, Chase listened. The ME peeled back the sheet covering the cadaver and Chase inhaled sharply.
She’d already seen the woman on the gurney’s photograph, but that, as horrible as it had been, did not do it justice. Before her was more a pile of decomposing flesh than it was a corpse.
Chase, who was a good three feet from the table and was wearing what looked like a Chernobyl level mask, still felt sick from the smell.
