Grave Matters

Chapter 1

Fortunately for me , everybody dies.

The young woman on the embalming table had become something of a local celebrity by dozing off at the wheel and smashing into a tree. She had clung to life for a few days, comatose, before succumbing to her injuries. The twenty-four-hour news cycle latched onto the tragedy for a day or two until something more dreadful caught their attention. She’d been a third-grade teacher. Now, for me, she’d be a day’s work.

Compared to what usually came out of the teaching hospital, Chloe Maas looked pretty good. I’ve noticed, in my professional capacity, that doctors are competitive. They hate to lose, and that death to them means losing, so when they see failure approaching they tend to pump their patients full of every drug known to man, like a Hail Mary pass. The end result is the dearly departed looks awful for the viewing, which is my fault. And why not? Isn’t that the role of the mortician, the whipping boy?

With Nikki’s help, I slipped the remains out of the shiny white pouch the hospital staff had placed her in. I removed Chloe’s hospital gown, the CVP line, the catheter, the red and white ECG electrodes, the medication, allergen, and alert bracelets, and various assorted bandages and patches, and then draped her remains with several small towels to preserve what little dignity she had left.

It was Nikki’s first day. It was also her first real embalming outside of the classroom. Understandably, she was a little intimidated. I could tell by the uncertain look in her eyes. This was a teachable moment.

The fluid is in there, I said, nodding toward the antique walnut wood hutch that looked strikingly out of place in the white tiled sterility of the preparation room. How about you mix up the embalming solution?

Nikki looked stunned.

I recalled the feeling; it’s a lot to take in on one’s maiden voyage. It’s okay, I prodded. Make a suggestion on what we should use, and we’ll go from there.

This seemed to settle her down. She clacked over to the fluid cabinet.  I would have to tell her those spiky high heels were not the best choice of footwear for her new job.

Concocting the formalin solution is Embalming 101. Nikki would be able to do it, and doing it right would give her confidence. It would take her awhile though, so I started with the remains. I swabbed the eyes and facial orifices with a formaldehyde-based solution and washed the rest of her with a special soap that was poison to a broad spectrum of pathogens. I could tell Chloe had sustained some trauma, as would be expected, from the wreck. There were localized purpura and edema—bruises and swelling—on her torso and small lacerations on her head. I retracted an eyelid to insert a mortuary prosthetic called an eye cap. The eye cap keeps the eyelids convex even after the vitreous humor evaporates, rendering the eyeball flat. Flat eyes aren’t conducive for a pleasant viewing experience, or what we undertakers term the memory picture.

Something unusual about the eye caught my attention. I grabbed the stork light and brought it down to get a better look. I retracted the other eyelid. Same thing.

I gently pried open Chloe’s mouth. Her tongue was swollen.

I tapped the scalpel against the white porcelain table for about a minute, thinking. Then I made the usual incision, a one-inch cut on the clavicle at the sternoclavicular notch. Without the heart pumping it is a bloodless incision. This time, instead of my standard routine to dissect out and raise the vessels, I stuck my finger in, twisted it toward the neck, and palpated. The hyoid bone was broken. My heart fluttered a little.

I pulled off the set of double gloves from my right hand, and, using the camera on my smartphone, snapped a close-up photo of Chloe’s eye.

Nikki, beside me now at the embalming table, launched into her report with gusto on the chemistry of embalming fluids. A raised hand silenced her. Squinting at my phone, I checked to make sure the photo was clear. I have to go.

Nikki was understandably surprised. Clutching plastic bottles full of a delightful spectrum of colored fluids, she was in effect, all dressed up with nowhere to go. What should I do now? she asked.

I didn’t have time to feel sorry for her plight. I was busy stripping off my protective equipment.

Check with Isabella. She’ll give you something to do.

I was out the door ten seconds later. Before the door closed behind me, I remembered to tell her, For God’s sake, get yourself a pair of comfortable shoes.

Chapter 2

The Capitol building in Charleston is a beautiful beaux-arts testimonial to trust in government’s promise to enhance citizens’ quality of life. The coroner’s office looks like a shipping facility for Amazon. I parked my truck and enjoyed the refreshing marshy air during the short jaunt across the lot to find Durward Wise, Deputy Coroner for Charleston County.

Durward was glad to see me. I knew that because his scar turned from rose to scarlet. Moonie, as everyone calls Durward, is nicknamed for the crescent shaped mark where his nose meets his eyebrow. Rumor has it he earned said scar while shooting a .50 caliber Barrett and didn’t realize the recoil potential of such a powerful rifle.

I, uh, need to run something by you, I told him, with a larger air of mystery than I intended.

Sure. Anything.

You mind? I said, jerking my hand back. He was pumping like he was operating a well pump. I nodded my head towards his office door, feeling asinine for the shroud of secrecy, but didn’t want any of his colleagues overhearing.

Come right on in, Moonie said, as he ushered me into his shared office. He invited me to sit in a government issued metal chair he swept clear of papers and file folders. Moonie took a seat in his own chair, and laced his hands behind his head. What’s happening?

I discovered something I want to bring to your attention. Do you have a minute?

Of course.

I saw your name on the hospital paperwork for Chloe Maas. All cases referred to the coroner’s office had the deputy’s name who was handling the case on it. I had seen Moonie’s name by peeking over the counter while the clerk in health information services out-processed the paperwork.

Moonie frowned and sat forward in his chair. Yeah, yeah, he said, digging through stacks of papers. She was in that single vehicle wreck like four or five days ago. Fell asleep at the wheel and hit a tree. He waved his hand in the air, as if he was trying to conjure up the details. Or a pole or something like that. It was all over the news. What about her?

That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The family called me.

Moonie yanked a file out of a pile, flipped open the jacket, and glanced at it. No surprises. Cerebral edema due to blunt force trauma. She was comatose at the scene. Never woke up.

Mind?

He handed me the file and I scanned the contents. It was mostly facsimile copies from the hospital, but there were also some police reports from the Highway Patrol’s AIT–Accident Investigation Team.

What’s your interest? he asked, settling back.

I leafed through the pages rapidly, ignoring him. I didn’t have time to scrutinize the entire file, but what I did see confirmed my suspicions. Flipping the folder shut, I looked Moonie in the eye, I don’t think Chloe Maas’s death was accidental.

Moonie searched my face, waiting for the punch line. When one didn’t come, he said with some nervousness seeping into his voice, Why do you say that?

I tapped the brown file jacket cover. I think she was murdered.

Moonie used his thumb and index finger to smooth his mustache. It was thin and trim and reminded me of Snidely Whiplash. His brain was obviously churning. She was driving, he said.  The car hit a tree. What, you want to call it arbor-cide? He grinned at his stupid joke.

No, no, nothing like that, I replied. I don’t think her death had anything to do with the wreck. I think something happened at the hospital.

That gave him pause. I could see his brain churning again through some medico-legal scenario played out over the course of many years that included depositions, sworn statements, and testimony, and all the accompanying headaches. Malpractice? he guessed.

No, not negligence on the part of the hospital. I think— I stopped and leaned forward. It was a subliminal effort to make Moonie lean forward too. I wanted him leaning in, receptive to the information I was pitching him. It worked. Moonie leaned across the desk. I think someone murdered her in the hospital while she was in a coma.

What! Moonie exclaimed, his facial features contorted with disbelief. What on earth would give you that idea?

I held up my hand as I scrolled through the photo gallery on my phone, and resized the photo and handed it to him. Look here.

After studying the photo for a long time, trying to see if there was something beyond the obvious, Moonie said, Hemorrhage in the eye. So?

I don’t think that was a result of the wreck. She was strangled.

Moonie’s expression said it all. He thought I was nuts.

I plowed on, There’s nothing in these medical records that shows a reason she should have that type of hemorrhage. No significant trauma to the thorax.

Seatbelt? Steering wheel? Airbag? he said rapid fire. Her chest would’ve sustained some trauma in an accident of the magnitude she was involved in. He reached over and plucked a color photo out of the file I was holding and held it before my face. Look at that car, for God’s sake.

The photograph had been taken at night, from the top of a grassy embankment of a mangled car wrapped around a giant tree. Some EMTs and firefighters milled around in the periphery of the shot. It was a bleak scene. Shaking my head, I said, I realize that, but how come the ocular hemorrhage wasn’t noted by any of the doctors, I tapped the file, nor was any significant trauma like broken ribs or bruised organs noted?

Moonie thought for a moment, and then decided to let me down easy. Look Clip, these things eat at me too, he said, leaning forward and spreading his hands in an open, friendly gesture. But you know as well as I do that type of injury, he pointed to my phone, could’ve been caused by a number of things.

I know. Which is why I wanted to check this. I waved the file around.

Seatbelt? he offered as an explanation.

I—

Moonie cut me off. I caught this case several weeks ago where this guy, Jack Crawford, just dropped dead at his desk. Jack was young, thirty-eight, and according to his wife lived a pretty healthy life. Didn’t drink, exercised regularly, stuff like that. Turned out he had caught some buckshot in the leg over twenty years ago during a hunting accident. Moonie leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. One of the pellets had worked its way into his bloodstream and the emboli killed him. Just like that. He snapped his fingers.

I wasn’t sure where he was going. Jack Buckshot had nothing to do with Chloe Maas.

Compare that to this guy, Herb Johnson who—

Interrupting him, I pointed to the Sonic cup on his desk. You mind?

Moonie waved his hand at it and continued, Anyhow, Herb ate the muzzle of his .38 Special three years ago. He held up a finger as if to say but wait, there’s more. But Herb changed his mind at the last second and merely blew his jaw off and a decent portion of his soft palate. After countless surgeries and years of therapy, he decided he didn’t want to live after all and drank a bottle of drain cleaner. Moonie looked up at the ceiling as if looking to God to explain the mystery. One guy dies because of a pellet the size of a pinhead in his leg and the other takes a slug in the face and pulls through.

I was puzzled by his parable. What exactly are you getting at?

Moonie sighed; annoyed I wasn’t following his logic. The point is that the human body reacts in strange, inexplicable ways to trauma. That hemorrhage in her eye could’ve been caused by any number of aspects of that wreck. Moonie placed his cowboy boots on the corner of his desk and laced his fingers behind his head. Honestly Clip, who would want to murder a comatose twenty-three-year old third grade teacher?

I felt kind of foolish. Now that Moonie was verbalizing it, I was having second thoughts that I had run off half-cocked. Who would want to murder an elementary school teacher? But I had other proof, what they would call on a cop show corroborating evidence. I unleashed a slug of tobacco juice into his raspberry lemonade, and replied, I have no clue who would want to kill her. But it wasn’t just the hemorrhaging. Her tongue appeared swollen and her hyoid bone was broken.

Moonie was unimpressed. I could tell he was tired with the conversation. He spoke, staring at the stained acoustic tiles, Sorry partner, but you’re seeing fire when there ain’t smoke. Chloe Maas died because of the head trauma. The state doesn’t want to pursue anything else. There’s nothing there but a tragic wreck.

I honestly thought Moonie would at least entertain me. But it was the old bureaucratic numbers game. This was a closed investigation. His boss, the coroner, wouldn’t like it if he took a nice, tidy completed investigation and opened it back up. Pretty statistics look good come budget time. Grasping at straws, I suggested, What about calling the family and seeing if they’d agree to an autopsy?

Moonie removed his boots from the desk and leaned forward. He clasped his hands on the desk. "The case is closed; there would be no reason for me to suggest one. Besides, who is going to foot the bill? You could call them and suggest a private autopsy."

That was out of the question; professional suicide. Can I have a copy of this? I tapped the folder.

No, Moonie said quickly, peering around my shoulder and out the cracked door as if he thought someone might be watching. I shouldn’t even be letting you look at it.

Never mind. Pushing the file into the middle of his desk, I switched subjects. The other day at Pie in the Sky before the firemen cut Mr. Begsley out of the mixer you were telling me about a rifle you’re building. My interest was a ruse. I needed a copy of the file.

Moonie nodded, suddenly very animated. Pie in the Sky is a commercial bakery that supplies most of the restaurants in the area. The floor supervisor had been asked by one of the bakers to come have a look at some sort of malfunction in one of the massive commercial mixers. The baker said it wouldn’t start. When the supervisor peeked inside the mixer suddenly came to life and his necktie got caught in the beater. The baker hit the appropriately named kill switch almost immediately, but not fast enough. The force almost popped his supervisor’s head off. That’s the reason police and prison guards wear clip-ons. Needless to say, it was a clear-cut accident, an open-and-shut case, hence my presence at the scene to remove the body.

An AR right? I asked like I wasn’t quite sure.

Oh yeah! Moonie said, clearly enthused.

You were telling me about the thermal scope you bought for it. You happen to have it here? I’d like to take a look at it and see if it’s anything like the T14 I used—

It’s in my truck, Moonie said, leaping out of his chair. I’ll show it to you.

He disappeared. I figured I only had about sixty seconds. I casually swung the door shut with a kick and flipped opened Chloe Maas’ file. Removing my phone, I began taking photos of the pages. I could do a page in about three seconds. There were more than thirty pages with the hospital’s records, police reports, photographs, and the coroner’s internal paperwork. It was going to be close.

I heard a door slam and footsteps in the hallway when forty-five seconds had elapsed. Though I wasn’t finished, I shuffled the papers and jammed them into the file, and tossed it onto Moonie’s desk. The footsteps passed the door and continued down the hallway. Leaping out of my seat, I snagged the file and frantically searched for where I had left off. Moonie had been gone well over a minute and I still had over fifteen pages left to photograph. There was nothing I could do but snap and pray.

Snap. Flip. Snap. Flip.

A door slammed. I still had five more pages. It didn’t look like I was going to make it.

When Moonie bustled in, his new scope cradled in a padded pouch, I was sitting, looking bored, staring at the stains on the ceiling that reminded me of flowers blooming.

Sorry partner it took a minute, had to take a call.

I uncrossed my leg and spat into his cup. No worries, I replied, sounding unconcerned, though my armpits were soaked. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Chapter 3

On my way back to the funeral home I detoured to the wreck site. Checking one of the photos from the pilfered file, I learned the wreck occurred on the Connector Bridge, just east of Rifle Range Road. Burned out flares on the shoulder alerted me to the exact site. I parked my truck, engaged the flashers and stood on the shoulder for a moment, shielding my eyes from the harsh afternoon sun. It was a relatively busy stretch of road with a cluster of stores and shops tastefully camouflaged by trees on the opposite side of the road. I could see how somebody could doze off on this stretch of road; it is almost a straight shot from Rt. 17 all the way down to the Isle of Palms.

From what I could see there didn’t appear to be any skid marks on the asphalt, meaning unless she had a heart attack—unlikely as the hospital docs would’ve diagnosed it—she had in fact just dozed off and sailed off the roadway. I waded into the grass. A swamp oak with the bark stripped off the bottom marked the place of impact. Glittering safety glass formed a halo around the tree. Aside from some miscellaneous car parts, many too tiny to identify, all that remained was some trash from the rescue workers: a couple of latex gloves, and some sterile dressing wrappers caught in the underbrush. The meeting with Moonie had planted a seedling of doubt in my mind. If the state of South Carolina, with its vast resources, didn’t think Chloe was anything more than a wreck victim then I began to think maybe I should too. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find. After examining the area surrounding the site, and, finding nothing, I returned to my truck.

By the time I arrived back at Granville & Sons, Isabella had sent Nikki home, and was wrapping things up for the day. Lock up on your way out, I said, and went down to the preparation room to embalm Chloe.

The young always look better embalmed than older people and Chloe was no exception. Their skin is suppler and their plumbing is still in prime condition to accept the formalin. Not that it would matter to anyone that knew her, but she looked great. I used waxed dental floss to sew up the small lacerations on her face and scalp and Krazy Glue on the ones too small to suture. When I did the cosmetics later, a little mortuary wax would cover everything nicely and she would appear completely unblemished. Finished, I unfurled a white sheet over Chloe Maas and retreated upstairs.

Two hours later, I was enjoying a Palmetto lager on the upstairs piazza with the pilfered file spread before me. After a childhood spent in a suffocating trailer court followed by a succession of overcrowded foster homes and cramped military housing there’s no place I would rather be than sitting under the creaking ceiling fans listening to the gulls. I live above the funeral home. Plusses include free rent and a convenient commute. Minuses are very little free time since I’m at the beck and call of the dead and their families.

The doorbell interrupted happy hour.

I sighed. On the way downstairs I managed to locate a mint and re-tie my tie. Surprisingly, it wasn’t someone coming to see me about death details. It was Paula.

We met where I meet all my chicks, at a funeral. Our eyes had met across the open casket—I’m kidding, of course. She was attending the funeral of a colleague who OD’d on heroin that had been cut with the powerful painkiller Fentanyl. Paula struck up a conversation; we went for coffee the day following the burial. That was four months ago.

Paula was still in her hospital scrubs. Teal colored. Cheerful, like her personality. Her hair wasn’t tied up in the practical ponytail she preferred while working, but flowed down past her shoulders. I was just having a beer on the piazza, I informed her. Care to join?

She stepped into the foyer and stood on her tiptoes to kiss me. Paula isn’t short for a woman, but at six-foot-three I tower over most people. She had brushed her teeth after her shift.

I’d love to, she said wiping her bottom lip with her index finger. Everyone gone for the day?

It’s just me, the dead, and a six-pack.

She tweaked the edge of her glasses. That sounds romantic.

The dead or the six pack? I quipped.

She laughed. Your pick. After working a double I could use a drink, preferably something a little stronger than beer.

I have rum, and know how to make a mean mojito, I offered.

She grinned, revealing perfect orthodontistry. Sounds refreshing.

We never made it to the piazza. By the time I had muddled the mint and lime, her scrubs were off, she was on me, and we were on the couch. Paula proved not to be nearly as tired from a double as she had let on. Hours later, in bed, I lay awake listening to the tree frogs and insects through the open windows as her inert form snored gently next to me. Sleep, elusive as ever, never came, so I pulled on a pair of shorts and went outside. The glowing lights from the harbor reflected into the night sky. Retrieving the pile of printouts anchored under an empty bottle, I leafed through them half-heartedly before deciding I was too weary to concentrate. Packing a lip, I sat back and watched a summer storm—thunder and lightning only—roll in. I don’t know how long I was lost in the storm, but when the phone rang it startled me.

Granville and Sons, I said, first clearing my throat so I could answer in my best funereal voice.

It was a woman. She was distraught. Her father was dead.

I transcribed the information, hung up, and immediately called Nikki, who after cursing herself into a condition approximating wakefulness agreed to meet me at the funeral home. After hanging up I smiled. So, you wanted to be a funeral director?

Nikki Adcock’s hair didn’t look as perfect at the witching hour as it had some fifteen hours earlier. I was already waiting for her in the hearse when she roared up in her shiny Cadillac Escalade I assumed her daddy had bought her—unless her previous career scuba diving had been more lucrative than I imagined.

We rode in silence for a short while before she spoke to me. Did you end up embalming Ms. Maas?

I nodded.

You could’ve called me.

Believe me. There’ll be plenty of opportunities.

The only experience I’ve had is in the lab, she insisted, which we both knew was no experience at all.

When I went through, I said, Piedmont didn’t have a working lab. It was just a demo lab. We were shipped out to local funeral homes.

She snorted. At least you graduated with some real-world experience.

If you can call it that. My real-world experience had been trial by fire. I was assigned to Porter Mortuary in Laurens County with a classmate named Ginger Piñeda. We worked under an embalmer named Cedric Rose. Porter has a deal with the coroner to handle indigent burials. Mr. Rose never allowed us to touch one of their regular cases, but he would save the unclaimed bodies for us. I paused. Save them for days. And then we’d have all the accompanying headaches.

Nikki harrumphed and was silent, likely weighing the pros and cons of our experiences. After several minutes she broke the silence. So why did you rush off like that today?

I thought for a minute, before deciding to be honest, more or less. You have to understand this stays between us, I said.

I could see her head bobbing in the darkness.

I saw a couple of things that led me to believe Chloe might have been... I searched for a more delicate word. Finding none, I simply lobbed out, murdered.

She gasped. Murdered?

That’s my opinion.

What? How? she spluttered.

I outlined the findings I had gone over with Moonie: the ocular petechial hemorrhaging, the protruding tongue, and broken hyoid bone.

How did you come to that conclusion? Though I couldn’t see her face, I could tell by the tone of her voice she thought I watched too many crime dramas on TV.

I had some basic medical training.

Med school?

I let loose something more akin to a bark than a laugh. Hardly. I was a medic.

Really? she said. There was genuine surprise in her voice.

Six years. Army. 

How did you get from the Army to this?

Escorting the remains of Corporal Evan Shubie home was a far cry from being an undertaker, and something I didn’t want to share with a woman I barely knew. Mrs. Shubie’s expression as I walked off the jet-way is an image I’ll remember until the day I die. Mr. Shubie hugged her shoulders tightly while she crumbled. Try telling the parent of an only child that he died a noble death—in service to his country. I couldn’t; the words I had so carefully rehearsed over and over in the air stalled before ever leaving my lips.

How did you get from taking tourists on diving trips to this? I countered. Her résumé stated she had been a scuba diving instructor in the Florida Keys before abruptly moving back to South Carolina and enrolling in Piedmont.

I expected the usual cloyingly sweet answer about helping people. She disappointed me. That lifestyle, somebody else’s vacation, gets old. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice.

I nodded although it didn’t make much sense to me. Wiling my days away in paradise with a bottle of rum and a parrot on my shoulder sounded less stressful than burying the dead. We were at our destination, and I didn’t have time to question her about her abrupt career change. Reaching into the center console, I retrieved the MagLite and used it to briefly illuminate the mailbox. This is it. I threw the hearse into park.

Who’s the deceased?

Richard Bahg, I replied opening the hearse door.

The cabin light illuminated her face. It bore an expression of disbelief that changed to a smirk. You’re serious?

I am. I unfolded myself out of the low leathery confines of the hearse. Compose yourself. A man’s dead.

Chapter 4

Itried to send Nikki home to get some sleep, but she refused. She wanted to embalm. So, with the good intentions of Nikki Adcock, turning a two-hour process into a four-hour process, we pumped Mr. Bahg full of formalin. The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time I returned to my apartment. Paula was gone but her musk lingered. I can’t say I wasn’t a little relieved. Doing the morning after thing is too much like a relationship. We’re more like friends with carnal proclivities.

I showered and changed into a fresh suit. Sometimes I have trouble deciding what color to wear: black, black, or black. By the time the Maas family arrived to make funeral arrangements, I had already drunk two pots of coffee and dispatched a carpet cleaning company to the Bahg house. I had tracked canine excrement, or to use the technical term we used in the Army, dog shit, through their house last night. Of course, it had been white carpeting.

The doorbell sounded at the appointed time. I shot my cuffs, straightened my tie, and reminded Nikki, who looked like a zombie, I’ll do the talking, before opening the door.

Mrs. Maas, a thin, almost rangy woman, stood on the opposite side of the door. She had a thousand-yard stare—what used to be called soldier’s heart. It was definitely a Xanax-induced stare. She clutched a tissue in front of her mouth and didn’t say a word as her husband shepherded her through the door. I shook hands with Mr. Maas and introduced myself.

Garret Maas. This is my wife Sybil.

I nodded to Sybil. She made a little noise in the back of her throat and crumpled the tissue hard against her face, almost as if to ward me off. I have gotten that reaction many times before, and try not to take it personally.

The Maases looked like the kind of clientele Granville & Sons historically have served, folks with means. They were well fed, well groomed, tanned, and wore expensive looking country club clothes. If I were at the races, I’d put my money on him being a lawyer.

I shook hands with the young man who followed them in. Paul Dax, he said.

Garret piped up. Chloe’s boyfriend.

I was surprised, though I didn’t show it—it’s part of the job description to maintain an equable mien. Paul sported a slicked-down haircut and was dressed nattily like the parents, though on closer inspection he appeared to have a taller frame and darker coloring. Paul slid by me, leaving me in a fog of cologne that was more appropriate for a festive occasion, revealing a man in dusty MultiCam patterned fatigues on the piazza, single black bar patch in the center