Acolyte (10 page)

He gave her a smile and returned a wave from the detectives at the scene.

It took five minutes to talk through the case, then Stacy and Never put on their forensic coveralls. It was going to be a non-vocal revival, given the waterlogged lungs and swollen vocal chords. The cops had been a little deflated by the news – in a non-vocal case the corpse remained silent to all but the reviver, and the resulting footage lost that compelling immediacy that played so well with juries. It also made the reviver's court appearance more likely as their own interpretation of the exchanges made an easier target for a defence challenge.

Before she could proceed Stacy had to drain as much fluid from the lungs as possible. Even with a non-vocal procedure, movement of the torso was expected and spasms were a possibility; fluid present would leak from the mouth. At the very least this was an unpleasant distraction mid-revival, but more crucially an analysis of the fluid in the lungs could prove useful for the coroner. Hence, the pre-revival prep involved pulmonary suction to drain the fluid; beside Stacy, the water-thinned clotted froth poured into a storage container.

As the container filled with the dark, rank liquid, Never looked on with revulsion. ‘That is disgusting,' he said.

Stacy smiled, flicking off the suction and pulling the hose out of the dead man's mouth. She swore as some liquid spilled from the hose over her gloved hands, getting under the cuff of her protective suit. ‘That's gone through to my shirt sleeve,' she said, grimacing. ‘I can feel it.'

When she was finished preparing the corpse Stacy took her medication while Never got on with setting up the cameras. Ten minutes later Stacy glumly entered the tent and sat cross-legged on a simple mat by the corpse, Never watching her on his monitor,
already recording. His equipment was set out on two small folding tables and he was sitting in a camping chair. There was a spare seat for the detectives, but neither of them had chosen to sit. Their loss.

‘I'm ready when you are,' said Stacy to camera.

‘OK,' said Never. He turned to the detectives watching. ‘OK by you?' He got the nod. ‘We're on, Stacy.'

Stacy took the corpse's right hand with her left; in her other hand, she held one of the portable stenography machines most revivers favoured for non-vocal cases. ‘Revival of Devin Turner,' she said. ‘Stacy Oakdale duty reviver.'

They waited in silence.

The younger of the two detectives was fidgeting within the first three minutes, the rustle of clothing enough to irritate Never to the point of a well-timed glare. ‘This may take a while, Detective,' he said, once he'd made sure the audio feed from them to Stacy wasn't active. ‘This your first time?'

A nervous nod.

‘Take a seat,' said Never, and the detective did. The older detective, a woman Never hadn't worked with before, didn't even look away from the monitor. She was focused and patient.

After almost half an hour he could see that Stacy was making progress. As revival grew close he noted some of the tell-tale vibrational motion that was often observable in the corpse as success approached. It was usually eyelids, jaw, cheek; simple twitching, rapid pulses of movement. He glimpsed the young detective beside him, the man's face getting paler and paler as the movement became obvious even to the untrained eye.

‘Is that … is that
normal
?' said the detective.

‘Pretty common,' said Never.

Stacy looked at the camera. ‘He's here,' she said, and Never turned to the young detective in time to see his eyes roll back in a dead faint.

The questioning proved straightforward enough, a few leads
and no drama. The senior detective was happy with the result, although the first-timer looked like he'd prefer a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him.

After the drive back to Richmond, Stacy looked shattered. ‘I'm heading off early,' she told him. ‘I'll do my paperwork tomorrow. I want to get home and change.' She held up the stained shirtsleeve.

‘Yeah, you'll want to get that washed as soon as you can. Not sure if anyone does stain removers specifically for corpse effluent.'

‘White wine will do the trick,' said Stacy. ‘Believe me.'

He furrowed his brow. ‘Isn't that just for red wine stains?'

She levelled her gaze at him. ‘I mean to
drink.
So if anyone's heading out later, let me know, OK? You should ask Jonah. It'd be good to catch up.'

‘I'll try,' said Never. ‘He's nursing his wounds. He'll probably still be doing that in six months' time.'

‘Well, if he's working privately in six months, he'll be earning twice what we earn.'

‘Twice what
you
earn, Rockefeller,' said Never. ‘We lowly techs can barely scrape by.' He grinned. Stacy flipped him an amiable finger as she left.

He grabbed lunch at his desk and got through what little paperwork there was, eager to be left clear for the afternoon. Having been on one call today he was at the bottom of the call list, and it would give him some time to try out some new cameras they were considering upgrading to. A few on-sites this winter had been marred by occasional image glitching, and condensation problems when the cameras got back to the office. Hopefully, the ones he was trialling would have better tolerance of large shifts in temperature.

As he broke one of the cameras from its packaging, his phone rang.

‘Hi, Never. Been a while.'

It took him a moment to place the voice. Then he had it:
Detective Bob Crenner, the Washington DC cop who'd handled the investigation into the murder of Annabel's father, Daniel Harker.

‘Bob! Good to hear from you. How's tricks?'

‘Word got to me about Jonah leaving. I wanted to see how he's doing. Ray sends his regards, by the way.' He was referring to Detective Ray Johnson, his partner. ‘So is it true that Jonah's left the FRS?'

‘It's true. Jonah's a little shaken, but he'll be OK.'

‘Look, Never,' he said. ‘Is Jonah available to do any private work?'

‘You need a private reviver?' said Never, suddenly wary. The last time he'd heard from Bob Crenner was a few months after the fire in Reese-Farthing, and that had been by email. Phoning him out of the blue like this wasn't just a courtesy call … the detective clearly wanted something he felt awkward asking for. There was enough of a silence on the line to confirm it. It occurred to him that maybe there'd been a family loss. He knew Bob had a wife, and also a son in his early twenties. It didn't seem like the man's style, but sometimes people just asked. ‘Bob, are you OK? Has something … happened?'

‘This is a little delicate,' said Bob. ‘The thing is, yes, I'm looking for a private reviver, but it's not for anything personal. Jonah's a licensed reviver still, right? I mean, does he need to be working for a company to do a private case, or can he just take on any job he chooses?' Bob paused and took a long breath. ‘Me and Ray will be in Richmond tomorrow, on police business. Any chance we could meet up? We have a favour to ask Jonah, a
big
favour. But I think we'll need to explain in person.'

*

‘And you have no idea what this is about?' asked Jonah.

It was lunchtime the next day, Never having met with Jonah around the corner from the cafe where they'd arranged to meet the detectives. ‘I just know they want a reviver,' Never said, shrugging.
‘Bob approached me first to see if it was even possible, and to make sure you'd not be offended.' A thought struck him and he smiled. ‘It's like I'm your pimp.'

Bob Crenner and Ray Johnson were already there when they entered; in a secluded corner, burger and fries in front of Bob, a salad in front of Ray. ‘What'll it be, gentlemen?' asked Bob. ‘Lunch is on me.'

They both went for the burger option. Bob caught the eye of the waitress and ordered himself a triple espresso as well. ‘I live on coffee,' said Bob. ‘Keeps me going. Three years back, my wife started to worry I was drinking too much caffeine so she got decaf for home. Didn't tell me. I spent a week falling asleep in the office every morning before she confessed.'

Jonah turned to Ray Johnson. It was a year and a half since Jonah had first met him, on what had only been Ray's second revival as a detective. ‘Good to see you, Ray,' said Jonah. ‘So how many revivals have you attended now?'

‘Not that many. I'd say maybe an even dozen.'

‘Eighteen,' said Bob, with a certainty that put a wry smile on Ray's face.

‘Eighteen,' said Ray. ‘Time flies, huh? How about you?'

Jonah smiled. ‘I don't keep count.' Even so, he wondered how many it had been. Daniel Harker had been his last official revival before the Reese-Farthing fire, when his injuries had put him out of action for four months. He guessed at forty or so revivals since then. If he'd still been going at the rate he'd averaged before Reese-Farthing, it would have been well over a hundred by now.

Bob looked at him. ‘So how's your health?' Both Bob and Ray had sent messages of support to Jonah while he was in hospital.

‘As good as it could be, I think. Still hurts sometimes.'

‘I hear getting shot does that,' said Bob. ‘I don't ever intend to find out myself.'

‘Anybody ever shot
at
you, Bob?' said Never. ‘Ray, maybe?'

Ray laughed. ‘I've been tempted.'

They caught up a little and swapped tales, Never grossing Bob out with Stacy's lung effluent experience from the previous day. When they finally got to the story of David Leith's revival, the mood darkened.

‘Yes,' said Bob. ‘It's not just you that's been having trouble with the Afterlifers.' He avoided eye contact and shifted his position in his seat. ‘I'm sorry. I've been stalling. You know how it is. I feel bad putting you in this position, but I have to ask. And don't think you have to say yes. I'll understand.'

Here it comes
, thought Jonah. Because whatever Bob wanted from him, it surely boiled down to a very simple question.

Jonah caught Never's eye, then asked it: ‘Who, Bob?' he said. ‘Who do you want me to revive?'

‘Two weeks ago,' said Bob, ‘the body of a woman called Mary Connart was discovered in an alley in the north east of DC. Me and Ray were on the scene within fifteen minutes. Her injuries were …' He shared a look with Ray, who shook his head grimly. ‘Unusual. We requested a revival, but we had some trouble. The same trouble you had with the teenage boy.'

‘Afterlifers?' said Jonah.

Bob nodded. ‘Mary's only living relative gave us revival permission, so we didn't seek a warrant. Just as we were gearing up for the revival, we were stopped.'

‘The Afterlifers must have ears everywhere,' said Ray. ‘Turned out, Mary's name was in their membership database. They went to a sympathetic judge and came back with a denial.'

‘Hold on,' said Never. ‘Revival is pretty much automatic for murder. Why did the judge grant the denial?'

‘It's complicated,' said Bob. He shared another look with Ray and sighed. ‘The whole damn thing is complicated. Maybe you should see the victim before we get into the details.' Bob rubbed his eyes and took out his phone. He looked around to make sure they had privacy, then held it so that Jonah and Never could see. The first few pictures were of a young woman, some of her on her own, some with friends. Always of her smiling. ‘That's Mary Connart. Twenty-seven years old. Born in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Father left when she was three and her sister was nine. He died
five years later in Florida. Their mother died three years ago. Her sister is her only living relative. Mary worked for a PR company in DC. On the night of her death she'd attended a party thrown by her employer for clients. She left early, saying she was tired, wanted some fresh air. Forty-eight minutes after she walked into the night she was found dead.' Bob paused and gave Jonah and Never a long, sober look. ‘Before I go on, I have to warn you. I've been a detective for twenty-two years. This … this is one of the worst things I've ever laid eyes on.' He waited until he had a nod of assent from each of them, then swiped through to the next image.

Jonah and Never stared at it.

‘As you can see, Mary's left arm is gone,' said Bob. ‘Abrasive wounds penetrated four inches into the shoulder. Likewise, deep wounds to the back of the head and left side of the face, removing flesh and bone. A large portion of that side of the face is missing. Most of the left part of the jaw is intact but exposed.'

‘Jesus,' said Never. ‘What the hell did that? An industrial accident?'

‘We don't know how the injuries were caused,' said Ray. ‘But we don't believe this was any kind of accident.'

Jonah shook his head. ‘You said she was found forty-eight minutes after leaving the party. How the hell does that give someone time to … do this?'

‘Next image,' said Bob. He advanced the picture. Jonah winced, as Bob continued his commentary. ‘The injuries higher on the face reach the lateral wall of the orbit, the, ah, the eye socket. A third of the socket gone. The eyeball is damaged, but it just adds to the confusion. Any industrial injury, dragging injury, any kind of mechanical abrasion, would almost certainly have devastated the eyeball. Instead the injury seems to follow the same line as on the bone. For the soft tissue that just doesn't make sense. The eye tissue along the wound is almost cauterized, creating that apparent shrinkage. Cauterization is a feature common to all these wounds, yet the flesh itself doesn't seem to be heat damaged and
there's no sign of chemical burns. Cause of death is thought to have been blood loss. When she was found there was very little blood at the scene, but two thirds of her blood volume was gone.'

‘Christ,' said Never. ‘What the hell happened to her?'