Fear Nothing (13 page)

But it might be interesting to ask her why she didn’t talk about the boy. Or why she hadn’t responded to the journalist. Or perhaps even more interesting, why she had never mentioned any of the letters to me.

Thirty years later, what did she still have to hide?

“Can I take these?” I asked Superintendent McKinnon.

“Be my guest. Are you going to call the reporter?”

“I might.”

“And you’ll talk to Shana?”

“Would it be okay if I returned tomorrow?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.”

I nodded, picked up the batch of letters, my mind already racing ahead. But just as I went to stand, I felt, more than saw, the superintendent’s hesitation.

“Anything else?” I asked her.

“Maybe one last thing. Any chance you caught the morning’s paper?”

I shook my head. Given my own evening’s . . . activities, then the call from the prison, I hadn’t had the opportunity to catch up on current events.

Now Superintendent McKinnon slid the
Boston Globe
across the smooth surface of her desk, one finger tapping a headline in the lower right-hand corner, below the fold. A local woman had been murdered; I gathered that immediately from the headline. It wasn’t until my gaze skimmed down the next few paragraphs to the details of the crime, strips of skin, expertly removed . . .

I closed my eyes, feeling an unexpected shiver. But they couldn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I cut off the errant thought savagely. Now was not the time or place.

“If memory serves . . .” the superintendent began.

“You are correct,” I interrupted.

“If I could spot the similarities between this murder and your sister’s work, your father’s crimes, others will as well.”

“True.”

“Meaning things for you and your sister could get worse.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed, gaze still locked on the desk and not meeting the superintendent’s eyes at all. “Things are about to get much worse.”

Chapter 10

T
HE
C
OAKLEY AND
A
SHTON
F
UNERAL
H
OME
had been serving families in Greater Boston for more than seventy years. D.D. had visited the establishment, a graceful, white-painted Colonial, twice before. Once for the passing of a friend, and once to honor a fellow officer. On both occasions, she’d been struck by the powerful odors of fresh flowers and preserved flesh. It was probably not something a homicide detective should admit, but funeral parlors creeped her out.

Maybe she simply knew death too well, so to view it in this kind of carefully sanitized venue made it feel alien to her. Like meeting a long-lost lover who looked nothing like you remembered.

The funeral director, Daniel Coakley, was waiting for her arrival. An older gentleman with broad shoulders and a shock of thick white hair, he wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit and exuded the kind of calm demeanor meant to soothe distraught family members and encourage close confidence.

D.D. shook his offered hand, then followed him through the wood-paneled foyer, down the dark-red-carpeted hall to his office. In contrast to the somber, old-world feel of the rest of the place, Coakley’s office was surprisingly light and modern. Large windows overlooking a grassy common area, white painted built-in bookshelves, a natural-stained maple-wood desk topped with a discreet state-of-the-art laptop.

D.D. could almost feel herself start to breathe again, except, of course, for the ubiquitous floral arrangement that dominated the windowsill.

“Gladiolus,” she observed. “Is it just me, or do they appear in most funeral arrangements?”

“The flower signifies remembrance,” Coakley informed her. “So they are a popular choice for funerals. They also symbolize strength of character, honor and faithfulness, which can be equally relevant.”

D.D. nodded, then cleared her throat, unsure of where to begin. Coakley granted her an encouraging smile. She had a feeling he was accustomed to uncomfortable guests and awkward questions. It still didn’t help.

She started with the basics, establishing that Coakley and Ashton was a third-generation firm, with Daniel serving as both the funeral director and head embalmer. Turned out, embalmers had to attend mortuary school as well as complete a yearlong apprenticeship before earning their license. Good to know.

The business also included three full-time and five part-time employees who assisted with administrative duties, funeral preparations, might even fill in as pallbearers, that sort of thing. That grabbed D.D.’s attention.

“And these other staff members, how do you know them?” she asked, leaning forward. “What’s bringing them to the job?”

Coakley smiled wryly. “You mean, why would they want to work at a funeral home?”

D.D. remained unabashed. “Exactly.”

“My part-timers are older, retired community members. Many are at a phase of their lives where they’ve had a lot of experience with funerals, and I think easing the process for others appeals to them. They’re mostly older men, interestingly enough. And I have to say, the majority of our families find their presence comforting.”

“And the rest of your staff?”

“I have a secretary who has been with me for decades. I think she’d be the first to say when she showed up for the job interview, she was taken aback about working in a funeral home. But as she put it, answering a phone is answering a phone. Besides, the backroom embalming duties aside, we aren’t so different than any other business. We maintain company cars, we manage a company office.” He gestured around them. “We make payroll, we pay taxes. It’s a business, and most of my employees probably work for me for the same reason they would work anywhere else. It’s a good job, I treat them well and they feel valued.”

D.D. nodded, understanding his point, even if she didn’t completely agree. Coakley could say his company was a business like any other, and yet he dealt with death every single day. Most companies couldn’t say that. Many people wouldn’t be comfortable with that.

“Maybe you could walk me through the process,” D.D. said. “You get a call. A person has died. Then what?”

“The deceased is transported to our facility.”

“How?”

“A variety of means. We’re qualified to pick up remains at local hospitals. Or there are professional mortuary service companies who specialize in transport, especially over long distances. For example, the funeral may be in Boston but the deceased passed away in Florida. So the body must be transported from there to here, which is out of our driving range.”

D.D. made a note. Mortuary service companies. More people, employees comfortable with spending hours at a time in the company of a corpse. Maybe some of which even took the job precisely for that reason? “Then what?”

“I would meet with the family, determine their wishes for the funeral. Open casket, closed casket, cremation. Their choices, of course, impact the next significant step, the embalming process.”

“How do you prepare the body?” D.D. couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward, all ears and morbid curiosity.

Daniel Coakley smiled, but fainter this time. Clearly, he’d been asked the question before. No doubt at numerous cocktail parties by people who were equal parts fascinated and horrified.

“Essentially, the embalming process involves the transfusion of blood with embalming fluid. Several small incisions are made in major arteries. Then a formaldehyde solution is injected into the veins, pushing the blood out while replacing it with embalming fluid.”

“Do you prepare the body before you start the embalming process?” D.D. asked. “Say, wash it?”

“No. Embalming can be rather messy. Personally, I wait till the end. Then I bathe the entire body.”

“Are there any special cleaning solutions you favor? Trade products?” She was thinking of the clean crime scenes again. The almost impossibly clean bedrooms.

Coakley shrugged. “I use a basic antibacterial soap. Doesn’t harm the tissue, while being mild enough to use on your bare hands.”

D.D. made another quick notation. Antibacterial soap, such as traces of which the ME had found on the first victim’s torso. “And afterward?” she pressed. “I imagine the room must also be cleaned?”

“The process takes place on a stainless steel embalming table, very similar to what medical examiners use for autopsies. It includes its own drain, of course. Afterward, we hose down the stainless steel surface, then disinfect with bleach. It’s not that involved, which is helpful during those times when we’re particularly busy.”

D.D. pursed her lips, considering. In the middle of the night, she’d been fixated on the thought that their killer was most comfortable with the dead. And when she thought dead people, she thought funeral homes. Maybe an embalmer, someone with technical experience who’d trained with a scalpel as part of mortuary school. Not to mention, the killer’s skill with cleaning the crime scene made her wonder about special products that might be used by funeral homes to eliminate all traces of blood and bodily fluids. Interesting.

“May I ask a question?” Coakley spoke up suddenly.

“Sure.”

“Is this in regard to the Rose Killer case?”

“What?”

“The Rose Killer? To quote the front page of the
Boston Herald,
which maybe conscientious detectives never do.”

D.D. closed her eyes. But of course. Boston PD had been doing good to keep the details of the first murder away from the press. She should’ve known they’d never get so lucky twice.

“Do I want to know what the
Herald
said?” she asked, peering out through one eye. “Or rather, splashed in graphic detail across the entire front page?”

Coakley granted her a look of compassion. “The article claims there have been two victims. The killer murdered them in their own beds, leaving behind a rose on their nightstands, like some kind of misguided lover.”

“Anything else?”

“You mean other than they were skinned alive?”

“Not alive!” Too late, D.D. realized she shouldn’t have responded. Then again, Coakley was a funeral director, not a reporter. “Wait, between you and me, I never said that. But the skinning occurred after the victims were dead. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Without getting too particular, our murderer . . . Let’s just say, the majority of the time he spends with his victims is postmortem. It’s almost as if the killing part is incidental. Mostly, he—or she—wants a corpse.”

“Necrophilia?” Coakley murmured.

“No sign of sexual assault,” D.D. granted. In for penny, in for a pound.

“Which is why you thought of funeral directors. Because clearly people who spend their lives embalming have an unhealthy fascination with dead bodies.” Coakley stated the words calmly.

D.D. had the good grace to flush.

“I know,” she said. “Just like people who spend their lives investigating murder must have an unhealthy fascination with violence.”

“At least we understand each other.”

“We do.”

“Do you know what it takes to be a good funeral director, Detective Warren?”

“Probably not.”

“Compassion. Empathy. Patience. Yes, one piece of my job involves preparing a body for burial, a process that has required years of technical training, but also, to be honest, art. Good embalmers have opinions on the percentage of formaldehyde, as well as the most realistic pancake makeup. But we’re not working in abstract. Our goal is to take something sad, overwhelming and often frightening for a family, and make it cathartic. Every day, I deal with people at their most vulnerable. Some are prone to tears, but others are prone to rage. My job is to take each of these people by the hand and lead them gently through the beginning of their grieving process. Using a great deal of compassion, empathy and patience. Now, my comfort level with dead bodies aside, do I sound like a killer to you?”

D.D. flushed again. “No.”

“Thank you.”

“But—”

Daniel Coakley’s eyebrows rose. For the first time, the funeral director appeared not only surprised, but as close as he probably got to annoyed. “But what?”

“The traits you described. Those are what it takes to be a good funeral director. Maybe I’m looking for a bad one.”

Coakley frowned at her. “Or,” he said abruptly, “a failed one. I can’t say it happens often, but every now and then I’ve had an apprentice who clearly lacked the . . . interpersonal skills necessary for this job.”

“What did you do?”

“Terminated the arrangement.”

“Would you have records?”

“Please. I can only think of one such person, and last I knew, she’d changed to culinary school and was doing quite well. Given the scope of your investigation, I’d think you’d want to cast a wider net than going from funeral home to funeral home.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The mortuary schools. There are two in Boston. See if they’d be willing to share the names of the students who failed. I could ask around as well. We’re a close-knit industry. If there’s a particular name, or what do you call it—a person of interest—you’d like to learn more about, I could probably make some calls.”

“Thank you.”

“We are not a bunch of ghouls,” Coakley said quietly, as D.D. rose to standing.

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“But from time to time, we do attract those with ghoulish sensibilities.”

“Story of my life,” D.D. assured him.

Coakley smiled his faint smile, then quietly, but firmly, escorted her out the door.

Chapter 11

I
N OUR ENTIRE TIME TOGETHER
, my adoptive father and I had only one major argument: the day he’d discovered my sister’s letters.

“
Don’t be an idiot!
” he’d roared at me, clutching the stack of barely legible notes. “You’ve got nothing to gain from this and everything to lose.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Who attacked you with a pair of scissors. And you’re still luckier than her last few targets. Tell me you haven’t written back.”

I said nothing.

He thinned his lips, stern face radiating disapproval. Then, abruptly, he sighed. He returned the loose sheaf of papers to the top of my desk, then crossed to my pink ruffled bed and sat down heavily. He was sixty-five by then. A trim, gray-haired geneticist who’d probably been thinking he was too old for this.