C
HAPTER
28
T
he cemetery on Pinnacle Peak Road was the veritable oasis in the desert. Its verdant acreage swathed the top of a lumpy landscape like a green velvet coverlet on a grandmother’s old feather bed. A family of bobwhite quail cut in front of Birdy as she walked toward the front door of the Welcome Center. It was proudly named, but looked like one of the dozens of taupe, tan, and cream-colored adobe-style mansions that hugged the base of the peak dominating the terrain. The funeral director, a deputy from the Maricopa County sheriff’s department, and the cemetery administrator waited inside.
“I hope I’m not late,” she said, introducing herself and providing a duplicate copy of a court order for the exhumation.
The funeral director was Stephan Santos, a flinty-eyed fellow with damp hands and an awkward smile. The deputy was a young woman with ramrod posture and eyes shielded by sunglasses, though she was indoors. Her name was Lucy Anderson.
“I’m here just to observe,” she said. “I have a sister in Portland,” she added.
“That’s nice,” Birdy said. “Not too far from home.”
The last man was the cemetery administrator. Richard Mundy was in his sixties, had caterpillar brows, and was none too pleased about what they were assembled to do.
“We don’t take kindly to what you’re doing here, disturbing hallowed ground,” he said. Louis Vuitton bags hung under his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Birdy said. She meant it too. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Who’s going to pay for this?” he asked.
“Kitsap County will reimburse you. You’ll need to provide an invoice for the dig and re-interment.”
“What about
my
time?” Mundy said, clearly no stranger to pushing the limits. His funeral director looked to the floor, embarrassed. “This is taking
my
time.”
Birdy knew this man was trouble on the phone and he’d just confirmed it.
“You can include it in your invoice,” she said, trying to keep the conversation pleasant and on an even keel. She declined to remind him that what they were doing was part of a criminal investigation to show a pattern of homicide spun by Jennifer Roberts. That Kitsap even paid for his work crew was above and beyond what most jurisdictions would do. People who had homes turned upside down by a police search don’t get the benefit of a paid-for cleaning crew when the rum-magers for evidence leave.
Though some ask for it.
“Well,” he said, looking down at the document she’d provided first by email, then under the court’s seal, “since the paperwork is in order, go ahead. Do what you have to do.”
“All right then,” Birdy said. “Depending on the condition of the vault, the casket, the victim, this might be a very short exhumation and exam.”
“The court order indicates that you are collecting tissue samples in conjunction with your case in Washington,” Deputy Anderson said. “Will we need to transport to our county morgue?” She glanced at the funeral administrator. “We won’t charge you for the ride.”
Birdy smiled.
“Or will you be able to do it here?” the deputy asked.
“We do have an embalming room where we prepare our clients,” Stephan Santos said.
His boss shot him an angry glare.
“We don’t have any clients there now.”
Birdy scanned the large, green expanse that ran to the edge of the cemetery. “I think that will do,” she said. “Let’s get started.”
The group, minus the annoying penny-pinching administrator, walked across the lawn past the rows upon rows of markers. Most were flat, set into the lawn for easy mowing. A few, Birdy thought maybe belonging to the more wealthy “clients” or maybe from a time when memorial parks were less a business than a place for remembrance, jutted to the cloudless blue sky. One, a big white dolphin of all things, almost scared her.
“Founder of Sea World,” Santos said.
“Pretty,” Birdy said, as they walked toward a tent that had been erected over the gravesite. A backhoe and two employees in jeans and dirty T-shirts stood there with shovels.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Mundy,” Santos said.
“That’s all right,” Birdy said. “I understand.”
Santos squinted toward the sun. “I know you have a job to do. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, if I’m allowed to say.”
She looked at him. “Of course. Why?”
He turned to the older of the two men.
“Carlos, cut a window in the lawn. Peel it back. Then use the backhoe. I’ll tell you when to stop. Be very careful.”
The man motioned to his partner to start.
“You were saying?” Birdy said, trying to keep him on track.
“I know there’s been a lot of talk about Jenny being a bad person. She wasn’t easy to take.”
“You knew her?”
He dried his upper lip, now sweaty, with a tissue from his pocket. “Oh no. I mean, not in that way.”
“But you were friendly with her?”
“This isn’t coming out right,” he said, looking embarrassed again.
Birdy persisted. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Just that I worked here when we buried Donald. I helped Jenny with the arrangements. She was an emotional basket case. This wasn’t some Merry Widow kicking up her heels at the thought of her husband’s death.”
He stopped and watched a javelina run across the southern edge of the memorial park. The wild pig’s tusks were visible even at a distance. He noticed Birdy looked wilted in the heat. “Deputy Anderson, I know you’re not here to run errands, but do you mind going back to the office and getting Dr. Waterman some water?”
“No problem,” she said, turning to leave. “It took me years to get used to our weather.”
“I thought I was holding up pretty well,” Birdy said as sweat ran down her back.
“As I was saying,” he went on. “In my business, I actually have seen those kind of women. Husbands too. The kind that actually bring travel brochures to the chapel to plan what they couldn’t wait to do once the loved one was buried. One woman even brought her iPad last year to surf the Internet during the service.”
“Right in front of the client?” Birdy asked, testing him.
“That’s Mr. Mundy’s stupid word, by the way,” he said. “It makes me cringe whenever I say it.”
The two workers finished the removal of the sod. Next, the younger one stretched out a dark brown tarp and the older one got into the cab of the backhoe and turned it on.
“Take it slow and easy,” Santos said. “Be gentle. This isn’t a race.”
“Jennifer Lake wasn’t like that,” Birdy said, once more refocusing the conversation.
“Absolutely not,” Santos said, his tone surprisingly indignant. “She had those two little kids and, God, she was just beside herself with worry and grief. She actually threw herself onto the casket and wouldn’t let go. I had to get her brother-in-law to help me pull her off. She was absolutely out of control. She kept saying over and over that she couldn’t live without him. She couldn’t raise those kids alone.”
The dirt piled up on the tarp.
“All right, guys,” Santos said. “Let’s use shovels now. Don’t want to mess anything up.”
“I saw her brother-in-law today,” Birdy said. “He sure didn’t paint a picture of a lost love like you just did. He couldn’t stand her.”
Deputy Anderson returned with the water.
“Thank you,” Birdy said, unscrewing the top. “You’re right. I’m not used to this heat. What is it about ninety now?”
Lucy Anderson looked at the temperature on her phone. “About ninety-four to be exact. Did I miss anything?”
Santos shook his head. “No, the guys are about to get to the vault. We’ll need to lift the lid and see what the doctor has to work with.”
“I’ve never been to an exhumation before,” Lucy said.
Birdy wore a grim smile. “It’s a little like opening up a present that you know you’ll hate.”
“Back to the brother, Dr. Waterman. There was some family discord. That’s for sure. I wouldn’t trust anything he had to say.”
“What kind of discord?” she asked, taking another much-needed drink.
“He wanted Donald buried in the cemetery up in Star Valley, Gila County. I understood his reasons. Family plot. His dad was there. His mom, she’d probably be there by now too.”
“She isn’t,” Birdy said. “So why was he buried here?”
“Jenny wanted him
here
. She wanted him to be close to her. She told me she fought with everything she had to get out of Gila County and she sure wasn’t going back there to visit her husband’s grave.”
The workers signaled that the vault was open.
“Looks intact,” Santos said, peering into the hole.
“Another happy client,” Birdy said.
Santos managed a smile.
“We aim to please,” he said.
The last stop before anyone is wheeled out for a viewing was behind the chapel. It wasn’t like Birdy’s makeshift lab in the house on Sidney Avenue. It was probably closer to what she was going to have when she moved offices to Bremerton, something she still dreaded. It was bright, with banks of fluorescent tubes overhead. Two embalming tables set up to drain fluids into a medical disposal system commanded most of the space on one end of the room. Next to that was a walk-in closet with row upon row of makeup, wigs, and the rubber and silicone plugs that are used to keep bodies from draining where they shouldn’t.
Donald Lake’s casket was high end, no doubt about that.
“It’s number eight-nine eight-nine, but we call it by its marketing name, the Castle Keep,” Santos said.
It was dark brown with a pattern relief of doves repeated in a wide band down the center. Some of its surface was streaked with verdigris.
It was impressive as it surely had been meant to be.
“Solid copper?” she asked.
“Sheeted, but thank you,” Santos said. “I’ll tell the manufacturer that you inquired.”
“I’m going to be cremated,” the young deputy said. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said. “We do that too. You can even pay in advance, you know, as a hedge against inflation.”
Anderson made a face. There was no hiding that she didn’t like the idea of a layaway plan for the dead.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said.
“Where’s your boss?” Birdy asked Santos.
“Gone,” he said. “He only came in because you two were going to be here. He almost never bothers unless a celebrity croaks and then he’s Johnny-on-the-spot.”
Birdy pulled a clean pair of scrubs, gloves, digital recorder, and camera from her purse.
“I came prepared,” she said. “Any place where I can change?”
Santos gestured across the room. “The makeup room all right?”
“That’ll be fine.”
Birdy didn’t expect a real need for the scrubs. There wasn’t any concern that there would be any fiber transfer or that any biologicals would splatter her. It was by-the-book protocol. The makeup room was cool, the air conditioner piping in enough breeze to move the hairs on a blond wig closest to the vent. She put on the mint-colored scrubs over her street clothes.
The casket was opened and there he was. Or rather a mummified version of Donald Lake. A musty, but surprisingly not too horrible, smell wafted into the room. The deceased was in surprisingly good condition for a man who’d been dead so long. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, and a tie with a small ruby tie tack holding it in place.
As if the tie would go anywhere.
Birdy wondered if the gem on his tie tack was a nod to his daughter.
The dead man’s features were desiccated, of course. His skin was the color and texture of the salmon jerky she and Summer had sold to tourists during one of their spurts of entrepreneurship on the reservation. But even in all of that, there was still a resemblance to the man he’d been. Certainly a resemblance to his brother, so many years older now.
Birdy took some pictures.
“These aren’t going to end up on the Internet, are they?”
Birdy ignored him as she concentrated on what she was doing.
“Well, are they?” he asked again.
She looked in his direction with an irritated, hard stare. “No, I can assure you they won’t.”
“Good, because we have a policy about that.”
“Can I look?” It was Deputy Anderson.
Birdy stepped back and the younger woman approached. She didn’t lean over to get a close view. Just enough to gasp and then return to the other side of the room.
“Can I use that tray?” Birdy asked Santos, indicating a cart on wheels she’d noticed next to the door to the makeup room. Without a word this time, he complied.
The forensic pathologist removed some gloves, glassine envelopes, and a pair of scissors from her purse and arranged the items on the table.
Next, she took four photographs of the casket, the deceased, the room, and the table with her supplies.
While the others looked on, Birdy spoke into her recorder.
“The subject is Donald Albert Lake, aged forty-one at the time of his death, here in Maricopa County. I’m in the presence of Stephan Santos, the funeral director of this location, Pinnacle Peak Memorial Park. Also observing is a representative of the Maricopa County sheriff’s department, Deputy Lucy Anderson. My name is Birdy Waterman and I’m the forensic pathologist for Kitsap County, Washington. I’m here under a court-ordered exhumation related to a case under our jurisdiction. I witnessed the removal of the casket from the cemetery plot and am about to conduct my examination.”
She put on a pair of gloves, picked up the scissors, and started cutting the deceased’s suit up the right pant leg.
“Do you have to do that?” Santos asked.
“Yes,” she said, cutting the other. He was not wearing a belt and that was a relief. She opened his jacket, undid the ruby tie tack, and set it on the table. She carefully snipped the fabric along the button line of his dress shirt.