The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller Page 4

  My stomach cramps up. I picture this young woman somehow trusting this creep, this murderer with her body. I wonder what went through her head that would allow her to give herself over like that to a total stranger. Youth is like that I guess. Completely naïve and innocent. Until the guy you connect with on Snapchat has suddenly tied you down on a table and is injecting toxic poison into your veins.

  “Latest victim was found in the park just this morning, as you already know from reading the papers. Her name is Lisa. Lisa Barrett, from Troy across the river. Unemployed apparently, but comes from money. Real estate development money, to be accurate.” He shakes his disgusted. “Born lucky. Died, very fucking unlucky.”

  His intercom buzzes. The abrupt electronic noise breaks us both out of a spell we’d rather not be in. He goes to his desk, presses a button on the combination landline/intercom.

  “Bryan Devane’s still here,” says a voice I recognize as belonging to the Guard Sergeant. “Should have told you earlier. You ready to see him?”

  “Send him in,” Miller says.

  We wait in quiet for a few beats. When I make out the echo of heels against the concrete corridor floor, I know Bryan, whoever he is, is about to knock on the door. There comes a knock, and Miller calls out for him to come on in.

  The door opens, and a man enters. He’s maybe early middle age with thick black hair that’s long, somewhat curly, and held in place with a white sweatband like you might see on a MacGyver rerun back in the 80’s. He’s clean shaven with blue eyes and thin lips. He’s wearing a wife beater T-shirt for effect. Meaning, he obviously spends most of his off hours at the gym because he’s got massive traps, biceps, and triceps, while his waist must be half of what mine is. He’s wearing sweat pants and sneakers like Miller pulled him away from his workout. Call it intuition, but without his uttering a word, I can tell right away that he’s one of those A personalities that talks a mile a minute.

  Miller stands.

  “Bryan, this is Steve,” he says, noticeably avoiding my last name. “He’s lending a hand in our investigation into the mortician murders. Take a seat.”

  Bryan nods, holds out his hand.

  I take it, and he does one of those squeeze-as-hard-as-he-can-to-prove-how-strong-he-is kind of handshakes which bugs the snot out of me. When he releases, he raises himself up onto the balls of his feet, like a boxer right after the bell has rung for round one. He stares at the bulletin board.

  “Oh man, oh man,” he comments, his voice a decibel higher than I expected it. No wonder he spends so much time growing muscles. He was probably ninety-pound-skinny-weakling-fodder for the bullies on the schoolyard playground years ago. “There she is, Detective Miller.” He giggles, but it’s a nervous giggle. “You should have seen her, man. Wow, she looked so alive. Her blonde hair blowing in the wind, a little sly smile on her face, her eyes bright blue.” He turned to me. “She was looking at me, Steve. I mean right at me. It was kind of exciting. A pretty girl looking at me like that.”

  Miller says, “Bryan found Lisa Barrett in the park this morning. He was out for a jog.”

  “Hell of a way to spend your morning,” I say.

  He’s still bobbing on his feet.

  He smiles and speaks at rapid-fire speed. “Hey, you know. God works in mysterious ways and all that, but I honestly am freaked because I thought, here’s this amazing looking girl smiling at me, inviting me over. That doesn’t happen a lot these days.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, buddy,” I say.

  Miller breaks in, “Steve is helping me with establishing a motive for the killer, whom we suspect is an unemployed or formerly unemployed mortician professional.”

  Bryan nods.

  “Yeah man, that would explain the terrific job he did on the body. I mean, I’m no pervert, but for a while there this morning, I could have taken her into my arms, and kissed her on the mouth. She is . . . or, was . . . very attractive. Wow wee.”

  Bryan’s talking so fast he’s making my heart beat faster.

  “Listen, Bryan,” Miller interjects. “Speaking of motive, I have another question or two to ask, before you head back home.”

  “I been here all day, Detective Miller,” he says, smiling that strange smile again. “My workout’s busted. My sweat’s dried up. Heartbeat back to a slow tick.” Then, giving me a look. “You work out, Steve? Doesn’t look like it, you don’t mind me saying. You should find a program, you know. Stick with it, man. Changes your life. Now, Miller here, he runs them marathons. He’s a real—”

  “Mr. Devane!” Miller barks.

  Bryan shuts up like a schoolkid suddenly scolded in front of the entire classroom. Slowly he turns back to Miller.

  “Sorry, Miller,” he says. “Once I get going on something.” He bobs a little more on his feet.

  “Listen, Bryan,” Miller goes on from behind his desk. “Why do you think a man would spend that kind of time and effort embalming a beautiful woman? What kind of satisfaction would he derive from it?”

  “Hey, man,” Bryan says. “You’re asking me? I’m just the asshole who found her.”

  “Yes,” Miller says. “But you said you were attracted to her. I would guess the killer is attracted to his victims too, but only after they’re embalmed.”

  “I’m not a suspect, am I?” Bryan asks.

  I had to admit, I was beginning to wonder if he was a suspect myself.

  Miller shakes his head.

  “Just searching high and low and sideways for information,” he explains. “Trust me when I say, every little bit helps.”

  For a change, Bryan goes quiet. He’s thinking about what he’s about to say, rather than just shooting his mouth off.

  “It’s like I said in my statement this morning,” he offers after a beat, his voice softer, his words no longer shooting rapid-fire. “What the killer created was a real work of art. But I guess, in order to make that work of art, he had to kill the girl he loved. So maybe what he’s doing is torturing himself.”

  “Why do you think he would do that?” Miller asks.

  Bryan cocks his head over his shoulder.

  “Maybe he can’t help himself. Maybe he has to kill his women. But that doesn’t mean he can’t punish himself for it either. You remember The Munsters? Well, ol’ Herman didn’t know he was different from other people. He just thought of himself as a normal run-of-the-mill dude. He had no idea that his green skin and huge Frankenstein body made him a freak. But still, he sensed something wasn’t right. Especially when people ran away from him, screaming. I guess it’s the same with your killer, Detective. He doesn’t really know how fucked up he is. Only that something’s not right. He snares these girls into his web, but then he kills them. It’s normal for him, but also messed up, and he punishes himself for it.” Bryan is no longer bobbing on the balls of his feet. It’s like he feels suddenly deflated. “You think I can I go home now, Detective Miller?”

  Miller nods towards the door.

  “Thanks for all your help, Bryan,” he says. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

  Bryan turns, gives me a nod.

  “Don’t forget what I said,” he says. “Start getting some workouts in. Your body will thank you for it.”

  He exits the office, closing the door hard.

  “That man is a hurricane,” I say.

  “You don’t know the half of it, Jobz. And before you ask, no he’s not a suspect. Not yet anyway. But we’re gonna keep our eye on him.”

  “Had some pretty good insight for a guy whose only involvement was finding Lisa during his morning jog.”

  “Yeah, well, insights are like assholes too.”

  “Everyone’s got one,” I say. “Funny.”

  Miller comes around the desk, goes to the door, opens it.

  “Who’s hungry?” he says. “Jack’s Diner is across the street.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Detective Friendly Man. You buying?”

  “Johnny Q. Taxpayer is buying. Perfectly SOP, so
long as I save the receipt, hand it in to the bean counters. We have our own corner booth there, me and the APD.”

  “How very Barney Miller of you, Detective Miller.”

  I grab my black shoulder bag from off the couch along with the laptop computer stuffed inside it.

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to spill that joke, Jobz. Maybe you can’t hear it, but I’m laughing on the inside.”

  Barney Miller, I whisper to myself. Maybe I should just shut the hell up for a change.

  Jack’s Diner is crowded and busy. It smells good, like all greasy spoons do. Comfort food frying on the grill. Burgers, eggs, steaks, french fries in the fryolator. Just like Miller said, an empty table in the back is waiting for us. A waitress approaches us. She’s middle-aged with long salt and pepper hair tied back in a ponytail. She smiles at the detective.

  “Booth’s almost ready,” she says. “Couple of uniforms just scarfed down lunch. Give me a sec.”

  “No problem,” Miller says with a wink.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said they reserve a booth for Albany’s finest.”

  “If you haven’t noticed,” he says, “this isn’t the best of neighborhoods despite the police presence. We’ve had muggings and holdups right outside the precinct doors, and that’s no lie.”

  “People are desperate around here, Miller,” I say.

  “No work, no hope for work. Makes crime a valid option sometimes.”

  “Don’t depress me. It’s lunchtime in Albany.”

  “Jack’s gives us a corner booth and our fair share of free lunch. We, in turn, keep an eye on the joint. It’s a win-win. That should cheer you up.”

  The waitress comes back to us.

  “All set,” she announces.

  We head to the booth.

  “This will work,” I say.

  “Not a lot of perks being a cop,” Miller says. “But cheap eats is one of them.”

  Pulling out the computer, I open the lid, power it up.

  “Where you wanna begin, Detective?”

  “First let’s order.”

  Ponytail waitress comes back with her pad in hand.

  “Gentlemen,” she says, offering me a pleasant smile, “what’ll it be?”

  “The usual,” Miller says. “Mr. Jobz?”

  “Cheeseburger. Extra crispy french fries. Coke.”

  “Healthy boy.” She smiles, winks, goes to put in the order. But then hesitating, she turns back around. I already know what’s coming before it arrives. “That your name? Jobz? Like Steve Jobs?”

  “My name just happens to be Steve Jobz.”

  She takes a moment to absorb what I’m telling her. Like she isn’t sure if I’m pulling her leg or not.

  “And my name is Siri,” she says after a time.

  “Oh, well,” I say. “That means I can ask you anything. But truth be told, I’m Jobz with a Z. It’s short for Jobzcynski.”

  “Polish,” she says. “Me too. You like golumpkis? We have them on the menu sometimes. You should come in more often.”

  It’s rare that someone, even a middle-aged woman will flirt with me. Even then, it’s usually me confusing said woman’s nice demeanor as not just a flirt, but an outright advance. What was it my dad once told me? Every time a girl smiles at you, you automatically assume she wants to marry you. But every now and then it happens, and it elevates my spirits just enough to get me through the day.

  “I will,” I say. “Now that I have a new job. I’ll be coming around for sure.”

  “I’m Janice,” she says. “Nice meeting you, Steve.”

  “Pleasure, Janice.”

  She steps away to put our order in.

  “Janice is quality people,” Miller says. “Husband was an Albany Cop. Killed in the line about ten years ago on a routine drug bust in Arbor Hill. Perp shot him with a .22 execution style while we was down on his knees.” Shakes his head. “Sad.”

  “Where’s the perp now?”

  “Doing life in Dannemora.” Nodding in the direction of Janice. “She could get by on his pension, but she likes people. Likes to work.”

  Janice returns with my coke and a black coffee for Miller, smiles again, and leaves.

  “She presently engaged with a male suitor?”

  “Far as I know, free as a bird.”

  I feel myself smiling. Spirits aloft. “Good to know.”

  “Let’s take a look at that database,” he says. “Before we start discussing romance novels.”

  “Gee, Miller,” I say. “Every now and again you show signs of a sense of humor.”

  Typing in my username and password, I gain access to the State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency database. The thousands upon thousands of names of working age men and women who collect their three hundred eighty-five per week for the requisite six months appears.

  “Wow,” Miller says, as he gazes upon all those names. “Sure this is legal?”

  “Great question,” I point out. “If we were bad guys and knew what we were doing, we could probably hack into the bank accounts of every one of these individuals.”

  “That’s a lot of names and social security numbers.”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s shocking. I thought the economy was supposed to be rolling along. Five percent unemployment or whatever the governor is touting these days in the press. The president too.”

  “What most people don’t know is that that unemployment number is a fabrication. What it doesn’t take into account is the number of unemployed workers who have given up looking for a job. Did you know they are no longer counted among the unemployed?”

  He sips his coffee. “Okay, so you add in the employed/unemployed and what do you get?”

  “The real number is more like fifteen percent. And that’s no joke.”

  Genuine shock on his face.

  “Kinda sobering when you think about it.”

  “It’s also why there’s so much fraud out there.” I drink some of the cold Coke. No matter how old I get, there’s still nothing like an ice-cold Coke on a hot summer’s day. “So, what am I looking for?”

  Miller gets up, comes around to my side of the booth.

  “You mind?” he asks.

  “It’s your diner,” I say.

  “It’s my city. The diner belongs to Jack.”

  He shoves himself in beside me, and together we gaze at the screen.

  “Why are these names highlighted in red?” he asks.

  “Those are the people that are either currently under investigation for fraud and/or are on the UIF watch list. Think of it as a terror watch list only unemployment insurance fraud.”

  “I see,” he says. “So, the red kind of narrows it down.”

  “Narrows it to mere tens of thousands if that’s what you mean.”

  “Needle in the stack of needles,” he says. “Tell you what. Can we bring up names according to the industry in which they were employed prior to going on unemployment?”

  “There’s an app for that,” I say. Raising my hand, I make a pointer with my index finger, point at the search engine in the upper right-hand corner of the database. “What do you want me to look for?”

  “Funeral Parlor. Funeral services. Mortician. Embalmer . . . I don’t know. Something that would indicate somebody who worked for a funeral parlor and therefore would know a little something about the embalming process and how it works. Maybe even have access to some of the equipment required for the . . . ummm . . . procedure. If you wanna call it that.”

  I go to type something in, but Janice comes to the table with our food. She sets it down in front of us, careful not to get anything on my laptop. My cheeseburger with extra crispy fries smells a hell of a lot better than Miller’s chef salad, creamy Italian dressing on the side. In fact, his doesn’t smell like anything at all.

  “Don’t you two look cozy,” Janice comments, with another wink of her eye. A sense of humor to go with the sweet personality. I j
ust might melt on the spot. Think I’ll have to get her number before this working lunch is over.

  “Miller’s not my type.” I return the wink.

  He turns to me. “And why’s that, Jobz? Because I’m a cop?”

  “It’s because of your gun, Detective,” I say.

  “I’ll never understand men,” he says, pouring the dressing onto his greens, chicken strips, and hardboiled egg halves. “My wife understood me, though.”

  “Where is she now?” I ask.

  “Died on the operating table. You spend enough time with me, I’ll tell you about it one day. But not now.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.”

  “No worries, Jobz. It’s fair game.”

  “You two love birds need anything else?” Janice interjects.

  I’m thinking, here’s my opening for her number. We even lock eyes for a brief, yet sustained, moment or two. But I lose my nerve and she goes back to her business.

  Using both hands to lift my burger off the plate, I steal a bite of it. It’s hot, juicy, and delicious. It’s also free which makes it taste even better. Wiping my hands with the napkin, I set my fingers back on the computer keyboard, type “funeral parlor employees” into the search engine.

  A list of maybe two or three thousand long shows up.

  “Well, that narrows it even more,” Miller observes. “But that’s still pretty long.”

  “Let’s search by county,” I say.

  I type in “funeral parlor employees, Albany County.”

  “That narrows it down to about two thousand, give or take,” I add. “But let me ask you something, Miller. Can’t your perp have worked in the funeral business anywhere in the state? Or the country for that matter?”

  He eats some salad.

  “Sure, but we go out of state right now, it becomes an FBI matter and once the feds get involved entirely, say goodbye to control. So, for now, anyway, I’d like to concentrate on Albany and see what we can see.”