all over Johnny’s head. He gave the boy a neat, layered look, and his chest swelled with pride when he admired his handiwork. Who would mind? Johnny’s brow seemed furrowed with displeasure, but Harold was able to massage his forehead into a relaxed state again.
After verifying that none of his officers had called in sick, Matt drove to Charlie Grissom’s house. His Pathfinder slid on the ice several times, and he pumped the brakes, righting the vehicle’s trajectory. Pulling into the driveway, he switched off the ignition and gazed at the dilapidated house’s brown and yellow siding, which needed replacing. A rusted basketball hoop without a net clung to the garage out back, and a rotting picnic table sat frozen on the side lawn. Tucking a file folder under one arm, he got out of the vehicle, popped the hatch, and removed a cardboard box. The side door to the house opened and Charlie peeked out, squinting in the gray light.
“Matt? I almost didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”
“I’ve got Johnny’s possessions, Charlie.”
“You’d best come in this way. Those porch steps are dangerous with all that ice.”
Matt nodded and half-slid across the ice to the side door. Inside, he closed the door behind him with one heel and followed Charlie up three steps covered with peeling linoleum. He set the box down on the cluttered kitchen table. The cool sunlight shining through the window over the sink highlighted dirty dishes in murky water. Dark splotches of spaghetti sauce had caramelized on the surface of the outdated stove.
Charlie opened the box and rummaged through Johnny’s clothing and a plastic bag containing his wallet, loose change, and breath mints. “Guess I’ll take this stuff upstairs to his room. My sister, Alicia, is coming in from Tampa next weekend. She can’t make the funeral, but she promised to pack up all of Johnny’s stuff and take it to Goodwill. I’m putting this dump on the market and getting the hell out of town. Maybe I’ll move to Florida like everyone else, get away from all this damned snow.”
“That sounds like a plan. How are you doing?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. A parent should never have to bury his child.”
Matt removed the folder from under his arm. “I have the results of Johnny’s autopsy. Preliminary toxicology shows his bloodalcohol content was .13, way over the legal limit, and he tested positive for marijuana.”
Charlie’s eyes teared. “Stupid kid. I guess I didn’t set much of an example for him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. All kids do stupid things. It could have happened to anyone in this town.”
“But it didn’t.”
Offering a sympathetic smile, Matt clasped Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. My wife sends her regrets. You give us a shout if you need anything, okay? I mean that.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
As he left, Matt thought he heard Charlie sobbing.
With his preparations completed, Harold performed the arterial embalming, which he regarded as the manual-labor portion of his job. Using a scalpel, he made an incision in Johnny’s neck. No blood appeared, because it had all settled in the bottom of the body. He inserted forceps and raised the carotid and its corresponding vein above the skin surface. Then he made an incision in the artery and inserted an injection needle into it. A clear tube connected the needle to a hose leading from the large metal vat of the embalming machine. He inserted a drain tube into the corresponding vein, then activated the embalming machine’s pump, which rattled and hummed. Pink fluid—formaldehyde mixed with water—shot through the hose and entered Johnny’s carotid.
Faced with increasing costs, Harold used a higher water-to-formaldehyde ratio than regulations dictated; it was the only way he could turn a profit. And in a case like this, when the bereaved could only afford the most minimal of arrangements, he used even more water.
After verifying that none of his officers had called in sick, Matt drove to Charlie Grissom’s house. His Pathfinder slid on the ice several times, and he pumped the brakes, righting the vehicle’s trajectory. Pulling into the driveway, he switched off the ignition and gazed at the dilapidated house’s brown and yellow siding, which needed replacing. A rusted basketball hoop without a net clung to the garage out back, and a rotting picnic table sat frozen on the side lawn. Tucking a file folder under one arm, he got out of the vehicle, popped the hatch, and removed a cardboard box. The side door to the house opened and Charlie peeked out, squinting in the gray light.
“Matt? I almost didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”
“I’ve got Johnny’s possessions, Charlie.”
“You’d best come in this way. Those porch steps are dangerous with all that ice.”
Matt nodded and half-slid across the ice to the side door. Inside, he closed the door behind him with one heel and followed Charlie up three steps covered with peeling linoleum. He set the box down on the cluttered kitchen table. The cool sunlight shining through the window over the sink highlighted dirty dishes in murky water. Dark splotches of spaghetti sauce had caramelized on the surface of the outdated stove.
Charlie opened the box and rummaged through Johnny’s clothing and a plastic bag containing his wallet, loose change, and breath mints. “Guess I’ll take this stuff upstairs to his room. My sister, Alicia, is coming in from Tampa next weekend. She can’t make the funeral, but she promised to pack up all of Johnny’s stuff and take it to Goodwill. I’m putting this dump on the market and getting the hell out of town. Maybe I’ll move to Florida like everyone else, get away from all this damned snow.”
“That sounds like a plan. How are you doing?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. A parent should never have to bury his child.”
Matt removed the folder from under his arm. “I have the results of Johnny’s autopsy. Preliminary toxicology shows his bloodalcohol content was .13, way over the legal limit, and he tested positive for marijuana.”
Charlie’s eyes teared. “Stupid kid. I guess I didn’t set much of an example for him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. All kids do stupid things. It could have happened to anyone in this town.”
“But it didn’t.”
Offering a sympathetic smile, Matt clasped Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. My wife sends her regrets. You give us a shout if you need anything, okay? I mean that.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
As he left, Matt thought he heard Charlie sobbing.
With his preparations completed, Harold performed the arterial embalming, which he regarded as the manual-labor portion of his job. Using a scalpel, he made an incision in Johnny’s neck. No blood appeared, because it had all settled in the bottom of the body. He inserted forceps and raised the carotid and its corresponding vein above the skin surface. Then he made an incision in the artery and inserted an injection needle into it. A clear tube connected the needle to a hose leading from the large metal vat of the embalming machine. He inserted a drain tube into the corresponding vein, then activated the embalming machine’s pump, which rattled and hummed. Pink fluid—formaldehyde mixed with water—shot through the hose and entered Johnny’s carotid.
Faced with increasing costs, Harold used a higher water-to-formaldehyde ratio than regulations dictated; it was the only way he could turn a profit. And in a case like this, when the bereaved could only afford the most minimal of arrangements, he used even more water.
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