“Alive. Dies on the way to the hospital. Head trauma—no helmet—and internal injuries.”
“Poor kid. But his finger’s still attached, you say.”
“Right.”
“And then he’s taken to the morgue. Is that where the parents first see him?”
“Yes. Took a while to track them down.”
I could feel the picture coming into focus. “So they I.D.’d the body at the morgue. And the finger must’ve still been on his hand then. Because if it wasn’t, they’d have noticed and started asking questions. And anyhow, Garland”—Dr. Garland Hamilton, the Knox County medical examiner—“would’ve pounced on that. An amputation that clean? He’d have been on that like a duck on a June bug.” Decker nodded, smiling slightly, and I continued, on a roll now. “So the boy still had the finger when he was in the morgue. But unless somebody dug up his body”—I felt almost as energized now as when I was working a death scene—“the finger must’ve been amputated between the time he left the morgue and the time he was buried.” Decker was beaming now. “My God,” I said, “so Satterfield’s groupie-woman works at the funeral home? She cut off the finger while she was embalming the boy’s body?”
“See,” he said, “I knew you could figure it out.”
“He must’ve told her to be on the lookout for a finger to send me. A woman’s or a kid’s. They’re pen pals, right?”
“Pen pals, and more,” he said. “The mailroom says they swap letters two, three times a month. And she visits once or twice a year.”
I looked again at the mug shot. In addition to her name, the placard in the image bore a calendar date.
I looked up. “She was arrested yesterday?” He nodded, looking pleased, and I pressed on. “For this?”
“Yup. Desecrating a corpse.”
“Any evidence? Besides circumstantial?”
“We got so lucky on this one,” he said. “There was a big scandal, couple months back, about a Memphis mortician who was having sex with female corpses.”
“I remember that. Really disgusting.”
“No kidding, Doc. Anyhow, the guy that owns the funeral home handling this boy’s burial? He got spooked by that Memphis stuff. Had hidden cameras installed in all the embalming rooms. So when I showed up yesterday, asking who had access to the kid’s body, he puffs up, all proud, and says, ‘Here, let’s take a look.’ He calls up the footage on his computer with me sitting right there. Doc, you should’ve seen that man’s face when it showed this gal—his employee, mind you—slicing off the kid’s finger. That man was shitting bricks. Probably still is. I’m guessing the kid’s parents are gonna sue the pants off him.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about his pants,” I said. “Most funeral homes have huge insurance policies. That’s one reason funerals cost so damn much.” I looked again at the mug shot. “So she’s in custody. She talking? About Satterfield?”
He made a face. “Nah, she’s all lawyered up. My guess is, she’ll end up trying to cut a deal. And maybe the D.A. will require cooperation as part of that.” I frowned, and he went on. “Meanwhile, I’m thinking I might take a little road trip over to Clifton. South Central Correctional Facility.”
“To see Satterfield?”
“See him. Talk to him. Rattle his cage a little. Have a frank, man-to-man chat in a private interview room.” He began to nod slowly, a dark glint in his eyes, his fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically. “Suggest that it’s not a good idea to bother you and your family.”
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what I suspected Decker himself was imagining: Decker, built like a linebacker, beating the crap out of Satterfield. I imagined it, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. I felt myself yielding to the idea, being taken over by it. It was as if I were spellbound, enchanted by the siren song of violent vengeance. It almost seemed as if I myself were the one slamming Satterfield’s face against a cinder-block wall, kicking Satterfield’s splintering ribs. Suddenly my fantasy took an unexpected and horrifying turn. During a split-second pause in the carnage, Satterfield managed to turn his face toward me, and through the bloody lips and the broken teeth, he grinned at me: a mocking, malicious, complicit grin. “Gotcha,” the grin seemed to say. “How do you like it, becoming me?”
“No!” My voice—my shout—startled me from my waking dream. Was I shouting at Satterfield, at myself, or at Decker? I had no idea.
Decker stared at me. “Doc? What’s wrong?”
I felt a shudder run through me. “Nothing. Sorry. Just . . . probably not a good idea to go see Satterfield. But, Christ, that guy is still under my skin. Like some dormant virus, or a cancer cell—lurking, biding its time, you know?” He nodded. A thought struck me. “Know much about shingles?”
“Roofing shingles?”
“Medical shingles. The disease.”
“Not much,” he said. “Old people get it, right? Very painful, I’ve heard.”
“Ever have chicken pox, as a kid?”