A Beeline to Murder

They had to get Jean-Louis into the ground . . . and fast. An uptick in gang violence on the county’s east side had left seven dead in stabbings and retaliatory shootings. Space was filling up at the morgue.

Abby learned about this latest news after attempting to hoist a hefty bag of chicken crumbles over the feeder. Lifting the bag was one thing, but pouring the poultry feed into the hanging metal chicken feeder while answering her cell phone proved impossible. She dropped the bag to take Philippe’s call. It soon became apparent that he was feeling overwhelmed and more distraught than usual. He talked nonstop, frantically flipping between French and English, attempting to explain how the situation with Jean-Louis had gone from très terrible to absurde.

“Slow down, Philippe. Breathe. Now tell me slowly in English, please.”

“We must bury Jean-Louis and soon.”

Abby failed to see the issue. “So what’s the problem? The funeral home can pick him up from the county facility. It’s easy enough to transport the body back to the East Coast for burial.”

“The problem . . . the problem,” he said, his volume rising a decibel, “it is that I have yet to make arrangements.”

“Oh?” Abby eyed the poop floating in the chickens’ watering canister. Why can’t you ladies just drink without climbing up and pooping into your water?

“This whole affair has been most difficult.” Philippe rambled away from her question and complained about the morning news show he’d watched in the lodge’s dining room and, explaining how it had ruined his breakfast muffin and coffee, wondered why American hotels had to have televisions in every room, anyway, showing clips of violence when people might be eating.

“But let’s back up a minute. Have you called Shadyside Funeral Home? Or visited the priest at Holy Names? The church is right there by the pastry shop, less than ten blocks from the Las Flores Lodge, where you are staying.”

“Non.” His tone sounded sullen now. “I haven’t been inside a church in years.”

“Jean-Louis’s body has been in the morgue for several days now. Do you need help making these arrangements?”

“Oui. I thought I could deal with this tragedy . . . for my mother, for my father . . . but I did not know it would affect me the way it has.”

Abby sighed heavily. The weight of grief she understood from her experience with victims, their families, fellow cops, her folks. Death was something you had to deal with when working the streets and when you had aging relatives. Everyone died. But thinking about death philosophically and intellectually was much different than personally experiencing the death of a loved one.

“The ruling of suicide is très terrible. It occurs in a moment of insanity, and surely anyone who takes such action is out of his mind, n’est-ce pas? But someone snuffed out Jean-Louis’s life. I had hoped you would find out who did this. Then I could take care of Jean-Louis. But you haven’t. I haven’t. Now we must.”