“And she’s Homer Gibbon’s aunt? Nice family. ” Dez looked at Goss. “Would have been nice to know that’s what we were stepping into when we took this call. ”
“Hey,” said Goss, “just about the only two things they told me were jack and shit. Besides, the gag order was imposed because of all the threats. ”
“What threats?” demanded JT.
“They got fifty kinds of threats during the trial. People wanted to drag Gibbon’s body through the streets or string it up and use it as a piñata. A lot of people said they just wanted to piss on his grave. ”
“Might have done that myself,” muttered Dez.
Goss ignored her. “And they also got letters from a couple of dark worship groups. ”
“Who?” asked Scott.
“Cultists. Bunch of assholes who worship freaks like Gibbon, or Satan, or Ozzy Osbourne, I don’t know. Black Mass dickheads. They said they wanted his body as a holy relic. ”
“Oh, for the love of…” Dez couldn’t finish it. It was all too absurd, and her nerves ware so raw that what she really wanted to say was “Fuck it!” and go back home, order a pizza, drink a six of Yuengling and watch Die Hard films until the day started making sense again.
They were almost to the mortuary now. Additional police units had arrived from other towns and the road was completely blocked.
JT cleared his throat. “Chief, in light of the threats and all,” he began, keeping his tone in neutral, “don’t you think it might have been prudent to give responding officers some kind of clue? We could have been walking into a real mess if there had been cultists or…”
Goss said nothing, but his eyes shifted away.
You never even thought about it, Dez thought angrily. Shithead.
“Ah,” said JT. His disapproval hung in the air. Like Dez’s it was unspoken. The chief’s face went red and he quickened his pace.
“Well,” said Goss, changing the subject, “at least there’s no press yet. ”
“There’s blood in the water,” Dez said, “the sharks will be here. ”
They reentered the mortuary, moving carefully to avoid further contamination of the evidence. Scott went straight to the overturned gurney and the others gathered around it. Now that they were focusing on it—rather than the blood and death—they didn’t need Scott to explain it. The gurney lay on a pile of stained white sheets and a black rubber body bag.
Goss turned to an officer who was using a digital camera to document the scene. “Barney, you do this stuff?”
“Yeah, Chief, go ahead. ”
Scott took a pair of polyethylene gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and then carefully lifted one corner of the sheet to expose words that were stenciled on the border in faded blue ink. STATE CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION AT ROCKVIEW.
The same name was stenciled in white on the body bag.
“Okay,” said Dez, “so they really did bring Gibbon’s body here. That’s just fucking peachy. So … we could have a group of religious nuts, an actual mob with pitchforks and torches, or a Satanic cult willing to kill Doc Hartnup and who knows who else just to steal the body. I love this job. ”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HARTNUP’S TRANSITION ESTATE
He could feel everything.
Every. Single. Thing.
Jolts in his legs with each clumsy step. The protest of muscles as they fought the onset of rigor even as they lifted his arms and flexed his hands. The stretch of jaw muscles. The shuddering snap as his teeth clamped shut around the young police officer’s throat.
And then the blood. Hot and salty and sickeningly sweet. Flooding his mouth, bathing his gums and tongue, gushing down his throat.
Lee Hartnup screamed. He screamed from the bottom of his soul as his mouth opened and closed again, and again. Biting, tearing. Chewing.
Devouring.