“Absence of circulatory and respiratory function. High-voltage electrical burns exposing a narrow vertical area of forehead and cheek bones. The angle of the head and digital manipulation of the neck indicated a cervical break. There was bleeding from the ears. There was evidence for a reasonable inference of spinal injuries, as well as catastrophic neurological damage related to electrocution. Most conclusively, CPR and defibrillation efforts had been initiated without success and discontinued prior to my arrival.”
Gurney nodded slowly. “So, even if the subject were not already dead at the time of your examination, death would have been imminent and inevitable?”
“The subject was dead at the time of my examination. Imminence and inevitability are irrelevant.”
“What if I told you that Billy Tate walked out of Peale’s Funeral Home?”
Fallow erupted in a sharp burst of laughter. “I’d say you were misinformed.”
“What if I told you we have a witness who spoke to Billy Tate nearly twenty-four hours after you pronounced him dead?”
“I’d say it doesn’t matter how many delusional witnesses might claim to have spoken to him. It wouldn’t change the fact that the young man was struck by lightning, fell off the roof of St. Giles Church, and was killed instantly. If you’ve managed to lose his body, I suggest you find it. If you’re claiming that the man I pronounced dead is wandering around Larchfield, you’re making a serious mistake.” He checked his watch again. “If you have no other questions . . .”
“Just one,” said Gurney. “Did you by any chance have anything to drink the night Tate fell off the roof?”
Fallow stared at him. His voice tightened. “If you’re suggesting my professional judgment was in any way impaired—”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking a simple question.”
Fallow stood up from the conference table and glared at Morgan. “If this absurd confrontation was your idea, you’ll live to regret it.”
“Before you leave, Doctor,” said Gurney in a matter-of-fact way, “we have a security camera video you might be interested in.”
“Video of what?”
“Billy Tate’s resurrection in Peale’s embalming room.”
18
The video, which Fallow watched with increasing distress, deflated him. He insisted that what he’d witnessed on the screen was impossible, but the strength of his conviction was gone.
“There was no doubt whatever in my mind that he was dead. I don’t understand. There’s no way he could have been alive.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Doctor, but there’s another piece of the puzzle that supports the likelihood of Tate’s survival. Two pieces, in fact. Two murders.”
Before Gurney could go on to explain it, he saw the connection suddenly dawning on Fallow—beginning, no doubt, with the neatly sliced throats of Mary Kane and Angus Russell.
“The scalpels . . . Oh, my God . . . the scalpels he took from the mortuary cabinet.”
“We also have Tate’s fingerprints and DNA at the Russell murder scene.”
Fallow swallowed hard.
Gurney continued. “We’ll be issuing an APB today for Billy Tate, followed by a public statement, which will trigger a media explosion—including the inevitable Dead Man Rises stories. Things may get ugly, especially for you personally. Be prepared for that.”
“Can’t you control what details go to the media?”
“To some extent. But it’s public knowledge that Tate was declared dead. Now it will be public knowledge that he’s wanted for questioning in connection with two new murders. That’s not something we can conceal.”
Gurney didn’t need to mention that Fallow’s alcohol-related arrest was also a matter of public record. He could almost see the panic wheels turning in the man’s brain as he imagined the career-smashing way that fact was likely to be covered by the media: MEDICAL EXAMINER WITH HISTORY OF ALCOHOL ABUSE DECLARES UNCONSCIOUS MAN DEAD.
Fallow turned to Morgan. “You were there. You saw him. How could anyone in that condition have survived?”
Morgan said nothing.
Fallow began shaking his head. “Newspapers, television . . . God, what a horror!”
Gurney spoke calmly. “I’d suggest you refer any media inquiries you get to the Larchfield Police Department. It will be better for everyone if that function is centralized.”
After a long moment, Fallow departed, still shaking his head.
Morgan gave Gurney a deer-in-the-headlights look. “When you say Larchfield Police Department, you mean me?”
“Unless you’ve got a spokesman on staff that I don’t know about.”
Morgan sighed. “I’d better get working on a statement.”
“If I were you, I’d get the APB on Tate out first. The Mary Kane murder suggests he has no qualms about killing anyone who could be a threat to him.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Sir?” Slovak was in the conference room doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I just got back from Selena Cursen’s. Should I fill you in now?”
“Fill Dave in. I’ll catch up with him.” He hurried out.
Slovak joined Gurney at the table and starting talking. “It was totally weird. She kept smiling and saying weird shit. He’s the Dark Angel who rose from the dead. Beware the Dark Angel who rose from the dead.”
“Did she let you into the house?”
“No. She must have been outside and heard my car coming. You approach her place on this long, narrow dirt road through the woods. You have to drive real slow, with all the ruts. It’s like a tunnel, with thick pine branches meeting over the top, so there’s hardly any light. Then you come to this black iron gate that separates the woods from the grounds around the house. You look at that house, you can’t help thinking bad shit goes on in there. When I got to the gate, she was standing there, all in black. With those shiny stud things in her lips. Smiling, like she was waiting for me. I had to force myself to get out of the car. I told her we were trying to get a better understanding of Billy Tate’s accident, and would she mind if I asked her some questions.”
“What did she say?”
“That’s when she started with the weird shit. She knows that Tate’s alive. But she seems to believe he actually died and came back from the other side. The way she was looking at me, the way she sounded, gave me the shivers.”
“Any evidence that she was high on something?”
“Not really. Selena’s always been strange. Harmless-strange. But today she was scary-strange. The look in her eyes almost made me think she was right.”
“Right?”
“About Billy being dead and coming back to life. I know that’s nuts, but . . . that look, like she knew something no one else did.”
“Does she have any family?”
Slovak shook his head. “Her parents and sister died in a fire about ten years ago. The family house burned to the ground in the middle of the night. The fire marshal never came up with the reason. He suspected arson, but couldn’t prove it. Selena was the only one of the Cursens who didn’t die in the fire—because she was sleeping in a tent in the woods that night, or that’s what she said. There were whispers going around, but no solid facts, just a feeling people had that Selena might be capable of anything. And there was the fact that she ended up with a huge inheritance. And went to live by herself in that haunted house out by the swamp.”
“How old is she?”
“Around my age, I guess. Late twenties?”
“Was she in high school with you?”
“Her parents sent her to a school near Albany. For kids with emotional problems. Right after she came home, the family house burned down.”