The Siege (16 page)

“Please,” Rodgers said, stepping to one side and directing Winfield and Dale down the hallway.

At the far end, a door stood ajar, and they could see Rodgers’ office. Doors on both sides opened onto large rooms with dark wood paneling. Dale felt a sudden dash of chills when he saw that the room to the left was “occupied.” Wall sconces lit with dim, flame-shaped light bulbs illuminated a mound of floral arrangements that surrounded a coffin. The coffin lid was open, and an elderly woman lay with her hands folded across her chest. The organ music in the room was just a notch louder, and the smell of the flowers was almost choking.

Dale pushed aside the thought that beneath those folded hands, stuffed into the cavity of that old woman’s chest, was her brain, removed from her skull and placed there by Rodgers, just as artificially as the pink flush on her cheeks and the plastic cups that held firm the rounded edges of her closed eyelids. Dale didn’t know what they did with the removed eyeballs. They were probably stuffed into her chest along with her brain. He shivered, remembering how, during Natalie’s funeral service, she had looked merely asleep and he had been
positive
he had seen her chest heave up and down as she breathed.

She’s not dead!
his mind had screamed, time and time again throughout the service and for weeks after that.
She isn’t really dead!

But he knew it was nothing more than an illusion and a credit to the mortician’s art. He wished he didn’t have to think about it now as he silently followed Winfield and Rodgers into the office. Once he and Winfield were comfortably seated in a plush leather chair, Rodgers shut the door and took his seat at his desk.

“To get directly to the point, I understand, Mr. Harmon, you have been shall we say concerned about Mr. Cole’s body since the night of the accident.”

Dale shifted nervously in the chair. When he glanced at Winfield and saw no support in his expression, he cleared his throat and said, “You have to understand, Mr. Rodgers—”

“Won’t you be my neighbor?” Indeed! Dale was angry with himself for allowing such a sick parallel to enter his mind.

“Larry Cole and I were close friends. The shock of his death has been…” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed with difficulty.

In his line of work, Rodgers must face people who, out of grief and anguish, are unable to speak
. He quickly rose and filled a cone-shaped paper cup with water from a cooler and handed it to Dale with a sympathetic nod.

“Thanks,” Dale said, still not quite wanting—or daring—to look squarely at Rodgers’ strange eye. He quickly drained the cup before it became a soggy mess in his hand, took a deep breath and continued.

“I went to visit Larry’s mother last night, you see, and she, well, actually, Roberta, her sister, expressed some concern that they hadn’t been allowed to view the body. You must understand that, in order to get through the grief surrounding a death, it is sometimes necessary actually to see the body. That’s part of the healing process: to see and verify that a person is really—gone.”

“I understand your concern entirely, Mr. Harmon,” Rodgers said. “And I understand Mildred Cole’s depth of grief, perhaps more than you do. Now, you may not have spoken with Mildred directly, but I have, and I can assure you of a couple of things. Officer Winfield was the policeman on the scene that night. I’m sure he’s mentioned the condition of Mr. Cole to you.”

Dale nodded, wondering why water coolers always used such damned small cups. His throat still felt constricted, and he still didn’t dare to look directly at Rodgers’ dilated pupil.

“After receiving the body—well, in cases such as this, it is my determination whether or not I could possibly allow the next of kin to see the body. You’re correct on one point, Mr. Harmon. In most situations, viewing the body is a necessary part of the healing process. But think of the other side of it. Imagine if you will, as in Larry Cole’s case, that the body is severely mutilated in an accident. It not only does not help the grieving process. It can destroy it if a close friend or relative should see the deceased in such a mutilated condition.”

Dale felt chills like knife blades of ice run up and down his spine. He realized Rodgers was talking about his best friend, Larry, but all the while Dale’s mind was picturing Natalie lying in a closed casket somewhere in the basement of this funeral home, her twisted and torn flesh as cold as stone.

“In such cases,” Rodgers said, nodding in Winfield’s direction, “I, along with the approval of the police, will not allow the family to see the deceased. The psychological damage could be much worse than any amount of grief could inflict.”

“Were you in on this decision?” Dale asked, turning to Winfield. If he had been, Dale thought, then why the hell was he going along with all of this with him?

Before Winfield could speak, Rodgers said, “No, he wasn’t.” His voice maintained an even strength, but the way he responded surprised Dale and even seemed to surprise Winfield. “In fact, his mother requested the closed casket, based on my advice. I would suspect what we have here is simply a case of misunderstanding. Perhaps, in her grief, she’s forgetting her original request. More likely, her sister is projecting some of her own anxiety into the situation. In any event, it was Mildred Cole who specifically asked that Larry’s coffin be closed.”

Dale was disappointed that he didn’t gain even a small bit of ground in this confrontation. Oh, yes! It was a confrontation, all right. He didn’t know all the dynamics of the situation. Hell, he’d probably have to live in Dyer for years before he picked up on all the subtle power structures. But there was
something
going on here. If it didn’t include the death of his best friend, he would just let it all drop. But it did include Larry. Dale realized that as soon as he had entered the Rodgers’ Funeral Home, he had been on the defensive—

Why?
he wondered.
What in the sweet name of Christ was going on here?

Crumpling the paper cup, Dale twisted in his chair and shot the cup toward the plastic-lined wastebasket beside the cooler.
Good for two!
he thought when the cup hit the mark. Then, folding his hands together, he leaned forward and looked directly at Rodgers.

Dilated pupil be damned!

“I guess, then, for my own satisfaction, I want to ask you if I could see Larry’s body before the funeral,” Dale said. He tried to keep his voice as low and even as Rodgers’. “Even if I can’t reassure Mrs. Cole about it, I’d like to know that, if nothing else, I’ve seen him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harmon, but I can’t allow that,” Rodgers said. The firm control in his voice slipped just a bit, and it looked as though his pupil dilated even further, leaving just the tiniest ring of surrounding blue.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why not,” Dale said softly.

He glanced again at Winfield, wishing he, too, would jump in and press the attack.
Yes!
Dale thought,
attack is the right word!
But Winfield sat there, slouched in his chair, silently regarding the toe of his shoe as he stroked his cheek with one hand. The other hand rested on his gun belt, but Dale didn’t think that was significant. The attack couldn’t possibly get that serious!

“I can spare you perhaps some possibly complicated explanations and state simply that, because you are not the next of kin, you have no legal right to view the body.” Rodgers held his hands out toward Dale, as if to plead with him to see reason, but there was a harsh, commanding tension in him that suggested power beyond such a simple thing as being in control in the security of his own office.

It’s his damned eye!
Dale thought.
Don’t let something like that get to you!

“I just don’t understand your hesitation,” Dale said. He meant to continue, but Rodgers cut him off sharply.

“I’m not hesitating, Mr. Harmon. I’m refusing your request, flat out.” He shifted back in his chair and prepared to stand up, thus signaling that their conversation was concluded.

Dale was looking for support from Winfield, but the policeman appeared to be satisfied. He was already up and heading toward the door.

The first thought in Dale’s mind was to investigate the possible legal implications here; he’d like to look up a lawyer in town and see if there was any legal way he could demand to see Larry’s body. What would a lawyer ask for? Probable cause or some such nonsense. Dale didn’t have any concrete evidence to suspect Rodgers except his unnerving left eye. But he was convinced that there was something very strange about all of this.

“Good day, Mr. Harmon,” Rodgers said, extending his hand over the desk and giving Dale’s another cold, moist handshake. “Officer Winfield…”

Dale followed Winfield down the hallway, back to the entryway, where Maggie Sprague sat, crocheting at her desk. Dale passed up the opportunity to ask if business was slow this time of year, and with a friendly smile and nod, went out into the parking lot, where Winfield waited beside the cruiser.

“Well, there you have it,” Winfield said once they were sitting in the car. He started it up by giving the gas a few heavy pumps. “You’ve met Mr. Franklin Rodgers. What do you think?” Dale regarded the policeman for several seconds before answering. He couldn’t understand why he would bother to take him out here in the first place, and then, once he insisted on viewing the body, why Winfield wouldn’t offer even a word of support.

Bottom line
, Dale thought,
Winfield probably doesn’t give a shit! He’s the guy, remember, who had to scrape Larry up off the road. Probably a good chance he just didn’t want to see anything to remind him of that night
.

Let it drop
, a voice whispered in his mind.
This is just your half-assed way of not admitting that Larry’s dead!

“I don’t know what I think about him,” Dale said, squinting as he looked at Winfield, desperately trying to read him. One thing you had to say about Winfield, though—he was a damned good cop. He never let what he was thinking show on his face. The man certainly didn’t need a pair of mirrored shades!

Winfield stretched out his arm and glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” he said as he turned the key and started up the engine. “I think it’s damned close enough to the end of my shift so I can call it a day.”

The driveway was big enough to turn around by making a wide circle before pulling onto Mayall Road. As they drove slowly toward Main Street, he whistled an off-key tune between his teeth and casually glanced at the scenery, apparently without a care in the world.

When they stopped in front of Appleby’s, Dale hesitated before getting out. He figured he should just say “thank you,” get out, go up to the house, and forget all about it until the funeral tomorrow afternoon.

Let it drop
, the voice in his mind said again.
Let it go! Larry’s dead, and that’s that!

“Tell you what,” Winfield said. “Give me ’bout an hour to go back to the station and clean up a few things. I’ll meet you downstairs at Kellerman’s at six o’clock. All right?”

Dale nodded his tentative agreement, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden change in attitude.

“Good,” Winfield said, nodding as Dale got out of the cruiser. “Maybe we can split a pizza and beer. You’ll gain too much weight if you eat at Lillian’s every night, anyway.”

“Sounds good,” Dale said, leaning in through the open door. “Should I bring Angie along?”

Winfield considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.” His voice was hushed and hesitant. “You know, I’ll tell yah. Something about Rodgers’ attitude today really got to me. Something stinks and stinks
bad
!”

He revved the engine, and Dale shut the cruiser door, backing away as Winfield pulled out onto Main Street and left. Then he went quickly up the walkway to the house. He had time for a long, hot shower before meeting Winfield at Kellerman’s, and that’s what he needed because he felt a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the oncoming autumn.

III

A
s soon as Dale and Winfield left his office, Rodgers went over to his door and shut it. His pale hand trembled as he turned the bolt to lock the door. His forehead was slick with sweat, and he allowed himself a moment to lean it against the cool, polished wood. His breathing came in shallow gulps, as if he were drinking water.

He stood this way for several seconds, then straightened up and walked back to his desk. His leather chair creaked under his weight as he sat down and picked up the telephone. He punched the intercom button, and Maggie answered. “Yes, sir?”

After a deep, shuddering breath, Rodgers said softly, “I have a few phone calls to make. See that I’m not disturbed.”

“Yes, sir,” Maggie replied, and the line went dead.
First things first
, Rodgers thought, and then said it aloud. “First things first.”

Keeping the receiver to his ear, he dialed a number from memory, waited for four rings until a voice on the other end said, “Hello?”

“Higgins?” Rodgers said. That was all.

That was enough, though, because the voice at the other end suddenly tightened. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”