A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(28)
She rubbed her eyes tiredly. She had slept terribly the night before, as she usually did when sleeping away from home. It was the fifth night she hadn’t slept much, and she could feel the agitation and irritability that always followed sleep deprivation. She wasn’t even sure what she was still doing in Chicago. Agent Gray clearly didn’t want her there anymore, and she mostly wanted to get back to the highway murders she had been working on. But instead of getting on the first plane to Washington, she’d told the girl at the motel’s reception desk she would probably be staying there for a few more days.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” a man said as he approached her. He had thick-rimmed glasses and a soft smile that seemed to radiate sadness. It looked like a smile cultivated to project reassurance and sympathy. Here was a person who understood your pain and was ready to take charge.
“It’s quite all right,” Zoe said, standing up and shaking his hand. “I didn’t schedule beforehand.”
“Very understandable,” he said. “I could hardly expect that in your moment of grief—”
“I’m not grieving,” she quickly interrupted him. Then, realizing that might sound a bit cold, she clarified, “No one in my family has died.”
She flipped her employee badge quickly. It had the initials FBI on it, which she hoped would be enough. “I’m with the FBI. I was hoping for a moment of your time.”
“Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “I don’t quite know how I can help the FBI.”
“I’m actually more interested in talking to your embalmer,” Zoe said. “This is about the murderer the press is calling the Strangling Undertaker.”
“Oh, right,” he said and twisted his mouth in distaste. “I find that name quite offensive.”
“I’m sure you do. So do I. It’s very clear the murderer is not an undertaker and doesn’t work in a funeral home.”
The man’s face softened as she said that. That was an aspect of these killings she hadn’t yet considered, the hurt feelings of funeral directors.
She pressed on. “I wanted a bit of help understanding the killer’s embalming techniques. I found your funeral home online, and there was a lot of praise, specifically about your preservation service.” She didn’t add that there was also a litany of complaints about the cost of coffins at the Abramson Funeral Home. That was hardly relevant.
“I see.” He smiled, an authentic smile this time, full of pride. “Well, I’m Vernon Abramson, and I’m both the owner of this funeral home and the main embalmer. I have two other embalmers working for me, but I tend to take the difficult jobs. I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”
“Good.” Zoe nodded, satisfied. “Is now a good time?”
He took her down a clean, sterile staircase, lit with a single bulb. The transformation from the fancy waiting room to the sparse staircase was strange but not surprising. She assumed most customers would never see the downstairs. A door opened to a small room, its floor white linoleum, the walls cream colored. A counter stood in front of them, holding various containers, with a line of white cupboards above it, all closed. There was a closed roller shutter opposite the entrance, probably used when bodies were delivered for embalming. In the center of the room stood a flat metal bed. Zoe entered the room and looked at the bed in fascination.
“How long does it take to embalm a body?”
“It really depends on the body. Some are more decayed than others. On average, it takes about two hours.”
Zoe nodded thoughtfully.
“I assume you have specific questions? About the killings?”
“Right. Can I show you some pictures? Of the victims?”
“Of course.”
She took the folder from her shoulder bag, opened it, and pulled out the photos. Hesitating, she almost spread them on the metal bed, where the room’s light was focused, but it felt completely wrong. She spread them on the counter instead. Vernon approached and looked at the pictures with interest. Zoe examined his face. It was strange, showing the pictures to a civilian who wasn’t shocked or disgusted. Vernon moved his eyes from one picture to the next, his stare completely cold and emotionless. This was a man very familiar with death.
“I agree with your assessment,” he finally said. “Whoever did the embalming wasn’t a professional. At least not in the first two cases.”
“What makes you say that?” Zoe asked. She had some basic ideas, but she was sure the funeral home director would have a lot more to say.
“Well, for one, no self-respecting professional would mess up the embalming process in the leg like that. The body must have stunk to high heaven when it got to this point.”
“Why would the leg decompose? Didn’t he get the embalming fluid in?”
“When you insert the embalming fluid into the body, you have to massage the limbs to get the fluid to flow in and replace the blood,” the director said. “I assume he didn’t do that, or he did but was impatient. Either way, something, maybe a clot, prevented the embalming fluid from flowing freely into the left leg. And your killer didn’t notice.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Also,” Vernon said, “the mouth is a dead giveaway.”
“The mouth?”