Darkest Journey (Krewe of Hunters #20)(21)
“Randy, we were never a couple,” Ethan said patiently.
“Proof of fatal stupidity on your part,” Randy said.
“Might be true. She was only sixteen, though.”
“Shakespeare’s Juliet was thirteen, or something like that.”
“Wouldn’t have been right,” Ethan said.
“Okay, okay, Mr. Morality, I’m moving on,” Randy said. “So now we have one dead black man in a Union uniform, and one dead white man who played a Confederate cavalry officer. Our investigations found that the two of them had some kind of dustup during what was billed as ‘Journey Day.’ You probably remember that every year there’s a big reenactment of The Day the War Stopped. But this year, because it’s a situation that also draws a lot of interest, some enterprising person with a tour group of teachers had a brilliant idea—reenact the day the Confederates traded the Journey and her Union wounded to the Yankees for a bunch of their own prisoners. There was so much sickness aboard ship, the Rebels didn’t even want it, but the Union didn’t know that. Anyway, the cruise line offers special tours each year that focus on the Civil War, and this year they decided to feature a special reenactment of the Journey handover. To be honest, I’m surprised it took this long for someone to realize that there could be big bucks in that kind of thing, but then again, Celtic American has only owned the ship for six or seven years. The reenactment was subsidized by Gideon Oil, so the participants even got paid. Half the people I know around here were involved. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But a lot of locals turned up as extras. As far as we know, that was the last time the two victims saw each other. We actually questioned Farrell about Albion’s death once we heard they’d been seen arguing. He had an alibi for the night Albion was killed, though, and then, of course, Farrell turned up the same way. I guess you’re here to see the bodies?”
“It’s a place to start,” Ethan said.
Inside the morgue, they found Dr. Earl Franklin on duty. He had to be nearing retirement age, Ethan knew, but he was also one of the brightest and most thorough men Ethan had met in the field, and not only in Louisiana but anywhere. He greeted Ethan warmly. When he’d been young and had already set his sights on a career in law enforcement, Ethan had plagued the man relentlessly, wanting to learn everything he could, and Franklin had been unendingly patient, as well as informative.
“Great to see you,” Franklin said to Ethan now. “Sorry you’re here under such unfortunate circumstances, though.”
The ME was a stout man with wire-rimmed glasses and a head full of white hair. He would have looked at home on a big front porch, wearing a white suit and sipping a mint julep, Ethan thought wryly. Instead the man preferred libraries and skiing vacations in Colorado to sitting around anywhere.
“Good to see you. Though I’m sorry about the circumstances, too,” Ethan said.
“Well, both of you put your masks on and come in. I’ve got Mr. Corley and Mr. Hickory ready for your visit.”
Both men were laid out on steel gurneys. Their autopsies had already been performed. Sheets draped their lower extremities, revealing the Y incisions on their chests.
“No reason not to get right to it,” Dr. Franklin said. “Mr. Hickory was my only client this morning—both a good thing and a bad thing. My last was Mrs. Delsie Peterson. Do you remember her? Sorry to cut her up, but she died in her own home, alone in her bed, so the law required an autopsy, despite the fact she was ninety-eight. The old girl went easily. Just fell asleep and her heart stopped.”
“Glad to hear that. I do remember Mrs. Peterson. She fixed all our collars when we were kids and on our way into church,” Ethan said.
“Aren’t you proud of the man, Doctor? He remembers his roots.” Randy grinned.
“A very good thing. Meanwhile, here are my notes. Both men were in good health, other than stabbed through the heart by something long and sharply pointed. Like a bayonet,” Franklin said.
Ethan took a moment to look over the notes the ME handed him. Then he studied each man in turn.
There was something incredibly sad about a person’s earthly remains, no matter how they had died. When the spark of life left the body, it seemed to take everything important with it. No matter what, the body had a gray, pasty color. It didn’t matter if the person had been Caucasian, or of African, Asian, Native American or any other descent, or represented a combination of nationalities. The flesh sank in until there was nothing real left of the person who had once made the physical being vital. He’d loathed open coffins all his life. What was the point, when the person was simply gone?
Most of the time.
He made a point of touching each icy cold body. He lingered, looking over the still-visible wounds to their hearts. Both men had exercised or at least been active enough to keep their muscles tight. Neither one had been young—the wrinkles creasing their flesh testified to that—but both could have looked forward to several more decades of life if they hadn’t, somewhere and for some reason, crossed the path of a murderer.
“No bruising or defensive wounds to indicate a struggle?” Ethan asked, reluctantly accepting the fact that the dead weren’t going to speak with him.
“If you ask me,” Franklin said, “and I’m not the detective, of course, Randy is—it appears that both men were taken completely by surprise. They were facing their killer when he struck, and he murdered each man the same way. Quickly. No defensive wounds. I believe they knew their killer.”