I slip on my gear. My gloves are purple. Uncle Micky thought I’d like them better, but they stand out too much, too bright at the edge of death. The only thing keeping me from ordering a box of the black ones is fiscal responsibility. I focus on retrieving my coveralls, glasses, and gloves.
It’s too damn hot to want to wear any of it longer than necessary, but contaminating the scene forensically is not an option.
Henry looks away as I shimmy into my coveralls. There’s nothing improper about it. My clothes stay on under them, but to a lot of Southern men, modesty matters. Respect matters, especially respect toward women. And as much as we are in a modern part of the South, there are still those who look at a Black man with a different level of scrutiny. Henry and I having a past doesn’t erase that reality either.
From behind me, I hear, “We aren’t making any statements.”
Officer McAllister glares at the reporter who’s craning his neck as if seeing what’s behind the black tarps would be wise.
Those hanging tarps aren’t erected just for the deceased’s privacy. The tarp hides the sight of what’s sure to be awful, yet do nothing for the scent of death.
It takes a certain sort of mindset to bury a body here. It means that he—and yes, most serial killers are men—managed to take his victim into a well-trafficked area. She was either alive and killed on-site, or he carried a dead body into the woods. Both scenarios tell us something about him. I'm only contracted to transport bodies, but after a few years doing so, I couldn't help but learn more than a little about investigations.
People talk. Morticians listen better than most folks realize.
“You ought to send the old man out on these,” Mac mutters just loud enough that I can’t miss it, but low enough that he can pretend I wasn’t supposed to.
Maybe he’s trying to piss me off so I can better face the dead girl. Maybe he’s just more of an asshole than I realized. Either way, I don’t reply. I might be a woman, but I’m stronger than my uncle when it comes to this. Hell, according to my mother, it’s because I’m a woman. A Southern woman. No wilting lilies here.
I glance at Henry. His expression has grown even sterner. “Detective?”
Henry nods, and we step behind the make-shift curtain.
These days, I’ve had far too much familiarity with violent death. I’ve been the caretaker for five of the Creeper’s victims.
“It’s him, isn't it?”
Henry doesn’t reply. He’s behind me, but he says nothing.
For a moment, I need to go through my checklist again to settle my nerves: My feet are covered in booties, and my clothes are under coveralls.
The only excuse I have to pause is to straighten the goggles on my face.
Finally, I look at her: The dead woman is covered in blood-stained clothes, leaves, and dirt.
Brown hair. Caucasian. Late twenties.
I squat so I’m crouched beside her. The smell makes me glad I hadn’t eaten.
I catalogue her injuries. Broken radius and ulna. Six stab wounds. Bruising from restraints. I don’t need to see the crude tattoo on her wrist to know it’s there. The Creeper. She was killed by him.
Still, I brush away the dirt gently until I see it: Flower buds. It’s new. The ink doesn’t have that washed out tone that older tattoos have. He marks them.
“He sent a letter this time, Jules.”
I look up at Henry.
“Chief says you ought to be kept away from this.” He glances at the girl. “But . . . I convinced him that you’d be safer around us, so we ought to make use of you.”
I laugh. Henry’s not enough of an asshole to really think that, but he knows how to keep me from the panic that is already starting to fill me. There’s an art to managing people, whether it’s at the police station or a funeral home. It's one of too many things Henry and I share.
“What did the letter say?”
After a pause, Henry says, “’Thank Juliana for looking after all of my pretty things.’”
“They’re not things, and they’re not his.”
“I know.”
I look at her, the nameless dead girl in front of me. I can’t erase the last days she’s suffered, but I will give her the respect he hasn’t. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I face my nightmares. It’s the same thing that drives Henry: we are their last resort, the ones who protect the dead after they are no longer able to be saved.
“He sent a message to you, Jules.”
“My name’s in the paper.” I bite out the words. The truth, though, I know it’s not because he’s read my name. This was personal before I was in the paper. I’m not sure why, but I think the Creeper has targeted me. Henry thinks it, too. Still, I lie. I pretend I think it’s not personal because if it is . . . I’m not sure how I’ll sleep at night.
“Jules . . .”
I look at Henry and carry on with my illusions. “My identity is not exactly a secret. I work for the county, so he knows my name. It's not a crisis.”
“You know it’s not that simple.”
We both know. My Uncle Micky will know it too. Someone will leak the note, and the newspapers will examine it to the point of absurdity. People will speculate again. There’s nothing I can say or do to prevent any of that from happening.
None of it means I know what to do about the larger situation. What’s the right thing to do when a killer knows your name? They don’t cover that in any of the various classes I’ve taken, not mortuary science classes or my assorted college courses or even the floral arranging ones at the community college. I collect classes and facts the way most people collect shoes. It’s never enough. Sorting out facts helps keep me from sinking into depression. It's a far sight better than some of the things morticians do to keep it together.
“I can’t, Henry. Just . . . help me get the stretcher.” I stand. “She doesn’t need to stay here any longer than she already has.”
“Fine.” Henry follows me to what I privately call "the body bus." He’s almost casual in tone, then, as he warns me, “You know we’re going to have to talk.”
“I’ll have the paperwork—”
“Don’t be difficult, Jules. If he really is leaving victims for you. . . if he’s fixated on you . . . ”
“Sure.” I try to match his tone, aiming to sound casual even though I feel anything but calm. “But I live at the funeral home, Henry. My home? It’s safe, and I’m not careless. There’s nothing to discuss.”
He shakes his head, but he lets it go for now. That’s all I can hope for. Later, when I’ve done my job and I’m in the privacy of my home, I’ll face the realization that a serial killer is paying attention to me. Later, Henry will force me to discuss the unpleasant realities of the police department knowing that one of their own—because whether I wear a badge or not, I am theirs—is in danger. Later, Southern tradition will insist that I am in need of extra defense because I am a woman. Somewhere in there, Henry will pretend it's not personal for him. Even though we both know that it is.
But right now? I’m going to do my job.
2