Code 61 - Donald Harstad [82]
“Any idea how old?”
“Not sure, but I'd guess about three or four, maybe?”
“Ah. That's quite an age,” said Hester. “Quite an age.”
“Just so you know,” I confided, “with Edie being Lamar's niece and all, she attempted suicide about, oh, a year or so after her mom got the kid. I got stuck with that one, and if I remember correctly, it was the second or third time. None of 'em really serious. Pills, either the wrong kind or not enough. You know.”
“Might work for us,” she said, “but it could play hell with a jury at some point.”
“Well,” I said, “in Edie's case, I'm afraid that knowing she'd tried to do herself in before just gave her killer an idea. He just screwed up faking it, that's all. That'd make the jury think.”
The mere existence of the body bag spoke volumes about the malice aforethought in the mind of the killer or killers.
“Hey, Hester,” I said, “how many people you suppose have a body bag at home? Just lying around out in the garage, for example?”
“Not a lot. How many you know would know where to even get one?”
Not average citizens, anyway. “Well,” I said, “let's start with funeral homes. Then hospitals. Then ambulance services. Police departments. Maybe even a few fire departments.” I shrugged. “It's not a military bag. That leaves civilian agencies who would have them, plus manufacturers and sales outlets. That's about the only ones who would even have access.”
“Wonder if a sales or manufacturing place would question a request for one?”
“Well, I'd hope. But you never know.”
“I think,” she said, thoughtfully, “that it had to come from somebody who wouldn't ask, and who wouldn't have to mess with accounting for it.”
“Okay.”
“So, like, if you had a relative or a good friend who owned a small funeral home, for instance. They would order often, I suspect. The owner wouldn't have to account to anybody else for the items.” She smiled.
I didn't even answer her as I reached for the phone, and dialed Dispatch.
Sally answered. “Jiffy Dispatch, at your service.”
“I hope you never get inside and outside lines mixed up,” I said. She giggled. “You'll never know. Whatcha need?” “Well … ” I gave her the gist of what we'd been talking about, and asked her to check for any funeral homes with the same name as any of the five surviving residents of the Mansion, or Hunley or Ostransky, or Peel.
“Sorry I asked,” she said. “Give me a while on this one, okay? And how far away do you want me to look?”
That was a good question. It's always tempting to say, like, the whole world. To make it reasonable, and to increase my chances of ever getting another favor like this, I said, “Two hundred miles … ” Before she could object, I added, “ … because Hunley lives about that far away, for one thing.”
“This,” she said, “will cost. Big time.” “Anything you want,” I said. “Just say what and when.”
“Well, Houseman,” said Hester, “how about you and me go get some lunch, and then lean on some witnesses?” That was more like Hester's normal good spirits. She'd seemed just a bit down since the bit about Edie's daughter came up.
I smiled. “Might as well. Can't dance.”
Before we could get out the door, Sally called the back room and reminded us that there was a wake for Edie from 4:30 to 6:00 P.M., at the funeral home at Freiberg. Swell. I just hate to go to wakes where we're involved in a case. They're usually pretty sad, and they can really skew a cop's perspective. You just don't want to get emotionally involved. Makes you rush things, because you want to do something for the grieving survivors. Rush, and the case can get away from you.
We decided we had to go, though. Lamar would want us to. And we'd be near Freiberg anyway, while we were at the Mansion.
There was a consensus that I'd better stop at home and get rid of the blue jeans and tennis shoes, and put on something a little more presentable. Considering that I'd also have to be working, and maybe doing grungy things, when I got there I settled for a pair of wash pants, olive, and dark hiking shoes. A shirt, and cardigan sweater-vest