All it takes is one slippery mortician…
It was nearly 3:00 by the time I got back to the funeral home. The parking lot was as empty as it had been when I left. Looking in the far corner, I saw that the five employee cars were still there, but some of those must belong to the crew that had taken the coffins to the cemetery. In any event, the day's business appeared to be finished and it was too early for the evening's schedule of wakes to begin, so I had the parking lot all to myself. I stepped inside. Other than the gaudy floral arrangement in the center of the room, the foyer was still empty. They'd switched off the organ music. Even the sticky-sweet flower smell had vanished. Figured.
I walked down the hallway to the right and found Greene's business office at the far end. There was a black felt sign on the wall next to the door with the usual gold letters that said “Enter,” so I did. There was no one in the outer office. It was well appointed, like the rest of the place, with a beautiful couch and loveseat, two tall wingback chairs, and colonial prints on the wall, straight out of the Ethan Allen catalog. The secretary's big, L-shaped mahogany desk was empty. It had a laser printer, a modem, fax machine, cables, wires, and a large computer with a flat screen. Impressive. And expensive. Greene probably had his own web page too. I could just picture those two hearses outside rolling down the fast lane of the Information Super Highway. Why should that come as a surprise either?
I heard a familiar, syrupy male voice coming through the doorway to the right. There was a bright red light on one of the extensions on the secretary's telephone console, so I walked over and peered around the doorframe. It was Greene all right, the silver-haired undertaker himself, leaning back in an over-sized leather desk chair, feet up on the desk, his eyes closed, talking on the telephone.
“Yes, very tragic, very tragic indeed, Mrs. Casey, but you can take comfort from the fact that your mother led a full, rich life right up to the end, didn't she?” Greene was still wearing his suit coat, tie up, jacket buttoned. Habit, no doubt, like the thin plastic smile and the expression of mournful empathy. Maybe it was pinned in place or painted on, like a mannequin's. “No, no, Mrs. Casey, you have other things on your mind right now. I shall contact the hospital myself, personally… Yes… and we'll see to all the arrangements.”
Odd. His voice was animated and very empathetic, but his expression never changed. It showed no emotion at all, as if it was detached, or it was a recording, and I felt another cold shiver run down my back. Maybe this guy had been around too many dead bodies and too much grief, I thought, but he was scary.
Finally, Greene opened his eyes and saw me standing in the office doorway. He never blinked. Not the slightest hint of surprise. “Mrs. Casey, I promise you I will call you back in the morning. Yes, I will take care of everything… Now never you fear, just try to get some rest… Yes, you too.”
His delicate white hand placed the telephone back in its cradle and he looked up at me with those sincere, brown cow eyes. “I'm sorry, but Miss Sturgis has left for the day.”
“I assume you're Mr. Greene, of the funeral home Greenes?”
“Indeed I am. Lawrence Greene, the proprietor,” he said as he dropped his legs to the floor and straightened his jacket, his eyes not leaving me. “Is there some way I can be of assistance?”
“Well, I was curious about the Talbott funeral.”
“Ah,” he said as he drew the word out in a soft sigh. “Now I remember. You were there in the chapel, you and that other man.”
“I was there for the… service,” I answered as I looked around his spacious office. There wasn't a sheet of paper on his desk, not a file folder to be seen. Showroom clean.
“Ah, yes,” he continued to study me carefully, eying me from head to foot. Did you know them, then? Mr. and Mrs. Talbott?”
“Not nearly as well as I should have.”
“Isn't that always the case?” came the syrupy reply.
On the far wall hung the usual array of licenses and certificates from the state, the Chamber of Commerce, even the Boy Scouts. “You throw a nice funeral service here in Peterborough, Mr. Greene. Brief and to the point. Not much of a crowd, though.”
“All too typical when people die so young, so tragically,” he shrugged, his lips forming a soft, commiserating smile. “Friends? Relatives? Sometimes, they can't bring themselves to come to the service, they can't bear the pain.”
“The closed caskets?”
“It was a very bad accident.”
“I bet. A fire, wasn't it?”
“No, their automobile was struck by a train at one of those unguarded crossings over on the east side somewhere. You know how dangerous those things can be at night. As I said, it was very bad. And you are…?”
“Mr. Talbott.”
I saw a flash of surprise cross Greene's face. “Oh? A relative, then?”
“Me? Oh, no, I'm the deceased.”
The soft brown eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and the thin smile began to fade. “If this is some kind of joke, sir, I fail to see…”
“It's no joke, Mr. Greene. That was me you buried.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. “I'm Peter Emerson Talbott, thirty-three years old, from Los Angeles, a lieutenant in the Army, UCLA, and all the rest.” I stepped closer to his polished mahogany desk and leaned on it with both hands, getting right up in his face. “I could show you my Visa card, my old business card, and my library card if you want, not that it matters to me, but I'm the guy you buried, all right.”
Greene looked up at me. My eyes locked on his and I saw him flinch. I saw it. In that moment of surprise and uncertainty, the brief look in Greene's eyes told me everything I wanted to know. I had him. The bastard was lying, but he was a pro. He was doing the backstroke as fast as he could and doing an admirable job of keeping his head above water, but it was too late. For that split second, I saw the truth in his eyes
He coughed and sat up, carefully studying my driver's license again. “Well, uh, it does indeed appear that your name is Peter Emerson Talbott, I will concede you that,” he shrugged. “And a remarkable coincidence, I would say.”
“Coincidence? You bury some guy who's pretending to be me and you call that a coincidence?”
“The name,” he looked up, appearing to study me. “Perhaps the age and race. Those are the only similarities I see. As for the rest of it, your delusion that someone was pretending to be you; well, I'm not in any position to comment about that. Frankly, you do not even look like the man,” he smiled pleasantly. “Or more correctly, what was left of him.”
“I guess we'll never know, will we?”
Greene blinked again. “Mr… Talbott? What are you suggesting?”
“That something's seriously wrong here. That wasn't Peter Emerson Talbott you buried today. It wasn't my wife Theresa June Talbott either, and I want some answers.”
“How dare you,” he puffed, but he couldn't pull it off.
I stared down at that stuffed shirt and felt the heat rising. I wanted to reach across the desk and slap the smile off his face, but I didn't.
“Dare? How dare I? You see, that's what got my juices flowing last night. You can screw around with my name and reputation all you want. They aren't worth very much to begin with,” I said, leaning over the desk again, my face getting even closer to him, my eyes blazing. “But when you dragged my wife into your little game, you made it very, very personal.
The look in my eyes must have been hot enough to scorch paint. Greene blinked and turned away, his eyes dropping to my driver's license again. “But this says you are from California,” he flicked the edge of the driver's license with his index finger, quickly changing the subject. “The Talbotts were from Columbus, right here in Ohio. So, I'm afraid you've lost me again, Mister Talbott. Who are you and why are you here, anyway?”
“Here? You mean in Columbus, or alive and walking around?”
“Mr. Talbott, if that really is your name, you're being entirely too melodramatic and too flippant about a very painful matter. Did someone send you here to cause trouble for me? Because if this is some kind of practical joke, I really don't appreciate it.”
“A joke? Suppose you tell me about the guy you buried.”
“You mean Mr. Talbott?”
“I think we've already established that he wasn't Mr. Talbott.”
“We have done nothing of the sort, young man.” Greene leaned forward and looked up at me with feigned anger. He had taken a couple of good body shots, but he was already picking himself up off the canvass. His voice turned more calm and confident as he tried to reestablish his authority. “I will admit that you share the same name and that you have some similarities in your backgrounds, but this is a very big country, Mister Talbott. I'm sure we would both be amazed by the number of people who share your last name.”
“Do you have death certificates?”
“Of course we have the death certificates; it's the law here in Ohio.”
“Signed by a doctor, a real one?”
“You should not make light of what was a very tragic situation. Mr. and Mrs. Talbott's mortal remains were forwarded to us by a very reputable medical facility, the Varner Clinic. Doctor Varner himself signed them and they are completely in order, I assure you.”
“Doctor Varner? Who identified the bodies?
“It was Doctor Varner himself and Mr. Ralph Tinkerton, their executor. He is a very prominent attorney with Hamilton, Keogh and Hollister downtown, the managing partner, I might add, so you should think twice before you go around impugning the reputation of a man of Mr. Tinkerton's standing or mine. He has many highly placed friends in this town. So do I.”
“Like Sheriff Dannmeyer?”
Greene blinked again and looked surprised. “Yes,” he finally answered. “Friends like Sheriff Dannmeyer.”
“Friends like the late Mr. and Mrs. Peter Emerson Talbott? Did you know them, by the way? Did he keep your books, too?”
“No. Regrettably, I was not acquainted with the deceased, but that is hardly unusual in this business. Mortuary science can be a solitary profession and we rarely know our clients. I am told the gentleman operated a small, but very successful accounting business on the near north side of Columbus, but I did not avail myself of his services. Mr. Talbott was however very involved in the local community. I believe Mr. Tinkerton knew him and frankly, sir, that is a lot more than I can say for you.”
I stared down at him, knowing I was running out of ammunition. “All right, what about fingerprints. Did you check those?”
“Why would I want to do something like that?”
“Because they weren't Peter and Terri Talbott, that's why.”
“Then you should take the matter up with the sheriff's office or with the Varner Clinic. As for me, there were legal death certificates, all signed and sealed in the proper manner, and that is all that the law requires of me.”
“No autopsy either, I bet?
“Mr. Talbott, we have very precise laws in this state. Autopsies are performed when we do not know the cause of death. In this case, there was no question. Doctors had attended both of them at the time of their deaths. A train struck their car. There was massive physical trauma and tissue loss, so no further analysis was required practically or legally and an autopsy would have been an unwarranted intrusion.”
“Funny, Dannmeyer said the accident happened out on the Interstate.”
“Then the good sheriff was mistaken, wasn't he?”
“The jarhead won't like you saying that.”
“You have exhausted my patience, Mr. Talbott. If you have any additional questions, I suggest you take them up with the sheriff himself. You'll find his office up in the town of Campbell right next to the courthouse… right next to the county jail.”
“And here I thought he ran things from your parking lot. How silly of me.”
“I resent that. We provide a necessary and valuable public service, Mr. Talbott. Some people may find the mortuary business unpleasant or even discomforting. That is why we try to be as discreet and private as we can, which is what our clients expect of us. As for your suggestions that I'm involved in some conspiracy to knowingly bury another person under your name, I think you've been watching too many movies.”
“Not after what I saw and heard today.”
“You are right of course.” Greene broke into a sarcastic smile. “Why, just last week Lee Harvey Oswald stuck his head in to say “Hello.” We handled his funeral too, you know. And Adolph Hitler's and Howard Hughes’ as well, as I recall. Out front? That was Elvis Presley trimming the front hedges around the front door as you came in. Now good day to you, sir!”
Having dazzled Greene with my footwork, intellect, and style, I turned and left peacefully. Of course, he was lying, but tossing his place wouldn't have added very much to what I didn't already know. Besides, the guy could be right. Other than the name and that newspaper obituary, I didn't have a damned thing to go on except my feeling that this thing was all wrong.
I got in my Bronco and headed back south on Cedarville Road toward Columbus. As I neared the beltway, I could see the sign for the entrance ramp that read “I-270 East, Wheeling.” That was the route back to Boston. I knew I should take it and say to Hell with Ohio, to Lawrence Greene, to Sheriff Dannmeyer, and to those obituaries, but I wasn't ready to do that. Not yet. There was something about this whole business and the arrogant send-off I got from Greene and his buddy Dannmeyer that told me I was right and I needed to know more. So I drove on past the exit ramp. Going to the funeral in Columbus was probably my first mistake and driving past the exit ramp that would have taken me back to Boston was undoubtedly the second, but I was going to make a whole lot more before this day was over.
Farther down the street, I saw a cluster of economy motels. My dwindling funds being what they were, I opted for the Motel 6. I told the young, blond college girl with the bright blue eyes behind the desk that Dave sent me and asked if they really did leave the light on, but she just stared at me. I'd like to think she'd heard that one before, but maybe she just didn't get it.
After dinner, I made another call to Boston, to Doug Chesterton. “Is this him or his machine?” I asked.
“It's his machine.”
“When he comes back, tell him Pete Talbott got delayed a bit longer in Ohio.”
“Twice in one day? It's gotta be something you met in a bar. Heather? Bambi? Or was it George?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, just don't catch anything, Peter.”
“I'll be careful, coach.”
“Good. And get your ass back here as soon as you can. Those sub-routines were great and they got us back on track with the contract, but I can't crank on the next phase without you.”
“A couple of things came up that I gotta look into tomorrow morning, then I'll be back on the road. Honest.”
“Fine. But be here by Friday or I'm road kill, okay?”
“Gotcha, boss, Friday it is.”
I knew I should have taken Dave's room keys back to the desk and piled my stuff back in the Bronco right then and there. I could have made it into West Virginia or Pennsylvania that night, slept there, and cruised into Boston the next day, but I was exhausted from being up for two days straight. That was what I told myself, but I just couldn't make myself leave. As I sat there in the motel room and stared at the telephone, I realized this business with the obituaries, the funeral, and with Greene and Dannmeyer had lit some fires deep inside me that hadn't burned for a long, long time. I was no longer a stick-man walking. I felt alive, and I liked it.
The loss of the job and Terri had left me a cold, burned-out shell. For the first time in many months, I was hot about something. Love, hate, or whatever, I felt something and I knew I mattered again. Something terribly wrong was going on here and I had to find out what it was. If I cut and ran, and that would have been so easy for me to do, I'd be safe in my little shell, but they would have gotten away with it.
So I decided to stay in Columbus, for one night anyway.