helpful during those times when we’re particularly busy.”
D.D. pursed her lips, considering. In the middle of the night, she’d been fixated on the thought that their killer was most comfortable with the dead. And when she thought dead people, she thought funeral homes. Maybe an embalmer, someone with technical experience who’d trained with a scalpel as part of mortuary school. Not to mention, the killer’s skill with cleaning the crime scene made her wonder about special products that might be used by funeral homes to eliminate all traces of blood and bodily fluids. Interesting.
“May I ask a question?” Coakley spoke up suddenly.
“Sure.”
“Is this in regard to the Rose Killer case?”
“What?”
“The Rose Killer? To quote the front page of the Boston Herald, which maybe conscientious detectives never do.”
D.D. closed her eyes. But of course. Boston PD had been doing good to keep the details of the first murder away from the press. She should’ve known they’d never get so lucky twice.
“Do I want to know what the Herald said?” she asked, peering out through one eye. “Or rather, splashed in graphic detail across the entire front page?”
Coakley granted her a look of compassion. “The article claims there have been two victims. The killer murdered them in their own beds, leaving behind a rose on their nightstands, like some kind of misguided lover.”
“Anything else?”
“You mean other than they were skinned alive?”
“Not alive!” Too late, D.D. realized she shouldn’t have responded. Then again, Coakley was a funeral director, not a reporter. “Wait, between you and me, I never said that. But the skinning occurred after the victims were dead. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Without getting too particular, our murderer . . . Let’s just say, the majority of the time he spends with his victims is postmortem. It’s almost as if the killing part is incidental. Mostly, he—or she—wants a corpse.”
“Necrophilia?” Coakley murmured.
“No sign of sexual assault,” D.D. granted. In for penny, in for a pound.
“Which is why you thought of funeral directors. Because clearly people who spend their lives embalming have an unhealthy fascination with dead bodies.” Coakley stated the words calmly.
D.D. had the good grace to flush.
“I know,” she said. “Just like people who spend their lives investigating murder must have an unhealthy fascination with violence.”
“At least we understand each other.”
“We do.”
“Do you know what it takes to be a good funeral director, Detective Warren?”
“Probably not.”
“Compassion. Empathy. Patience. Yes, one piece of my job involves preparing a body for burial, a process that has required years of technical training, but also, to be honest, art. Good embalmers have opinions on the percentage of formaldehyde, as well as the most realistic pancake makeup. But we’re not working in abstract. Our goal is to take something sad, overwhelming and often frightening for a family, and make it cathartic. Every day, I deal with people at their most vulnerable. Some are prone to tears, but others are prone to rage. My job is to take each of these people by the hand and lead them gently through the beginning of their grieving process. Using a great deal of compassion, empathy and patience. Now, my comfort level with dead bodies aside, do I sound like a killer to you?”
D.D. flushed again. “No.”
“Thank you.”
“But—”
Daniel Coakley’s eyebrows rose. For the first time, the funeral director appeared not only surprised, but as close as he probably got to annoyed. “But what?”
“The traits you described. Those are what it takes to be a good funeral director. Maybe I’m looking for a bad one.”
Coakley frowned at her. “Or,” he said abruptly, “a failed one. I can’t say it happens often, but every now and then I’ve had an apprentice who clearly lacked the . . . interpersonal skills necessary for this job.”
“What did you do?”
“Terminated the arrangement.”
“Would you have records?”
“Please. I can only think of one such person, and last I knew, she’d changed to culinary school and was doing quite well. Given the scope of your investigation, I’d think you’d want to cast a wider net than going from funeral home to funeral home.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The mortuary schools. There are two in Boston. See if they’d be willing to share the names of the students who failed. I could ask around as well. We’re a close-knit industry. If there’s a particular name, or what do you call it—a person of interest—you’d like to learn more about, I could probably make some calls.”
“Thank you.”
“We are not a bunch of ghouls,” Coakley said quietly, as D.D. rose