The Silent Wife (Will Trent #10) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,40
asked to select a coffin. Gently prodded into choosing a pillow and colored satin lining. Told to bring in the last outfit their daughter would ever wear. Gently instructed to include underwear, shoes, jewelry. Made to sign paperwork and write checks and hand over photographs and set a date and time for visitation and the service and the burial—all of the things a parent never wanted to do for their child.
Or that a wife never wanted to do for her husband.
Amanda waited until the McAllisters were driving away to ask, “What happened to Jeffrey’s case files?”
Unbidden, Sara recalled the artful slope of Jeffrey’s handwriting. Part of her had fallen in love with him over his precise cursive. “Everything is in storage.”
“I need those files. Especially his notebooks.” Amanda got out of the car.
Instead of going through the front entrance, Amanda led Sara around the side of the building. Sara thought through the logistics of getting Jeffrey’s files to Atlanta. He had been a meticulous record keeper, so there would be no problem locating the correct boxes. She could ask Tessa to drive them up. But then Tessa would want to argue. Sara knew there was going to be some tension with Will. She couldn’t let the day go by without talking to Faith. Suddenly her To-Dos were sounding like a shit list.
The side door wasn’t locked. There was no security outside the building, not even a camera. Amanda simply opened the door and they both walked inside. She had clearly been given directions. She took a right up a long hallway, then started down the stairs to the basement.
The temperature turned chilly. The odor was antiseptic. Sara saw a desk under the stairs and file cabinets along the back wall. An accordion gate blocked off the open shaft of the freight elevator. The walk-in cooler gave off a low hum. The floor was tiled in gray laminate with a large drain in the center. The faucet on the stainless-steel industrial sink had a slow leak.
Sara had spent more than her fair share of time inside of funeral homes. While she wasn’t a fan of Georgia’s You Can Be a Coroner! gameshow of an election process, she was always grateful when the local guy—and it was usually a guy—was a funeral director. Licensed morticians had a textbook understanding of anatomy. They were also more likely to absorb the nuances of the forty-hour introductory course the state mandated for all incoming coroners.
Amanda looked at her watch. “Let’s not dilly-dally here.”
Sara hadn’t planned on it, but she wasn’t going to be rushed. “I can only do a preliminary, visual exam here. If she requires a full autopsy, I’ll have to take her back to headquarters.”
“Understood,” Amanda said. “Remember, the official cause of death at the moment has been ruled accidental. We can’t take her anywhere unless the coroner revises his finding.”
Sara doubted that. Amanda had a way of changing minds. “Yes, ma’am.”
There was a loud whir as the freight elevator lowered to the basement. Sara could see a pair of black wingtips. Black dress pants. Matching jacket. Vest buttoned a few inches below the neck. A black tie and a white shirt completed the look.
The elevator stopped. The gate folded back. The man who got off looked exactly how Sara expected. His gray hair was combed back, his mustache neatly trimmed. He was probably in his late seventies. He had an old-fashioned look about him and a somber air that fit his occupation.
“Good day, ladies.” He pulled a gurney off of the elevator and rolled it into the middle of the basement. A white sheet covered the body. The material was thick cotton with a monogrammed logo for the Dunedin Life Services Group, a multinational conglomerate that owned half of the funeral homes in the state.
The man said, “Deputy Director, welcome. Dr. Linton, I’m Ezra Ingle. Please accept my apologies for making you wait. I advised against it, but the parents insisted on seeing their loved one.” His soft Appalachian accent told Sara that he was a hometown boy. When he shook her hand, it was with practiced reassurance.
She said, “Thank you, Mr. Ingle. I appreciate your allowing me to look over your shoulder.”
He shot Amanda a wary glance, but told Sara, “I welcome a second opinion. However, I must admit I was surprised by the request.”
Amanda said nothing, though they obviously knew each other. Which was great for Sara. This was exactly the right moment for more tension.