Tell No One

I got out of bed and hopped on the computer. I started surfing again. By morning, I had something of a plan.

Gary Lamont, Rebecca Schayes’s husband, didn’t panic right away. His wife often worked late, very late, sometimes spending the night on an old cot in the far right corner of her studio. So when four in the morning rolled around and Rebecca still wasn’t home, he grew only concerned, not panicked.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Gary called her studio, but the answering machine picked up. Again that wasn’t rare. When Rebecca was working, she hated interruptions. She didn’t even keep a phone extension in the darkroom. He left a message and settled back into their bed.

Sleep came in fits and spurts. Gary contemplated doing something more, but that would only piss off Rebecca. She was a free spirit, and if there was a tension in their otherwise fulfilling relationship, it had to do with his relatively “traditional” lifestyle “clipping” her creative wings. Her terms.

So he gave her space. To unclip her wings or whatever.

By seven in the morning, concern had segued into something closer to genuine fear. Gary’s call woke up Arturo Ramirez, Rebecca’s gaunt, black-clad assistant.

“I just got in,” Arturo complained groggily.

Gary explained the situation. Arturo, who had fallen asleep in his clothes, did not bother changing. He ran out the door. Gary promised to meet him at the studio. He hopped on the downtown A.

Arturo arrived first and found the studio door ajar. He pushed it open.

“Rebecca?”

No answer. Arturo called her name again. Still no answer. He entered and scanned the studio. She wasn’t there. He opened the darkroom door. The usual harsh smell of film-development acids still dominated, but there was something else, something faint and below the surface that still had the ability to make his hair stand on end.

Something distinctly human.

Gary rounded the corner in time to hear the scream.

21

In the morning, I grabbed a bagel and headed west on Route 80 for forty-five minutes. Route 80 in New Jersey is a fairly nondescript strip of pavement. Once you get past Saddle Brook or so, the buildings pretty much vanish and you’re faced with identical lines of trees on either side of the road. Only the interstate signs break up the monotony.

As I veered off exit 163 at a town called Gardensville, I slowed the car and looked out at the high grass. My heart started thumping. I had never been here before—I’d purposely avoided this stretch of interstate for the past eight years—but it was here, less than a hundred yards from where I now drove, that they found Elizabeth’s body.

I checked the directions I’d printed off last night. The Sussex County coroner’s office was on Mapquest.com, so I knew to the tenth of a kilometer how to get there. The building was a blinds-closed storefront with no sign or window lettering, a plain brick rectangle with no frills, but then again, did you want any at a morgue? I arrived a few minutes before eight-thirty and pulled around back. The office was still locked up. Good.

A canary-yellow Cadillac Seville pulled into a spot marked Timothy Harper, County Medical Examiner. The man in the car stubbed out a cigarette—it never ceases to amaze me how many M.E.’s smoke—before he stepped out. Harper was my height, a shade under six feet, with olive skin and wispy gray hair. He saw me standing by the door and set his face. People didn’t visit morgues first thing in the morning to hear good news.

He took his time approaching me. “Can I help you?” he said.

“Dr. Harper?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m Dr. David Beck.” Doctor. So we were colleagues. “I’d like a moment of your time.”

He didn’t react to the name. He took out a key and unlocked the door. “Why don’t we sit in my office?”

“Thank you.”

I followed him down a corridor. Harper flicked light switches. The ceiling fluorescents popped on grudgingly and one at a time. The floor was scratched linoleum. The place looked less like a house of death than a faceless DMV office, but maybe that was the point. Our footsteps echoed, mixing with the buzzing from the lights as though keeping the beat. Harper picked up a stack of mail and quick-sorted it as we walked.

Harper’s private office, too, was no-frills. There was the same metal desk you might find a teacher using in an elementary school. The chairs were overvarnished wood, strictly functional. Several diplomas spotted one wall. He’d gone to medical school at Columbia, too, I saw, though he’d graduated almost twenty years before me. No family photographs, no golf trophy, no Lucite announcements, nothing personal. Visitors to this office were not in for pleasant chitchat. The last thing they needed to see was someone’s smiling grand-kids.

Harper folded his hands and put them on the desk. “What can I do for you, Dr. Beck?”

“Eight years ago,” I began, “my wife was brought here. She was the victim of a serial killer known as KillRoy.”

I’m not particularly good at reading faces. Eye contact has never been my forte. Body language means little to me. But as I watched Harper, I couldn’t help but wonder what would make a practiced medical examiner, a man who oft dwelled in the world of the dead, blanch so.

“I remember,” he said softly.

“You did the autopsy?”

“Yes. Well, in part.”

“In part?”

“Yes. The federal authorities were involved too. We worked on the case in tandem, though the FBI doesn’t have coroners, so we took the lead.”

“Back up a minute,” I said. “Tell me what you saw when they first brought the body in.”

Harper shifted in his seat. “May I ask why you want to know this?”

“I’m a grieving husband.”

“It was eight years ago.”

“We all grieve in our own way, Doctor.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true, but—”

“But what?”

“But I’d like to know what you want here.”

I decided to take the direct route. “You take pictures of every corpse brought in here, right?”

He hesitated. I saw it. He saw me seeing it and cleared his throat. “Yes. Currently, we use digital technology. A digital camera, in other words. It allows us to store photographs and various images on a computer. We find it helpful for both diagnosis and cataloguing.”

I nodded, not caring. He was chattering. When he didn’t continue, I said, “Did you take pictures of my wife’s autopsy?”