But—”
“I’ll check it out.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Stop telling me what I don’t have to do.”
He strode to the trapdoor, which she’d left open. He stepped onto the stairs and tried the light switch.
“Bulb’s dead,” she said.
He gave her a look. “Good home maintenance skills, Silence.”
“Unlike one of us, I’m a white-collar professional, Wilkes.”
He pulled out his flashlight, one of the small rubber models that had replaced the bulky steel MagLites of earlier years. As he proceeded down the stairs, she knelt behind him and put her foot on the topmost tread. He looked back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Downstairs with you.”
“You need a second look at these bad boys?”
“Not really.”
“So stay put. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Did you just say jiffy ?”
“I have a prodigious vocabulary. It’s one of my many appealing qualities that you’ve so far failed to detect.”
“Me and everybody else.”
“You’re just full of snappy comebacks today, aren’t you, Munchkin?” He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared.
“Don’t call me Munchkin,” she said after him.
She’d met Casey at one of Draper’s crime scenes while he was commanding the day watch. He was thirty-four, brash, and approximately as good-looking as he believed himself to be. He’d asked her out; she’d demurred. On subsequent occasions when they’d run into each other, this ritual was repeated. Their relationship had developed a peculiar dynamic—he was always on the make, she was always brushing him off. She’d made her lack of interest clear enough, but out of some combination of stubbornness and masochism he refused to be deterred.
An uncomfortably long period of time had passed with no sound from below. “You all right down there?” she called.
His voice came back to her. “Right as rain. I’ve confirmed one fact, at least. They’re definitely dead.”
“What gave it away, the lack of flesh tones or the lack of flesh?”
“And I don’t think they were buried in any sort of family crypt.”
“Why not?”
He appeared at the base of the staircase. “Because in a proper burial, the corpse isn’t naked. I didn’t see any clothes, did you?”
“Clothes can disintegrate over time.”
“In a damp environment.” He climbed the stairs, angling his flashlight downward so it wouldn’t blind her. “That wall cavity is nice and dry. Besides, even if the fabric disintegrated, there would be buttons, zippers.” He emerged from the cellar and got to his feet. “And shoes,” he added.
“Shoes. Right.”
“There aren’t any shoes, Short Round. Which suggests to me that this wasn’t a formal burial. And there’s another thing.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear it. And don’t call me Short Round.”
He stepped a little too close to her. She smelled chili dogs on his breath. She moved back, though the smell wasn’t bad. Onions and beans.
“The bones are all mixed up together. Bits and pieces. These people weren’t laid out neatly side by side. They were tossed in there, one on top of the other.”
“Maybe there was an epidemic...or an accident. Something where there were a lot of fatalities, and the bodies had to be buried quickly.” She knew she was reaching even as she said it.
He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles one at a time, the pops reminding her of cartilage, of bone.
“If it was an epidemic,” he said, “the remains would have been burned, not buried. And if it was a disaster, like a quake, there would have been time afterwards for a proper disposal of the bodies.” He cracked the last knuckle. “Health codes in the olden days might not have been what they are now, but I doubt anybody would be allowed to inter a bunch of dead bodies in a fruit cellar. Society frowns on that kind of thing.”
“I guess you’re right. Which means they were...” She didn’t want to say murdered .
“Yeah. That’s
“I’ll check it out.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Stop telling me what I don’t have to do.”
He strode to the trapdoor, which she’d left open. He stepped onto the stairs and tried the light switch.
“Bulb’s dead,” she said.
He gave her a look. “Good home maintenance skills, Silence.”
“Unlike one of us, I’m a white-collar professional, Wilkes.”
He pulled out his flashlight, one of the small rubber models that had replaced the bulky steel MagLites of earlier years. As he proceeded down the stairs, she knelt behind him and put her foot on the topmost tread. He looked back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Downstairs with you.”
“You need a second look at these bad boys?”
“Not really.”
“So stay put. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Did you just say jiffy ?”
“I have a prodigious vocabulary. It’s one of my many appealing qualities that you’ve so far failed to detect.”
“Me and everybody else.”
“You’re just full of snappy comebacks today, aren’t you, Munchkin?” He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared.
“Don’t call me Munchkin,” she said after him.
She’d met Casey at one of Draper’s crime scenes while he was commanding the day watch. He was thirty-four, brash, and approximately as good-looking as he believed himself to be. He’d asked her out; she’d demurred. On subsequent occasions when they’d run into each other, this ritual was repeated. Their relationship had developed a peculiar dynamic—he was always on the make, she was always brushing him off. She’d made her lack of interest clear enough, but out of some combination of stubbornness and masochism he refused to be deterred.
An uncomfortably long period of time had passed with no sound from below. “You all right down there?” she called.
His voice came back to her. “Right as rain. I’ve confirmed one fact, at least. They’re definitely dead.”
“What gave it away, the lack of flesh tones or the lack of flesh?”
“And I don’t think they were buried in any sort of family crypt.”
“Why not?”
He appeared at the base of the staircase. “Because in a proper burial, the corpse isn’t naked. I didn’t see any clothes, did you?”
“Clothes can disintegrate over time.”
“In a damp environment.” He climbed the stairs, angling his flashlight downward so it wouldn’t blind her. “That wall cavity is nice and dry. Besides, even if the fabric disintegrated, there would be buttons, zippers.” He emerged from the cellar and got to his feet. “And shoes,” he added.
“Shoes. Right.”
“There aren’t any shoes, Short Round. Which suggests to me that this wasn’t a formal burial. And there’s another thing.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear it. And don’t call me Short Round.”
He stepped a little too close to her. She smelled chili dogs on his breath. She moved back, though the smell wasn’t bad. Onions and beans.
“The bones are all mixed up together. Bits and pieces. These people weren’t laid out neatly side by side. They were tossed in there, one on top of the other.”
“Maybe there was an epidemic...or an accident. Something where there were a lot of fatalities, and the bodies had to be buried quickly.” She knew she was reaching even as she said it.
He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles one at a time, the pops reminding her of cartilage, of bone.
“If it was an epidemic,” he said, “the remains would have been burned, not buried. And if it was a disaster, like a quake, there would have been time afterwards for a proper disposal of the bodies.” He cracked the last knuckle. “Health codes in the olden days might not have been what they are now, but I doubt anybody would be allowed to inter a bunch of dead bodies in a fruit cellar. Society frowns on that kind of thing.”
“I guess you’re right. Which means they were...” She didn’t want to say murdered .
“Yeah. That’s
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