what it means. Hey, why the long face? You didn’t do it.”
“This house has been in my family a long time.”
He saw where she was going. “How long?” he asked in a softer tone.
“Forever. My great-grandfather lived here. He may have been the original owner. But we don’t have any records that go back that far.” Or at least, she didn’t have the records. Richard might.
Casey frowned. “Well...let’s not go jumping to any conclusions.”
“It looks like the conclusions are jumping to us.”
“There may be some perfectly innocent explanation.”
“Any suggestions as to what it might be?”
“Let’s wait till we know more. Traffic stops and drug busts I can handle. DBs are someone else’s job.”
Dead bodies. DBs. She wished he hadn’t put it like that. It objectified the victims, made them less than persons.
He shifted his balance, the cuffs on his belt tinkling. “Is there any history of, um, criminal activity in your family?”
She didn’t answer immediately. “No.”
“Why the hesitation?”
She was thinking there was a history of mental illness. But she didn’t want to tell him so. “We’re not a family of criminals,” she said brusquely.
“I didn’t say—”
“Nobody in my family had anything to do with this.”
His hands went up. “All right, I hear you.”
“No, you don’t hear me. You never hear me. I told you it wasn’t necessary for you to come over. You’re here, anyway. I told you it wasn’t necessary to look in the cellar. You looked. And now you’re telling me things—”
“That you don’t want to know.”
She turned away, her shoulders stiff. “I’m keeping you from your job, Sergeant.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
“Right. You do.” He walked to the front door. “I’ll have someone over here as soon as possible. A detective and an ME. What with the quake, it won’t be right away. Everything’s all fouled up. Roads, phone lines, you name it.”
“It’s no problem.”
“Tomorrow, probably. We can get them here tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“Problem?”
“I guess I’m not crazy about having a bunch of dead people in my cellar overnight.”
“You can bunk at my place. I have a foldout couch—not that we’d need it.”
“I’d rather sleep with the skeletons.”
“Ouch. That’s a wicked tongue you’ve got there, Mini-Me. Okay, enjoy your night in a haunted house. And don’t touch anything down there, don’t disturb the remains—”
“I was planning to take out the skulls and make them into Halloween lanterns. Not a good idea?”
“I would take a pass on that. At least until the ME has had a look.” He stepped outside with a parting wave. “See you.”
“Hey, Casey?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call me Mini-Me.”
She watched him return to his squad car and drive away. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly why she kept sending him signals to back off. Maybe because he really didn’t hear her. Didn’t listen. Refused to take her seriously. Like Sean, her college beau.
Still, she still liked him. His persistence was comically ingratiating. The truth was, she didn’t know what the hell she wanted. Some psychologist she was. She could read the minds of strangers, but not her own.
In the pantry, the trapdoor was still open. She almost shut it, and then Richard’s voice came back to her: You can’t even stand the sight of blood.
It wasn’t blood. It was a cadaver...
A body under a sheet, wheeled in on a gurney. She remembered how the wheels squeaked on the tile floor. The instructor whisked off the sheet, revealing the body of an old man, spindly and gnarled, tufts of white clinging to his sunken chest. A cadaver for dissection.
She was chosen to make the first incision. Probably the prof saw how nervous she was, blanched with fear. He might have found it amusing to hand her the scalpel.
She stood over the dead man, unable to depress the blade into the waxy flesh. Finally she handed back the
“This house has been in my family a long time.”
He saw where she was going. “How long?” he asked in a softer tone.
“Forever. My great-grandfather lived here. He may have been the original owner. But we don’t have any records that go back that far.” Or at least, she didn’t have the records. Richard might.
Casey frowned. “Well...let’s not go jumping to any conclusions.”
“It looks like the conclusions are jumping to us.”
“There may be some perfectly innocent explanation.”
“Any suggestions as to what it might be?”
“Let’s wait till we know more. Traffic stops and drug busts I can handle. DBs are someone else’s job.”
Dead bodies. DBs. She wished he hadn’t put it like that. It objectified the victims, made them less than persons.
He shifted his balance, the cuffs on his belt tinkling. “Is there any history of, um, criminal activity in your family?”
She didn’t answer immediately. “No.”
“Why the hesitation?”
She was thinking there was a history of mental illness. But she didn’t want to tell him so. “We’re not a family of criminals,” she said brusquely.
“I didn’t say—”
“Nobody in my family had anything to do with this.”
His hands went up. “All right, I hear you.”
“No, you don’t hear me. You never hear me. I told you it wasn’t necessary for you to come over. You’re here, anyway. I told you it wasn’t necessary to look in the cellar. You looked. And now you’re telling me things—”
“That you don’t want to know.”
She turned away, her shoulders stiff. “I’m keeping you from your job, Sergeant.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
“Right. You do.” He walked to the front door. “I’ll have someone over here as soon as possible. A detective and an ME. What with the quake, it won’t be right away. Everything’s all fouled up. Roads, phone lines, you name it.”
“It’s no problem.”
“Tomorrow, probably. We can get them here tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“Problem?”
“I guess I’m not crazy about having a bunch of dead people in my cellar overnight.”
“You can bunk at my place. I have a foldout couch—not that we’d need it.”
“I’d rather sleep with the skeletons.”
“Ouch. That’s a wicked tongue you’ve got there, Mini-Me. Okay, enjoy your night in a haunted house. And don’t touch anything down there, don’t disturb the remains—”
“I was planning to take out the skulls and make them into Halloween lanterns. Not a good idea?”
“I would take a pass on that. At least until the ME has had a look.” He stepped outside with a parting wave. “See you.”
“Hey, Casey?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call me Mini-Me.”
She watched him return to his squad car and drive away. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly why she kept sending him signals to back off. Maybe because he really didn’t hear her. Didn’t listen. Refused to take her seriously. Like Sean, her college beau.
Still, she still liked him. His persistence was comically ingratiating. The truth was, she didn’t know what the hell she wanted. Some psychologist she was. She could read the minds of strangers, but not her own.
In the pantry, the trapdoor was still open. She almost shut it, and then Richard’s voice came back to her: You can’t even stand the sight of blood.
It wasn’t blood. It was a cadaver...
A body under a sheet, wheeled in on a gurney. She remembered how the wheels squeaked on the tile floor. The instructor whisked off the sheet, revealing the body of an old man, spindly and gnarled, tufts of white clinging to his sunken chest. A cadaver for dissection.
She was chosen to make the first incision. Probably the prof saw how nervous she was, blanched with fear. He might have found it amusing to hand her the scalpel.
She stood over the dead man, unable to depress the blade into the waxy flesh. Finally she handed back the
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