What the Fly Saw Page 5

  * * *

  Sitting in a room filled with caskets on display, Arthur Putnam, the embalmer, seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He blew his nose again. “Someone must have thought no one was here and broke in.”

  McCabe, sitting down with her back to the caskets, said, “The patrol officers who were the first to arrive checked the doors. There was no sign of forced entry.”

  “Then Kevin must have let whoever it was in. Maybe someone came to the door.”

  “The question is,” Baxter said, “why he would let someone in and then take him or her down to the basement.”

  “He must have been down there doing target practice,” Putnam replied. “And he took whoever it was down there with him.”

  “So that would suggest the person was someone he knew,” McCabe said. “You told us that when you called Mr. Novak’s wife to tell her what had happened, she said that her husband had come in because he was concerned about no one being here. Do you think he might have been expecting someone?”

  “Who would you expect to come to a funeral home on a Sunday night after a blizzard?”

  “If he wasn’t expecting anyone, why would Mr. Novak have been concerned that no one was here?”

  “Sarah said he was concerned about the bodies. About them being unattended.”

  “Why did they need to be attended?” Baxter asked.

  “Kevin believed in showing respect for the dead. In the old days when someone died, the family would lay the body out in the front room. Someone would sit up with it. Now the bodies come into the funeral home, and we take care of them. And the family comes in to hold visiting hours. But other than that the bodies are alone unless I’m here working—or our backup embalmer, if I’m out for some reason. But neither of us came in during the blizzard. And Kevin had this thing about liking to make sure someone was always here … to keep them—the bodies—company.”

  McCabe caught Baxter’s glance in her direction. He managed not to make a wisecrack.

  She said, “That must be a comfort to the families that trust this funeral home with their loved ones.”

  “We’ve got a good reputation. Kevin—the whole staff—treats the bodies with care. With respect.”

  “Who will handle Mr. Novak’s body?”

  Putnam’s eyes again filled with tears. “I hope Sarah will let me do it. The last thing I can do for him.”

  “So it wouldn’t be too close to home?” Baxter asked.

  “I’d rather do it than trust someone else with the job,” Putnam said. “We can bring in someone else to direct the funeral itself.” He blew his nose again. “Anything else you need from me?”

  “Could you give us a list of the funerals you have scheduled?” McCabe asked. “We need to know who has been in and out the past few days.”

  “All that information would be in Kevin’s office. When Helen, his secretary, gets in, she can pull it all for you.”

  “Is she on her way in?”

  “She hadn’t planned to come in today because it’s a holiday and with the streets being a mess. But I tagged all the staff and spoke to Helen, and as soon as she got done breaking down, she pulled herself together and said she’d get her husband to drive her in. She said Sarah might need her.”

  * * *

  Helen Logan, the funeral director’s secretary, sat down on the bench in the foyer to remove her boots. She replaced them with black loafers she took from her tote bag. “Is he—is Kevin—still here?” she asked.

  “No,” McCabe said. “He’s been taken to the morgue.”

  Logan looked relieved. “I didn’t want to see him like that,” she said. “Arthur told me it was bad.”

  “I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs. Logan, but we need your help. We think Mr. Novak might have opened the door to the person who killed him.”

  “You mean the person might have been someone he recognized … someone he knew?”

  “We haven’t found indication of a break-in, and unless Mr. Novak left one of the doors unlocked when he arrived—”

  “Kevin wouldn’t have done that. He was careful about locking up at night. About security in general. In fact, we always tease … we teased him about who would break into a funeral home. But he said kids playing pranks…” Logan picked up her coat from the bench and stood up.

  “Shall we go into your office?” McCabe said.

  Logan took off her cloche hat and ran her fingers through her short hair. “It’s right here off the foyer.”

  They followed her into a small room that contained a desk, two chairs, and green plants sprouting from pots on every available surface.

  “I have allergies,” Logan said, seeing their reaction. “The chemicals we use here … the plants help detoxify the air.” She plucked a dead leaf from the plant on her desk. “About kids playing pranks … you don’t suppose it could have been a prank that went wrong. Those space zombie kids? I heard something on the news stream about a bunch of them being arrested in a drug raid.”

  “Over the weekend,” Baxter said.

  “They’re always high and they’re into horror movies and The Twilight Zone and all that. Maybe this is something … maybe they broke in because of the bodies and the coffins.…” She stopped, sagging a little. “But you said there wasn’t any sign of a break-in.”

  “Which doesn’t rule out the possibility Mr. Novak opened the door to kids or someone else who was here to burglarize or vandalize the funeral home,” McCabe said.

  Baxter asked, “Who else has the code to the security system?”

  “The code? I do … and Arthur … and the other embalmer who comes in when Arthur is out or needs help. But he’s in Florida this week. Why are you asking about the code?”

  “The security system had been turned off,” McCabe said. “It is possible Mr. Novak forgot to reset it when he came in. But from what you’ve said about how careful he was about security—”

  “Yes, he usually was. But maybe he was so cold when he got here that he just came in and started trying to get warm. He probably wasn’t thinking about anyone coming to the door after a blizzard.”

  “Did anyone other than the people who worked here have the security code?”

  “No,” Logan said. “No one else.”

  “What about family members?” Baxter asked.

  Logan shook out her black coat and carried it over to the coatrack in the corner. She put her hat on the adjoining hook. Then she turned to face them. “Sarah—Kevin’s wife—might have known the code. Kevin might have written it down for her in case there was ever an emergency and he wasn’t here and Arthur or I couldn’t come in. But people always give their security codes to family members and friends.”

  “Yes, they do,” McCabe said. “We’re just trying to get some sense of how many people might have had access to the code.”

  “Well, I’m sure the people who had it wouldn’t have given it to anyone else.”

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone was careful with the code,” McCabe said. “And in all likelihood, Mr. Novak turned the alarm off to get in when he arrived and for some reason didn’t turn it back on. Then, later, he himself opened the door to whoever came.”

  “You mean whoever killed him,” Logan said.

  McCabe said, “You could really help us right now, if you would.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “We need you to go through your records and give us a list of the funeral services you’ve done recently. And the bodies you have waiting.”

  “We’ve got five bodies,” Logan said. “But I’m sure none of those family members would have any reason to kill Kevin.”

  “Probably not,” McCabe said. “But, you see, we have a procedure we follow. A process of elimination. Could you also tell us if anyone has recently made an appointment to discuss a service of any kind? I believe some people plan their funerals in advance, don’t they?”

  “Quite a few,” Logan said. “It makes it so much easier on the family. And people also l
ike to do celebrations of life. We have an event planner we work with when someone wants us to help with one of those.”

  “Do you use an event planner for funerals, too?” McCabe asked.

  “When someone wants something really elaborate or unusual. But most people who want something like that would rather do a celebration of life so they can be there to enjoy it.”

  Baxter said, “So a celebration of life is like inviting everybody to your funeral while you’re still alive?”

  “That’s the general idea. It gives everyone a chance to say the things they want to share with you while you’re still alive and can hear them.”

  “Like a party for yourself,” Baxter said.

  “Kevin went to a celebration for one of our church members this past Saturday. We didn’t handle it. She planned it for herself. But Olive is a good friend of Kevin’s.”

  “Then would you give us her contact information?” McCabe asked.

  “Olive’s going to be so hurt when she hears this. She expected Kevin to bury her.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She’s eighty-five,” Logan said. “I’ll start putting together the information you need.”

  “Thank you,” McCabe said. “But, first, if we could get your help with something else. The forensics team is still at work downstairs, but they’ve done a preliminary walk-through of the rooms on this floor. Everything seems to be in order up here, but could we get you to step into Mr. Novak’s office with us? Just to have a look and see if you notice anything unusual.”

  “Kevin was a very neat person. It’ll be easy to see if anything is out of order.” She led the way down the hall.

  “Did he usually carry his ORB with him?” McCabe asked. “The forensic techs haven’t found it yet.”

  “I’m sure he would have had it here with him. He would have wanted to be in touch with Sarah, and with the staff, if he needed us.”

  “Then we may find it in his office,” McCabe said.

  But she wasn’t hopeful about that. Jeff had said his team would have a second look upstairs, but the FIU techs tended to be thorough the first time through. They scanned and recorded as they were making their way to the body. That avoided the problem of having evidence destroyed. The FIU techs were unlikely to have missed the victim’s ORB during their first sweep of the house.

  Novak’s office had a desk, bookshelves, a large sofa, and a seating area with table and chairs.

  “Anything look out of place in here?” Baxter asked Novak’s secretary. “Anything missing?”

  Logan shook her head. “No, nothing I can see.”

  McCabe said, “Let’s have another look for Mr. Novak’s ORB.”

  She took plastic gloves from her field bag and handed a pair to Baxter.

  She pulled open the desk drawers, one at a time. Standard desk contents for someone who still used paper—pens, rubber bands, paper clips. No ORB.

  “Who’s this in the picture?” Baxter asked. He had picked up a photo of a teenage boy with a dead elk. The elk had an arrow in its body.

  Logan pressed her fingers to her lips. “That’s Scott, Kevin’s son. They were on a hunting trip out west.”

  “A father-and-son trip?” McCabe asked.

  “Yes. But they went with some of Kevin’s friends. Bob was on that trip.”

  Baxter put the photo back on the shelf. “Who’s Bob?”

  “Kevin’s best friend. He died back in September. A heart attack.”

  “That must have been hard for Mr. Novak,” McCabe said.

  “Yes,” Logan replied. “They were playing tennis when Bob had his heart attack. Kevin blamed himself for pushing him too hard. No one else thought it was his fault. Bob’s doctor even said it could have happened at any time. But Kevin still beat himself up over it.” Logan turned and looked around the room. “This office is all Kevin. The person he was.”

  “What’s with the bird?” Baxter asked, pointing at the black bird perched on a top shelf. “Was he into taxidermy?”

  McCabe thought of Tony Perkins in Psycho showing Janet Leigh his collection of stuffed birds.

  But Logan was saying, “The bird was a gift from Kevin’s daughter, Meg. She and her mother were at an estate sale, and she saw it. It’s a raven.”

  “Oh,” McCabe said. “Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Kevin used to recite ‘The Raven’ for the kids and their friends when they were little.”

  A morbid poem for kids, McCabe thought. But they tended to love it.

  “Poe, huh?” Baxter said. “I guess a funeral director would be into all that stuff about ghosts and premature burial.”

  Logan said, “Aside from his training as a funeral director, Kevin had a degree in folklore. He was fascinated by superstitions about death.”

  “And, of course,” McCabe said, “some people were buried prematurely when they sank into comas.”

  “No chance of being buried alive these days,” Baxter said, as he wandered over to the table by the window. “After you’re pumped full of embalming fluid, you’re dead when you’re buried.”

  Logan grimaced. McCabe resisted the urge to throw the book on Novak’s desk at her partner. “This book about mummies looks fascinating.”

  “Kevin was always reading. He knew all kinds of things about death rituals and the history of funerals and mummification. He was sometimes invited to give talks to groups.”

  “So he was somewhat of an authority,” McCabe said. “Would it be all right if we look around a bit more on our own? While you’re getting together the information we need.”

  Logan glanced around the office. “Yes, I guess … I suppose that would be all right.”

  “Thank you. We want to see if there is anything that might give us a lead.”

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  When she was gone, McCabe turned to Baxter. “Have you ever heard the word ‘insensitive’?”

  He grinned. “Who, me?”

  “I don’t think we’re going to find much here, but let’s go through everything.”

  “Maybe we ought to open up the bird and make sure nothing’s hidden inside.”

  “I used to love that poem when I was a kid. My dad did a great ‘Nevermore.’” McCabe inserted the book about mummies in the open space on the middle shelf. “Our vic seems to have his bookshelves organized by topic.”

  “Well, his secretary did say he was tidy.”

  “And it makes it easier to put your hands on a book when you want it.”

  “I don’t have that many books,” Baxter said as he pulled some file folders from the desk. “I like to enjoy my ignorance.”

  “Did you know, Mr. Illiterate, that there’s a story about Poe having composed ‘The Raven’ while he was visiting a tavern in Saratoga?”

  “Too bad he didn’t do it here in Albany,” Baxter said. “The mayor could have starred him in her It Happened Here tourist promotion.”

  “We haven’t been hearing too much about that since Ted Thornton left town and presumably took his funding with him,” McCabe said. She shook the book she was holding. Nothing fell out. “There’s a bit of lore that Poe did come to Albany. One of Poe’s enemies claimed that after his wife died, Poe came here in romantic pursuit of Frances Osgood. But that’s unlikely given that Poe’s wife and Osgood’s husband approved of their literary friendship.”

  “Something you picked up in grammar school?”

  “My mother, the protest poet, liked Poe.”

  “And she told you all about his alleged affair?”

  “Not when I was a kid. But I read one of the books she had about him when I was older.”

  Nothing turned up in their search of Novak’s office to suggest who might have killed him. No mysterious notes or files.

  Baxter put the raven back on the top shelf. “Doesn’t look like it’s been opened and sewed back up.”

  “Glad we’ve eliminated that possibility,” McCabe said. She took a last glance at a photo of Kevin Novak with a
lovely dark-haired woman. He sat on the arm of the sofa, smiling down at her. She looked up at him, smiling back.

  Murder cases were always easier when there was no grieving widow.

  Baxter said, “I guess it’s too much to hope the killer tossed Novak’s ORB in some handy trash receptacle on the street as he was fleeing.”

  “If he did,” McCabe said, “the trash receptacle’s buried under snow the same way our killer’s footprints were. Even after the snow stopped, the wind was still whipping it around.”

  “When the snow melts, the company might be able to pick up the ORB’s signal.”

  “If it’s still intact and somewhere the signal can be read.”

  Logan glanced up as they walked into her office. “Did you find anything?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” McCabe said. “And we should go and see Mrs. Novak.”

  “Poor Sarah and the children.” Logan took a sip from the glass of water on her desk. Then she said, “Has anyone contacted our minister, Reverend Wyatt?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” McCabe said. “Unless Mr. Putnam or Mrs. Novak contacted him.”

  “He’ll probably be at the house by now if someone thought to call him,” Logan said. “You should talk to Reverend Wyatt.”

  “Why’s that?” Baxter asked.

  “Because he might be able to tell you something. Kevin is … was … active in our church. He often worked with Reverend Wyatt on projects.”

  McCabe said, “What church do you belong to?”

  “The New Awakening Church.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen your billboards.”

  “Reverend Wyatt says we don’t want to be flashy. But we have to get people’s attention before we can get them to listen.”

  “The advertising campaign seems to be working,” Baxter said. “You folks have a pretty big congregation from what I hear.”

  “Over seven thousand who regularly attend services or programs at the cathedral and several thousand more members in the Capital District and New England who take part via the Web. And people in other places, even abroad, who have found us. Reverend Wyatt says so many people are feeling lost and anxious these days.”