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                                        CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

                                                    Bodies

8:50 a.m.

"What're you doing here?" Reggie asked Leah through the gate. Her long nose and the dark circles around her eyes made her look like a raccoon. Leah leaned to the side, looked past him, then swayed back so the others couldn't see her.

"I might ask the same."

"I know who you really are–Leah."

"I know you know." She put her hand through the gate. He shook it limply.

"Where's Joe?"

"On his way."

"What's so important that you had to come up and wave at me in front of them?"

"What's in the van?"

Reggie glanced up the hill. "What van?"

"I followed a van here. Quinn was driving. Maybe it's up the hill–or in the garage. Did you check the garage?"

"I wasn't even looking for it. Why would I check the damn garage? What is it about the van?"

"He and...hell, I don't know if I can tell you this."

"We're cooperating, me and Joe. You can tell me."

"I...I'd like to, but I better not."

"Then don't."

"When Joe gets here. In fact, I better get back to my V.P. or he'll think I left."

"Where are you sitting?"

"Between two trees in a niche west of the driveway."

"What's the van look like?"

"Gray Ford with doors on the sides."

"What do I tell them?"

"Avon calling."

Reggie huffed and hiked back up the driveway to the carport.

* * *

Joe called the police from Rendquist's phone on his desk, punching the speaker-phone button and the number pad with his knuckle. He wasn't so much worried about destroying any prints on the phone as he was keeping his own off. Lee wasn't in, but the Chief immediately got on the line. He explained to the Chief that he'd come by to speak to Rendquist about Weldon's autopsy results and to find out when her mother could take the body home and had discovered the open door and Rendquist's body.

He hung up and eye-balled the dead doctor. Does this have something to do with Jackie–or Paley...or something else? All Joe knew about Rendquist was that he was the town's doctor, a pathologist, a member of the city council and one of Paley's army pals from Korea. Someone wanted him silenced about something. This didn't look like the work of some crazed drug addict he'd barged in on during a burglary. He knew he didn't have much time before the cops would come busting in to do their investigation. He had a few minutes to do his own.

Joe snapped on a pair of Latex gloves from a box in the examination room next door to the office. He studied the room, not conscious of what to look for, but hoping that whatever was behind Rendquist's death would somehow make a noise in his head.

No sign of a struggle. He let in the killer. Or the killer surprised him. Or he knew him.

He searched the cabinet behind Rendquist's desk. No noise in his head. He turned to a long table set against the wall and shuffled through files, reports, bills and letters in several trays. Nothing. He poked in each desk drawer. Rendquist liked Jack Daniels, smoked cigars– infrequently, given the two Joe found were hard as bones–and read a girlie magazine called Cum Quat. Six recent issues were tucked under two boxes of Kleenex in the bottom right-hand drawer. Joe flipped through the pages–investigatively–watching for any tell-tale signs that he knew one of the models, or had notes between the pages. Nothing. Silence.

He opened a briefcase that lay on a chair beside the coat closet, then sifted through more papers and reports, but nothing related to Paley or Weldon, and there were no threatening letters or clues to activities or associations that would cause some nut to deliver his wrath on Rendquist at the end of a hunting knife.

A black spiral-bound appointment book was shoved in the upper pocket of the briefcase. Joe looked through it, page by page, and there were appointments with patients, other doctors, officials of Paley and Barstow, and a couple birthdays scrawled across the page as reminders to himself. And he'd noted the dates and times of the city council meetings. No noise, though. Until August. Friday, August 8th.

Sidney it read. There was a noise in his head. The singular first name. Nowhere else in the book was there a single name. In every other entry, Rendquist had the full name or the last name of the person, except for the two birthdays, and in those entries he'd noted that it was a birthday–Jenny's birthday; Bob's birthday. Of course, Sidney could be the last name. But the noise was there to say otherwise.

The real clamor in his head began when he read the August 16th page–the day before Paley died. Kern autopsy - Barstow was neatly written on the line reserved for 9:00 a.m.. Joe whisked through the pages–17th, 18th, 19th, 20th, 21st–and came to yesterday, Sunday, the 24th. Weldon autopsy.

Fingers crawling across the tops of files, Joe went through the cabinets. He found no file for Paley or Weldon. Coming back through the Ks he pulled a file labeled Everett Kern.

Everett Kern was an overweight smoker who had succumbed to a myocardial infarction–heart attack–on the morning of Friday, August 16th. So why was an autopsy conducted on Kern but not on Paley? Rendquist's report, although medically very technical, clearly concluded that there was no foul play, that Kern suffered the heart attack before falling into the water. Kern's history of high blood pressure and heart failure dated back to 1985 when he retired from–Joe's head banged like thunder–Joshua Savings & Loan. And then he found the police report. It said Kern had been fishing from a boat in The Plunge and fell overboard. His fishing partner stated that Kern suddenly stiffened, grabbed his left pectoral, stood up in pain and panic and fell into the lake. His fishing partner jumped in, tried to save him but his size made any rescue impossible.

The noise was deafening. The fishing partner was November Wallace, a name that had come up in his conversation with Reggie. Its importance wasn't apparent. Even so, the connection was there.

The next sound came from behind him. He spun around. A woman wearing a nurse's uniform stood in the doorway and stared down at the blood-soaked body of the doctor and screamed. Spotting Joe, the volume of the scream increased, and she ran back down the hall. Joe fed the briefcase the appointment book and shut it.

In the waiting area, the nurse was talking on the phone, frantic, her body shaking, and when Joe entered the room she shrieked, "He's coming for me! Hurry, please, hurry!"

Joe put up his hands in a friendly gesture. "Ma'am, I already called the police." He reached in his back pocket, produced his I.D. and held it up. "I'm a private detective–please, calm down."

"What...what's happening?" she screamed.

"Calm down, calm down, I'll tell you. The front door was open, I came in, and...and he was there."

"I don't believe you!" she said fearfully searching for a way out, her sobbing drowning her words, her body falling into the counter. She sagged against it and her eyes closed. Joe ran for the counter but didn't catch her before she fainted and crumpled to the floor as two Paley police officers stormed the waiting room with their guns drawn.

"On the floor, get down, now!"

Joe joined the nurse on the plush blue carpet.

* * *

"What'd she want?" Lucilva asked, arms folded, still seething.

"Selling health food."

"You said you knew her."

"Thought I did."

Lucilva cocked her head, bit her lip. She wasn't believing him. But she didn't press it.

"Why would I lie about that?" Reggie asked, trying to get her mind off Leah. "I don't want anyone knowing I'm up here anymore than you do."

Her teeth let go of her lip. A good sign that his lie had worked.

"Perhaps, Mr. Thomas," Quinn said from behind them, "you are working for the police department."

Reggie snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Just a thought."

Reggie walked over to Quinn, who straightened slightly, defensive, and said:

"Here's a thought: where's the van you drove up in?"

There wasn't more than a second between Reggie's question and Quinn's reaction.

"You've been following me. How interesting."

"Where is it?"

Lucilva pointed towards the back of the house. "It's in the garage, why?"

"Mind if I have a look?"

"Yes," Quinn said, moving in the direction of the garage, "I would mind." He showed agitation, seemed flustered; he'd lost that cool theatrical tone.

Reggie shrugged. And then streaked passed Quinn before he could react. Reggie reached the garage several yards ahead of him, flung open the side door, squeezed around Lucilva's Mercedes, and wrenched open the side doors of the van. It was empty. Quinn came in as he climbed into the van. Seeing Reggie, Quinn didn't approach, he merely folded his arms.

There had to be something. Leah said there was something about the van. He carefully canvassed the ceiling, the dashboard, under the seats. His neck and back ached from hunching over in the back of the van, but it was the pain of disappointment that made him plop down on the light blue carpet covering the entire area behind the front seats.

Lucilva walked up behind Quinn, then pushed him aside. "What the hell's going on, Thomas? If anyone noses around in here, it's me."

Reggie caught Quinn grinning.

Then he felt it. Took only a few seconds. The carpet was damp. Not soaked, but definitely wet. He half-stood, arching his back to keep from bumping his head. It was faint, but the color of the carpet was darker where it was damp. Not much, but enough to make a distinct shape. A wet shape.

Lucilva reached the door of the van. "What the hell are you looking at?"

Reggie smiled through the window at Quinn. "Tell her."

"Certainly," Quinn replied. "That's called an empty van, Lucilva."

Lucilva impatiently huffed and poked her head around the inside of the van. "So what it is?"

Quinn laughed. "There's nothing in there!"

Reggie directed Lucilva to climb inside. "Feel the carpet."

"It's wet. So what?"

"Stand with your back to the seats and look down the length of the compartment. Look close."

She did. A few moments went by while her expression was intent as she studied the carpet. Then the muscles in her face dropped.

"See it now?"

She glanced at Reggie, then glared at Quinn. "It's a shape. A human shape."