Play Dead Read online

  PLAY DEAD

  by Anne Frasier

  PLAY DEAD

  Copyright © Anne Frasier, 2004

  Originally published by Penguin Books

  All rights reserved

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Formatting and layout by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  http://www.regardingthehive.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 1

  Savannah medical examiner John Casper believed in what some scientists termed the cluster effect. Toss a bunch of anything down—seeds, flower petals, cards— they always grouped together.

  Same thing with dead bodies.

  They never came one at a time, but in bunches. The latest bunch had been large, leaving doctors and assistants working around the clock to process an unusually high volume that had their cold storage overflowing.

  Almost caught up, people had headed home complaining of headaches from lack of sleep and too many hours spent inhaling formalin fumes.

  Willy Claxton, the one remaining assistant, hovered nervously in the doorway of the main office, just off the autopsy suites. "Storm's blowing in from the Atlantic," he said. "They been talking about it on the radio."

  John pushed his paperwork aside and leaned back, chair creaking. "Why don't you go home?" Even in the isolation of the morgue, his head had the heavy feeling that came with a dramatic drop in barometric pressure. "Before the storm hits."

  "What about the last body?"

  John glanced through the decedent's file. "Pretty straightforward. Looks like a heart attack."

  John stood and stretched. He'd been there for over twelve hours. His joints ached, and his skin had a prickly, tight feel from too little sleep. "Help me get him on the table and you can take off."

  Willy wheeled the body from the cold unit, then pushed it into an autopsy suite. The room smelled of disinfectant. He locked the wheels; then the two men heaved the corpse from the gurney to the stainless steel table. John noticed the zipper on the body bag hadn't been pulled tight—there was a gap of about two inches.

  "Thanks, man," Willy said, snapping off his gloves and tossing them in the biohazard bin. "I need to get home. My wife's afraid of storms."

  John nodded, allowing the man his dignity. Everybody knew Willy grew uneasy when darkness came. A lot of people were like that, even some of the other medical examiners. John found it interesting that modern man still suffered from ancient fears left over from a period in history when humans lived in the open and darkness was a real threat. These days, it wasn't the darkness that would get you—it was the people in that darkness. You didn't work in a morgue without coming away with that lesson well learned. Homicides had doubled this year, and the city was feeling as uneasy as Willy.

  After Willy left, John suited up in a gown, mask, goggles, and latex gloves, then put on some tunes. Had to have autopsy tunes.

  He unzipped the bag and leaned back, waiting for the stink to hit him.

  Nothing.

  Sometimes bodies didn't smell. Then again, when you worked around dead people as long as John had, your olfactories shut down. The brain finally decided, Hey, I've smelled that before. Smelled that a lot. No cause for alarm.

  He spoke into the Dictaphone. "Decedent's name: Truman Harrison. No middle initial. Body belongs to a fifty-one-year-old African-American male with a history of heart disease."

  He photographed the body, then removed and bagged the clothing—not easy without an assistant. He examined the cadaver externally, surprised to find no outward signs of rigor mortis or livor mortis. The guy must not have been dead long before being put on ice. And he chewed the hell out of his fingernails, John noted, lifting a hand to examine it more closely.

  Outside, the storm was raging, but the autopsy suite within the heart of the morgue was silent. John had almost forgotten about the weather when the unmistakable sound of a lightning strike penetrated the thick walls, rattling glass containers in nearby cupboards. The room was plunged into darkness. Seconds later, the emergency generators kicked in and the lights flickered on.

  Everything under control.

  John continued with the autopsy. He placed a rubber block under the cadaver's neck, then positioned the scalpel for the Y incision, beginning at the right shoulder, below the collarbone. One inch into the cut the dead body let out a long sigh.

  The scalpel slipped from John's fingers, clattering to the stainless steel exam table. He stared at the dead man's face, searching for signs of life.

  A decaying body rapidly formed gas, and it wasn't unusual for a dead person to appear to exhale. Some bodies even moved as the gas shifted around looking for an escape route.

  "Son of a bitch." John let out a nervous laugh.

  He retrieved the scalpel and poised his hand to continue with the incision. He was shaking. "Shit. What a fucking baby. Calm down. It was just a little gas, that's all."

  Too late, he remembered the Dictaphone. With his slipper-covered foot, he shut it off with the remote switch, then stood there, breathing hard. The down-draft fan was humming.

  He tossed the scalpel on the instrument tray, then picked up the dead man's wrist and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  He felt the carotid artery in the neck.

  Nothing.

  He pulled out a miniature flashlight and checked the pupils.

  No reaction. No reflex. No eye movement.

  He turned the head from side to side.

  "Some skin discoloration." Due to lack of circulation—a fairly significant sign of death. Lips were purple. Fingers and nails, purple.

  He rolled the body from one side to the other, checking the back and buttocks. "No lividity."

  He let the body drop to the previous position.

  In the adjoining scrub room, he rummaged through the cabinets until he found a stethoscope.

  Back in the autopsy suite, feeling foolish and glad nobody else was around, he turned off the downdraft
fan and placed the stethoscope against the dead man's chest.

  Was that something? A faint sound? A gentle lub... lub. Or was it his own heart beating?

  He pulled the stethoscope from his ears, then began another search, finally finding what he was looking for. A mirror. Round, eight inches in diameter. With a paper towel he rubbed it clean, making sure there were no smudges or fingerprints on the glass. Then he held it to the dead man's mouth and nose.

  Primitive but effective.

  Keeping an eye on the clock, he waited a full minute before lifting it away.

  On the surface of the mirror was a small cloud of condensation—a cloud that gradually vanished as John stared at it in horror and disbelief.

  This couldn't be happening.

  Not again.

  Chapter 2

  In the Savannah Historic District, Elise Sandburg pulled orange juice and milk from the dark refrigerator while lightning flashed and thunder rattled the windows of her old Victorian house.

  "I was going to make French toast." She closed the refrigerator door with her elbow and placed the cartons on the antique table where a hurricane candle burned in front of her thirteen-year-old daughter.

  Audrey stared straight ahead with bleary eyes, her shoulder-length curly auburn hair tangled from sleep.

  "Guess we'll have to settle for cold cereal," her mother said. "A substation was hit, which means we might not have any power until tomorrow."

  Audrey didn't care. Tomorrow she would be home again. Her real home. French toast wouldn't have made everything suddenly wonderful. Why did her mother think that? She wasn't a little kid anymore. French toast wasn't going to make staying at her mom's any better.

  She wanted to be home, at her dad's, in her own room, her own bed, near her friends. Not here, where everything was weird even when the electricity was on.

  Years ago, Elise—Audrey called her mother Elise in the privacy of her own mind—Elise had started restoring the place, digging into rooms, tearing the walls down to stinky old boards, and stinky, stained wallpaper and holes big enough to crawl through.

  Then one day she just stopped.

  The floors still creaked, and doors opened by themselves. Her mother—Elise—blamed it on gravity, said the building had settled, and the doors were now hanging wrong, but that didn't make Audrey feel any better whenever one swung open behind her.

  Elise was coming at her now, with stacked bowls in one hand, a box of cereal in the other, another tucked under her arm. Wearing an old gray Savannah Police Department T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.

  Her chin-length hair was straight and dark; her eyes had strange lines going through them.

  "This is cozy, isn't it?" Elise asked, sitting down at the table.

  Cozy?

  Sweet kitty!

  Audrey liked to make up phrases. Sweet kitty was her newest, and a big hit at school. One day she hoped she'd turn on the TV and hear somebody say one of the cool phrases she'd invented. One day, maybe she'd turn on the TV and David Letterman would shout, "Sweet kitty!"

  Audrey poured herself some juice, then reached for a box of cereal.

  "I read about a girl who got her name changed," Audrey said, cereal spilling on the table. "Said it was easy." She poured milk and picked up a spoon.

  "Do you want to change your name?"

  Audrey shrugged, trying to look unconcerned even though her heart was racing. "I've been thinking about it."

  "Some cultures believe children should be able to name themselves," Elise said. "I always kind of liked that idea except a child might go for years with no name. Or end up with baby's first word, which would most likely be Mama, or Dada, or a favorite toy or food."

  Audrey should have known Elise would actually like the idea. Her dad had freaked when she'd mentioned it to him.

  "Have anything in mind?" Elise asked around a mouthful of food.

  "I kind of like Bianca. And Chelsea. And Courtney."

  Elise gave it some thought. "Those are nice names." She nodded.

  "What do you think about Savannah?” Audrey asked. "Then I could be Savannah from Savannah."

  Elise leaned closer, forearms braced on the edge of the table. "Or how about Georgia from Georgia?"

  This wasn't going the way it was supposed to. But then, nothing involving Elise ever did. Audrey had been anticipating an argument. Looking forward to an argument. Didn't Elise care what she called herself?

  "In school, we looked up our names to find out what they mean, you know." Audrey frowned, confused and annoyed. "Mine means nobility."

  Elise put down her spoon. "Not nobility. Noble strength."

  "Anyway, who thought of that name?" It couldn't have been her dad. No way could it have been her dad.

  "I did. But your father agreed it was lovely."

  The phone rang.

  Elise picked up the portable, remembered the power was off, then hurried down the hallway in the direction of the land phone.

  Did Audrey really hate her?

  Or did her attitude have to do with age? How much was typical thirteen-year-old behavior?

  Thirteen was a horrid age. The only thing worse was fourteen, which Audrey would be in seven months. Thirteen-year-olds were doing drugs. Having sex. Having babies.

  She hates her name.

  What was wrong with the name Audrey? It may not have been something Elise would choose now, but she'd been eighteen when her daughter was born, and the name had seemed pretty damn cool.

  The call was from Major Coretta Hoffman, head of Homicide. "I want you and Detective Gould to stop by the morgue before coming in this morning," the major said. "We've had another body come to life."

  Another body.

  The hair on the back of Elise's neck tingled.

  Two "awakenings" in a single month. The first had been an accident, a mistaken call in the emergency room, the unfortunate patient an overdosed prostitute with a record who'd come around in the morgue.

  She'd heard about it. Read about it.

  It wasn't common knowledge, but occasionally people were pronounced dead when they weren't. Not something people liked to think about, but it happened.

  But two times? In a month?

  Was there a connection? Or was it simply an extremely strange coincidence?

  "I'll be there as soon as I can." Elise hung up and made her way back to the kitchen.

  "David Gould?" Audrey asked.

  "Major Hoffman."

  "Oh." Audrey seemed disappointed. "I like your new partner."

  "Hmm," Elise said. Audrey was definitely a minority. "What makes him so special in your book?"

  "He doesn't treat me like a little kid. And he doesn't ask stupid questions like 'How's school?' Or 'Where'd you get that curly hair?' And he doesn't seem like a cop at all." She thought a moment, then added, "He doesn't really even seem like an adult."

  Unfortunately, Elise had to agree.

  Elise had planned to spend more time with Audrey this spring and summer. Toward that end, she'd hoped an enthused new partner would be sent her way. One who was eager to dive in and give her the assistance she so desperately needed.

  A pipe dream.

  Her new partner seemed barely able to get his own paperwork done, let alone help Elise with a backlog of reports, filing, and cold cases.

  David Gould. Used to be an FBI agent, but claimed he'd been in the market for a less stressful job. Translation: an easier job.

  And while she wasn't into gossip like so many others in the police department, she liked to know who was watching her back. All she knew about Gould was that he'd been shipped down from Cleveland, Ohio, where he hadn't been all that long.

  And she was beginning to suspect they'd been glad to unload him.

  Chapter 3

  David Gould had run five miles with another five to go when his pager went off. He didn't check it.

  When he'd started out, the streets had been dark and deserted, with fog clinging to rolling lawns and areas of dense veg
etation. Now it was light. The storm had moved on to Atlanta, and traffic was getting heavy. Sidewalks were littered with shredded leaves and crushed blossoms. In a couple of areas, he'd spotted some downed trees.

  Helluva storm.

  He should probably run with a cell phone, but that would have been a pain in the ass. Besides, the purpose of the run was to get away from everything for a while. Time to empty his mind and let himself fall into that semihypnotic state, lulled by the rhythmic pounding of jogging shoes.

  His pace was even; the only thing that ever changed was the intensity of the pounding, varying upon the surface he traversed. The soft, hollow thud of earth was interrupted by the more solid connection of asphalt, which in turn gave way to cement and the crunch of gravel.

  Gravel was his least favorite because the sound wasn't as clean.

  His head was always full of clutter that served no purpose other than to confuse him and complicate his thought processes. Running helped. Running for him was the equivalent of defragmenting his hard drive. By the end of the day, he usually felt pretty level, pretty good about things, but with each morning came a fresh wave of clutter and the desperate need to purge himself.

  David moved through Forsyth Park, past the fountain with the spouting mermen and the guy selling salvation. A homeless woman crawled from under a blooming magnolia where she'd nested for the night. Several people he didn't know told him good morning.

  They were so damn friendly here. It pissed him off.

  So far, David hadn't experienced the Savannah John Berendt had written about. David Gould's Savannah was a darker place, a place that had more to do with life on the streets than with life in a multimillion-dollar mansion. Not that Savannah wasn't one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen, because it was. The city's beauty and uniqueness were directly related to the twenty-two squares designed by the founder, James Oglethorpe. Two- and three-story historic homes, with their graciously curved front steps that led to tabby sidewalks and brick streets, surrounded the silent and sheltered communal gardens canopied with Spanish moss.