The Laughing Corpse

Chapter 27

There was a patrol cop throwing up his guts into one of those giant, elephant-sized trash cans in front of the house. Bad sign. There was a television news van parked across the street. Worse sign. I didn’t know how Dolph had kept zombie massacres out of the news so long. Current events must have been really hopping for the newshounds to ignore such easy headlines. ZOMBIES MASSACRE FAMILY. ZOMBIE SERIAL MURDERER ON LOOSE. Jesus, it was going to be a mess.

The camera crew, complete with microphone-bearing suit, watched me as I walked towards the yellow police tape. When I clipped the official plastic card on my collar, the news crew moved like one animal. The uniform at the police tape held it for me, his eyes on the descending press. I didn’t look back. Never look back when the press are gaining on you. They catch you if you do.

The blond in the suit yelled out, “Ms. Blake, Ms. Blake, can you give us a statement?”

Always nice to be recognized, I guess. But I pretended not to hear. I kept walking, head determinedly down.

A crime scene is a crime scene is a crime scene. Except for the unique nightmarish qualities of each one. I was standing in a bedroom of a very nice one-story ranch. There was a white ceiling fan that turned slowly. It made a faint whirring creak, as if it wasn’t screwed in tight on one side.

Better to concentrate on the small things. The way the east light fell through the slanting blinds, painting the room in zebra-stripe shadows. Better not to look at what was left on the bed. Didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see.

Had to see. Had to look. Might find a clue. Sure, and pigs could fucking fly. But still, maybe, maybe there would be a clue. Maybe. Hope is a lying bitch.

There are roughly two gallons of blood in the human body. As much blood as they put on television and the movies, it’s never enough. Try dumping out two full gallons of milk on your bedroom floor. See what a mess it makes, now multiply that by...something. There was too much blood for just one person. The carpet squeeched underfoot, and blood came up in little splatters like mud after a rain. My white Nikes were spotted with scarlet before I was halfway to the bed.

Lesson learned: wear black Nikes to murder scenes.

The smell was thick in the room. I was glad for the ceiling fan. The room smelled like a mixture of slaughterhouse and outhouse. Shit and blood. The smell of fresh death, more often than not.

Sheets covered not just the bed, but a lot of the floor around the bed. It looked like giant paper towels thrown over the world’s biggest Kool-Aid spill. There had to be pieces all over, under the sheets. The lumps were so small, too small to be a body. There wasn’t a single scarlet-soaked bump that was big enough for a human body.

“Please don’t make me look,” I whispered to the empty room.

“Did you say something?”

I jumped and found Dolph standing just behind me. “Jesus, Dolph, you scared me.”

“Wait until you see what’s under the sheets. Then you can be scared.”

I didn’t want to see what was under the army of blood-soaked sheets. Surely, I’d seen enough for one week. My quota of gore had to have been exceeded, night before last. Yeah, I was over my quota.

Dolph stood in the doorway waiting. There were tiny pinched lines by his eyes that I had never noticed. He was pale and needed a shave.

We all needed something. But first I had to look under the sheets. If Dolph could do it, I could do it. Ri-ight.

Dolph stuck his head out in the hallway. “We need some help in here lifting the sheets. After Blake sees the remains we can go home.” I think he added that last because no one had moved to help. He wasn’t going to get any volunteers. “Zerbrowski, Perry, Merlioni, get your butts in here.”

The bags under Zerbrowski’s eyes looked like bruises. “Hiya, Blake.”

“Hi, Zerbrowski, you look like shit.”

He laughed. “And you still look fresh and lovely as a spring morning.” He gri

“Yeah, right,” I said.

Detective Perry said, “Ms. Blake, good to see you again.”

I had to smile. Perry was the only cop I knew who would be gracious even over the bloody remains. “Nice to see you, too, Detective Perry.”

“Can we get on with this,” Merlioni said, “or are the two of you pla

“You take the first sheet then, Merlioni, if you’re in such a damn hurry,” Dolph said.

Merlioni sighed. “Yeah, yeah.” He stepped to the sheet on the floor. He knelt. “You ready for this, girlie?”

“Better girlie than dago,” I said.

He smiled.

“Do it.”

“Showtime,” Merlioni said. He raised the sheet and it stuck in a wet swatch that pulled up one wet inch at a time.

“Zerbrowski, help him raise the damn thing,” Dolph said.

Zerbrowski didn’t argue. He must have been tired. The two men lifted the sheet in one wet motion. The morning sunlight streamed through the red sheet and painted the rug even redder than it was, or maybe it didn’t make any difference. Blood dripped from the edges of the sheet where the men held it. Wet, heavy drops, like a sink that needed fixing. I’d never seen a sheet saturated with blood before. A morning of firsts.

I stared at the rug and couldn’t make sense of it. It was just a pile of lumps, small lumps. I knelt beside them. Blood soaked through the knee of my jeans, it was cold. Better than warm, I guess.

The biggest lump was wet and smooth, about five inches long. It was pink and healthy-looking. It was a scrap of upper intestine. A smaller lump lay just beside it. I stared at the lump but the longer I stared the less it looked like anything. It could have been a hunk of meat from any animal. Hell, the intestine didn’t have to be human. But it was, or I wouldn’t be here.

I poked the smaller glob with one gloved finger. I had remembered my surgical gloves this time. Goody for me. The glob was wet and heavy and solid. I swallowed hard, but I was no closer to knowing what it was. The two scraps were like morsels dropped from a cat’s mouth. Crumbs from the table. Jesus.

I stood. “Next.” My voice sounded steady, ordinary. Amazing.

It took all four men lifting from different corners to peel the sheet back from the bed. Merlioni cursed and dropped his corner, “Dammit!”

Blood had run down his arm onto the white shirt. “Did um’s get his shirt messy?” Zerbrowski asked.

“Fuck yes. This place is a mess.”

“I guess the lady of the house didn’t have time to clean up before you came, Merlioni,” I said. My eyes flicked down to the bed and the remains of the lady of the house. But I looked back up at Merlioni instead. “Or can’t the dago cop take it?”

“I can take anything you can dish out, little lady,” he said.

I frowned and shook my head. “Betcha can’t.”

“I’ll take some of that action,” Zerbrowski said.

Dolph didn’t stop us, tell us this was a crime scene, not a betting parlor. He knew we needed it to stay sane. I could not stare down at the remains and not make jokes. I couldn’t. I’d go crazy. Cops have the weirdest sense of humor, because they have to.

“How much you bet?” Merlioni said.

“A di

Zerbrowski whistled. “Steep, very steep.”

“I can afford to foot the bill. Is it a deal?”

Merlioni nodded. “My wife and I haven’t been out in ages.” He offered his blood-soaked hand. I took it. The cool blood clung to the outside of my surgical gloves. It felt wet, like it had soaked through to the skin, but it hadn’t. It was a sensory illusion. I knew that when I took off the gloves my hands would be powder dry. It was still u