The Forgotten (john puller) Read online

  Bullock sat down behind his wooden desk and motioned for Puller to take the lone chair opposite. Landry stood at semi-attention diagonally off Puller’s left shoulder.

  Puller sat, looking expectantly at Bullock.

  The police chief fiddled with the fingernail of his right index finger for a few moments before breaking the silence.

  “We’re verifying you are who you say you are.”

  “And after you do can I check out the crime scene?”

  Bullock flicked an annoyed gaze at him. “There is no crime scene.”

  “Technically, maybe not, but that could change.”

  “Your aunt was how old?”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “And used a walker, the report said. She fell, hit her head, and drowned. I’m very sorry it happened. Lost my grandmother to a drowning accident. Had a seizure in the bathtub. She was old too. It just happened. Nothing anyone could do. Looks to be the same here. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it,” he added.

  “Has it been confirmed that she drowned?” asked Puller, ignoring this last barb.

  When neither of them said anything, he said, “Unless Florida is really different, there has to be something written on the death certificate in the ‘cause of death’ box or people get a little nervous.”

  “Water in the lungs, so yes, she drowned,” said Bullock. “Medical examiner completed the autopsy last night. Technically I believe the term is-”

  Puller finished for him, “Yeah, asphyxiation. Can I see the report?”

  “No, you can’t. They don’t go out to anyone except next of kin and those with a court order.” “I’m her nephew.”

  “So you say, but even so, I’ve always interpreted the definition of next of kin to be immediate family.”

  “She doesn’t have any. Her husband’s dead, and her only sibling is back in Virginia at a VA hospital and lacks the mental capacity to handle this. And she had no kids.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s really nothing I can do about that,” said Bullock. “The privacy of the deceased is not something I take lightly.”

  “But you do take lightly that someone might have murdered her?”

  Bullock snapped, “I don’t care for what you’re insinuating.”

  “Weren’t you going to contact her next of kin?” Puller asked.

  “We were in the process of doing that. We did a preliminary search of her home, but didn’t find any helpful info. And you have to understand, this is Florida. Lots of elderly, lots of deaths. We have four others we’re running down next of kin on and I have limited manpower.”

  “The ME listing drowning as the cause of death tells us what killed her. It doesn’t tell us how she got in the water in the first place.”

  “She fell.”

  “That’s a guess, not a fact.”

  Landry stirred, seemingly about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it and remained silent.

  Puller noticed this but didn’t react. He figured he could have a chat with her later, outside the presence of her boss.

  “It’s an educated, professional assumption based on the facts on the ground,” corrected Bullock.

  “An educated assumption is really just a guess in sheep’s clothing. The real reason I’m down here is because of a letter she sent.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Bullock. Landry moved around and read it over her supervisor’s shoulder.

  Bullock finished reading, folded the letter, and handed it back. “Proves nothing. If I had a dollar for every time some old woman thought something weird was going on, I’d retire a rich man.”

  “Really? That would take like over a million old crazy ladies, wouldn’t it? The population of Paradise is 11,457.1 checked before coming down. You’re going to have to recruit a lot more old crazy ladies if you want to retire.”

  Before Bullock could respond to this a fax machine on a credenza behind him zinged to life. A paper came down the chute. Bullock picked it up, alternated reading it and gazing at Puller. “Okay, you are who you say you are.”

  “Nice to have it confirmed.”

  “Landry here tells me you’re Army CID.” “That’s right. About six years. Before that I was in the ranks carrying a rifle.”

  “Well, I’ve been chief of police of this little hamlet for fifteen, and fifteen years before that I was a cop pounding the streets. Saw my share of murders and accidents. This is the latter, not the former.”

  “Am I missing something here?” asked Puller. “Is there some reason you don’t want to check this out more thoroughly? If it’s a question of manpower I’m here to volunteer my services. And I’ve been around a lot of accidents and murders too. The Army unfortunately has an abundance of both. And I’ve handled cases that started out looking like an accident that turned into something else and vice versa.”

  “Well, maybe you’re just not as good as we are,” shot back Bullock.

  “Maybe I’m not. But why don’t we find out for sure? We have a little question of justice to be answered.”

  Bullock rubbed his face with his hand like he was working off some fine grit, and shook his head.

  “Okay, I think we’re done here. I’m sorry for your loss, if she is your aunt. But I would not advise going near her property again unless you have appropriate authorization. Next time we will arrest you.”

  “And how exactly do I get authorization?” “Talk to her lawyer. Maybe he can help. Probably just charge you a few thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t know who her lawyer is. Maybe if I could go back to her house and check?”

  “What part of appropriate authorization don’t you get?” said Bullock.

  “So it’s a chicken and egg problem?”

  “Hell, she’s your family, or so you say.”

  Puller slipped out the picture. “I’ve got this.” Bullock waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, Landry told me about that. It’s not conclusive proof of anything.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all you’ll do?”

  “What I’m doing is my job. To serve and protect.”

  “Well, if Betsy Simon was killed, you didn’t do a really good job on either one, did you?”

  Bullock rose and stared down at Puller. For an instant Puller thought the man was going to pull his gun, but he simply said, “You have a good day, Mr. Puller.” He nodded at Landry, who said, “You can follow me out, Agent Puller.”

  After the door closed behind them Hooper was next to Puller in an instant, his hand on his elbow again, like a sheepdog to a sheep. Only Puller would never be classified as a sheep. He firmly removed Hooper’s hand from his elbow and said, “Thanks. But unlike my aunt, I can walk unaided.”

  Before Hooper could say anything Puller walked off, retracing his steps from the way in. Landry fell in behind him.

  “I need my gun back,” said Puller.

  “It’s in the police cruiser. We can drop you off at your car.”

  “Thanks, I’d rather walk,” said Puller.

  “It’s a long walk.”

  Puller turned to look at her. “I have a lot to think about. And I’ve never been in Paradise before. I’d like to see every inch of it. Might never get another chance. Most folks who know me have me down for heading to the other place.”

  At this Landry cracked a smile.

  They reached the cruiser and Landry handed him back his Mu as Hooper hovered in the background, still looking upset that Puller wasn’t behind bars.

  Landry handed Puller a card. “If you need any help,” she said, her gaze searching his for an instant before looking away. “Personal cell phone number’s on the back.”

  Puller slid his Mu into the belt holster and her card into his shirt pocket.

  “Appreciate that. Might take you up on it, Officer Landry.”

  He glanced over her shoulder at Hooper. “He always so friendly?”

  “He’s a good cop,” she said in a low voice. “Never said he wasn’t. But tell him to lay off the elbow in
timidation thing. Gets old after about thirty seconds.”

  She edged closer. “Try Bailey’s Funeral Home. It’s over off Atlantic Avenue. Where the ME does her work. We don’t have a formal medical examiner’s office in Paradise. She’s a doctor in practice who helps us out.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned and strode off.

  Hooper called after him, “Next time you won’t get off so easy.”

  Puller just kept walking.

  CHAPTER 13

  Puller called Bailey’s Funeral Home on the walk back to his car. The woman on the phone would not confirm that Betsy Simon’s body was on the premises.

  “Well, if you do have her body, I’m her nephew. And if you want to get paid for the funeral service then I really need confirmation that you have her. Otherwise you can just foot the bill yourselves.”

  This approach seemed to stimulate the woman’s memory.

  “Well, without giving out any private information, we did receive an elderly female’s body whose clothes were damp and who lived on Orion Street.”

  Til be over later today to make arrangements. I know the ME performed an autopsy. I’m assuming he’s released the body. But I would appreciate if nothing else is done to the remains before I get there. Are we clear on that?”

  “Until the contract is signed and the deposit made, I can assure you that nothing will be done,” the woman said primly.

  Puller clicked off and thought, Paradise just keeps getting better and better.

  He drove his car to an outdoor cafe near the beach. He had chosen this spot because it afforded a nice vantage point of a major swath of the town. He ordered a turkey sandwich, fries, and iced tea. It was too hot for his normal pop of max-caffeinated coffee. And he was thinking about giving it up anyway. He was afraid it would start to impede his aim.

  As he ate and drank he took mental pictures of all that was going on around him. He saw a pristine convertible Porsche driving next to an old Ford pickup truck with barely any tread on the tires or metal on the frame. A few moments later a large truck chugged by with a landscaping company’s name on its side. It stopped at the traffic light.

  Puller studied the five men in dirty work pants and soaked-in-sweat matching green T- shirts with the company name on them standing up in the back of the truck. They were all short, stocky Latinos, except for the biggest one, who looked like a parent surrounded by kindergart- ners. He was easily two inches taller and more than fifty pounds heavier than Puller with not an ounce of fat on him. Guys that size tended to be bulky and slow-looking. This guy seemed almost gaunt. His hands were long gristly bones that looked strong enough to choke an elephant. The men’s gazes locked for a brief instant and then the truck and the giant were gone.

  Puller saw a police cruiser pass by. He half expected to see Landry and Hooper inside, but it was another pair of cops who barely looked at him.

  Puller paid his bill, finished off his iced tea, and phoned the VA hospital back in Virginia. He asked for his father’s doctor and was put on hold several different times before a woman’s voice said, “Dr. Murphy is tied up, can I help you?” Puller explained who he was and what he wanted.

  “Mr. Puller, I can put you right in to talk to your father. Perhaps you can calm him down.” Doubtful, thought Puller. But he said, “I can try.”

  His old man’s voice boomed through the phone. “XO? That you, XO?”

  “It’s me, sir.”

  “Mission brief,” said his father tersely.

  “I’m on the ground in Florida. I did a recon of the area, interfaced with the locals. Later I plan to assess the casualties and will report back in at that time, sir.”

  “Somebody took my top-secret communication, XO. From my personal safe.”

  “You gave it to me, sir, need to know only. You must have other things on your mind, sir. Takes a lot of thinking to run the ioist.”

  “Hell yes it does.”

  “So I’ve got the communication, sir. Not to worry. Report back twenty hundred hours.” “Roger that. Good luck, XO.”

  Puller clicked off and felt ashamed, as he did every time he played this subterfuge with his father. But what was the alternative?

  One he didn’t want to face, he supposed.

  He next phoned USDB in Kansas and made arrangements to talk to his brother that night. After that, he put the phone away. It was time to see his aunt.

  Despite their separation, once he had become an adult a part of Puller had always thought he would see Betsy Simon again.

  Just not like this.

  CHAPTER 14

  Bailey’s Funeral Home was a three-story brick building three blocks off the water and set on a half acre of mostly asphalt with a narrow perimeter of sunbaked grass. Puller parked his car near the front door, got out, and a few moments later entered the building. The air-conditioning hit him in a wave as he closed the door behind him. The place must have been at least twenty-five degrees cooler than outside and Puller was glad he was not paying the electric bill here. But then it occurred to him that every funeral home he’d ever been in had felt abnormally cold, even in New England in the middle of winter. It was like they didn’t have heat, only air-conditioning. Maybe that’s what you were taught in the funeral home business-keep everyone as cold as the clients in the coffins.

  There was a small reception desk set a few yards from the front door. A young woman attired all in black-perhaps another funeral home tactic to show perpetual mourning-rose to greet him.

  “I’m John Puller. I called before. My aunt Betsy Puller Simon is here?”

  “Yes, Mr. Puller. What can we do for you?”

  “I’d like to see her body, please.”

  The young woman’s smile disappeared. “See her body?”

  “Yes.”

  She was only about five feet tall and even in her clunky heels Puller was about a mile higher than she was. He could see her dark roots among all the blonde strands.

  “We would need to see some proof of your relationship.”

  “She kept her maiden name as part of her married one. Do you have that as part of her records?”

  The woman sat back down and clicked some computer keys. “We just have her listed as Betsy Simon.”

  “Who identified the body?”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Your records have to show that the body had been identified. The ME would have required that too. You can’t bury someone without confirming they are who you think they are. That might get your operating license pulled.”

  “I can assure you that we strictly follow all applicable laws and regulations to the letter,” she said in an offended tone.

  “I’m sure you do.” Puller took out his creds and showed her his badge and ID card.

  “You’re with the Army?”

  “That’s what it says. You want to kick me to someone higher in authority? You probably don’t want to make this call on your own.”

  The woman looked relieved by this suggestion. She lifted the phone, spoke some words. After a few minutes a man, dressed all in black with a white shirt that was so stiff with starch that it had left his neck permanently red, came out from behind a door with his hand extended.

  “Mr. Puller? I’m Carl Brown, how can I help you?”

  Puller showed Brown his cred pack and explained his situation. Brown looked suitably sympathetic. Puller figured that was taught in funeral home school as well.

  Brown led him off to a side room where there were empty caskets set on long tables. “It’s just that we have so many rules and regulations governing our industry,” said Brown. “We have to maintain the privacy and dignity of the people who entrust their loved ones to us.”

  “Well, her loved ones didn’t entrust Betsy Simon to you. I didn’t even know she was dead until a little while ago. And I didn’t request that her remains be brought here. Who did?”

  “The local police asked that we pick up her body. There are many retirees down here, and many
live alone. Their families may be scattered around the country or even the world. It takes time to contact them. But leaving the body in a tropical climate such as Florida’s is not exactly, how shall I say, a respectful avenue to pursue for the deceased.”

  “I understand that an autopsy has been performed on her remains?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And the ME has released the body?”

  Brown nodded. “This morning. Apparently, she found no evidence of a crime or anything like that.”

  “Have you seen the autopsy report?”

  Brown said hastily, “Oh, no. That’s not something that would be shared with us.”

  “You have her contact information.”

  “I can get it, yes.”

  “Has anyone officially identified her body?” asked Puller.

  “Our records indicate that that was done by people on the scene who knew her. Probably a neighbor if she didn’t have family in town. But we would always prefer that family members come and confirm that.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Again, without-”

  Puller slipped the photo from his pocket and showed it to him. “I’m on the far right, Betsy is two over from me. It was taken years ago, but I don’t think she’s changed all that much. Look on the back of the photo. It lists all of our names. Is that good enough? I don’t see what other reason I would’ve come all this way to look at a body that didn’t have anything to do with me. The Army pays me to do better things with my time.”

  Brown looked ashamed by this last comment. “Absolutely. I’m sure they do.” He looked around, apparently to see if anyone was in earshot. “All right, if you’ll just follow me.”

  CHAPTER 15

  This room was even colder than the other spaces here, and there was a good reason for this. Dead bodies needed cold for preservation. Otherwise, the process of decomposition made human mortal remains extremely unpleasant to be around.

  Puller gazed down at the long figure on the marble slab. A sheet covered everything except her head. Puller was alone in the room; Brown was waiting just outside to give him some privacy. His aunt’s features were obviously very pale, but they were easily recognizable. He had had no doubt that she was actually dead, but at least now he had confirmation of it.