I Work In A Morgue, Last Night The Dead Started Whispering | Part 2
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Learn more at phrma.org slash ipworkswonders. 7-8-7-9-7-10 pound. The code does not work on the hidden door. Why not? Huh? Why? The code worked on the pantry wall. The code even worked on the security system so I can get inside the house. Shouldn't the code work on the damn hidden door too? Motherfucker! I shout and punch the hidden door. Ow!

I shake my fist a few times as the pain subsides, then walk out of the pantry and start to pace back and forth in the kitchen. "Think, Pete," I say to myself. "The code opens the wall. That's all good. But now you need a code for the door. Except you don't have a code for the door. You've spent too much time here already. You're on the clock, Pete. Someone could come by the morgue and see you weren't there. Then what? Prison. That's what." I keep pacing and talking. Pacing and talking.

But nothing gets sorted out. I'm so close to some old bitch's treasure. Whatever it is. So close. All I have to do is get through that hidden door. All I have to do is figure out the code. Or I can break through the door. There's always that. The problem with that is breaking shit makes noise. A lot of noise. Noise that neighbors might hear. Especially in a neighborhood like this. So no breaking through. It's all ridiculous. All of it. What am I even doing here?

The reality of my situation hits me fast and hits me hard. I look around the kitchen. Mugs everywhere. A broken bowl on the ground that I never did clean up. A pantry door wide opened and all the groceries piled up on the floor outside it. A pantry wall pulled back to reveal a hidden door. And I'm not even wearing gloves. "Shit," I say and try not to panic. Even if I give up right this fucking second. I can't just leave. My fingerprints are everywhere.

"Shit!" I yell, then I get to work. The first order of business is to find some gloves. I check under the sink. No gloves. I find the nearest bathroom and go through the cupboard under that sink. No gloves. I go upstairs and look in the bathrooms up there. No gloves. And there isn't even jewelry to steal from the bedroom. It's probably behind that fucking hidden door. I make my way downstairs and head out into the garage.

There, on some metal shelves is a pair of gardening gloves. I slip them on and they are at least two sizes too small. But I don't care. I'm not chopping wood. I'm just wiping everything down before I leave. I start with the mugs. One by one, I wipe them down and put them back. Then I wipe the cupboard down. I wipe the counter down. I pick up the broken bowl and wipe that down before throwing it away. Then I turn and look at the pile of groceries outside the pantry.

"Son of a bitch," I say, and step past the groceries and back into the pantry. I start by wiping down the keypad and the hidden door, even though I doubt anyone will find it once I close it up. But tonight, I'm going to be thorough. Once I'm done cleaning the hidden door, I close the wall and wipe that down. Then I wipe down the shelves, all of them. By this point, my fingers feel like swollen little sausages.

The gloves are way too small and I can't feel my left pinky anymore. I take off the gloves and let the circulation flow back into all of my fingers once I have a full feeling again. I struggle to slide the gloves on once again and get back to work. I start with cleaning up the rice. It takes forever, but I get every damn grain off the floor. Then, piece by piece, I wipe every single food item down and put it back on the pantry shelves.

Of course, I didn't take a picture or anything, so I know for a fact that the groceries aren't where they're supposed to be. But I'm not worried. No one has ever been caught because the strawberry jam was set next to the pasta sauce. I don't think they have. Have they? Shit. With this little bit of paranoia in my head, I leave the pantry and start wiping down every single surface I think I may have touched. I even wipe down surfaces that I know I didn't touch, just in case.

Finally done, and depressed as hell that it didn't work out, I leave the kitchen, return the gloves back to the garage, and then head for the back door I came in by. I stop. I'm standing in front of a mirror in the short hallway that leads to the side entrance. In the mirror, the words on my t-shirt are backward. Instead of saying "Born to Pun", it says, well, "That but backward." And that gets me thinking, nah, no way, too easy, right?

I mean, it couldn't be that simple, could it? My dad would have laughed in my face right then and there if he'd been with me. He would have said, "They can't even call you Simple, boy, because Simple is too far above your head." It was a favorite of his, and he made sure I heard it at least once a week. I backtrack to the pantry and glance at all the groceries I'd just put back. I sigh. Then I go back out to the garage and fetch the gloves.

After that, I return to the pantry and start taking off the groceries. At least I only have to take them off the shelves from the back wall and not every damn shelf. Then I have the groceries off and I'm staring at empty shelves and a locked wall. "Dammit!" I shout and leave the pantry, time to move some glass mugs. "An old Indian burial ground?" I ask as I try not to laugh. "That's what you're telling me? Laugh all you want," Connor said. "But it's true.

"They built a courthouse and jail, the rest of the municipal building, all on ancient burial ground that used to belong to the natives. And that's what you should call it, an indigenous burial ground, not an Indian burial ground. That's just racist." "It's just fucking nuts is what it is," I said, and laughed when I couldn't keep it in anymore. "Dude, you asked me about the whispering and I gave you the answer," he said, annoyed as shit.

"Believe me or not, I do not fucking care. After tonight, the whispering is all your problem, not mine. Whispering from dead people because the morgue is on an Indian burial ground." I stayed. "Indigenous burial ground, asshole!" Connor said. "Let's not piss off whatever spirits are here by being a racist douchebag, alright? I'd like to live through my last night." I got my attention. "Can they attack us?" I asked.

"Oh, so now you want to believe," Connor said and chuckled. "Chicken shit. Well, can they?" I cried. "The spirits of the Indi- the spirits of the natives," I said. "Can they attack us? They haven't so far," Connor said. "But then you haven't been working here. Knowing your reputation, Pete, I'd say yes. They will probably attack you."

"Fuck that!" I said, and yanked my scrubbed shirt up over my head. "Fuck all of this! I'm not working here a second more!" Connor laughed. Then he saw my face and frowned. "Oh shit, you mean it! Yes I mean it!" I said and threw my shirt in his face. Then I stormed into the restroom, grabbed my clothes from the locker, and got changed. When I stepped out of the restroom, Connor was standing there with his phone out, so the screen was facing me.

His thumb hovered over the call button. The name on the screen was Judge Hortenstein. All of my anger and confusion and, well, fear, was put on hold. Practical matters were staring me in the face. "You expect me to work here after you told me that the dead sometimes come back to life and start whispering shit to you?" I asked with my hands on my hips. "I mean, really?" "Yup, really," Connor said, and his thumb moved a millimeter closer to the green call button.

"I'm being promoted. Tomorrow I start the day shift. The real shift. I'll be tired as fuck, but who cares? I don't have to deal with any of this crap again." He leaned in and smiled at me. "You get to deal with it, not if I quit," I said, but reality was overriding my little tantrum. "I can see in your eyes you aren't going to quit," Connor said. "Oh, I'll do it," I said with very little conviction in my voice. Connor licked his lips, then put his phone away.

"You know what? This isn't my problem," he said, returning to the desk. "I'm not sure why I'm bothering." He sat down and waved a hand at me. "You're already changed, so go ahead and leave." "What? So you can call the judge and bust me?" "No thanks," I said. "Nope, no calling the judge," Connor said. "Take the rest of the night off. No penalties. Come back tomorrow night or not." "I don't care."

If anyone asks why you didn't show up to work, I'll tell them I have no idea. I'm going to stay out of the shit show that's your life, Pete. You are on your own. Fine. Great. I said and walked toward the stairwell. Nice working with you. You won't ever see me again. The town's too small, Pete. I'll see you again. Connor said with a laugh. Unfortunately. Yeah, well, you won't be seeing me in this morgue again. That's for sure fucking sure. I said.

"Have fun in prison!" Connor called as I entered the stairwell. "I will!" I shouted. "Because I'm never coming back here again!" The door closed behind me, and I smiled at myself because I meant it.

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I opened the door, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and was half surprised to see the sheriff standing there. "Are you just now waking up?" he asked me. I'd finished getting the sleep out of my eyes. "Huh? What time is it?" I asked and turned and walked away. "8:30," the sheriff said and followed me inside. Sheriff Marcus Davis. The man had been sheriff for as long as I could remember.

He'd been there when my mom and sisters had died. He'd been there pretty much every time I fucked up and got caught. Which was every time I fucked up, because I always got caught. But that never stopped me. "I need coffee," I said, and wandered the six feet that were between my front door and my kitchen. "Trailers aren't very big." "You need to get dressed so you can report to work," Sheriff Davis said. "Nope," I said. "Not going back there."

"And why is that?" he asked me. I ignored his question and started making coffee. It was instant, and I spooned a bunch into a mug, then put that under the tap. Which wasn't running because my water had been shut off. "Shit," I said. "Get dressed, and I'll swing you through Stacy's on the way for a cup of joe," the sheriff said. "I'll even buy."

I said I'm not going back there. I responded and slammed my mug down on the counter. It cracked up the side and the two of us watched it break in slow motion as the two halves fell away from each other, dry instant coffee spilling out onto the counter. Damn, I said. Get dressed, Sheriff Davis said. You can decide on the way. Decide what? I asked.

"Whether I take you to the morgue, or I take you to the prison," he said and grinned. "I'm good either way." "Ah, that's why you're here," I said. "Because Connor told you I quit, and now you're making sure he was right so you can finally put me away for good. Nice." "No, I'm here because your cousin called in a favor and asked me to make sure you made it to work on time," he replied. "You quitting is news to me." "Connor didn't tell you what we talked about last night?"

"Why Woody, what did you talk about?" I debated whether or not to spill the beans and mention the whispering and the indigenous burial ground, but that seemed like a lot of effort without any coffee in my system. "Nothing," I finally said, and went back into my small bedroom at the back of the trailer. "Let me grab some clothes. I'm gonna shower there." I grabbed my clothes, stuffed them in a backpack, then followed the sheriff to his cruiser. "What do you know?"

The sheriff made good on buying me a cup of coffee. I was sipping that when I walked into the morgue and saw Connor sitting there, smiling at me. He was already dressed back into his regular clothes. "Welcome back," Connor said and stood up. "And on time. So much for me never seeing you again. Sheriff and my cousin are conspiring against me," I said, then nodded at the restroom. "Do you mind waiting while I shower real fast?"

"Yes, I do mind," Connor said and gathered up his stuff. "Good luck tonight. Careful of the whispering. Not cool," I said as he walked past me and was gone into the stairwell. Then I was all alone and needed a shower, but I was all alone. I went into the restroom and stored my shit in my locker. Then I stood there and stared at the shower for a few seconds. My eyes went to the restroom door, then back to the shower.

The idea of showering alone while there might be whispering corpses only a few yards away was not a pleasant thought. Kinda made my butthole pucker a little. The problem was, I stank. And not in an earthy, funky, spend-all weekend at a music festival way. I stank like I was sweating whiskey cheaper than Connors. Which I was. I also stank like I'd maybe eaten six Mini Mart hot dogs on my way home from the morgue last night. Which I did.

Hell, I'd bet the dead could smell me. I needed that shower. "Real fast," I said to myself, then stripped down and hopped into the shower. The water was scalding hot, and I was so happy. You never know how much you miss running water until you don't have it. My head was under the stream of water when I heard the restroom door bang open. "Where the fuck are you?" a woman screamed. "Oh shit, they can walk too!" Terrified, I pressed myself against the shower wall.

The curtain was flung open and I screamed at the top of my lungs, ready to be murdered by whispering corpses. Except it was Donna Kinner, and she definitely wasn't dead. "Hey, Donna," I said, my hands in front of my crotch. She reached in and shut off the water. "They told me you were working here now," she said and stood there with her arms crossed over her chest. "I'd hoped it wasn't true, but I can see it is," she looked me up and down. "Shower not working at home?"

"Water got turned off," I said, still standing there, cupping my privates. "I bet it did," she replied and then turned and walked away. "Get dressed, Pete. We just brought in a bunch of bodies." "What do you mean, a bunch?" I asked. There was no answer. I peeked out of the shower and the restroom was empty. I snagged a towel, dried off, hurried to my locker, yanked on a fresh set of scrubs, then I rushed out of the restroom with my shoes and socks in hand.

Out in the hallway, Donna and three other paramedics were wheeling Gurneys through the double doors and into the morgue. "Put some damn shoes on," a paramedic snapped at me. "You don't want to step in all of this." He was right. The floor was coated in dirt and blood and other stuff. I quickly put my shoes and socks on and then followed him and his Gurney into the morgue. Donna was in there and moving a messed up body from her Gurney to a drawer.

Move! Huh?

"Tags!" the shouty paramedic said as he emptied his gurney and turned to leave. "We have a lot more bodies to bring in, so you need to make sure they are tagged and identified. Personal effects are resting on their chests. I think we've found all of them, so there shouldn't be any JDs." "JDs?" I asked. "John or Jane Doe's," he said then was gone through the double doors. "Oh," I said, and stared at all the open drawers and the fresh corpses they held.

Then I got to work, because if I didn't, I was going to be left alone with all the corpses and my mind reeling. I didn't want that. Tag 'em, bag 'em, let 'em rest. Then go sit at the desk the rest of the night with my fingers in my ears. Melinda Stringer. She was the first tag in set of forms. Then Carl Jackson, followed by Hollis Arnold. Bobby Tinsel. I always liked Bobby. She was cool and would put extra sprinkles on my ice cream when I was a kid.

Vinny McDougal, he was an asshole. Worse than me. Tom Walker, Alice Norris, Carlotta Lucia Gomez. Dang, Carlotta had worked at the mini-mart. She hated my guts, but she never called the cops when she caught me shoplifting. And she always caught me shoplifting. Nancy Frome, Paula Bagliatelli. None of them looked good. Getting caught in a multi-car pileup on the highway is not how I wanna go. No fucking way.

Some folks were missing a couple of body parts. Some were missing most of their skin. A few had caved-in heads, like that Hollis Arnold guy. So if the paramedics hadn't put his wallet on his chest, I wouldn't have had a clue who he was. Not that I would have known anyway. I had no idea who Hollis Arnold was.

Anyway, I had to keep from puking more than a few times. And, no, I did not puke on a corpse and shove the drawer into the locker as fast as possible so none of the paramedics could see. That never happened. Never happened. Just one more, Donna said as she wheeled in the last corpse. I'd just finished putting Paula's tag on her toe and was pushing the drawer into the locker.

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I had so much paperwork to do that I was trying not to think about it. "All the drawers are full," I said to Donna. "One left over from yesterday and eleven tonight. That's twelve drawers." She shrugged and pushed the gurney up next to one of the metal tables. "Help me," she said. I hesitated. She glared. "I said help me, dipshit! I'm not leaving my gurney here. We have to pay for equipment out of our pocket if we lose it. You want me to lift a dead body onto that table?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. There were about a million "does" implied in that one word. I swallowed hard, then grabbed an end of the sheet and lifted as hard and fast as I could. "Jesus, Pete, chill," Donna said, almost losing her grip as I let the body fall onto the table. "Show some respect, will ya?" "That's it?" I asked, wiping my hands on the front of my scrubs over and over.

"That's it," she said, and then took a tablet off her belt and handed it to me. "What's this?" I asked. "You have to sign," she said and frowned. "Did Connor not tell you that?" I shrugged. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. It wasn't like I'd listened to everything he'd told me. "You sign here, and that says you are taking receipt of all these bodies," Donna said, pointing at the tablet's screen. "And if you could do it this century, that'd be great," I signed. I didn't read any of it.

so I could have just co-signed for Donna's new car as far as I knew. Although she would have quite a shock when they pulled up my credit report. I was the only person I knew with a negative number for a credit score. "See ya, Pete," Donna said and left the second my finger stopped signing. That left me alone in a full morgue. I was never so happy to have paperwork to do.

I hurried through the double doors and plopped down at the desk. It was tedious. It was hellish. It was quite possibly illegal since cruel and unusual punishment like that was supposed to be unconstitutional. But it kept me busy and kept me from thinking about, well, the whispering. I'd gotten through every single person's information then came to the last body. I mumbled as I read the name. Constance Hortenstein. Judge Hortenstein's wife.

I picked up the phone and dialed my cousin. "Jameson call." A sleepy voice answered. I checked the clock on the computer. It was almost 2 in the morning. "Hey cuz." I said. "Uh, who calls the next of kin?" My cousin responded. I heard shuffling then something dropped and clattered. "Wait, Pete?" "Yeah, it's me." I said. "I've had one hell of a night man. You won't believe how many bodies are in here right now. And you won't believe who one of them is.

"This is highly inappropriate," Jameson said. "You aren't supposed to share information like this." "Constance Hortenstein," I said. "The judge's wife. She's dead, man." There was silence followed by, "That's not good. So why are you calling me?" "Because I can't call Connor," I replied. "He's a dick. I just thought you'd know the procedure for contacting the next of kin. Because I really don't want to have to call the judge. No way. That doesn't sound good at all."

"Did you log everyone into the system?" he asked. "Yep, just finished that," I said. "Then the sheriff and his deputies are calling family members right now," Jameson said. "They get alerts from the morgue tomorrow to identify the bodies." "I'll be long gone before Judge Hortenstein gets here then," I said. "Phew, he's out of town anyway," Jameson said. "Hunting retreat he goes on with his old legal pals. It's in the middle of nowhere, so it'll be a day or so before he gets back."

"Huh," I said. "I thought he'd stick around town long enough to see if I fucked up this job," Jameson said with a sigh. "Not everything is about you." Then he hung up. I held the phone for a minute longer because I thought maybe he'd picked back up. Except that isn't how phones work. I guess they used to be that way back when people had those stupid landlines, but not now. So then why did I still hear a voice? I froze. I stopped breathing.

I sat there, pretending to be a statue for a good few minutes as the voice echoed out from the morgue. "My treasures," the voice said. "Must get my treasures." Okay, the word treasure is triggering for me. It makes me think of fun in the sun and pirate wenches and lots of rum and far off islands. You know, good times. And since my little shithole of a town was as far from good times as you can get,

Hearing someone drone on about their precious treasures was just hurtful and a little intriguing. So I sucked it up like a buttercup and left that desk. I shoved open the double doors and walked into the morgue. Don't get me wrong, I was scared as shit. My knees were literally knocking together, which is something I thought only happened in cartoons and shit.

If one of those drawers had opened up while I was in there, I'd have shit and pissed myself and then run my nasty messy ass straight out of that morgue and all the way home. I wouldn't even get in my Impala. I'd just book it on home with shit and piss running down my legs. But a drawer didn't open. Instead, I heard the voice coming from the body on the table. Constance Hortenstein. A very rich old lady was whispering and not a very whispery voice about treasures.

and her husband was out of town. "Uh, hello?" I said and moved a step closer to the table. "My treasures," the voice under the sheet said. "I left my treasures. So much there. So much." "Um, exactly how much are we talking?" I asked. "A thousand? A few thousand?" "Treasure until the end of life," she said. "Treasure forever." I liked the sound of that. Treasure forever.

"Yeah, I could do with some treasure forever." "Um, I could look after your treasure for you." I said and took another step closer. "I just need to know where it is." "Home." She answered. "Your treasure is at home?" I asked, just in case her answer was a fluke. "My treasure is at home." She said. "In the vault." "Oh shit! Treasure in a vault! Treasure in a vault! Fuck yeah!" I took a deep breath and got myself under control.

"Okay, your treasure is in the vault," I said. "At home," she responded. "Yep, at your home," I said and got even closer. "Where would I find this vault so I can take care of your treasure?" "Cupboard, keypad," she said. "Cupboard and keypad, good, good," I said. "Um, what else?" And that started a very lengthy conversation.

It wasn't like she told me everything all at once. There was a lot of whining about her treasure and how it needed to be taken care of, which meant a lot of me responding by saying I was more than happy to take care of that treasure if she'd just tell me everything I needed to know. An hour went by by the time I had enough written down that I could work with. When I looked at the clock, it was close to 2 in the morning. I had 4 hours until I was off shift.

Could I make it to the judge's house and find the treasure before I needed to be back for my shift change? It was possible, very possible.

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There is a loud click and the door pops open. I grab the edge and swing it all the way out into the pantry. Then I turn and run to the kitchen sink so I can throw up. I didn't think I had anything left in my stomach. Apparently, I was very wrong. "What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?" I mutter over and over as I wipe my mouth. I hold onto the edge of the sink and grip it so hard all of my knuckles crack.

Then I spin around and rest my back against the sink while I try to figure out what I just saw. "You have to be shitting me!" I say as I pull enough courage out of my ass to go back to the pantry and the hidden room beyond. "Jesus Christ!" I say as I study the room. And that's what it is. It's a room, not a vault. Although, the room does have a lot of vault qualities.

I study the door and it's a foot thick with steel bars embedded in it like a damn bank vault. So, yes, you can say vault and not be wrong. Inside are so many different things I don't understand. Metal things, sharp things, wooden things, pointy things, things with straps and chains, things with spikes and needles, things with drains cut into them. And those are just the furnishings.

There are a lot of, um, well, um, other things. Other things that I guess are a little more fleshy. The fleshy things must be Mrs. Hortenstein's treasures. That's my guess. I turn away, keep the gorge down, and silently scream as hard as I can. When you grow up in a shithole like I did, you know how to scream at the top of your lungs without making a sound.

I finish silent screaming, then walk out into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. I pop it and sit down at the island to think. The clock on the microwave says 4:30. I still have time. Five beers later. Alright, seven beers later, I have an idea. Fishing my phone from my pocket, I return to the pantry and Mrs. Hortenstein's vault and her treasure.

By the time I'm finished, I have pictures of every single thing, metal, wood or flesh, in that room. Every angle and perspective is covered. There is no doubt about what is in the pictures. I close the hidden door, make sure it shuts tight, enter the code to lock it, then pull all the groceries back on the shelves.

When I pull my eighth... Okay, okay. It's my tenth. Jeez! When I pull my tenth beer from the fridge, I realize that I was in the room for an hour. It's 5:30. I have 30 minutes to get back to the morgue. Fuck! I run from the house and almost forget to set the security alarm. I do that, then run my ass to my car. My keys fall between my fingers as I try to unlock the piece of shit Impala.

Then I'm in and cranking, cranking, cranking, starting the car. The engine turns over and I race away from that mansion as fast as I can. The streets fly by and I stare at the clock on my dash. It's an hour and 53 minutes off, so I do some quick math. I have 15 minutes to get back. My foot presses down even harder on the gas pedal and my poor piece of crap Impala lurches forward.

That's when I see two sets of lights. The stoplight in front of me, which is very red, and the cop lights behind me, which are very red and blue. I have time to stop, but seeing the cop lights in my rearview mirror distracts the shit out of me, and I blow that red light without even breathing on my brakes. Damn. There is a choice for me to make this very second. I can keep driving, or I can stop. It's not a hard choice, yet I seem to be having a hard time making it. A voice booms from the cop's loudspeaker.

Deputy Mullins. I'd know that voice anywhere. She's cute. Maybe I can talk my way out of this. Turns out, I cannot. In minutes I'm in the back of her cruiser and on my way to jail. Again. They process me for drunk driving, which is a stretch. I only had 10. Okay, okay. I had 13 beers. So, they nail me for drunk driving and for running a red light and for evading a police officer.

The last charge I object to because I didn't evade Deputy Mullins. I was just having a hard time coming to a decision right away. A pause to think isn't evading. I'll have to ask my cousin if that's a valid defense. Speaking of, Jameson comes around at about lunchtime. "What the shit, Pete?" he asks me as he stands outside my cell. "You were supposed to be at work, in the morgue. I court order."

"Why were you driving around town, and in an area of town you should never be driving through, at 5:45 and shit-faced?" "I needed to run an errand," I answer, which is true in a way. "Well, that errand is going to cost you about ten years of your life, if you are lucky," Jameson says and rubs his face. "It's also going to mean you're in this cell for a few days." "A few days? Why so long?" I ask.

Because Judge Hortenstein is dealing with the death of his wife, Jameson says. You remember her, right? Yeah. So he's on his way back, and the court will be closed until he's ready to pick up the gavel. And that'll take days? I ask. Normally a temp judge would be brought in to oversee court cases while the judge is on leave, Jameson says and frowns. But Judge Hortenstein has refused outside help and says he'll be back on the bench soon. I begin to complain again, and then it hits me.

"My phone. And what's on it?" "That's good," I say. "I can wait for ol' Horty to get back." "Don't call him that," Jameson says. "And you don't have a choice. You have to wait. And why would that be good?" I shrug. "Reasons," I say. Jameson shakes his head. "Whatever," he says then walks off. "I'll be back when your court appearance is scheduled. See ya, cuz!" I call after him. He doesn't respond.

It is six days before I'm walked into Judge Hortenstein's courtroom. "Did you get it?" I ask Jameson as the deputy shoves me into my seat next to my cousin. "Your phone?" "Yeah." Jameson says then stands up as the judge walks into the courtroom and sits down at his bench. There's a lot of here ye's and orders and honorables and all that courtroom shit. Then Judge Hortenstein calls my name and glares down at me from the bench.

"Before we get started, Your Honor, may I have a word in private?" I ask. The judge blinks at me then looks at my cousin. "Counselor, did your client just ask to speak to me in private?" The judge asks. Jameson only shrugs, his eyes wide and confused. "It'll only take a minute," I say. "It'll take less than that because there's no way out," the judge starts to say. "I'd like to speak to you about your wife's treasures," I say. I put my hand out to my cousin. Nothing happens.

"My phone," I whisper. He slowly places it in my hand. "Mr. Harmon," Judge Hortenstein says. "You are treading on thin ice." "I can explain it all, Your Honor," I say and hold up my phone. No one in the courtroom knows where to look. Some are staring at the judge. Some are staring at me. Some are staring at their feet. My eyes are on the judge the entire time so I see the change in his eyes immediately. "Five minutes," Judge Hortenstein says and stands up.

He steps down, whispers something to the bailiff, then walks through the door next to his bench and is lost from sight. The bailiff comes over to me and yanks me up onto my feet. My cousin stands too. "Just him," the bailiff says. "No counsel. It's cool. I got this." I say to Jameson before he can protest. "No you don't," he says, but doesn't argue and lets the bailiff walk me past the bench and into the judge's private chambers.

I'm shoved into a chair in front of the judge's desk. As soon as the bailiff leaves and the door closes, I set my phone on the desk and slide it across. "The code is 6969," I say. The judge groans. "Check the photos folder." The judge groans again, enters my code, then swipes to the photos. The second he sees the first one, I know I have him. "I looked it up before I left, and that one is called a blood eagle, right?" I ask as I lean back in my chair.

Its leather and plush are very nice. You open the back and yank out the lungs, then set them up on the dude's shoulders. Pretty grisly. "You were in my house," the judge says. "I knew someone had been in there. The cans of peaches were next to the boxes of tea. Constance would never have allowed that to happen." "Yep, I was in there all right," I say and wave at him. "Keep scrolling." He does. He studies every single photo carefully.

By the time he's done, I can tell I have either made the best decision of my life or the worst decision of my life. "Your wife had some interesting treasures," I say. "Young men especially. And apparently, those young men went through a lot of torture in hell." "She was troubled," the judge whispers. "No shit," I say. "She kept the blood, man. They were like barrels of it in there." The judge says nothing.

And the bulletin board with all the dicks stapled to it?" Saiyan shake my head. "Dude, your lady was more than troubled. She was downright Hannibal freaky. She never ate them." The judge snaps, then gets himself under control. "She was nothing like Hannibal." I let him have his moment and just sit there, all cool as a cucumber. Finally, he asks, "What do you want, Peter?" Bingo. I knew this was going to pay off.

"I want all the charges dropped, including the llamas," I say. "I want a clean record and full immunity." "Immunity? Immunity from what?" he asks, his face drained of all blood. The guy really looks old now. "Whatever I need immunity from," I say and shrug. "I have plans." "Plans?" he responds with a sad laugh. "Blackmail is not plans, Peter. It's a felony."

"So is aiding and abetting a fucking serial killer, man," I say. "Unless you weren't just abetting, did you get freaky with your lady too?" "I would never," he says and glares at me. "Cool," I say. "Then let's work a deal. I get a clean record, full immunity, and keep my job at the morgue." That confuses the shit out of him and I laugh as I stand up. "Why keep the job?" he asks. "Turns out, the dead have shit to say," I reply.

I reach across the desk and pluck my phone from his hands. "I'm hoping the next lead I get is a little less bloody," I continue. "But then, I guess this worked out just fine. Who knows what I can learn when the dead start whispering again?" The fact he doesn't ask me what that means tells me he knows all about the Indian, I mean, the, uh, native burial ground thing. I laugh at the look on his face, walk over to the door, and knock. The bailiff peeks inside and then stares at me.

"He's free to go, Tully," the judge says. "Let the prosecutor know. Let his counsel know. And tell the sheriff we're having lunch later to discuss Mr. Harmon's arrangement." "Thanks, Judge," I say, then smile at the bailiff. "Gonna move or what, Tully?" He does, and I walk out of the judge's private chambers, walk past the bench, and walk out of that courtroom without another word.

Then a bunch of hands grab me and take me back to the jail for processing, because apparently you can't just make a grand exit from a courtroom. Damn bureaucracy. Oh well. I still have time to go home and sleep a couple of hours before my shift starts. I wonder what the dead will have to say tonight. I hope it's something about cash or gold this time. I'm in the mood for a much better treasure I can find, because I've had my fill of torture chambers, thank you.

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