I glanced at Plato Lowery as the coffin was transferred to the coroner's van. Though his face remained rigid, his body jerked visibly at the sound of the slamming doors.
When the vehicle pulled away, I walked over to him.
"This must be very difficult." Banal, I know, but I'm lousy at small talk. No, that's being generous. When it comes to offering condolences, I totally suck.
Lowery's face remained a stone mask.
Behind me I could hear car doors closing and engines starting up. The journalists and the cop were heading out.
"I promise to do everything I can to sort this out," I said.
Still no response. Consistent. When we were introduced earlier, Lowery had neither spoken to me nor offered a hand to shake. Apparently I was one of the targets of his anger. For my role in Quebec? For intruding into his world to unearth his dead son?
I was about to try again when Lowery's eyes flicked to something over my shoulder. I turned.
The lieutenant was hurrying our way, a gangly man with close-cropped hair and olive skin. Guipani? Guipini? Undoubtedly he'd been sent from Fort Bragg to put the best possible spin on a bad situation.
"Dr. Brennan. Mr. Lowery, sir. I'm so pleased this went well." Sun glinted off bars on his shoulders and a plaque on one pocket. D. Guipone. "We're all pleased, of course."
A nervous smile revealed teeth that should have worn braces.
"The army knew that it would, of course. Go well."
Not a muscle fiber stirred in Lowery's face.
"My colleagues at the Central Identification Laboratory say Dr. Brennan is the best. That's how this will be handled, sir. Only the best. And total transparency, of course."
"Of course." Lowery's voice was gravel.
"Of course." Firm nod from Guipone.
"A horse is a horse."
"Sir?"
"Of course."
Guipone cast a confused glance my way.
"Of course," I said, deadpan as the old man.
Guipone was either too young or too dumb to realize he'd been made the butt of a joke.
"Well then." Again the snaggletoothed smile, directed at me. "What happens now?"
"This morning, using cemetery records and the grave marker, I established that this was, indeed, the plot assigned to John Lowery." I gestured toward the open grave. "Now, in the coroner's presence, I'll open the coffin, record the condition of the remains, then seal the body in a transport container. As soon as the army completes arrangements, the remains will be flown to JPAC for analysis."
"My son died a hero." Taut.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We will get to the bottom of this."
Turning his back to Guipone, Lowery spoke to me. "I want to see him."
"I don't think that's a good idea." As gently as I could.
The ebony eyes bore into mine. Seconds passed. Then, "How do I know my son will be treated with the respect he deserves?"
Reaching out, I placed a hand on the old man's shoulder.
"My husband was a marine, Mr. Lowery. I am a mother. I understand the sacrifice made by the man in that coffin. And by those who loved him."
Lowery tipped his face to the sun and closed his eyes. Then, lowering his head, he turned and walked away.
Medical examiners are appointed. Most are physicians, preferably pathologists, ideally board-certified forensic pathologists.
Coroners are elected. Candidates can be mechanics, teachers, or unemployed pole dancers. Most are morticians or funeral home operators.
In 1965, the North Carolina General Assembly passed legislation allowing individual counties to abolish the office of coroner and to appoint medical doctors to investigate deaths within their borders.
Today North Carolina has a centralized death investigation system. County MEs are appointed for three-year terms by the chief medical examiner in Chapel Hill.
Sound progressive? Actually, the setup is not so hot.
In counties lacking willing or capable doctors, nonphysicians-sometimes registered nurses-still serve. Instead of coroners, they're now called "acting medical examiners."
And get this. On its Web site, the North Carolina Medical Examiner System describes itself as a network of doctors who voluntarily devote their time, energy, and medical expertise.
Read between the lines. Doctors or dog walkers, in North Carolina, MEs are paid zilch.
Robeson County's acting medical examiner was Silas Sugarman, owner and operator of Lumberton's oldest funeral home. By prearrangement, following exhumation the casket would go from the cemetery to Sugarman's facility.
I'd driven from Charlotte to Lumberton in my own car, departing as the first tendrils of dawn teased the Queen City awake. Though careful timing was required, I managed to shake Guipone and leave alone from the cemetery.
It wasn't just that I found the lieutenant annoying. I had a plan.
Over the years, I've driven countless times from Charlotte to the South Carolina beaches. The back route I favor involves a long stretch on Highway 74 and brings me close enough to Lumberton for a barbecue detour. That was my target today. Being already in Lumberton, it only made sense to score some "que."
I headed straight for Fuller's Old Fashioned BBQ. A bit of a diversion, but I wasn't due at the funeral home until two. And my stomach was broadcasting deprivation distress.
At one fifteen, most of the lunch crowd was gone. Ignoring the buffet, I ordered my usual. Barbecue pork, coleslaw, fries, and hush puppies. A tumbler of sweet tea the size of a silo.
OK. No smiley heart. But the owners, Fuller and Delora Locklear, know how to do pig.
Exiting the restaurant was like stepping into the molasses I'd left untouched on my table. The temperature inside my Mazda was 150.
After cranking the AC, I punched an address into my portable GPS and wound south toward Martin Luther King Drive. Within minutes the robotic voice was announcing arrival at my destination.
Sugarman's Funeral Home looked like Tara on steroids. Redbrick. White antebellum pillars and trim up and down. Elaborate drive-through portico in front.
The interior could only be described as rose. Rose carpet. Rose drapes. Rose floral wallpaper above the wainscoting and beadboard.
In the main lobby, a faux-colonial placard listed two temporary residents. Selma Irene Farrington awaited mourners in the Eternal Harmony Room. Lionel Peter Jones cooled his heels in Peace Ever After.
A young woman materialized as I was pondering the relative merits of harmony versus peace. When I requested directions to the owner's office, she led me past the Lilac Overflow Reposing Room and the Edgar Firefox Memorial Chapel.
Sugarman was seated at a massive oak desk with carved pineapples for feet. At least six-four and three hundred pounds, with greasy black hair and a crooked nose, he looked more mafioso than mortician.
Also present were the good lieutenant and a small, rat-faced man with short brown hair parted with surgical precision.
The trio was chuckling at some shared joke. Seeing me in the doorway, they fell silent and rose.
"Dr. Brennan. It is indeed an honor." Sugarman's voice was surprisingly high, his drawl as thick as the Fuller's molasses.
Sugarman introduced rat-face as his brother-in-law, Harold Beasley, sheriff of Robeson County. Beasley nodded, repositioned a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth. No comment, no question. Obviously he'd been prepped on my role in the day's activities.
"And you know the lieutenant."
"Yes." I resisted the impulse to add "of course."
Sugarman arranged his beefy features into an expression of appropriate solemnity. "Ma'am, gentlemen. We all understand the sad business the Lord has chosen to send our way. I propose we get to it without further ado."
Sugarman led us down a hall and through a door at the back of the facility. No name plaque. Everlasting Embalming? Perpetual Preparation?
The room was windowless, and maybe fifteen by twenty.
From the west wall, a door opened to the outside. Beside it, metal shelving held the usual array of instruments, chemicals, cosmetic supplies, plastic undies, and fluids whose purpose I didn't really want to know.
A deep sink jutted from the south wall. Aspirating and injection machines sat on a counter beside it. So did a crowbar and small electric saw.
Dressing and embalming tables had been snugged to the north wall. An open casket yawned ready inside an aluminum transport case on a gurney pushed up to them.
The exhumed coffin rested on the collapsible gurney on which it had ridden from the graveyard. Though fans did their best, the smell of mildew, moldy wood, and decomposing flesh permeated the small space.
Sugarman removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves. He and I donned gloves, aprons, and goggles. Beasley and Guipone watched from the doorway. Both looked like they'd rather be elsewhere. I hoped I was more discreet.
The old coffin was mahogany, with sculpted corners and a domed top, now collapsed. Both swing bars and most of the hardware were gone. The metal that remained was eroded and discolored.
I made notes and took photos. Then I stepped back.
Sugarman raised both brows. I nodded.
Crossing to the gurney, the big man inserted one end of the crowbar and levered downward. Rotten wood cracked and flew.
Kicking aside splinters, Sugarman heaved again. And again. As fragments detached, I tossed them to the floor.
Finally, sweat rings darkening both armpits, Sugarman laid down his tool.
I stepped close.
Guipone and Beasley moved in beside us.
Breathing hard, Sugarman lifted what remained of the top half of the coffin lid.
Beasley's hand flew to his mouth.
"Sweet baby Jesus."
THE FUNERAL INDUSTRY CLAIMS ITS PRODUCTS AND SERVICES protect our dearly departed from the ravages of time. Coffin manufacturers offer vaults, gasket seals, and warranties on the structural integrity of their caskets. Morticians tout the permanence of embalming.