Blood Pact

many realize, as happened in this instance, that friends and relatives will want one last look regardless.”

    "I see. So the body was embalmed?”

    "Yes, my nephew took care of most of that. He did the disinfecting, massaged the tissue to bring pooled blood out of the extremities, set the features, drained the body and injected the embalming fluid, perforated the internal organs with the trocar . . .”

    Fergusson cleared his throat. "There's, uh, no need to be quite so detailed.”

    "Oh, I am sorry." The elder Mr. Hutchinson flushed slightly. "I thought you wanted to hear everything.”

    "Yes. But . . .”

    "Mr. Hutchinson." Vicki leaned forward. "That last word you used, trocar, what is it?”

    "Well, Ms. Nelson, it's a long steel tube, hollow, you know, and quite pointed, very sharp. We use it to draw out the body fluids and inject a very, very astringent preserving fluid into the cavity.”

    "Your nephew didn't mention it.”

    "Well," the old man smiled self-consciously, "he was probably being a little more concise. I tend to ramble on a bit if I'm not discouraged.”

    "He said," she caught his gaze with hers and held it, "that he'd just placed the incision sealant into the jugular vein when he was called upstairs.”

    Mr. Hutchinson shook his head. "No. That's not possible. When I came down to finish, as the young woman in the office was most insistent she speak with David, the trocar button had already been placed in the abdomen, sealing off the entry wound.”

    The silent sound of conclusions being drawn filled the small office.

    "I think," Detective Fergusson said slowly, "we'd better speak with David again.”

    David Hutchinson repeated what he'd said previously.

    The elder Mr. Hutchinson looked confused. "But if you didn't aspirate the body cavity, and I certainly didn't, who did?”

    The younger Mr. Hutchinson spread his hands. "Chen?”

    "Nonsense. He's only here on observation. He wouldn't know how.”

    "That would be Tom Chen?”

    Both of the Mr. Hutchinsons nodded.

    "Before you're accepted into a program to become a funeral director," the younger explained, "you have to spend four weeks observing at a funeral home. This isn't a job everyone can do. Anyway, Tom has been with us for the last two and a half weeks. He was in the room while I prepared the body. He helped a little. Asked a couple of questions . . .”

    "And was in the room when I came down to finish. He certainly seemed to indicate that you'd done the aspirating, David.”

    "Well, I hadn't.”

    "Are you sure?”

    "Yes!" The word cracked the quiet reserve both men had been trained to wear and they turned identical expressions of distress on the police office sitting across the desk.

    "And Tom Chen is where?”

    "Unfortunately, not here. He did work through the weekend," the elder Mr. Hutchinson explained, regaining control. "So when he asked for the day off, I saw no harm in giving it to him.”

    "Hmmm. Jamie . . .”

    Fergusson's partner nodded and quietly left the room.

    "Where is he going?”

    "He's going to see if we can have a talk with Mr. Chen. But for now," Fergusson leaned back and tapped lightly on his notebook with his pen, "let's just forget who did the aspirating, eh? Tell me what happened next.”

    "Well, that was about it. We dressed the body, applied light cosmetics, just in case, placed the body in the casket and, well, left it there. Overnight. This morning, we brought the casket upstairs to the chapel.”

    "Without checking the contents?”

    "Nothing's ever happened to the contents before," the younger Mr. Hutchinson declared defensively.

    "It must've happened during the night." The elder Mr. Hutchinson shook a weary head. "After the casket comes upstairs, there's no possible way anyone could remove the body without being seen.”

    "No sign of a forced entry," Fergusson mused aloud. "Who has keys?”

    "Well, we do, of course. And Christy Aloman, who does all our paperwork and has been with the company for years. And, of course, there's a spare set here, in my drawer. That's strange." He opened a second drawer and a third. "Oh, here they are.”

    "Not where you usually keep them?”

    "No. You don't think that someone took them and made copies, do you, Detective?”

    Detective Fergusson glanced back over his shoulder at the corner where Vicki and Celluci sat and lifted an eloquent brow. Then he sighed. "I try not to think, Mr. Hutchinson. It's usually too depressing.”

    "All right."