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“Never heard of them. We have an exclusive contract with MSS.”
I force a smile on my face, hoping it will mask the apprehension in my voice. “Okay. Thanks, Matt.”
We chat for a few more minutes—about god knows what—and plan to get those drinks next week after all. “They have five dollar wine glasses on Thursdays.”
I’m antsy to get off the phone. “Sounds great, see you then.” We say our goodbyes, and I slump back in the chair after hanging up.
My stomach churns as I consider that this could be a misunderstanding, a coincidence. Cartel members lead dangerous lives, so it’s not unrealistic that two would meet an early demise. Growing old is a luxury in that world.
A world that I am narrowly straddling the edge of. And it seems DS Mortuary Transports is too.
I search the company and quickly find a simple web page. There’s not much there except for a phone number and some generic spiel about caring for your loved ones with care and professionalism. I call the listed number. If the donations aren’t coming from the medical examiner, they can tell me where they are coming from.
It rings and rings before cutting to voicemail. A feminine automated voice apologizes for missing my call and to leave a message after the beep.
“Hi, this is Dr. Cortez with the Verano Institute for Forensic Anthropology. I am calling because I have some questions about recent donations you delivered. The June Harbor Medical Examiner doesn’t have records for them, and I was hoping you could provide more detail on their source. Thank you, and please call me back at the Verano Institute. You can reach me at extension 8496.”
I hang up, but one piece of information that isn’t sitting right with me is why. Why send us murder victims’ bodies knowing we are going to study and examine them?
Study and examine.
Shit, that’s it. We’ll study and examine, but we won’t investigate. Because by the time the bodies are donated, it’s assumed they’ve already passed through all relevant hands of law enforcement. It would be like calling 911 after the fire department has put out the fire.
I chuckle bitterly to myself and shake my head. Good one, Papá. You almost got me.
Anger and betrayal flow hot and thick in my veins. He’s using me, playing me for a fool. Pinche cabrón.
I arrive at work on Monday morning and am surprised to see Dr. Verano’s car already in the parking lot. Good thing he’s here early because I have questions that need answers, like does he know my father is using his facility as his own personal dumping ground?
I find him in the office, staring at an opened package. It’s a small cardboard box, the ripped tape dangling off the side flaps. He’s standing stock still and jumps when the door closes behind me, as if he didn’t hear me come in. He looks up, his black-and-gray eyebrows pinched together behind his glasses, worry lining his usually genial face. He quickly rights himself and fixes his expression into something cold, looking at me stoically.
I haven’t seen this look on him since he was under my father’s thumb. It’s the mask he wore going into a surgery that was needed because of the most brutal acts of humankind. Like stitching up the mother of a member who was taken and raped for four days by a rival gang in retribution. Or sewing up the abdomen of a member who was disemboweled and hung from the bridge of a territory we were working to claim. He was dead, of course, but Verano wouldn't let him be buried like that.
Chills slide down my spine, and I swallow hard. “What is it?”
He purses his lips and pushes the box toward me. There’s a note on a torn piece of paper, and I read it without picking it up:
Dead girls don’t talk. Remember that as you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. My heart beats harder, and I suck in deep breaths through my nose to try to calm the storm threatening to flood my ribcage. Verano hands me a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and I look at him in question.
“Pick it up.” His voice is steely and deadpan. He must know what’s underneath.
It takes me twice as long as it should to put the gloves on because of my sweaty palms. Curiosity and dread eat at me in those thirty seconds, the room feeling unusually cold.
I glance at him, and he gives me a solemn nod to go ahead as my heart thunders. I reach inside and pinch the note’s edges, lifting it out slowly, like a scorpion is going to jump out at me if I move too quickly.
And then I see it. The real message. Stumpy and still pink, a severed human tongue waits for me at the bottom of the box.
“I thought you were out, Reggie,” Verano says solemnly.
I get defensive when I see the disappointment in his eyes. “I am. Are you?”
He looks taken aback, peeling his glasses off and sitting down before gesturing to the other desk chair for me to sit. “Tell me what’s going on, mija.”
I tell Verano everything I’ve discovered, constantly searching for tells that he’s in on it. I’ve known him my whole life. I love the man to death, but he’s a terrible liar. So when he insists he isn’t involved, I believe him.
“This doesn’t sound like your father. He wouldn’t go under my nose either. If he wanted to use the facility for those purposes he would have just asked.”
“Who else would have the knowledge and means to do it though? It’s a huge risk unless they know you’d never turn them in.”
