He hated being torn.
Phil led her through the main entrance, flashed his badge, and said he had an appointment with Samson DeMarco. After passing through a series of barred doors, the officer led them into a small room that contained a table and four scarred chairs.
As usual, the place stank of body odor and urine.
The first chair Gina pulled out had some gum or something on the seat. She pushed the chair back in and pulled out the second one. Then she inspected the third chair. Phil chewed on the inside of his mouth to keep from smirking.
Gina dragged the most sanitary of the four chairs around to the side by the entrance and sat on the edge. “This place could really use a good cleaning.”
Phil swallowed a laugh. Guess the filth level wasn’t so bad she’d wanted to run. A moment later, a man in orange strode in, with his guard right behind. The alleged criminal’s appearance took Phil by surprise. Dapper was the first word that came to mind. A good six feet, the guy had neatly trimmed gray hair, was clean-shaven, and wore expensive looking wire-rimmed glasses.
In his mid to late fifties, Samson DeMarco held himself tall and walked as though he owned the place. Phil wondered how long that attitude would last if he were found guilty and sent to prison.
“Mr. DeMarco, have a seat,” Phil pointed toward an empty chair.
DeMarco glanced at Gina, and then at Phil, his expression unreadable. “How can I help you?”
Educated, good. Phil liked smart prisoners. “Recently, we located some bodies buried in North Tampa—bodies that were not in caskets or in body bags.”
DeMarco’s lips pursed. “I had nothing to do with that. Actually, I had nothing to do with the body found at the Westchase site either, but these morons,” he said, making a wide sweep with his arm, “don’t believe me.”
“Sure. Police always arrest people without evidence.”
Gina leaned forward, her brow creased. “What evidence do they have against you?”
Oh, crap. They didn’t need to be sidetracked with this guy’s sad story, but he decided to let her have her fun.
DeMarco waved his shackled hands and the cuffs clinked together. “None. Absolutely none. I admitted the body came from my morgue. When I returned to the embalming area after I’d handled a particularly troublesome funeral, I found one of my corpses had been stolen. It upset the hell out of me.” He tapped his chest. “I reported the disappearance to the police. They have no reason to hold me.” His chin notched up.
Gina glanced at Phil, pleading with her eyes to help the man.
“Mr. DeMarco,” Phil said, failing to keep the irritation from his tone. “The police had other evidence to detain you.”
His jaw clenched. “They found a spare pair of my glasses at the gravesite. That was all the connection they needed to be convinced I was guilty of the unlawful burial. As if I’d drop a three hundred dollar pair of Gucci glasses. And besides, I’d never just dump a body in the ground. At the very least, I would have put him in a casket, albeit a pine one.”
“If you didn’t remove the body from the morgue and bury him on the other side of town, who did?”
DeMarco leaned forward. “A client who obviously wanted to get even for a small error this person believed I committed.” Phil straightened at the snappy comeback.
“What kind of error?” Gina asked, jumping in ahead of Phil.
“There was a mistake made at the funeral home, or so my client claimed.” DeMarco shook his head. “My now unemployed secretary told me his family requested the deceased be cremated. I honored their wishes.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“Unfortunately, they told her quite the opposite. Their accent was thick and my secretary misunderstood them. They were furious when I handed them the box with the remains. They yelled something about stealing the soul of their loved one. What could I do? I couldn’t turn the ashes into a body again.”
“You didn’t double check? Cremation is a big step away from burial.”
“It had been a long week. A mere slip on my part I shall regret the rest of my life.” His jaw clenched, and he began to breathe hard through his nostrils, like a bull ready to charge. “I have the cremation orders they signed, but I doubt anyone in the family could read English.”
What a cluster fuck. “So do you think this wronged family member was out for revenge?”
DeMarco sat up straighter, his eyes bright. “I wouldn’t put it past him. The oldest son mumbled something about an eye for an eye. I’m guessing since I theoretically ruined their lives, or rather their afterlives, he would ruin mine.”
“Do you have any proof this man was the thief?” His story seemed more than a little far-fetched.
DeMarco’s shoulders sagged. “No. Just a gut feeling. But you know how those middle easterners can be. They’re serious about the dead. From what the son said, they believe the body is a connection between this world and the next. Apparently, when I cremated the body, I stole this person’s chance at salvation. How was I to know? It’s not my fault.” He wagged a finger. “Let this be a lesson to the son. He should have known what he signed.”
It was DeMarco’s job to make sure the client understood. “Anything else?”
“I’m convinced the son must have gone into my morgue and stolen one of the bodies. He buried the man to get me in trouble.”
Phil doubted the whole crazy story, but he asked, “And the man’s name would be?”
“Abdul Hakeem.”
Phil made the note, though he couldn’t prove Mr. DeMarco’s innocence based on a hunch.
DeMarco slapped both hands on the table. “Or maybe Willie Wyble did it.” DeMarco looked off to his left.
Phil had noted when the mortician recalled facts, he looked to his right. His left side was his imagination at work.
Christ. The man was a master storyteller. “And just who is this Willie person?”
DeMarco peered back up at Phil. “He works on and off at the cemetery. Willie is...what should I call him...mentally handicapped. He digs worms for a living, or anything else that requires a hole.” DeMarco shrugged. “It’s what he does.”
“Now you think this Willie, and not Hakeem, stole the body just so he could have fun digging?” Phil had heard many a tale in his time, but this was for the books.
“My funeral home is only two blocks from the cemetery. It would have been easy for him to sneak in and take a body.”
“So Willie works for the city then?”
“In a way. Jeff Lamont operates the cemetery. He uses Willie when his regular man isn’t available. Jeff doesn’t really want Willie around, even though he can handle a backhoe better than most. You see, Willie isn’t the most hygienic person. He has this long, straggly hair that would make most people run. The thing is, Willie...ah... doesn’t expect too much in the way of payment.”
“Why else do you suspect Willie? It’s a nice theory, but it had more holes than a sieve.”
DeMarco’s jaw clenched. “The glasses. When I was checking on the burial plot, I ran into Willie digging. Mr. Commens, my client at the time, insisted we bury his mother facing due west since she loved sunsets. I personally wanted to supervise the digging. Well, that evening Willie was working the backhoe. I had to come within a few feet of him before he recognized me. Apparently, he doesn’t see well. I thought—” DeMarco touched his two index fingers to his lips.
“Thought what?” Phil was getting tired of the runaround, but Gina sat wide-eyed.