Page 63 of The Bone Hacker

“A detective be coming to see you,” Iggie greeted me when I entered the morgue.

“Are you feeling better today?” I asked.

“I t’ink dis old fellow be blue a long, long time. The po-lice gonna catch the man what hurt Miz. Musgrove?”

“They will.” Then, “What detective?”

“Folks calls him The Monk. I don’t be doin’ that.”

“Thanks. Please bring Detective Monck to me when he arrives.”

Reaching the autopsy room, I phoned the hospital pathology department. A woman answered and I made my request. She told me the scope was still unavailable.

Damn.

I’d barely disconnected when Monck appeared, a leather bag clutched in his prosthetic hand. Today the pants were ecru, the shirt coral. Same loafers.

“Doc,” he said from the doorway. Dark bags scalloped his lower lids. Too little sleep? Too much booze? Torment over the loss of his boss?

“How may I help you, detective.” Cool but polite.

“I thought you’d like an update.”

That surprised me. “I would.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit?”

I’d noticed an upholstered grouping in the room next door, a space probably used for notification of next of kin. I led him there.

I took the chair. Dropping onto the sofa, Monck propped his prosthetic hand on one knee and dug a legal pad from the bag with his other. The real hand was shaking, not a lot, but enough to notice. The skin behind his freckles looked pale as his pants.

“First off, I apologize for my manners on Saturday. Superintendent Musgrove was a hell of a woman. Her death is hitting me hard.”

“You claimed to know the identity of her killer,” I said, arrowing right in.

“I had to vet you before sharing confidential intel.”

“Vet me?” Sharper than I intended.

“Nothing personal.”

A brittle silence filled the small space. Iggie passed by in the hall pushing a gurney with one squeaky wheel.

Monck ran the shaky hand over his face. Breathed deeply. His next statement suggested I’d passed muster, whatever that involved.

“I believe the superintendent’s ex finally killed her.”

“He was violent?”

“The prick has a habit of getting tanked and tuning her up.”

“You have a name?” All I knew was “shithead.”

“Milo Willis.”

“Have you proof Willis did it?”

“Not yet.”

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