The bust went down in the men’s room, where Agent Pannini had lured Van Gelder with the promise of a $25,000 down payment on the kickback. It was at a urinal, with one hand on the cash and the other hand on his pecker, that the commissioner was arrested for bribery.
It was a glorious scandal, and my byline stayed on the front page for a solid week, a personal record that stands to this day. Even better, the heavy news coverage flushed from the muck three other vendors who’d been hustled by the commissioner. Each of the aggrieved businessmen consented to an interview, including the fellow who’d sold $1.7 million worth of self-cleaning toilets to the county airport. Van Gelder had insisted that in addition to his customary cash kickback, he wanted a deluxe model self-cleaning commode installed in his private master bathroom. The fixture later malfunctioned while the commissioner himself was enthroned upon it, an errant geyser of bleach scalding both buttocks and his scrotum.
The story, needless to say, was golden. Orrin Van Gelder wound up copping a plea and doing nineteen months at Talladega. I wound up winning that journalism award and being wooed away to a bigger place and a bigger newspaper, where I did some pretty decent work until the shitstorm struck.
And here I am.
Janet drops me off at the donut shop.
I offer to make some phone calls and find out about her brother’s so-called autopsy. She’s not listening.
“Damn, I almost forgot,” she says, and starts to drive away.
“Hey, where you going?”
She hits the brakes. “Back to the funeral place. I’ve got something that belongs with Jimmy. Something special he gave me.”
“Can I ask what?”
She reaches behind the seat and pulls out a white paper shopping bag. She opens it to display a rare gem—a genuine long-playing 33 rpm album. The jacket is faded, and one corner appears to have been gnawed by a puppy. I’m smiling because I recognize the record. The Soft Parade.
“1969,” I say.
“Jimmy loved the Doors. This one was his favorite—he gave it to me for my birthday.” Janet studies the band’s photograph on the cover and asks, “How old was Morrison when he died?”
You bet I know the answer. “Twenty-seven.”
“Jimmy told me where it happened, but I forgot.”
“In a bathtub.”
Janet busts out with a laugh. “No, I meant where, like what city.”
Now we’re both laughing. “Paris,” I say.
Janet gathers herself. “I remember now. My brother went to see the grave. Listen, I better get rolling before they light the bonfire, or whatever.”
“You’re putting the album in the coffin?”
“Yeah.” Sheepishly she slips it back into the bag. “I mean, I’ve got to do something. Cleo won’t ever know.”
“Janet, don’t you think you should tell somebody about what we saw. Maybe it’s not too late to—”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs drearily. “I don’t know anything except Jimmy’s gone.” And off she goes, peeling rubber.
Moments later I’m in a phone booth talking to my friend Pete, a forensic pathologist at the county Medical Examiner’s Office. When I tell him about James Bradley Stomarti’s lack of autopsy stitches, he gives a sour chuckle.
“Whenever there’s a death in a foreign country, it’s dicey. The protocol drives you nuts—plus everybody wants to be so damn polite about the cutting.”
“What do I do?”
“Try to stop the cremation,” he suggests. “You could get a court order, but for that you’ll need immediate family.”
“How about a sister?”
“Perfect. But she’s gotta call the State Attorney’s Office and get them to find a judge. Then the judge needs to send a deputy out to the funeral parlor right away, because once your boy goes into the oven—”
“Adios.”
“That’s right, Jack. Case closed.”
Next I try Rick Tarkington, a state prosecutor who once helped me on a story about a mob murder in exchange for tickets to a Springsteen concert. Being a rock fan, he’ll probably remember Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.
Unfortunately, Rick’s surly and unhelpful secretary says he’s in depositions and cannot be interrupted.
“It’s an emergency,” I plead. “Can’t you give him a message?”