his boy, didn’t get into any sort of trouble. The boy’s name was Henry, if I remember correctly. I think he went to Randolph College, but we haven’t been able to locate him.”
“Henry Matcliff?” Sam asked. “Benedict told me he’s the primary heir to the estate, but they hadn’t had any luck finding him.”
“Matcliff? Never heard the name. Far as I knew, it was Henry Savage.”
“It seems very odd that Henry wouldn’t claim his father’s body and have a burial, or a memorial service. Is there bad blood between them?” Fletcher asked.
Davidson shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, this was so clearly a suicide we treated it as such.” He stood up. “We better get on over to the law firm, see what they have to say for themselves. Then we can get you together with Mr. Savage, face-to-face.”
Sam shook her head. “I want to do the autopsy first. Without the facts, nothing else matters.”
“What more do you need? The man killed himself and roped you into his scheme.”
“You’d be amazed at the facts you miss without a proper autopsy,” she replied. “I must admit, I’m a bit surprised it wasn’t done in the first place.”
The note of admonition was clear to Davidson, who bristled. “Hey, now, I can only do what I can do. Coroner ruled it a suicide, looked the body over and there was no indication of foul play.”
Sam shrugged. “Thankfully, it’s not too late. Take me to Mr. Savage’s body, please, and let’s get things under way. Then we can talk to the lawyers.”
Chapter
13
Lynchburg, Virginia
SAM LOVED THE SOUTH.
The Hoyle Funeral Home and Crematorium was housed in an antebellum mansion worthy of its own sound stage in Hollywood as a depiction of Tara. Huge Corinthian columns soared in front of three stories of pristine white clapboard, black shutters, a wraparound porch and a red double front door, its true purpose masked by the picture-perfect facade of a luxurious bed-and-breakfast. The main doors opened into a magnificent foyer with a small, awkwardly placed reception stand, currently empty. The counter had a small bell, like in a hotel, and Sam smacked it lightly with her palm. Moments later, a small man scurried into the foyer.
Roy Hoyle of the eponymously named crematorium was a mouse of a man with a mop of unnaturally black hair that was slightly crooked on his scalp, and thin, pale hands that hardly seemed capable of the duties they were called upon to perform on a daily basis. He shook Sam’s hand and she could barely feel his fingers in hers. She saw Fletcher flinch when the action was repeated, and cautiously wipe his hand on his trousers.
While the man himself might have been a mouse, his setup roared like a lion. When Davidson told him why they were there, he quickly gave them a tour of the facilities. His embalming suite was tidy and boasted the latest materials, all polished to a high shine, and the attached crematorium was immaculate. He even had a small but separate autopsy suite, designed specifically for independent pathologists who were called in to perform private and secondary autopsies for families.
Sam felt bad for her earlier uncharitable assessment—a mouse he might be, but a professional, cautious and meticulous one. Exactly what she needed to get to the truth about Timothy Savage.
After a bit of small talk, Hoyle led her to Savage’s body, which had been prepared for cremation. When Davidson had said all stop, Hoyle took him seriously—everything was as it had been a few minutes prior, but the heat to the retort had been turned off. Savage was ensconced in a cardboard box, waiting on the automated belt. It seemed he wasn’t the only customer of the day; there were a few other boxes lined up behind his.
Hoyle showed her the environs shyly. He had a soft voice she strained to hear, and didn’t make much eye contact. “Dr. Owens, if you need an assistant, I can provide that service for you. My sister, Regina, has been well trained, she worked for a time in Richmond at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”
“Why not you, Mr. Hoyle?”
He blushed. “It’s not my forte, ma’am. I’m in charge of the crematorium, and I do the final work for the funerals. Everyone wants their loved one to look pretty, and I’m a good hand with the makeup and hairstyling. My grandmother taught me. Regina does the embalming and autopsy work. Shall I call her? She can be here in a few minutes.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Hoyle. And if we can move Mr. Savage to the autopsy suite, I can get started with the external exam.”
Fletcher said, “I’ll help.”
Hoyle shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. We have a pulley system that moves the bodies around. Let me just call Regina, and I’ll get the body moved for you.”
Regina promised to come straightaway, and Hoyle got Sam situated.
A few minutes later, an automated cart on wheels arrived in the autopsy suite with the cardboard coffin.
“Handy contraption,” Sam said.
He smiled shyly. “It is. We have the only crematory outside of the big cities that can handle bodies over three hundred pounds. My grandfather designed the pulleys. My father added the automation. They practically move the bodies themselves.”
Davidson called to Fletcher, “Hey, you need to see this.” He gestured to an outer room.
Fletcher looked at Sam. “You okay?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”
He left, and a pretty young woman with the same slight build as her brother appeared in the door to the suite. Roy’s face lit up. “Ah, here’s Regina.”
“Hi, Roy.” His sister came and gave his arm a squeeze, then turned to Sam with a sense of awe. “You’re Dr. Owens. I’ve heard so much about you. I’ve read all your papers. It’s a real honor to have a chance to work with you, ma’am.”
Goodness. She felt her face getting red; she wasn’t used to this kind of adulation.
“Hi, Regina. Call me Sam. You ready to get to work?”
“I am. Are you strong? Savage isn’t a little guy.”
“I can handle myself if you can.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Roy excused himself, and the two women wrestled the body from the cardboard coffin.
Savage definitely wasn’t little. Sam’s measurements said seventy-two inches, and the scale showed him at two hundred pounds. He was fully dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans.
“Is this how he came in?” Sam asked.
“This is how we got him,” Regina said. “We did the usual radiographs to make sure he didn’t have any devices or replacement joints, but the orders were to cremate him clothed.”
“Is that usual?”
“Sure. Put Grandma in her favorite blue dress before the cremation, that sort of thing.”
“Who dressed him, do you know?”
“No idea.”
“Okay. You have the radiographs?”
“I do.” She put them up on the light board, and Sam looked them over. She saw nothing of great significance, only a previous tibia fracture, well healed.
“Let’s get his clothes off. I can’t believe they redressed him after they examined him,” she said.
“From what I’ve been told, there was no real examination at all. You have a clean slate.”
Sam looked at Regina. “What? I knew there wasn’t an internal exam, but nothing external, either?”
“Not