Free (2012) Colder Than Death by DB Gilles Page B

part of the service is always the most painful for the family because it's the first look they have at the deceased and they must acknowledge for the first time that their loved one is gone.
    Even a closed casket is unsettling because of the knowledge that someone you love is inside. In some ways it's more distressing because the survivors never get a last look at the deceased. I've always felt that this last look is crucial to the grieving process because the reality of death is the single truth that has to be faced.
    Life is over. The person is gone and never coming back.
    I was about to go back inside when I saw Clint's station wagon pull into the lot. He was late. I expected him at 6:15. He waved at me then pulled around to the back. Within thirty seconds he was jogging towards me. He was 24 and a nice guy, personable, good with the bereaved and capable of squeezing a few extra dollars out of someone making arrangements. He had two drawbacks: pathological lateness and the woman to whom he was married.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he blurted, out of breath.
    I'd heard those words dozens of times. I gave him a non-threatening stare, as if he were a six-month old puppy who had just peed on the couch. “No one's here yet anyway.”
    “Cookie and I had a fight,” he said. “A big one.”
    “The usual subject?”
    He nodded yes.
    Cookie was alone on a night Clint was supposed to be off.
    For the entire time Clint had been working for me, she was alone most evenings and weekends. Her weekdays were occupied working as a substitute teacher for barely more than minimum wage at a Catholic elementary school forty-six miles away, a hellish commute that also drove her crazy, especially in winter. Part of Clint's responsibility as our apprentice was to be at the Home most of the time so I could try to add some normalcy to my own life.
    “She gave me an ultimatum,” said Clint. “I either get some guaranteed decent hours or she's divorcing me.”
    “We went through this last year, Clint. That's how you got Sundays off.”
    “I know. I know. But it's not enough, Del. She's not a social person. Cookie has a hard time making friends. We have this intense, co-dependant thing going on. She's not good at finding ways to keep busy and there's only so much TV to watch and so much to read and she hates housework. She's starting to listen to Christian music and she's joined a Bible study group at church. Sometimes she answers the phone with 'Praise Jesus' instead of 'Hello.' I don't know what to do. Is there some way I can have one night a week off? If I told Cookie that we could have, say, Tuesday evenings to ourselves... it would be enough to calm her down for awhile.”
    I was about to tell him that I'd need time to think about it when I heard the sound of a car pulling in the lot. It was a police cruiser. I could see Perry Cobb at the wheel. He punched the accelerator as if he were a seventeen-year-old out with his father's rebuilt '57 Chevy and headed for a parking spot a few feet from where Clint and I stood.
    “Tell you what, Clint, I'll think about it.”
    “Del, I love working here with you and being a Funeral Director's all I ever wanted since I was twelve years old. But I love Cookie too.” He seemed on the verge of tears.
    “This is a business filled with broken marriages and bachelors,” I said. “The statistics are against you. Like cops. Listen, I need to talk to Perry. Why don't you go inside?”
    Clint nodded and went into the front entrance of the Home just as Perry was getting out of his vehicle. He slammed the car door and strutted towards me.
    “What are you doing here, Perry?”
    “I'm taking a guess that the killer might show up. I want to check out everybody who comes in.”
    I nodded, then for Quilla's benefit more than from my own curiosity, I said, “Have any leads?”
    “The trail gets cold the second the killer walks away from the body. Girl's been dead nine years. I got the Sheriff's office to send me a