Free The Monarch by Jack Soren Page B

rinse off the bodily fluids before they do any more damage.”
    â€œRight,” Wagner said, reaching for Cummings’s jaw with his bare hands.
    â€œWait!” Spangler shouted. Wagner almost jumped. The only thing that made it worth it was the yip that came from Powers.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPut on the gloves behind you first. In the box.”
    Wagner did. He found it a lot harder than he thought it would be. When he was finally ready, he gripped the corpse’s jaw in his hands, trying to ignore how cold the flesh was even through the gloves.
    â€œAnd . . . now,” Spangler said softly as he pulled the object. Wagner widened the corpse’s bite and carefully fed the end down into his ruined throat. It was the strangest last meal he’d ever seen.
    With little trouble, the object came free of the corpse. Spangler carried it over to the basin, sprayed it with cool water, and immediately patted it dry with a few soft towels. He leaned in and raised his visor to get a better look at the object.
    â€œMy word,” Spangler said. The other men came around and stood over the table. “Hold down the edges, Joseph, while I unroll it.”
    â€œGently, right,” Wagner said.
    â€œEven more so than before,” Spangler answered. Wagner held the edges down and Spangler unrolled the object until it was completely flat. Everyone bobbed their heads back as if they were too close to see it properly.
    â€œJesus,” Wagner said.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Powers said.
    â€œMagnificent,” Spangler said.
    â€œWhat the fuck are we looking at?” Evans, who had snuck back in the room, said from behind them. No one chastised him.
    After a moment they all turned slowly in unison and looked at the opened corpse. Then at the same time, they turned and looked back at the object. When their silence stretched on into minutes, Wagner finally shook himself back to reality.
    â€œGet that curator down here, Mike. And I mean now,” Wagner said.
    â€œCheck,” Evans said, heading out and almost running into a guy in T-­shirt and jeans, wearing an NYPD gold detective’s badge clipped to his belt.
    â€œSir?” Everyone turned to the door. and Wagner realized the detective was talking to Powers.
    â€œWhat is it?” Powers asked.
    â€œUh, there’s a problem with the package , Chief,” the detective said, eyeballing everyone in the room as if he were asking for privacy.
    â€œOut with it. We’re all on the same side here,” Powers said. Wagner knew of at least two ­people in the room who wanted to disagree with that.
    â€œWell, Detective Minelli just called. He’s had a little problem.”
    â€œDamn it, man. What kind of problem?” Powers’s anger was palpable and seemed to be pushing the detective farther into the hallway. Wagner knew he just didn’t want to look foolish in front of them. He also knew it was too late for that.
    â€œHe . . . he lost her, sir.”
    Powers winced and exhaled. When he opened his eyes, Matthews and Wagner were staring at him.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll take care of this personally,” Powers said, heading out of the room.
    â€œSee that you do, Chief,” Matthews said. And the way he said it kept Powers from replying with anything but a nod.
    â€œGoddamn amateurs,” Wagner said.
    â€œWe’ve got a bigger problem than him,” Matthews said.
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œThe press. If they find Miss Burrows before we do, they’ll run with this harder than Obama’s birth certificate. We’ll never be able to control the release of the story.”
    Wagner knew of a ­couple tabloid reporters who were running with the story based on the envelope contents alone already. The only reason it hadn’t hit the airwaves in full force yet was that the bigger broadcast news outfits were running the contents of the file folder past their legal departments.