Chapter 2 - The Coroner’s Gambit
The chapel descended into absolute chaos within seconds. Evelyn Dupont, the matriarch of the local hospital board and one of Christopher’s primary financial backers, dropped her prayer book with a loud clatter and fled toward the side exit. The pastor stood frozen behind the pulpit, his mouth hanging open in horror. Christopher made a desperate attempt to grab the recorder from my hand, but two off-duty police officers who had been sitting in the back row intervened, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists before he could take another step.
“Christopher Vance, you are under arrest for the suspected homicide of Bertha Vance,” the senior officer announced, his voice ringing authoritatively through the vaulted room.
As they dragged Christopher away—screaming obscenities, kicking the pews, and vowing that he would sue everyone in the county before sunset—I clutched the digital recorder to my chest like a lifeline. Veronica buried her face in my coat, shivering violently as the supernatural chill in the room slowly dissipated, leaving behind the heavy, cloying scent of lilies.
We didn't wait for the police transport. I scooped Veronica into my arms, rushed out to my car, and drove straight to the county coroner’s office in downtown Minneapolis. As an ER nurse with thirty years on the floor, I knew the system. If Christopher had already signed the cremation release forms, we had mere hours—perhaps minutes—before a judge’s emergency stay could be overridden by corporate influence or legal loopholes.
The county morgue was lit by harsh fluorescent tubes that buzzed monotonously overhead. Dr. Thomas Vance—no relation to Christopher, thank God—looked up from his paperwork behind a cluttered metal desk as I kicked open the intake doors, holding the digital recorder aloft like a badge.
“Mrs. Vance?” Dr. Thomas asked, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses. “I was told there was an emergency stay filed by the prosecutor’s office regarding your daughter’s case, but—good grief, what is happening?”
“Christopher was arrested ten minutes ago at the funeral home,” I said, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I set Veronica gently on a vinyl chair in the corner. “He had her scheduled for immediate cremation at noon to destroy the forensic evidence. I want a full, uncompromised forensic autopsy performed by an independent federal pathologist, starting right now.”
Dr. Thomas leaned back in his squeaky chair, folding his hands over his lab coat. “Mrs. Vance, you know the protocol. Even with a prosecutor’s stay, we need judicial sign-off for a homicide investigation override, and the county judge is currently out of district. It could take—.”
“It takes five minutes if you look at the digital payload on this recorder and check the toxicology screen for succinylcholine or potassium chloride,” I interrupted, slamming the recorder onto his desk. “My daughter was a thirty-five-year-old marathon runner with zero cardiac history. She didn't die of natural causes. Christopher murdered her because she discovered he was draining her trust fund to finance his mistress.”
The coroner stared at me for a long, tense moment. He saw the cold, unyielding steel in my eyes—the same look I had worn every time I walked into a trauma bay soaked in blood. Slowly, he reached out, picked up the recorder, and plugged the USB port into his secure terminal.
Ten minutes later, the audio file was playing softly through his desktop speakers. When Christopher’s voice finished threatening my daughter, Dr. Thomas stood up without a word, walked over to the secure intercom on the wall, and buzzed the surgical suite.
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“Prep Table Three,” the coroner said into the speaker, his voice dropping into a solemn, professional register. “We have an unrecorded homicide incoming. Call federal forensics. We’re opening Bertha Vance’s case right now.”
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