Lucky Day by Barry Lyga Read Free Book Online Page A

Loralynn had broken that code, and everyone—from the deputy frozen at the fax machine to the new guy halfway through a doughnut—was wondering what the reaction would be.
    Something in his head shook loose.
    “What did you say?” he asked.
    The sense of Don’t say anything! from everyone else in the room was almost palpable, but Loralynn was impervious. “I said, you gettin’ your clothes mixed up these days, Sheriff? You got two different shoes on.”
    He looked down. Sure enough.
    “Couple days ago, you had on different color socks. And before that, you—”
    “I get it. Thanks.”
    He hustled to his office as rapidly as his bulk would permit.
    Gettin’ your clothes mixed up?
    Door closed, he lunged for the Samantha Reed file. It was right on top of the desk, as always.
    Gettin’ your clothes mixed up?
    Talk to your medical examiner about how difficult it apparently is to give the next of kin the right damn clothes!
    Henry Reed. Right? Right?
    G. William flipped through his notes. Yes. Yes, there it was, just as he remembered it. During G. William’s abortive attempt to interrogate the grieving father of Dead Girl Two, Henry had shouted that. G. William had thought little of it at the time. Mistakes happened in police work. The morgue had mixed up a possessions bag and handed off the wrong clothing to the Reeds, that’s all. Since Henry mentioned it and was so het up about it, G. William had assumed he’d already reamed out the morgue folks and gotten the proper clothes.
    Assuming. Dumbass thing to do. Never assume. Never.
    He picked up the phone and dialed the morgue. The morgue was actually part of the sheriff’s department, down in a basement room that also connected to the mortuary next door. But G. William wanted answers now, and he didn’t want to waste time making his slow way downstairs.
    “Morgue!” vibrated through the phone.
    Renny Cartwright was way too cheerful for someone who worked in a morgue, but he was also good at his job, so G. William couldn’t find it in his heart to chastise him for sounding like a carnival barker.
    “Renny, you know the Reed case? I’m wonderin’ if there was a complaint from—”
    “Jesus H.!” Even exasperated, Renny managed to sound like he was having a good time. “They still on about that? I apologized up and down, G. William. Even though it weren’t my damn fault at all. They lookin’ to sue? Over a goddamn pair of underwear ?”
    G. William’s breath caught. “Maybe you better start at the beginning, Renny.”
    So Renny spilled the story, in the upbeat, enthusiastic tones of a pep squad. After processing Dead Girl Two, he’d released the body to the funeral home, a procedure no more complicated than knocking on the connecting door and letting the folks at the Giancci Funeral Home come on in to wheel her through. Also per standard procedure, he’d packed up the victim’s clothes and other personal belongings into what was called a “possessions bag.” It was actually a box in this case, but tradition dictated it be called a bag. Since there had been no trace evidence of any kind found on the clothing or other items, they would be returned to the family.
    “And that’s when all hell broke loose,” Renny went on. “Next thing I know, the dad’s on the horn, screamin’ at me about how I messed up, I’m incompetent, I’m a jerk, he’ll get me fired. All because he says I sent them back the wrong britches.”
    “Her underwear.”
    “What I said.”
    G. William closed his eyes and cursed his memory. He could see the wink of Dead Girl Two’s panties under her hiked skirt the day they’d found her body. Could remember his thought—later proven wrong—that she hadn’t been raped.
    “Go on.”
    “So anyway, he’s tellin’ me as how his daughter never wore no underwear like these and I mixed it up and what else have I maybe mixed up and how’re we ever gonna catch the prick done this crime if the cops can’t even keep a pair of