How to Murder a Corpse

By Brian K. Lowe

I'm a private investigator and most of my clients are monsters. Which makes sense, since I'm the only PI around who's also a licensed necromancer. But when a fabulously beautiful dame walks into my office and says she needs protection from her mobster boyfriend, it only proves I'm  licensed chump, too.

 

Then I find a zombie in my office, a dead zombie with a bullet in his brain and bite marks on his neck. What kind of vampire attacks a zombie, and who'd want to kill somebody who's already dead?

 

That's the kind of case I take. Monsters. Zombies. Vampires. Ugly cases, but they pay. Just don't call me about your divorce. I don't do divorces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Lowe
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223570165

Book preview

THE QUICK AND THE DEAD

Sabrina

IT'S FUNNY HOW SHY murder victims can be when they have to testify in court. An entire case fell apart once just because the victim had been pushed down a flight of stairs and his neck wouldn't sit right on his shoulders. He was too embarrassed to testify.

But when I found Sabrina lying on the floor, her beautiful face h­adn't been marked at all. There was a tear in her dress over her heart, but not much blood. Professional job. I put my thumb on her wrist to check her pulse and got zip.

She was still warm. Not surprising, since she’d only called me, begging me to come over, half-an-hour ago. Getting there as soon as possible after the soul takes its bow makes resurrection easier. Of course, my job would be even easier if I got there before that, but it never works out that way; I'm always five minutes too late.

That's why I took that correspondence course in necromancy. I may not be the best private eye in town, but I give it all I've got.

A lot of guys won't touch a corpse. Me, I don't do divorces.

I hauled the chicken blood out of my bag and started sprinkling it around. The cops would call it tampering with evidence, but hell, I was about to tamper with the victim.

I finished sprinkling the blood and ground up some crushed herbs. I mixed a drop of blood in with the herbs; it made a real nice paste; with soap and water it would come right off the body later, when the undertaker finally had a chance to do his job. Until then, it had to stay on.

I swabbed the mixture on Sabrina's forehead, up high where her hair would fall down and hide it. The body twitched, making me jump.

I stood up, so I wouldn’t be touching her when I started to chant. Just in time I remembered to turn off the radio.

Don't ask me what I was saying. They told me it was from somewhere down in the Caribbean. All I know is what I heard on the phonograph records they sent me—and what I saw in the picture they sent along of one poor slob who got it wrong. Depending on the angle, he looked like a goat, a block of cheese, or Lake Michigan. I had repeated that chant over and over—without the chicken blood—for two weeks until I got it absolutely right.

Sabrina opened her eyes and made a noise like a mouse that has just seen the trap sprung and knows that bar is coming down. I tried to smile reassuringly, but my face paint must have scared her. For a second she didn't know if she'd come back or had just kept on falling till she reached the hottest nightclub of them all.

It's okay, Sabrina. I held her shoulders until she could get her body back under control again. Some people have trouble readjusting, especially if they die violently. My very first resurrection was a guy who’d been shot in the gut. Not only did I get blood on my second-best shirt, he gave me a black eye that didn't fade for weeks.

How long? she whispered, her voice papery.

'How long?' I repeated. How long were you dead?

No. She seemed to be having trouble breathing—not surprisingly. It takes effort at first to remember to do that, but it's tough to talk if there's no air in your lungs. How long will I be like this?

This was the hardest part. I took a deep breath.

It depends. I got to you real fast, and there doesn't seem to be any gross physical damage. You'll probably last a while—three, maybe four weeks. Longer if you stay cold—and if you keep away from dead things.

What? She shook her head, trying to clear it.

I gave her a hand up. You can't go near any dead animals, I said. It's one of the rules. Any time you get too close to something dead, or made from dead animals, it's like grounding an electrical circuit; it'll steal away some of the life that's still sticking to your body. The bigger the animal, or the object made from an animal, the more life it steals away. You stand next to another human corpse, for instance—you'll keel right over. And don't even think about eating meat.

I got to my feet and reached into my bag for a towel to wipe my face. Which reminded me of one last thing.

By the way, don't wash that mark off your forehead. She reached up automatically to touch it, but I caught her hand. If it gets wiped off, you'll die instantly.

Oh. Her eyes lost a little of their shine as she mulled that over. What happens now?

We call the cops. Did your killer touch the phone?

She shook her head. Not that I saw. I mean, he could've—after . . .

Yeah. I took out a handkerchief and used it to pick up the phone. You can't wear gloves when you do this kind of work, but there was no sense in leaving my prints all over the place for the lab boys to find. I dialed LAPD Homicide. They knew me there. I gave them the address and hung up. Now we wait.

Lieutenant Byers arrived first. He's about forty, too big, too bald, and too good. I mean that. He's too good a Catholic to like me: in his book, you have to be dead three days before you've got any business walking around again. But he's also too good a cop to let that stand in the way of his investigation.

I let him and his men into the apartment, and led them to the bedroom.

That the victim? He nodded at Sabrina.

Yeah. She was dead when I got here, but just barely. Sabrina started to say something, but I waved her quiet.

We'll let the coroner decide all that. You talk to her?

Just when she came back. She asked how long she'd be here.

Byers grunted. By law, nobody's supposed to talk to the dead before the official post-mortem statement. But then, the dead don't much care about the law.

Tell her to get back on the floor. We'll need to take pictures.

I looked at Sabrina, motioning to her to do what Byers said. I was careful not to say another word to her. I was already walking on thin ice.

That's how she looked, I said. Byers was still shaking his head. Luckily, the lab boys arrived right then with the photographer. We stood back and let them do their job.

It was a long time before they were finished, and I could tell Sabrina wasn't happy when Byers finally told her she could get up. It was the first time he'd spoken to her directly, but now he had a room full of witnesses.

Just sit there on the bed, ma'am, if you would. I know this is going to be tough, but you'll make it through. Byers stood in front of her, taking notes. Name?

Sabrina de Foix.

Byers' eyebrow lifted a fraction, but he wrote it down. Do you live here, ma'am?

She smiled crookedly. In a manner of speaking, I suppose. She was a cool one.

This is important, ma'am, so think carefully. Did you see who killed you?

I was standing behind and to the left of Byers, next to the window under which I had found Sabrina. There were at least half-a-dozen cops between me and the door. Sabrina flicked her eyes at me, then at the cops, then she jumped up into the middle of that crowd of bluecoats and started screaming like a fire alarm.

Yes! He did it!

Son of a gun, she was pointing straight at me.

A Lady Walks into My Office...

I'd first met Sabrina less than a week before. I was working late in my dingy room on Spring Street above a movie house, when the hall door creaked at me. I like the hall door. It creaks whenever somebody comes in, which saves me the price of a receptionist. The inner door, on the other hand, swings open as silent as a grave. That saves me the price of a peephole.

But as soon as I saw Sabrina, I threw that door wide open wearing my best smile, the one left over from when I used to sell used cars for Lefty Lopez.

But it wasn't Lefty on my mind in those first hot seconds as I escorted