Unlike both the Westlake Estate and Rue Manor, both of which had some semblance of a real morgue in their basements, the Avondale Resort’s morgue was more of a temporary, ad hoc version, located in a large, empty storage room near the back of the mansion. There were four large coolers in the dank and dark room, Giles assumed for storage of the bodies once the investigations had concluded. There was also a large metal table and two smaller ones containing an assortment of medical instruments, likely none of which any of the guests would know how to use properly.
The butler led Whitney and Charlene to the mansion’s makeshift morgue. He told them a conch would sound through the intercom when their time was up. Then he left them to investigate Jordan’s body. Giles certainly had no desire to see the young man’s gruesome wounds again. He still hadn’t stopped seeing the horrific wounds of the twenty victims of the Westlake and Rue massacres every time he closed his eyes at night.
Charlene had not particularly wanted to pick the morgue to investigate. But when nobody else volunteered to go with Whitney, she’d eventually stepped forward herself. She just didn’t think it’d be right to leave the sweet, naive twenty-two-year-old girl to have to examine a dead body all by herself. There was just something about the young lady that had instilled a sense of renewed motherly obligation in Charlene. It was a feeling she really hadn’t felt since her youngest son, Steve, had moved out of the house fifteen years ago.
At first both Whitney and Charlene just stood there and looked at the white sheet resting on top of a body-shaped lump on the metal table. It was as if neither of them wanted to disturb it. Which made sense, all things considered.
But finally Whitney stepped forward without hesitating any further and ripped off the white sheet. The sight of the body was more shocking than she’d expected, especially since she’d already seen it once before just a short time ago. Charlene gasped and covered her own eyes.
Whitney reminded herself that this was no longer a person. Jordan was in a better place now. Well, assuming he’d accepted the Lord, Jesus Christ, as his Savior, that was. But she figured he had. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy. He was probably raised Christian and had been baptized and all that. But she needed to tell herself that regardless of whether it was true.
The young girl took a deep breath and then moved in for a closer look at his wounds.
“Do you even know what you’re looking for?” Charlene asked.
“Not really, I’m just hoping I’ll know it when I see it,” she said.
Charlene mostly stayed back while Whitney examined Jordan’s body. She tried to peek in whenever she felt she could stomach it, but ultimately she didn’t help much. After a little over half of their time had elapsed, Whitney came to a sudden realization.
“Maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way,” she said.
“Go on,” said Charlene.
“Maybe it’s not what we think we need to find, but rather what we don’t find.”
Charlene just gave her a confused look.
“What I mean is,” Whitney explained, “I’m not finding any shotgun pellets in or around this wound at all. I’m obviously not an expert in shotgun injuries, but I’ve watched just enough TV to know that there should be some shot pellets still lodged in here somewhere. Right?”
“My husband used to duck hunt with some colleagues of his from the firm,” Charlene said. “And he’d always pay someone else to clean his kills for him, because he said picking the shot pellets out of the bird was a pain in the ass.”
“So does this mean Jordan wasn’t actually killed by the shotgun?” Whitney asked. “And if not, then what could have done this to him?”
“I don’t know what it means for sure, but I do know it means something,” Charlene said. “Come on, I’ll help you flip him over. We should check for other injuries.”
Together they rolled over Jordan’s body. Whitney lifted his shirt and inspected his back. She found another curious wound almost immediately. It was a small, pea-sized hole right between his shoulder blades. A line of dried blood ran from the hole down the middle of his back along his spine to his jean’s waistband.
“What do you suppose could have caused that?” Whitney asked.
Charlene shook her head and said, “Likely the same thing that caused the much larger hole in his chest, I’m sure.”