A Beautiful Place to Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

starched white apron covered her nun’s habit, reaching to her knees.
    Zweigman pointed to the cleared counter. Sister Bernadette shuffled in under a load of towels and washcloths. They set up in silence, moving like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet. Zwiegman scrubbed his hands and forearms, then dried himself with a small towel.
    “Doctor?” Sister Bernadette held out a white surgical robe with the name “Kruger” embroidered on the pocket in dark blue. Zweigman slid into the robe and allowed Sister Bernadette to knot the ties along the back. It was obvious they’d worked together before.
    “What do you want from me?” Zweigman asked.
    “Time of death. Cause of death and a signed death certificate. No autopsy.”
    Emmanuel pulled out his notepad, but his headache blurred his writing into dark smudge marks.
    “Detective?”
    Emmanuel refocused and saw Sister Angelina in front of him with a glass of water in one hand and four white pills in the upturned palm of the other.
    “Doctor says to take these right away.”
    He swallowed the tablets and chased them down with the water. Double the dose, the way he always took it when the blurring wouldn’t go away. Perhaps “the clever Jew” was a better name for Zweigman.
    “Thanks.”
    “No need.” Zweigman turned to the body. The ghostly face shone white under the glow of the naked lightbulb. “Let us begin with the clothes.”
    Sister Angelina picked up a pair of pruning shears, sliced along the stiff line of buttons that ran from neck to waist, then flicked the material out like the skin of a fruit to reveal the pale flesh of the captain’s bloated torso.
    Emmanuel stepped closer. Until the blurring lifted, he needed to take it slowly and write all the information down in large slabs. Obvious details needed to marry to a one-or two-word description in the notebook—at least until he could see straight.
    “Big” was the first word. The Pretorius brothers had inherited their height and strength from their father. The captain was six feet plus with a body built by physical labor.
    “Captain still play sport?” Emmanuel asked no one in particular. The captain’s nose, broken and then crudely reset in the face, was probably the result of time spent on the muddy playing fields dotted throughout Afrikanerdom.
    “He coached the rugby team,” Hansie said.
    “And he ran,” Sister Bernadette continued. “He ran all over town and into the countryside sometimes.”
    “Same time every day?”
    “Every day except Sunday, because that was the Lord’s day.” Sister Bernadette sounded full of admiration. “Sometimes he ran in the morning and sometimes we’d see him run by well after dark.”
    That would explain why the captain hadn’t piled on the fat like so many senior officers on the force. It was practically against police procedure to remain at normal weight after more than ten years in service.
    “Yes.” Zweigman pulled a bootlace free from its knot. “Early morning or late at night. There was no way to tell when the captain would run by. Or when he’d stop for a friendly talk.”
    Emmanuel wrote “Zweigman vs. Captain?” in his notebook. He sensed a sting behind the doctor’s words. He’d sniff out the details later.
    “Oh, yes.” Sister Bernadette sighed. “The captain always stopped when he had the time. He knew all our little orphans by name.”
    “Trousers.” Zweigman moved aside and Sister Angelina sliced each trouser leg open with her pruning shears. The top two buttons of the trouser fly were undone and the buckle of the leather belt had twisted open in the rough river current.
    “Sister Bernadette,” Zweigman said. “Please remove the trousers while we lift.” He moved to position himself at the captain’s shoulders.
    “Doctor, please.” Sister Angelina waved him aside and single-handedly pushed the captain’s deadweight into a sitting position while her miniature Irish partner pulled the dirty uniform free and threw it onto