"Just rest a minute and we'll get the hell out of here," Dean answered. She nodded and closed her eyes. He rose and, taking the arm of the attendant, steered the young man out to the slab where Wassermann was unaware of the turmoil he'd created.
"Sorry," the man mumbled. "I never done this before. I'm just filling in. The guy's a real mess. Someone did a number on him."
"What do you mean?"
"They took a cigarette to his balls for one thing, and there's all kinds of marks on him. They really worked him over."
"What in God's name ever made anyone think this tub of blubber was Jeffrey Byrne?" Dean asked, still upset at Cynthia Byrne's unnecessary ordeal.
"He ain't her husband, huh?"
"Not even close to the same description."
"I don't know," the attendant answered defensively. "Somebody screwed up, I guess. Byrne was the only recent missing person in the file."
"Where did they find him?"
"Way up north of here, near the other side of the bay. They bring all the stiffs in here 'cause we've got the best facilities on the Lower Chesapeake."
"Roll him over," Dean directed. "I want to see his ass."
The attendant gave Dean a strange look but between the two, they managed to turn the body. Plain as day was a B tattooed on one cheek and a W on the other. The rumor was true.
"Just like it's supposed to be," said Dean with satisfaction.
"God, he's branded like a cow! What's 'BW' mean?"
"It's a long story," Dean answered.
"Can you ID this guy?"
"Sort of."
"What do you mean? Either you can or you can't?"
Dean paused. "He's a twin. He's either Billie or Willie Wassermann."
"Which? I can't put both names on a death certificate."
"Take your pick," answered Dean. "I'm not sure even his mother could ID him now. Better yet, keep an eye out in the bay for another body. Neither of those two ever did anything alone." He left the attendant standing there, a quizzical look on his face.
Dean let Cynthia Byrne rest a while longer while he telephoned the news to Parkside. At least somebody else would get the distasteful task of telling a wailing Mrs. Wassermann one of her bouncing baby boys was stretched out on a marble slab in Norfolk, Virginia. The news was not well received by Lieutenant Anderson, who was still on duty. Only the Lord knew what Linda Segal, The Ice Lady of the Parkside Sentinel, would do with this turn of events. It would have been much more convenient if the customer under the sheet had been Jeffrey Byrne. But it looked like Parkside could wash its hands of Wasserman's death-there was no way he'd floated out of their land-locked jurisdiction to the Chesapeake Bay. His murder was someone else's headache.