Bolton pulled out his wallet and slowly opened it. “How much does a cremation cost, anyway?”
The director smiled at his ignorance and said, “Depends on several factors. What type of cremation do you have in mind?”
Bolton huffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t have anything in mind, except for the process of your putting her into the oven and then giving me a box of ashes to take home.”
“So, a direct cremation?”
“Whatever.”
“Do you have an urn?”
“What an idiot. I forgot to bring one. Hell no, I don’t have an urn. I’ll bet you’ve got one for sale.”
“We have a selection, yes.”
“Okay, back to the question. How much does a cremation cost?”
“A thousand dollars for a direct cremation.”
“How much for an indirect?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Forget it.” Bolton handed over his silver American Express card and said, “Ring me up. And I want the cheapest urn.”
The director took it. Bolton pulled out some bills, counted ten $100s, and laid them on the desk. “An extra thousand if you’ll get it done by noon today. Okay?”
The director looked at his closed door and cut his shifty eyes around the room. Then he scooped up the cash and made it disappear faster than a blackjack dealer. “Come back in two hours,” he said.
“You got it.” Bolton drove around for a while and finally remembered to call his sons with the news that their mother was dead. Both kept their composure and there were no breakdowns. He found a waffle house and had pancakes and sausage with the Sunday edition of the Post-Dispatch. He ate as slowly as possible and downed four cups of coffee. He enjoyed the obits and wondered if they might soon include his late wife.
By 12:30 he was racing back to St. Louis with her remains in a cheap plastic urn in the trunk. He could not remember such a feeling of exhilaration, of complete freedom. He had pulled off the perfect crime, disposed of a woman he’d wished a thousand times he’d never met, and his future was suddenly glorious and unburdened. He was only sixty-five years old, in perfect health, and within a year his tobacco fees would start arriving like golden eggs. His forty-year career as a hard-charging lawyer was over and he couldn’t wait to travel the world, preferably with a younger woman. He had two in mind, both lovely divorcées he’d been itching to take to dinner for a long time.
（23）
A week after Tilda’s funeral, a small private affair that drew little interest, Bolton moved aggressively to collect $5 million in life insurance. He and his wife had purchased matching joint policies years earlier, primarily because he was convinced she would meet an early demise, though he assured her at the time it was in her best interest because, according to the actuaries, he would likely die first. When the insurance company dragged its feet, Bolton, with typical trial lawyer bluster, threatened to sue for bad faith and all other applicable torts. It was a rare strategic blunder.
The insurer decided to investigate the death and hired a security company known for its bare-knuckle tactics. Its investigators, most of whom had military and CIA experience, were immediately suspicious because of the timing of Bolton’s movements that fateful night. Two hours and sixteen minutes elapsed from his 911 call to his arrival at the ER in Poplar Bluff. Several test runs proved that the average driving time was only 52 minutes, and that was obeying all traffic laws. It was easy to assume that a reasonable person might push the speed limit a bit when hauling in a heart attack victim. It seemed as though Bolton had certainly taken his time.
He would be questioned about it, but much later.
Another factor was the day and time. It was late on a Saturday night in rural Missouri, not exactly the time and place for heavy traffic.
The ER doctor and nurse told the investigators that, in their opinions, Mrs. Malloy had been dead for at least an hour. Minimal rigor mortis was setting in with the muscles beginning to stiffen. In her notes, the nurse described Mr. Malloy as “uncooperative” and the doctor remarked that he seemed unbothered by his wife’s passing. Both described the mysterious bite wound to his left hand. He refused treatment for it and would not allow the deputies to photograph it. One deputy was certain it was a bite from a large constrictor.
The break came in an encounter at the Ozark Mountain Snake Roundup, an annual event in Joplin that drew fans, handlers, collectors, charmers, and aficionados from the mountains and hollows and beyond. The unit chief from the Eminence Volunteer Fire Department was a regular and was proudly displaying his snakes, including two new additions: a five-foot timber rattler he had trapped in a ravine, and the eight-foot speckled king snake he had taken from the Malloy cabin a month earlier.