Chapter 3 - The Funeral That Did Not Exist
By sunrise, investigators had discovered something so simple that I felt stupid for not asking sooner.
There was no death certificate.
No legal pronouncement.
No funeral-home record.
No burial permit.
No public-health order.
Nothing.
The entire funeral had been staged inside Julian’s house.
The white casket had been purchased online eleven days earlier and delivered in a furniture truck.
The lilies came from a florist.
The memorial cards were printed through a local stationery company.
The minister was real.
He had been told Chloe died at home and the family wanted a private prayer service before “infectious-disease transport” moved her for direct cremation.
He never saw medical documentation.
Why would he?
He was a minister.
Not a funeral director.
The family believed Julian and Victoria because grieving parents are not usually cross-examined by relatives.
They circulated a scanned document titled:
PRELIMINARY CERTIFICATE OF DEATH.
It contained a physician’s name.
Dr. Calvin Larkin.
There was a real Dr. Calvin Larkin in Illinois.
A retired internist.
His medical license had lapsed two years earlier.
He had never met Chloe.
The signature was copied from an old medical form available in public court records from an unrelated case.
The “certificate” itself used a county template that had been replaced five years before.
Crude.
But no family member knew what current death paperwork looked like.
Julian relied on grief.
And shame.
People do not want to be the aunt who asks to inspect a death certificate.
Detective Collins explained later:
“They weren’t close to completing a lawful burial.”
“What did they plan tomorrow?”
“That’s what we’re determining.”
Their devices answered.
A message from Julian to Victoria at 8:42 p.m. the night before the wake:
JULIAN:
Keep everyone out by 11.
VICTORIA:
Eleanor won’t leave.
JULIAN:
She will.
VICTORIA:
And if Chloe wakes?
JULIAN:
Another dose before transport.
I stopped reading.
Detective Collins said:
“Do not interpret exact pharmacology from this. But intent to keep her unconscious is clear.”
Another:
VICTORIA:
The rural place is ready.
JULIAN:
Good. Once everyone thinks she’s gone we move her there.
I stared.
“They weren’t going to bury Chloe?”
“Not immediately.”
“Then what?”
“We think they intended to keep her hidden at a property in Wisconsin while they completed financial steps.”
“Alive?”
“For some period.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why put her in casket?”
“To convince family she was dead.”
“Then what did ‘if she wakes she ruins everything’ mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Would they eventually kill her?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I hated that answer.
It was honest.
Then officers searched basement.
The old Winnetka house had been remodeled but retained a lower wine cellar from 1920s foundation.
One section of floor had newer oak planks over a recessed storage vault.
Chloe had apparently been locked in basement utility room weeks earlier and seen Julian lifting boards.
Investigators removed them.
Beneath was a shallow concealed room.
Inside:
A second casket.
Adult-sized.
Dark walnut.
No body.
I cried when Collins told me.
Not relief.
Terror.
Because empty can be worse when you understand who was supposed to fill it.
Inside the casket were several items.
A black dress.
My size.
A pair of orthopedic shoes.
A photocopy of my Medicare card.
A typed obituary.
ELEANOR ROSE ASHFORD, 68, DIES FOLLOWING COMPLICATIONS OF STROKE.
I was sixty-eight next month.
The obituary named Julian as surviving son.
Chloe as “predeceased granddaughter.”
There was also a forged healthcare power-of-attorney document naming Julian.
My signature appeared.
Not mine.
A draft cremation authorization.
Not signed.
And a printed page:
ELEANOR MEDS.
Not medication instructions.
A list of prescriptions I legitimately took.
Blood pressure.
Cholesterol.
Low-dose aspirin.
They had copied them from my pill organizer during visits.
No harmful how-to.
Just proof they were studying my medical history.
I sat in the hospital family room holding the typed obituary.
“I was next.”
Detective Collins said:
“We have evidence they contemplated a false death narrative for you.”
“Contemplated?”
“I’m being precise.”
“Julian shouted we were both going into the ground.”
“Yes.”
“The casket is my size.”
“Yes.”
“My obituary is inside.”
“Yes.”
“You can say it.”
She looked at me.
May you like
“I believe you were in serious danger.”
That was enough.
