Page 77 of Oddly Fine

“No!” Beckett shook his head vigorously. “I need to see for myself.”

The casket was divided into two sections. They only needed to open the top part to confirm Franklin’s identity. Before Hayes could ask for it, Beckett handed him the crowbar. The casket had been sealed and locked at the funeral home before departure. After burial, the laws stated that the casket could be opened only if a court of law granted permission to do so. Unfortunately, they’d have to break into it in order to confirm Beckett’s hunch, skipping the entire long, drawn out legal process. They had no choice, really, but to proceed as planned. Beckett needed—no, deserved—to know the truth. Hayes prayed his boyfriend was right—that Franklin was not the person in that casket, so he wouldn’t feel guilty about disturbing Franklin’s final resting place for the rest of his life.

Placing the crowbar at the seam of the top section, Hayes pushed down with all his strength. The angle was awkward, and space to maneuver was limited, but after several attempts, the seal broke and the lock shattered with a bell-like ting.

Hayes turned, handing Beckett the crowbar while studying his expression.

Beckett struggled to look composed. It spoke volumes about his resolve to see this through. Beckett typically wore his heart on his sleeve, but at this point he was afraid his heart would bleed out right there in front of Hayes. If that happened, he knew Hayes would refuse to lift the lid. Wordlessly, Beckett grabbed the crowbar and lifted the lid. His hands were surprisingly steady as he grasped the edge of the polished wood and lifted the lid in one swift motion.

Cloud cover had blocked most of the moonlight, but the beams from their flashlights were bright enough to reveal the contents of the casket.

The two officers did warn them about this. Franklin had jumped off a bridge. He’d landed flat on his face, rendering it nearly unrecognisable. It was exactly why they’d had a closed casket ceremony. Yet, there was no way that either one of them could have really braced themselves for this. There was nothing left of Beckett’s brother’s face. The familiar features he’d shared with his mother were completely gone, replaced by crushed bones and gaping wounds.

Hayes could barely stand the sight, but he stood there stoically, not wanting to be disrespectful to either Franklin or Beckett. The retired soldier had a hand up to his mouth, refusing to allow any sobs or cries of distress escape. His green eyes filled with tears, and he began to tremble.

“Sweetheart—” Hayes said hesitantly, letting Beckett know it was okay to lean on him.

“I just—” Beckett began, the words lost in choked sobs.

Hayes instinctively reached out just as Beckett’s knees buckled under him, and pulled him close.

“I’m so sorry,” Hayes whispered softly, running a hand through Beckett’s hair soothingly.

“It makes no sense,” Beckett croaked, a lump of emotion crowding his throat.

Hayes couldn’t see any way to refute that. Beckett was right, of course. Franklin had killed himself. He’d been so young—so full of life and had so much potential. It was inconceivable and yet—

“It isn’t him,” Beckett announced suddenly.

“What?” Hayes exclaimed in shock, releasing his hold on Beckett as he stumbled backwards.

Beckett pushed past him and reached into the coffin, yanking so hard on the suit jacket on the body that it ripped.

“Beckett!” Hayes shouted with dismay and disgust. So much for being covert.

“It’s not him!” Beckett insisted, tearing open the jacket and shirt, frantic to prove he was right.

Hayes felt a migraine coming on. He’d known there would be no convincing his boyfriend of anything, one way or the other, until he’d laid eyes on his brother’s dead body, but he hadn’t expected—

“Beckett, he’s dead. You have to—”

“Look!” Beckett yelled, moving aside to let Hayes see—nothing, apparently.

“What?” Hayes asked, completely lost.

Beckett had ripped open the dress shirt and pulled the fabric away from the left shoulder to reveal a section of white, unblemished skin.

“Franklin had a tattoo of a star on his left shoulder! He got it when he was only 18! Our mother was so fucking pissed about it,” Beckett said, pointing at the clear patch of skin as definitive proof that this guy wasn’t Franklin.

“Are you sure he didn’t get it removed? Maybe it’s on the other shoulder.” Hayes didn’t want to doubt Beckett’s story, but this all sounded a bit farfetched.

Beckett shrugged and proceeded to rip off the fabric covering the right shoulder. With a dramatic wave of both hands, he gestured towards the unmarked shoulder he’d just exposed.

“He did not get that damned tattoo removed. He took a trip to Mexico last fall, and he still had it then because you can see it in lots of his Facebook pictures!” Beckett stared challengingly at Hayes.

His eyes pleaded, Believe me! Hayes wanted to, he really did but—

“Then who is this? And why would Franklin fake his own death?” Hayes was stymied, trying to come up with the reasons behind this stranger being buried in Franklin’s stead. Where the hell was Franklin then?