The Funeral

The eulogy was terrible.

"I don't understand," the woman next to Max whispered. "I thought the paper said he was some sort of hero."

"It did." Max agreed, staring up at the front. Captain Moreno was obviously reading a boilerplate speech someone higher up had written, and was just as obviously pissed off about it.

"But they haven't mentioned any of that."

"No, they haven't." Max'd never had great expectations for the eulogy. She'd been to a lot of funerals, and eulogies tended to be the dullest part. Important to the family and friends, doubtless, but meaningless if you were a reporter who only knew what'd been in the obituary.

"The article said he had a partner... are they burying him here too?" The woman toyed with her hands. Her clothes were surprisingly casual—she must be just here to gawk, not to mourn—and very rumpled, like she'd spent the night in them.

Judging peoples clothes were how Max usually managed to get through eulogies Police funerals were a little less interesting for this than most—everyone was wearing uniforms. But even there, there was a difference between Captain Moreno's glittering and finely pressed uniform, Det. Silva's new and ill-fitting one, and Fusco's frantically-laundered-and-dry-cleaned-but-still-obviously-rumpled ensemble. And there were generally civilians, too. Dr. Campbell's dress looked expensive, but the effect was rather spoiled by her streaked make-up and red eyes. Zoe, sitting next to her, was a much more cohesive package of careful and expensive taste. Only the unnatural stiffness of her expression jarred with the image.

Max had been to enough funerals to have a specific "funeral dress"—black, of course, but not slinky-party-black, more flat, mournful black. You couldn't have a low neckline or be showing a lot of leg at a funeral. It wasn't totally different from Zoe's, or Iris's, or Mira Dobrica's (sitting next to her).

You could tell the people like them, people who had been to enough funerals to have a specific "funeral suit." Ian Wellington, for instance, was dressed in a simple, elegant black suit, with a white shirt and black tie. Oddly enough, Logan Pierce's looked exactly the same. Scott Powell had something similar, but it was clearly new, bought just for this occasion. Usually a person's "funeral suit" was something they'd first got for a very special death. Taylor Carter (who Max recognized from the papers a few years ago) wore the same suit he'd worn to his mother's funeral.

Most young people hadn't had enough death in their life for a funeral suit, and went for the nearest equivalent—the just-off navy-blue suit that blonde stock broker was wearing, or the slinky party dress the Asian woman five rows back had on. A defiant-looking blonde had apparently had nothing more mournful than a leatherjacket and black slacks. Others tried to do something "different..." Max's eyes were offended by the African-American teenager in the thick-rimmed glasses and sweater vest, who seemed to be attempting a "trendy" funeral look. Leon had decided to wear a black shirt and black tie with the black suit, and it just ended up looking more tacky than mournful. The dark-skinned executive woman, though—her business suit wasn't quite mournful, but much more fitting to the atmosphere.

Older people were interesting. Some of them wore "funeral suits" that had gone out of fashion years ago, like Lou Mitchell standing there in his triple-breasted suit and waistcoat, but others of them had clearly been to so many funerals that they no longer saw them as special. Max recognized a judge—Reynolds?—who wore the requisite black but a bright blue shirt underneath.

"Excuse me?" The woman was back. "Harold? The man's partner? Is he being buried here too today?"

Max sighed inwardly. She wondered how this gawker had managed to get a spot so close. Max's own contacts hadn't managed to get her better than ten rows from the front. She didn't WANT to know how Zoe'd managed to score her position right at the front. Every chair was occupied, some with businessmen, some with statesmen, some with celebrities. And beyond the chairs, a sea of black-clad mourners spilled onto the green grass, up to the hill and beyond Max's sight.

"There is no Harold." she told the woman, maybe a little curtly. "No body, anyway. The other corpses from the explosion couldn't be identified, so the morgue incinerated them."

There was a silence, then: "Oh."

Something in the tone made Max glance over and take a closer look at the woman. Her red hair was almost certainly dyed, but what was more interesting was the way her red-rimmed eyes were staring desperately toward the front, as if searching for something.

Max revised her 'gawker' analysis. "I'm sorry, I never asked... who are you?"

"Grace. Grace Hendricks. I... ah... manage a... an art gallery..." Grace was staring straight ahead, barely paying attention.

"Really." This woman seemed significant somehow. "Tell me, are you..."

But she had to stop. The eulogy was over, and silence had fallen. Captain Moreno stepped down. There was the honor guard, the 21-gun salute, the bagpipe solo. Fusco stepped up to the casket, smoothed his hand over it.

He looked over to Zoe and nodded.

Zoe Morgan, political fixer, rose stiffly to her feet, pulling Iris alongside. She stepped up to the coffin and laid a single red rose atop it. Then she turned around, looking almost challengingly at the crowd of policemen.

Or no, Max suddenly realized. Not at them. At the crowd behind them.

Judge Reynolds stepped forward. An officer tried to interpose, but between Zoe and the Judge, he had no chance. The venerable man, his son beside him, stepped up to the coffin and laid down his rose alongside Zoe's.

Directly behind Judge Morgan was one of the city's leading businessmen. Directly behind him was a hispanic taxicab driver. One by one, each approached the casket and laid a rose atop it.

Maxine watched them come forward. Most were just faces to her, but a few stood out. Lou Mitchell, hobbling on a cane, nearly fell over as he placed the flower. Leon, Candi on his arm. Mira, of course, and Scott Powell, with his family.

But even more interesting were the ones she didn't recognize. A richly-dressed young woman with a hard face. A dark skinned teenager in a trendy sweater-vest. A small girl, barely five, who looked up at her (grand?)parents for approval as she laid the rose. Another girl, this one around twelve, but apparently alone, face screwed tight in concentrated restraint. A coffee-skinned streetrunner, jaw jutting in what Max recognized as a defiant effort to hold back tears. A man and woman, obviously married, who kept glancing at each other in the ceremony as if reminded of something. A woman and another woman, also obviously married, the one with the flower being supported by her partner. A richly-dressed Hispanic girl.

On and on they came, and the police officers were starting to look a little shocked. There were a few variations—some laid a black rose, some laid white ones. Maxine half-expected Pierce to swamp the casket in bouquets or do something ostentatious like a gold-covered rose, but he (and Amy after him) laid a single simple red blossom. It was just as well—there was hardly room for any more. The coffin was nearly smothered in them.

Max hadn't brought a rose, but Logan pressed a spare one into her hand. She felt a little self-conscious as she marched up—following a middle-aged man that she took to be some sort of janitor—and dropped it gingerly atop the growing mound.

She heard a heavy sigh behind her, and turned to see Fusco, a white rose in his hand. Almost awkwardly, he tossed it onto the pile.

There was a silence. The policemen looked nervously at each other. The gawkers swept about with their smartphones, looking to see if anyone else was coming. Off in the distance, the sounds of the city could be heard: cars honking, dogs barking, the wind blowing through empty streets.

Zoe looked over at the funeral director and gave a curt nod of permission.

The funeral director pushed a button. The mountain of roses slowly flattened as the casket beneath them started to descend—a few rolled off, but bystanders quickly picked them up and tossed them back on—then buckled in the middle and poured into the open grave, a cascading flow of red petals.

And then it was over.

Captain Moreno found her as the crowd began to break up. "You ought to know." She muttered, shaking her hand. "That article of yours is sending Fusco through the wringer. Top brass is pretty pissed about how stupid this whole thing is making them look."

Max winced. She had been worried about that. "So far as I know," she said, "everything happened while he was in Narcotics. Nothing came up while he was working as Fusco's partner." Technically true, though Max had to wonder about Det. Silva's "happy accident."

Captain Moreno grunted. "Yeah, I read that too." She stated, glancing away. "Must have been doing SOMETHING during all those hours he was missing, though."

"Will Fusco be okay?" Max asked. The detective hadn't seemed too worried about the possible scandal when she'd mentioned it. He was something of a hero—if anyone could weather this, it would be him.

"Probably." Moreno agreed. "A slap on the wrist, but that's about it. Just the brass blowing off steam." Captain Moreno stuck out her hand. "I gotta get going, Max." Max shook it. There was just a second's pause, and then the captain said, "Damn fine article."

She let go, and moved away.

Max looked around. The police assembly was breaking up, but most of the crowd of strangers were still hanging around, in a sort of guilty silence. A few started to mill around, others made their way across the cemetery, apparently looking for other loved ones. Light talk began to filter through the air.

There was a girl, Maxine noticed, standing on the crest of the hill overlooking the grave. A short brunette, in a rough jacket, her left arm in a sling and some bandaging on her right shoulder. She made no move to approach the grave, or the crowd, but she was very clearly watching both.

On a whim, Max approached the girl. "Can I help you?" She asked.

The girl glanced at her but did not say anything. She was young—a little over twenty, Max guessed. She had a VERY intense look to her.

"I'm Maxine Angelis." A grunt was her only answer. "From the paper."

Another grunt. "Claire." The girl said at length. That seemed to be the only information she was willing to share.

"Are you all right?" Max probed a little deeper. "Your arm-"

"It's fine." The girl said, curtly.

It looked broken. Max waited a few moments before trying another tack. "Was John a... friend of yours?" She asked.

"Not really." The girl said, turning back to the hill.

Max decided to test her. "Was Harold?"

A sidelong glance, but nothing more. Still Max was satisfied. Anything less than utter confusion proved her theory. This girl knew. "There's... a wake being held." She ventured. "Some of us are getting together at Dobrica's to..."

"They didn't have to die, you know." The girl suddenly burst out. "They could have joined, they could have..." She broke off whatever she was saying. "I told him..." She whispered, almost on the verge of tears.

Max blinked at her, mind whirling.

"I told him it was stupid. I told him it was pointless." The girl shook her head.

"I... I should go." The girl announced, stepping back. "I need to go..." Hesitation. She seemed unsure. "I need to go." She repeated.

"Where?" Max asked.

"Somewhere. Anywhere. Not here." The girl passed a hand through her hair. She looked down at the grave, one last time. "They didn't have to." She repeated. "No one wanted them to. No one asked them to save me."

A/N: I apologize for this taking so long. It's short, and actually a version of it was already written when I completed the last chapter (this was basically the second thing I wrote, after the first chapter). But... well, it's the funeral. I wanted to do it right, and I had too many threads to fill. It kept feeling not quite right.

And then I went to a funeral last Saturday. And things fell into place. It's still not quite where I'd like it to be, but it's the closest I can do.

And also, I decided that this is not, as I originally planned, going to be the last chapter. Because you don't call a story The Wake and then not actually show the wake that comes after the funeral. So that'll be the last chapter. A final chance to hear the stories.