C is for Corpse (11 page)

“That's all right. Did he have desk space down here?”

“He had a desk up front, but that was cleared out, oh, I'd say within a day of the accident. Nobody thought he'd survive, you know, and we had to bring somebody else in pretty quickly. This place is a madhouse most of the time.”

“What happened to his things?”

“I dropped them by the house myself. There wasn't much, but we put what we came across in a cardboard box and I passed it on to Derek. I don't know what he did with it, if anything. Glen was at the hospital twenty-four hours a day at that point.”

“Do you remember what was in it?”

“His desk? Odds and ends. Office things.”

I made a note to myself to check for the box. I supposed there was a chance it was still at the house somewhere. “Can you walk me through Bobby's day and show me what sorts of things he did?”

“Sure. Actually, he divided his time between the lab and the morgue out in the old county medical facility on Frontage Road. I've got to make a run out there anyway and you can ride along if you like, or follow in your car if that's easier.”

“I thought the morgue was here.”

“We've got a small one here, just off the autopsy room. We've got another morgue out there.”

“I didn't realize there was more than one.”

“We needed the added space for the contract work we do. St. Terry's maintains a few offices out there too.”

“Really. I didn't think that old county building was still in use.”

“Oh yes. There's a private radiology group that works out there, and we've got storage rooms for medical records. It's a bit of a hodgepodge, but I don't know what we'd do without it.”

He glanced over as Marcy came in with two mugs, her gaze carefully affixed to the surface of the coffee, which was threatening to slop over the sides. She was young, dark-haired, no makeup. She looked like the sort of person you'd want holding your hand if the lab techs did something excruciating.

“Thank you, Marcy. Just on the edge of the desk here is fine.”

She set the mugs down and gave me a quick smile on her way out.

Dr. Fraker and I discussed the office procedures while we drank the coffee and then he took me on a tour of the lab, explaining Bobby's various responsibilities,
all of which seemed routine and not very important at that. I made a note of the names of a couple of his coworkers, thinking I might talk to them at a later date.

I waited while he took care of a few details and signed out, telling Marcy where he'd be.

I followed him to the freeway in my car, heading toward the former county hospital. The complex was visible from the highway: a sprawling labyrinth of yellowing stucco and red tile roofs that had turned nearly rust-brown with age. We passed it, took the next off-ramp, and circled back along Frontage Road, turning left into the main driveway.

County General had once been a flourishing medical facility, designed to serve the entire Santa Teresa community. It was secondarily earmarked as the treatment center for the indigent, funded through various social-service agencies. As the years passed, it came to be associated with the underprivileged: welfare recipients, illegal aliens, and all the unfortunate victims of Saturday-night crime sprees. Gradually, County General was shunned by both the middle class and the well-to-do. Once MediCal and Medicare came into effect, even the poor opted for St. Terry's and other local private hospitals, turning this place into a ghost town.

There was a sprinkling of cars in the parking lot. Temporary wooden signs shaped like arrows directed the visitor to Medical Records, nursing offices, Radiology, the morgue, and departments representing obscure branches of medicine.

Dr. Fraker parked his car and I pulled into the slot
next to his. He got out, locked up, and waited while I did the same. A modest attempt was being made to maintain the grounds, but the driveway itself was cracked, coarse weeds beginning to sprout through the asphalt. The two of us headed toward the main entrance without saying much. He seemed to take the place for granted, but I found it all vaguely unsettling. The architecture was, of coarse, of the usual Spanish styling: wide porches along the front, deeply recessed windows faced with wrought-iron bars.

We went in, pausing in a spacious lobby. It was clear that over the years some attempt had been made to “modernize” the place. Fluorescent lighting was now tucked up against the high ceilings, throwing down illumination too diffuse to satisfy. Once-grand anterooms had been partitioned off. Counters had been built across two of the interior arches but there was no furniture in the reception area and no one awaiting admission. The very air was permeated with the smell of abandonment and neglect. From the far end of the dim hallway to our right, I could hear a typewriter clacking, but it sounded like an old manual, operated by an amateur. There was no other indication of occupancy.

Dr. Fraker gave me a perfunctory tour. According to him, Bobby had made the round-trip as needed between this place and St. Terry's, picking up inactive files for patients readmitted to the hospital after an interval of years, hand-delivering X rays and autopsy reports. Old charts were automatically retired to the storage facilities out here. Of course, most data was kept on computer now, but there was still a backlog of
paper that had to be warehoused somewhere. Bobby apparently also did some moonlighting out here, taking the graveyard shift for morgue attendants who were out sick or on vacation. Dr. Fraker indicated that this was largely a babysitting function, but that Bobby had put in a considerable number of hours during the two months he was on the job.

We were on our way downstairs by then, descending a wide staircase of red Spanish tile, our footsteps resounding at a hollow, mismatched pace. Because the hospital is constructed against a hillside, the rear of the building is below ground, while the front portion looks out onto paths partially overgrown with shrubs. It was darker down here, as though the utilities had been cut back for the sake of economy. The temperature was cool and the air was scented with formaldehyde, that acrid deodorant for the deceased. An arrow on the wall pointed us to Autopsy. I began to armor myself against the images my senses were conjuring up.

Dr. Fraker opened the door with its frosted-glass panel. I didn't actually hesitate before entering, but I did do a quick visual scan to assure myself that we weren't interrupting some guy with a boning knife filleting a corpse. Dr. Fraker seemed to sense my apprehension and he touched at my elbow briefly.

“There's nothing scheduled,” he said and led the way.

I smiled uneasily and followed. At first glance, the place seemed deserted. I noted walls of apple-green ceramic tile, long stainless-steel counters with lots of drawer space. This was like a high-tech kitchen in a
decorator magazine, complete with a stainless-steel island in the middle that sported its own wide sink, tall crook-necked faucets, a hanging scale, and drainboard. I felt my mouth set in distaste. I knew what was prepared here and it wasn't food.

A swinging door on the far side of the room was pushed open and a young man in surgical greens backed in, pulling a gurney after him. The body on the cart was wrapped in a dense, tawny plastic that obscured age and sex. A toe tag was visible and I could see a portion of the dark head, blank face swaddled in plastic like a mummy's. It reminded me vaguely of the caution spelled out now on dry cleaners' bags: “warning: To avoid danger of suffocation, keep away from babies and children. Do not use in cribs, beds, carriages, or playpens. This bag is not a toy.” I averted my gaze, taking in a deep breath then just to prove I could.

Dr. Fraker introduced me to the attendant, whose name was Kelly Borden. He was in his thirties, big and soft-bodied, with fuzzy, prematurely graying hair pulled back in a fat braid that extended halfway down his back. He had a beard, a handlebar mustache, mild eyes, and a wristwatch that looked like it would keep time on the ocean floor.

“Kinsey's a private investigator looking into Bobby Callahan's accident,” Dr. Fraker said.

Kelly nodded, his expression neutral. He rolled the gurney over to what looked like a big refrigerator case and eased it in beside a second gurney, also occupied. Roommates, I guessed.

Dr. Fraker looked back at me. “I've got some things
to take care of upstairs. Why don't I leave you two alone and you can ask him anything you want. Kelly worked with him. Maybe he can fill you in and then we can talk again, when you see what's what.”

“Great,” I said.

 

 

 

 

Once Dr. Fraker left, Kelly Borden got out a spray bottle of disinfectant that he began to squirt on the stainless-steel counters, wiping everything down methodically. I wasn't sure he really needed to do it, but it allowed him to keep his eyes averted. It was a polite way of ignoring me, but I didn't object. I used the time to circle the room, peering into glass-fronted cabinets filled with scalpels, forceps, and grim little hacksaws.

“I thought there'd be more bodies,” I said.

“In there.”

I glanced over at the door he'd come through. “Can I look?”

He shrugged.

I crossed and opened the door, which had a temperature gauge beside it reading forty degrees. The room, about the size of my apartment, was lined with fiberglass pallets arranged in tiers like bizarre bunk beds. There were eight bodies in evidence, most wrapped in
the same yellowing plastic, through which I could discern, in some cases, arms and legs and seeping injuries, blood and body fluids condensing on the surface of the plastic wrap. Two bodies were covered with sheets. An old woman, lying on the pallet nearest me, was naked, as still as wood and looking faintly dehydrated. A dramatic Y-shaped cut had been made down the middle of her body, sewn back in big clumsy stitches, like a chicken, stuffed and trussed. Her breasts were splayed outward like old beanbags and her pubic area was almost as hairless as a young girl's. I wanted to cover her, but what was the point? She was beyond cold, beyond pain, modesty, or sex. I watched her chest, but there was no reassuring rise and fall. Death was beginning to seem like a parlor trick—how long can you hold your breath? I felt myself breathing deeply again, not wanting to participate. I closed the door, stepping back into the warmth of the autopsy room. “How many can you accommodate?”

“Fifty, maybe, in a pinch. I've never seen more than eight or so.”

“I thought most people went straight to a mortuary.”

“They do if they've died of natural causes. We get everything else. Homicide victims, suicides, accidents, any death of a suspicious or unusual nature. Most of those are autopsied and then released to a mortuary in a relatively short period of time. Of the ten we have on hand, some are indigents. A couple of 'em are John Does we're holding in hopes we'll get a positive I.D. Sometimes burial arrangements are pending so we
hold a body for the next of kin. Two we've had around for years. Franklin and Eleanor. Like mascots.”

I crossed my arms, feeling chilled, shifting the subject back to the living. “Do you know Bobby very well?” I asked. I turned and leaned against the wall, watching him polish the faucet handles on the stainless-steel sink.

“I hardly know him at all. We worked different shifts.”

“How long have you worked out here?”

“Five years.”

“What else do you do with your time?”

He paused, looking up at me. He didn't seem to like the personal questions, but he was too polite to say so. “I'm a musician. I play jazz guitar.”

I stared at him for a minute, hesitating. “Have you ever heard of Daniel Wade?”

“Sure. He was a local jazz pianist. Everybody's heard of him. He hasn't been around town in years, though. He a friend of yours?”

I moved away from the wall, taking up my rounds. “I was married to him once.”

“
Married
to him?”

“That's right.” There were some jars filled with a brackish liquid in which body parts were marinating. I wondered if there might be a pickled heart tucked in among all the livers, kidneys, and spleens.

Kelly went back to his work. “Incredible musician,” he remarked in a tone of voice that was part caution, part respect.

“That he is,” I said, smiling at the irony. I never
talked about this stuff and it seemed odd to be doing it in an autopsy room to a morgue attendant in surgical greens.

“What happened to him?” Kelly asked.

“Nothing. He was in New York last I heard. Still playing his music, still on drugs.”

He shook his head. “God, the talent that guy has. I never really knew him, but I used to see him every chance I got. I can't understand why he never got anywhere.”

“The world is full of talented people.”

“Yeah, but he's smarter than most. At least from what I heard.”

“Too bad I wasn't as smart as he was. I could have saved myself a lot of grief,” I said. Actually, the marriage, though brief, had been the best few months of my life. Daniel had the face of an angel back then . . . clear blue eyes, a cloud of yellow curls. He always reminded me of some artist's rendering of a Catholic saint—lean and beautiful, ascetic-looking, with elegant hands and an unassuming air. He exuded innocence. He just couldn't be faithful, couldn't lay off the drugs, couldn't stay in one place. He was wild and funny and corrupt, and if he came back today, I can't swear I'd turn him down, whatever he asked.

I let the conversation lapse and Kelly, prompted by the silence, finally spoke up.

“What's Bobby doing these days?”

I glanced back at him. He had perched himself on a tall wooden stool, the rag and disinfectant on the counter to his left.

“He's still trying to get his life back together,” I said. “He works out every day. I don't know what else he does with his time. I don't suppose you have any idea what was going on back then, do you?”