Greg sensed Ethan’s lack of comprehension and said, “Even this is incorrect.” He pointed a wrinkled index finger at one of the papers where a section indicated blood type. Finally something he could read; the notation ‘AB+’ stood out in clear print.
“That isn’t right,” Ethan mused.
“I know,” the medical examiner said. “I’m the one who did the work on your uncle’s blood. I clearly remember when I typed up the report I put AB negative in that field. The reason I remember is because it’s a rare blood type and we don’t get many of those.”
“I want to see the body — now,” Ethan said with a sharpness in his tone that wasn’t there before. His instincts were tingling like a real-life version of Spidey-sense.
The doctor consulted his paperwork again, and then went to one of the refrigeration units against the wall. Scanning the labels on the metal doors, he stopped at one and said, “Here we go — RU-4.”
He twisted the handle, releasing its latch, and pulled on the sliding metal drawer. The container breathed out a cloud of frigid air, and when the cold fog dispersed, they were staring at an empty slab.
20
Invasion of the Dead Body Snatchers
“What’s her name and where does she live, Greg?”
Despite the cold air circulating in the morgue, Greg was perspiring like he’d just finished a sprint. He readjusted his glasses — he’d been doing it nonstop since the discovery of Tobias’s missing body, and it was annoying the shit out of Ethan. “I’ll have to look that information up in the file room,” Greg said.
“Look it up then — quickly!”
“One moment.” Greg went to fetch the information. Ethan followed, despite the non-verbal request to wait. The man headed into the file room and opened a cabinet, thumbing through the folders until he came across the one in question and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Here she is. Becky — or, I mean, Dr. Rebecca Wilson. She lives at 14397 Juniper Way.” Greg looked at Ethan, pushing up his glasses once more. “If you’ll wait a moment, I can make a copy of this —”
Ethan snatched the page from Greg’s hand. Without saying another word, he left with the newly procured information, leaving the shaken doctor to contemplate the repercussions of losing a body in his morgue.
What was supposed to be a twenty minute drive took triple the time, courtesy of New York City drivers who had obvious difficulty remembering where the gas pedal was located on their vehicles.
Ethan now stood on the faded brick patio in front of the house and cross-checked the number on its door against the employee hire sheet. This was the right place, and the hood of the car in the driveway was still warm, so he knew she was here. He gave the heavy oak door three strikes with his fist. When it wasn’t answered right away impatience got the best of him, and he raised his arm to pound again just as the door opened a crack.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s eyes were skittish, yet Ethan noticed that she had a look of recognition on her face. Up close, he had a better view of Dr. Rebecca Wilson. She was a petite woman, and — now he realized — quite pretty in the right lighting.
“Yes Ma’am.” He pulled his trench coat open to expose the detective shield attached to his belt. “I believe I saw you this morning at the coroner’s office. I’m Detective Tannor. Do you remember me?”
“Not the name, but I remember seeing you.”
Ethan edged closer, staring into her wary eyes. “Could we talk inside?”
She began to open the door then pushed it back, alarm reddening her face and causing her breathing to quicken. “What’s this about?” Her voice hitched a little when she asked the question, like this wasn’t the first unpleasant encounter she’d had with an operative of the state.
“Just some routine questions about one of your autopsies,” he said, putting on his best smile. “Greg was unable to answer some of them and he mentioned that you were the lead examiner on the case I’m investigating.”
Her face relaxed and she stepped away, letting the door swing open. “Come in — I’d offer you coffee, but I work the night shift and was just getting ready for bed.”
“Thanks, I’d love some.” Ethan’s sarcasm was on auto-pilot, the result of his simmering anger. Now, he berated himself for allowing the inconvenience at the morgue to snowball down upon the exhausted woman.
She led him through a short, darkened hallway that creaked as they walked and into a small kitchen and dining room combo. Her hair was damp from a recent shower and the smell of honey and almonds left a beautiful trail through the house; the fragrance of her seemed to pull him along behind. She held her robe closed as she reached for a canister of Maxwell House. Then she hesitated and turned back to Ethan. “Regular or decaf, Mr. Tannor?”
“I don’t see the point in decaf,” he answered, not bothering to rebuke her for failing to use his title as he’d done with Greg. Perhaps her beauty had something to do with it. If Ethan wasn’t careful his tongue might start lolling out of his mouth, like those cartoon characters on TV.
Rebecca poured water into a kettle and placed it on an open flame of the gas stove. Then she pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, taking care to keep her garment in place, but not before Ethan caught a flash of naked thigh and lacy bra. Rather than ask him for permission to change into something more comfortable, she seemed determined to hurry up and conclude their business.
“Okay,” she said on an exhale. “Can I see the file?”
“Actually, I’m not here about an autopsy. I need to discuss a missing person with you.
Worry lines etched her forehead. “Shouldn’t you be dealing with the regular police department then?”
For a moment, he considered asking her what constituted an ‘irregular’ police department, but he decided against it. “The person in question — my uncle — happens to be the deceased. And until yesterday, he was an occupant at your morgue. Dr. Greg informed me the body disappeared on your watch, and I want to know where it is, Miss Wilson,” he said, intentionally omitting her professional title.
She fidgeted in her seat, readjusting her robe and glancing around self-consciously. She didn’t even bother to correct his lack of professional courtesy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ever since Ethan arrived, his cop intuition had been telling him that something about this woman wasn’t adding up to his previous assumptions — and something about the house, too. But he was so fixed on getting information from her — and so distracted by the curvaceous shape beneath the robe — that he couldn’t put a finger on what was amiss.
“Look Miss Wilson, I’m not here to arrest anyone; I just want answers. Where’s my uncle’s body, and why was it taken? Did someone break in last night?”
She was eerily quiet and sat very still, her eyes pensive.
“Is someone threatening you? Did anyone talk with you?”
She stared down at her hands and began fiddling with a ring on her finger. “I can’t!” she burst out and her eyes welled up with tears.
He adjusted the tone of his voice to that of calm assurance. “I’ve already said I’m only here to ask questions. I’m not going to arrest you — of this I promise. I just need to find out who stole his body and why his chart contained incorrect information.”
She glanced up in alarm and Ethan knew this vein of inquiry could lead him in the right direction.