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.
Chapter 10
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 o!d 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.