He had an hour before he was due at the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home, and he wanted to review some data on the complications of using less-than-fully-cross-matched blood for emergency transfusions.
His call to the home earlier that day had been answered by a tape in which Donald Devine, to the accompaniment of strings, had introduced himself and promised to be back by ten. The music and the man's unctuous telephone voice bordered on parody, and Eric had formed an image of him that included an elongated face, sloping shoulders, and a waxed mustache. He had left a message outlining his interest in John Doe and stating that, unless he heard otherwise, he would stop by the Gates of Heaven between ten and eleven.
He was entering the long corridor from the lobby to the Bigelow Building when Dave Subarsky fell into step beside him. Subarsky was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and an M.I.T sweatshirt. He had an armload Of bound journals and textbooks wedged between his forearm and his beard.
"Library?" he asked.
"Where else?"
Subarsky shrugged. "At this hour? How about home?"
"You mean this isn't my home? Damn, now he tells me."
"You look a little more tired than usual, old buddy."
Subarsky used his key-card to open the library door.
"I am, I guess," Eric said. "There's just been a lot going on.
Tonight they brought in this fifty-seven-year-old guy with four kids. He was up and walking around one moment, coughed and dead the next. I explained to his wife that we were working on him, but that he was essentially brain-dead. She begged me not to call off the resuscitation. So we tried. For more than an hour we tried just about everything, but there wasn't a damn thing we could do."
"That's just the way it is," Subarsky said, setting his pile of journals on a reading table. "God shoots…
He scores!"
"Touchingly put, David. You are a true nonchnician. But fortunately, every so often, if we do things right it hits the post."
"Mayhap," Subarsky said. "Listen, how about a beer after we finish here?"
"Can't. I'm going over to see a guy at the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home."
"Always planning ahead. I like that in you, Eric."
"I'm trying to track down a John Doe we worked on back in February. In fact, it was that day we used the laser."
"God, I hope he's not still there." Subarsky held his nose.
"He might be actually. The M.E. won't release a body until they have a signed authorization from a next of kin. Sometimes they hang on to them for six or seven months before they give up and have the Commonwealth spring for a burial. And unless foul play is suspected, they won't ever do an autopsy.
They're as terrified of lawyers as the rest of us."
"I can see the headlines now: PATHOLOGIST BOTCHES AUTOPSY, GETS SUED FOR MALPRACTICE."
"Believe it or not, it happens."
"I've never been to a funeral home. "Want company?
"Actually, I could do with a little moral support.
On tape at least, the proprietor of the place sounded mondo bizarre.
Digger O'Dell, the friendly undertaker.
"Sounds like my kinda guy."
"In that case, you're on. Between the resuscitation we just called off and the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home, I have a feeling I'm going to need a beer or two tonight."
"My treat," Subarsky said.
The Gates of Heaven Funeral Home was hardly a place to inspire poetic thoughts about the eternal, It occupied a shabby building on a dingy side street six blocks from White Memorial. The windowless place was painted black, and the ornately lettered sign above the entryway was peering. Beside the door was a small wooden plaque, hand-painted with the ambiguous motto: ENTER HERE IN COMFORT: GO IN PEACE. D. DEVINE, DIRECTOR
Several windows in what seemed to be an apartment on the second story were lit.
"Nice place," Eric said.
"Positively inspirational," Subarsky added.
"Makes one want to rush right out and die."
Eric gestured at the doorbell. "Want to do the honors?"
"Be my guest. But first check around your feet for any signs of a trapdoor."
Eric depressed the small lacquered button, setting off a series of six or seven chimes which were loud enough to echo down the empty street.
They were playing a melody he recognized, but could not identify.
"Dr. Najarian, I presume?"
Donald Devine's voice flowed forth from a speaker built in over the doorway. Eric swore he could hear violin music playing in the background.
"That's right," Eric said. "I hope this isn't too late."
"Hardly. Hardly. I'll be right down."
"Perry Como," Subarsky whispered. "And a damn good Perry at that."
A pair of lights recessed beside the speaker flicked on, and moments later Donald Devine opened the Gates of Heaven. Had there been a contest to design a mortician, Devine might well have been the winning entry. Thin, almost cadaverous build; sallow complexion; round, wire-rimmed glasses; coal-black three-piece suit; thinning hair, pomaded to his scalp; he was at once prototype and caricature, a man in his forties trying diligently to look sixty.
Eric introduced himself and David. Devine led them inside. The decor of the Gates of Heaven was baroque and musty, and generic string music played through speakers in every room. The air was heavily perfumed, but through the bouquet Eric could still detect the familiar, unmistakable odor of formaldehyde.
"Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Devine asked, escorting them past a small chapel to a reception area. "Some wine? A little tea?"
Both declined. Devine poured'himself a goblet of burgundy and then turned down the music from a panel on the wall.
"Pardon me for asking," Eric said, "but is Devine your real name?"
Devine turned to him, his fingertips touching to form a steeple.
"Donald Devine is, in fact, my real name now. I had it legally changed a number of years ago."
"And, it does go nicely with the job."
"Yes, I think it makes a statement of sorts. It helps put my clients' loved ones at ease."
Devine. Eric wondered if the misspelling was intentional.
Donald Devine motioned them to a pair of heavily brocaded love seats.
Then he withdrew a file from the drawer of a small writing desk with glass-ball feet.
"Now then," he said, "you mentioned in your message that you were interested in the ultimate fate of Mr. Thomas Jordan."
"Thomas Jordan?"
"You did say the death of your patient occurred on February twenty-seventh, did you not?"
"That's right."
"Well then, this must be your man." Devine flipped through the file but did not hand it over. "John Doe; Caucasian male; late thirties; acute and chronic alcoholism; probable cardiac arrest due to arteries… art-er-i-"
"Arteriosclerosis," Eric said, glancing over at Subarsky.
"Exactly-', "How did you find out his name was Thomas Jordan?"
"Fingerprints, I believe. The M.E. does all that stuff."
"Dr. Bushnell?"
Donald Devine looked up from the file and seemed momentarily startled.
Then he smiled.
"Precisely," he said. "Dr. Bushnell. Getting along in years but still as sharp as any of them. He made the ID and located the man's sister in'!-he consulted the file again-"Chicago. The woman gave him authorization to release the body. We did the rest."
"Doesn't she have to come in and view it in person?" Eric asked.
"Not with a positive fingerprint ID. all she needs to do is get a notarized statement that she is who she says she is, and she can do the whole thing long distance. I think when she found out what her brother did for a living, which apparently was to drink, she lost her enthusiasm for a trip east."
Eric felt a growing sense of relief. For once, Tern Dillard had been mistaken. John Doe was not Laura Enders's brother. He was not a scuba-diving computer wizard. He was Thomas Jordan, a down-and-out alcoholic with a sister who scarcely cared that he had died.