“Do you help with the autopsies and such?” she asks, grimacing prettily.
“Yes, most of them anyway.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“At times,” I admit. “Death is always somewhat disturbing. But I’m getting used to it. It’s really not that different from assisting with surgeries except that I don’t have to worry about whether or not the patient is stable.”
“No,” Gina says with a chuckle. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
“I’ve only been doing it for a few days, but I’ve learned a lot. It’s amazing how much science there is in death.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, there are several branches of forensic science, each one its own specialty. In addition to basic forensic pathology, which is what Izzy and I do, there are forensic odontologists who specialize in teeth, forensic anthropologists who specialize in bones, and forensic entomologists who specialize in bugs.”
Gina shudders.
“It all sounds rather grim at first,” I admit. “But there’s a real science to it and that’s the part of it I think I’m going to like the most. Biology, chemistry…even physics come into play. And the tiniest bits of evidence can prove to be significant—something as simple as a single hair or a bit of skin or even blood drops.”
Gina swallows hard and I realize what I’m doing. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Gina. What a great thing to talk about right before we eat, eh?”
“I’m okay,” she assures me. But she doesn’t look okay and I give myself a mental kick for being so stupid.
“Tell you what,” I say. “Let’s change the subject because there’s something else you can do for me.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been out of the gossip mill for the past couple of months and I’m completely out of touch with all the latest scuttlebutt. Can you bring me up to speed?”
“Now you’re talking,” Gina says. “Have you heard that Myra Baldwin is pregnant with triplets?”
Chapter 24
Talking and eating at the same time is a bit of a challenge for me, and by the time I leave Carver’s I have a mustard stain and a grease splotch on my blouse. I don’t realize I’m wearing part of my lunch until after I am in the car, so I pull in to a gas station and spend ten minutes in the rest room trying to clean the worst of it off, though all I manage to do is make the blotches bigger and very wet. Resigned to looking like a slob, I get back in my car and turn the heater on, aiming the vents at my chest. After fanning and fluffing for a few minutes, I head for the small industrial park that serves as home to Halverson Medical Supply.
An annoying buzzer sounds as I open the front door and enter what is essentially a showroom. But there is no slick marketing here, just several artfully discreet displays of infirmity. Shelves along the wall hold things like bedpans, adult diapers, and bed pads. Set up in the middle of the room are various hospitallike tableaux composed of electric beds, portable commodes, wheelchairs, walkers, and other sundry signs of illness.
There is no one around but I notice a metal door at the back of the room and, given the size of the building, assume there is additional space beyond it, most likely a small warehouse of sorts. I guess that whoever is working the store is back there, so I kill a little time browsing amid the sickroom dioramas, waiting to see if the door buzzer has announced my presence.
After thoroughly checking out the merchandise without anyone coming forward to greet me, I think about opening the door to trigger the buzzer again. Then I notice there are two desks with accompanying file cabinets near the back wall and realize I might be missing out on a golden opportunity. While I’m not quite brave enough to open drawers and snoop, I figure anything out on top of the desks is fair game. I know the odds of finding anything useful are slim, but I figure it’s still worth a shot. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
I move toward one of the desks and am close enough to just make out the writing on an invoice when the door to the back opens. I jump and flash a guilty smile at the tall, bald, gaunt-looking man who steps into the showroom. For a split second I think I know him, but on closer scrutiny I realize I am mistaken. Before the door closes all the way, I catch a quick glimpse of the room behind it. As I guessed, it is a warehouse area filled with more equipment and supplies.
“May I help you?” the man asks.
“Hi there,” I say, extending a hand. His handshake is quick but firm, the hand itself uncomfortably clammy. Now that I am here, I realize I haven’t thought things through very well. I have no idea how to approach the matter and, after a quick mental two-step, I decide to take the most direct approach. I lie.
“My name is Mattie and I’m a nurse in a doctor’s office. I heard through the grapevine that you are offering special deals for some of the docs so I thought I’d come by and check it out.”
His eyes narrow and he takes a step back. “Deals? I’m not sure what you mean by that.” He looks over his shoulder with a tense, wary expression, as if he thinks someone might be trying to sneak up on him.
“One of the surgeons told us about it. Dr. Arthur Henley?”
I watch closely for a reaction, but all he does is look over his shoulder again. As he does so, I notice a dark, bluish colored blotch on his neck and recognize it immediately—Kaposi’s sarcoma, an opportunistic form of cancer commonly found in AIDS patients. That explains his gaunt appearance. As I study his profile, I am again struck by the thought that something about him seems familiar and I wonder if he might have been a patient of mine in the past. This feeling of déjà vu is strong enough that I finally ask, “Have we met before?”
He looks back at me with an expression of surprise, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. And I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He turns and disappears back through the metal door, letting it close behind him. I stand there, stunned by his abrupt dismissal and wondering if I should follow him into the back to pursue the matter. Then I think that maybe instead I should take advantage of his departure by having another look at the stuff on the desk. I shift nervously from one foot to the other, wondering if he might return and debating how brave I am.
I can hear muffled voices emanating from the back, letting me know the man isn’t alone. While I can’t hear any specific words or even tell for sure what gender the voices are, the overall tone is one of strident discord, suggesting an argument of some sort. Curious, I move closer to the big metal door, craning my ear toward it as if that will somehow help the sound waves come through it better. I keep an eye on the front door; if someone comes strolling in, I don’t want to get caught eavesdropping. Doing it is one thing. Getting caught doing it is something else altogether.
As soon as I reach the door, everything in the back grows quiet. I wait several minutes and when nothing happens, I turn my attention back to the desks. I scan a pile of papers on top of the closest one and see that it is a stack of invoices, though there appear to be some different papers beneath them. Giving the front door another cursory glance, I reach over and push the invoices to one side. Just as I touch them, the phone on the desk rings with a harsh, shrill sound—not one of those modern, cricket-chirping rings—and between it and my guilt-edged nerves, I nearly jump out of my skin.
I back away from the desk quickly and stand a safe distance away, trying to make my heart settle down. A button on the phone flashes on and off as the thing rings and rings and rings. Somewhere around the fifth ring I start to count, making it to fifteen before the phone turns quiet and the flashing button goes dark.
It strikes me as odd that no one answered the call…. Odd and a bit spooky. I start to get a feeling that something isn’t right and cautiously make my way back to the metal door. I put my ear to the surface but can’t hear a thing. After a moment of debate, I grab the handle, depress the thumb latch, and slowly push the door open.