C Is for Corpse

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
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    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