D Is for Deadbeat

tried to notify Mother and he interceded. The doctor has her so doped up it doesn't make any sense to tell her yet. He's worried about how she'll take it, as unstable as she is."
    "Is your uncle coming down?"
    She shook her head. "I said I'd do it. There's no doubt it's Daddy, but somebody has to sign for the body so the mortuary can come pick it up. Of course, they'll autopsy first. How did you find out?"
    "Through a cop I know. I'd told him I was trying to get a line on your father, so he called me when they got a match on the fingerprints. Did you manage to locate him yesterday?"
    "No, but it's clear someone did." She closed her umbrella and gave it a shake, then glanced at me. "Frankly, I'm assuming somebody killed him."
    "Let's not be too quick off the mark," I said, though privately, I agreed.
    The two of us moved through the inner door and into the corridor. The air was warmer here and smelled of latex paint.
    "I want you to look into it for me, in any event," she said.
    "Hey, listen. That's what the police are for. I don't have the scope for that. Why don't you wait and see what they have to say first?"
    She studied me briefly and then moved on. "They don't give a damn what happened to him. Why would they care? He was a drunken bum."
    "Oh come on. Cops don't have to care," I said. "If it's homicide, they have a job to do and they'll do it well."
    When we reached the autopsy room, I knocked and a young black morgue attendant came out, dressed in surgical greens. His name tag indicated that his name was Hall Ingraham. He was lean, his skin the color of pecan wood with a high-gloss finish. His hair was cropped close and gave him the look of a piece of sculpture, his elongated face nearly stylized in its perfection.
    "This is Barbara Daggett," I said.
    He looked in her direction without meeting her eyes. "You can wait right down here," he said. He moved two doors down and we followed, pausing politely while he unlocked a viewing room and ushered us in.
    "It'll be just a minute," he said.
    He disappeared and we took a seat. The room was small, maybe nine by nine, with four blue molded-plastic chairs hooked together at the base, a low wooden table covered with old magazines, and a television screen affixed, at an angle, up in one corner of the room. I saw her gaze flick to it.
    "Closed circuit," I said. "They'll show him up there."
    She picked up a magazine and began to flip through it distractedly. "You never really told me why he hired you," she said. An ad for pantyhose had apparently caught her eye and she studied it as if my reply were of no particular concern.
    I couldn't think of a reason not to tell her at this point, but I noticed that I censored myself to some extent, a habit of long standing. I like to hold something back. Once information is out, it can't be recalled so it's better to exercise caution before you flap your mouth. "He wanted me to find a kid named Tony Gahan," I said.
    That remarkable two-toned gaze came up to meet mine and I found myself trying to decide which eye color I preferred. The green was more unusual, but the blue was clear and stark. The two together presented a contradiction, like the signal at a street corner, flashing Walk and Don't Walk simultaneously.
    "You know him?" I asked.
    "His parents and a younger sister were the ones killed in the accident, along with two other people in the car with them. What did Daddy want with him?"
    "He said Tony Gahan helped him once when he was on the run from the cops. He wanted to thank him."
    Her look was incredulous. "But that's bullshit!"
    "So I gather," I said.
    She might have pressed for more information, but the television screen flashed with snow at that moment and then flipped over to a closeup of John Daggett. He was lying on a gurney, a sheet neatly pulled up to his neck. He had the blank, plastic look that death sometimes brings, as if the human face were no more than an empty page on which the lines of emotion and experience are transcribed and then erased. He looked closer to twenty years old than fifty-five, with a stubble of beard and hair carelessly arranged. His face was unmarked.
    Barbara stared at him, her lips parting, her face diffused with pink. Tears rose in her eyes and hung there, captured in the well of her lower lids. I looked away from her, unwilling to intrude any more than I had to. The morgue attendant's voice reached us through the intercom.
    "Let me know when you're done."
    Barbara turned away