Rescue

handle, and the drawer snicked out on its casters, coming to a sudden, vibrating halt between Guinness and me.
    The technician whipped the sheet back over the body and own to the waist. There’s no sense of modesty in a morgue, no further indignities that can give the dead any final offense. Just glary lighting searing vivid memories into the minds of even occasional visitors like me.
    I looked down. There wasn’t much left of the face, the eye sockets empty, the features and the teeth staved in here, pushed out there from the fall or the rocks or the creatures you prefer not to picture. The hair seemed a shade darker, but it had been in the water for a while. The body type was about right, the flesh more flaccid in death than in life as I remembered her. There were no surgical marks on the chest or scalp.
    I said, “When’s the autopsy?“
    “Not scheduled,“ said the technician.
    I looked up at him. “How come?’
    Guinness said, “Not that it’s any of your business, Cuddy, but in case you haven’t been keeping up with the news, the M.E.’s got stiffs stacked around this place like fucking cord-wood. Unless I can give him a reason for cutting on this one, she stays a virgin.“
    I looked at Guinness this time, then back down to the body. The left hand had an irregular bleach mark where the Cracker Jacks ring would have been.
    I said, “Was she wearing a ring on that finger when you found the body?“
    Guinness said, “What kind of ring?“
    “Any kind.“
    “No. No jewelry.“
    “Car keys?“
    “There was nothing on her.“
    “Wallet even?“
    “What’s the matter, you deaf or what? Nothing is nothing-’-
    Very evenly, I said, “How about a scrunchy.“
    “A what?“
    “One of those puffy ribbons a woman wears to keep hef hair back.“
    “No. She was just in shorts and a T-shirt and panties.“ ?
    “Colors?“ J
    “Blue shorts, I think. The T-shirt might be green or blue, I never saw the clothes dry.“
    “Shoes?“
    “Just some kind of old sneakers.“
    I thought about it. The guy in the GMC pickup staves in her face, wrecking the teeth for dental matching. Then he takes everything off her that seems distinctive but leaves the bare minimum of clothing. That way, if the body’s found, it looks like it went in fee water and bounced off the rocks on its own.
    “Well?“ said Guinness.
    “I think it’s her.“
    “Finally. What’s her name?“
    “Melinda.“
    “M-E-L-I-N-D-A?“
    “I guess so. Never saw it written down.“
    “Last name?“
    “Never heard it.“
    “What?“
    “I said I never heard it.“
    “The fuck you jerking me around for, Cuddy? You say you can ID her, and you don’t even know her fucking last name?“
    “ Maybe there’ll be something in the car.“
    “What car?“
    I looked at him steadily. “The one at the bridge by the channel.“
    Guinness seemed as though he was going to protest over too, but something about what he saw in my face led him to pass on it.

    I said, “Can you show me?“
    Guinness took a loud breath, pushing open the passenger door of the Prelude and walking to the railing on the bridge to join me. He pointed vaguely toward the right bank of the channel. “Fishermen said they spotted her over there first. Just thought it was a barrel or something till she got closer.“
    “ They pull her out?“
    “Shit, no. One of them stayed here while the other one went and phoned 911. The one that stayed made out he was kind of hero for watching over things alone.“
    “Can I have their names?“
    A smug grin. “When you give me hers.“
    I took a breath myself, “Where was she when you got here?“
    “Still in the water, hanging-ten with her face against the rocks and pilings.“
    “The uniforms didn’t beat you here?“
    “Hey, like you said, our station’s only a mile away.“
    I oriented myself to what the photo angle in the Globe had been, then turned around. There was the faded daisy, on the antenna of the Dodge Swinger, slumped into a parking space. I walked toward it, Guinness following behind me and making noises like you’d hear on the twentieth mile of a forced march.
    When I stopped at the Dodge, his voice said, “This the car?“
    “Yes.“
    “You sure of that?“
    I gestured toward the daisy. “This is it.“
    “All right. Let me get the plate.“
    As Guinness took out a pad and moved to the rear bumper, I said, “B-A-T-6-1-1, New Hampshire .“
    He looked down, then back at me. “The fuck it