Shadowfires

“At that point the attendant, not expecting violence,
could be overpowered, and the intruder could force his way
inside.”
    “Possibly,” Kordell said, his thin face drawing into a sharp
scowl. “But that's never happened.”
    “The attendants on duty today swear that they logged in everyone
who came and went-and allowed only authorized personnel to enter?”
    “They swear,” Kordell said.
    “And you trust them all?”
    “Implicitly. Everyone who works here is aware that the bodies in
our custody are the remains of other
people's loved ones, and we know we have a solemn-even sacred-responsibility to protect those remains while we're
in charge of them. I think
that's evident in the security arrangements I've just shown you.”
    “Then,” Benny said, “someone either had to pick the lock-“
    “It's virtually unpickable.”
    “Or someone slipped into the morgue while the outer door was open
for legitimate visitors, hid out, waited until he was the only living
person inside, then spirited Dr. Leben's body away.”
    “Evidently yes. But it's so unlikely that-”
    Rachael said, “Could we go back inside, please?”
    “Certainly,” Kordell said at once, eager to please. He stepped out
of her way.
    She returned to the morgue corridor, where the cold air carried a
faint foul smell beneath the heavy scent of pine disinfectant.

----
5 UNANSWERED
QUESTIONS
    In the holding room where the cadavers
awaited autopsy, the air was even colder than in the morgue's corridor. Glimmering strangely in all metal surfaces, the stark fluorescent light imparted a wintry sheen to the stainless-steel gurneys and to the bright stainless-steel handles and hinges on the cabinets along the walls. The glossy white enamel finish of the chests and cabinets, though surely no thicker than an eighth of an inch, had a curiously deep-even bottomless-appearance similar to the mysterious, lustrous depth of a landscape of moon-washed snow.
    She tried not to look at the shrouded bodies and refused to think
about what might lie in some of the enormous cabinet drawers.
    The fat man in the madras jacket was Ronald Tescanet, an attorney
representing the
city's interests. He had been called away from dinner to be on hand when Rachael spoke with the police and, afterward, to discuss the disappearance of her husband's
body. His voice was too mellifluous, almost greasy, and he was so
effusively sympathetic that his condolences poured forth like warm
oil from a bottle. While the police questioned
    Rachael, Tescanet paced in silence behind them, frequently
smoothing his thick black hair with his plump white hands, each of
which was brightened by two gold and diamond rings.
    As she had suspected, the two men in dark suits were plainclothes
police. They showed Rachael their ID cards and badges. Refreshingly,
they did not burden her with unctuous sympathy.
    The younger of the two, beetle-browed and burly, was Detective
Hagerstrom. He said nothing at all, leaving the questioning entirely
to his partner. He stood unmoving, like a rooted oak, in contrast to
the attorney's ceaseless roaming. He watched with small brown eyes that gave Rachael the impression of stupidity at first; but after a while, on reconsideration, she realized that he possessed a higher than average intelligence which he kept carefully veiled.
    She worried that somehow Hagerstrom, by virtue of a cop's almost magical sixth sense, would pierce her deception and see the knowledge that she was concealing. As inconspicuously as possible, she avoided meeting his gaze.
    The older cop, Detective Julio Verdad, was a small man whose
complexion was the shade of cinnamon and whose black eyes had a vague
trace of purple like the skins of ripe plums. He was a sharp dresser:
a well-tailored blue suit, dark but summerweight; a white shirt that
might have been silk, with French cuffs held together by gold and
pearl cuff links; a burgundy necktie with a gold tie chain instead of
a clip or tack; dark burgundy Bally loafers.
    Although Verdad spoke in clipped sentences and was almost curt,
his voice was unfailingly quiet and gentle. The contrast between his
lulling tone and his brisk manner was disconcerting. “You've seen their security, Mrs. Leben.”
    “Yes.”
    “And are satisfied?”
    “I suppose.”
    To Benny, Verdad said, “You are?”
    “Ben Shadway. An old friend of Mrs. Leben's.”
    “Old school friend?”
    “No.”
    “A friend from work?”
    “No. Just a friend.”
    The plum-dark eyes gleamed. “I