Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005
- Автор: Dean David, Dempsey Timothy F.
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN 1054-8122
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
Around two that afternoon, Ludlow left to pick up a donation. Trying to look as casual as possible, I pulled on a ski sweater and covered myself with some scrubs. I put on a face mask and a pair of paper bootees — no small trick over boots — and unlocked the cooler with the key Dr. Cannon had given me. It let me into a foyer with big rubber-gasketed doors on the opposite side. When I stepped onto the welcome mat, they whooshed open, loud and unnerving, then whooshed closed behind me.
The place was like a huge refrigerated safe-deposit box vault, metallic and sterile and overlit once the motion detectors switched on the overheads. A smell like rotten meat kept getting worse as I walked inside. I pretended that it didn’t bother me. There must have been more than a hundred drawers, all labeled with identification numbers that didn’t correspond to anything on the lists I had printed out. Being systematic, I went straight over to the far left side, top row of five, using a wheeled ladder provided for the purpose. There were gurneys with lifters to get the contents of the top drawers out, but I didn’t try to understand how they worked because I wasn’t taking anything with me. I slid the first door open and was relieved that the occupant had been loaded head-in, with only a pair of small marble-white feet to look at when I opened the drawer.
Even if I didn’t have to look the cadaver in the face, I felt my throat tightening up on me, my eyes filling. This was not fun, and I pushed the door shut before I remembered what I was there to do. I reopened it, and saw that there was indeed a toe-tag, like the morgues use, hanging down with the name Pearl Jacobs, date of death and donation, and the same reference number as on the outside of the drawer. I checked my list for Pearl Jacobs, and it took a while since it wasn’t in alpha order, but there she was, waiting for dissection by a gerontological-medicine lab class in a couple of weeks.
I hurried across the first row, maybe twenty drawers, with all the names checking out where there was a toe tag, but some cadavers didn’t have any. Then I noticed something important: I could see from the dates that the only ones with toe tags were from the old administrator, before Ludlow took over. I also noticed that the typeface for the number-identification labels on the outside of the drawers was different for each of the two groups, which had been interspersed. Why? Out of laziness or incompetence, or to disguise a deception? At the end of the bottom row, several of the drawers from his regime were empty despite having identification numbers — with no record of disposition I could find. Bad record-keeping, to say the least. Something strange was being done, but I would need more time and information to sort it out.
A quick time check gave me at least fifteen minutes before Ludlow returned, if I didn’t freeze first. I now knew which drawers held bodies donated during his tenure, so I could skip the others and pull out the “possible” drawers far enough to look for Daniel. I steeled myself and rolled the first out as far as it would go, which was only halfway. There was nothing for it but to figure out how to use one of the hoists. It turned out to be not so big a deal because there were illustrated instructions printed on the side of the gurney contraption, but it did take a little maneuvering. My teeth were chattering full time, but I told myself it was only from the cold, and not about these things that had once been people.
In the middle of the third row, I found Daniel. A shock wave passed through me as I recognized him, saw what seven years of dissipation could do to a beautiful face, and I wobbled on the stepladder, sitting kind of fetal-sidesaddle to regroup, shivering and crying and thinking how much Sean and he looked alike, and wishing I’d never agreed to take the case. I pulled myself together to say a last goodbye and get out.
I knew I’d have to talk to Dr. Cannon, and if she didn’t want to involve the authorities, I would anyway. Sean would have to make a positive ID and decide what to do with the remains, but I was certain he’d want them back. I could leave for good now, case closed. I counted over to the location of the drawer so I could easily find it again, underlined the ID number on my list, and put everything back, wiping my kohl-lined eyes on the sleeve of the scrub as I turned to leave.
The doors went whoosh like hellfire coming down a tunnel.
Believe me, Nick Ludlow looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He was pushing a gurney with a long shape on it covered by a sheet. I guess my scrubs provided only a momentary disguise, because he said, “Madison! What are you doing in here?”
“Checking records for Dr.—”
“Since when do they need checking in here? What is this shit?” he almost screamed, his eyes bulging and his neck veins popping out. “Listen. This area is mine. Just get out of here, and keep out.” He didn’t need to ask me twice. I quick-stepped on out of there, but not before I heard him yell, “You understand the consequences for you?”
I understood his question as equivalent to “You die, bitch,” and ran, a little wobbly in the knees, to Dr. Cannon’s office to report everything. Unfortunately, according to the posted schedule, she and her assistant were both out for the rest of the afternoon. I realized I could keep my appointment with Sean and come back after Ludlow went off shift at eight. I decided to avoid Ludlow by pulling off the scrubs and heading for the employee cafeteria, where I could leave Dr. Cannon a voicemail that I wanted to talk to her later that evening. I could also use a stiff shot of caffeine — not that my nerves needed any more stimulation, but it helps you think.
Sudz was situated in a converted old building with several smaller rooms served by one big bar. I wound upstairs through a lively TGIF crowd of locals — in winter, the tourist population drops and the whole place relaxes — and found Sean looking gorgeous, a bit nervous, and happy to see me. But his smile faltered as I approached. He knew. He was a pretty sensitive guy doing a grad internship in counseling, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Lane, are you okay? What happened?”
I didn’t answer but gestured at the door to the next staircase. “Let’s go up to the roof patio.” I needed fresh air in the worst way; my nostrils could still detect the revolting smell of decomposition mixed with chemicals.
There wasn’t anyone up on the patio because it was cool, but they were serving. When we got settled outside on a wooden garden bench at a table near a gas heater, Sean kindly ordered a brew for himself, a plate of nachos for both of us, and turned to me to see what I wanted — a virgin tonic. When the server was gone, I looked right at him and said, “I’m sorry, Sean, but I found Daniel in the morgue.”
His face showed surprise, sadness, and pity. “Oh no. You poor kid,” he said, putting a strong arm around me and squeezing my shoulder a bunch of times. I couldn’t help smiling at how he was trying to protect me. Guys all have the instinct to herd, bless their little warrior hearts.
“Really, I’m fine,” I said, but I didn’t exactly wriggle out of it because I really wasn’t, and it felt so much better to be held than not. There’s a time for acting like a professional, and this clearly wasn’t it. We sat and communed in silence, Sean giving me time to put things together before I talked again.
After the server brought our order, I explained the whole business in the Cold Room up to when Ludlow threw me out.
Sean said, half to himself, “Why’d Ludlow be giving back these ashes from bits and pieces of several people?”