We suited up in double gowns, gloves, sleeve. protectors, shoe covers, surgical caps and masks with shields. We didn’t hhve air packs because I didn’t believe in them, and I’d better never catch one of my doctors sneaking Vicks up his nose, although cops did it all the time. If a medical examiner can’t handle the unpleasantriés of the job, he should do something else.
More to the point, odors are important. They have their own story to tell. A sweet smell might point at ethchlorvynol, while chloral hydrate smells like pears. Both might make me wonder about an overdose of hypnotics, while a hint of garlic might point at arsenic. Phenols and nitrobenzene bring to mind ether and shoe polish respectively, and ethylene glycol smells exactly like antifreeze because that’s exactly what it is. Isolating potentially significant smells from the awful stench of dirty bodies and rotting flesh is rather much like archaeology. You focus on what you are there to find and not on the miserable conditions around it.
The decomposed room, as we called it, was a miniature version of the autopsy suite. It had its own cooler and ventilation system and a single table I could roll up and attach to a big sink. Everything, including cabinets and doors, was stainless steel. Walls and the floors were coated with a non-absorbent acrylic that could withstand the most brutal washes with disinfectants and bleach. Automatic doors were opened by steel buttons that were big enough to push with elbows instead of hands.
When the doors slid shut behind Marino and me, I was startled to find Anderson leaning against a countertop, the gurney bearing the pouched body parked in the middle of the floor. The body is evidence. I never left an investigator alone with an unexamined body, certainly not since the badly botched O. J. Simpson trial, when it became the vogue for everyone except the defendant to be impeached in court.
“What are you doing here and where’s Chuck?” I asked Anderson.
Chuck Ruffin was my morgue supervisor and should have been here some time ago inspecting surgical instruments, labeling test tubes and making sure I had all of the necessary paperwork.
“He let me in and went off somewhere.”
“He let you in here and just left you? How long ago was that?”
“Maybe twenty minutes ago,” Anderson replied.
Her eyes were warily on Marino.
“Do I detect a little Vicks up the nose?” Marino sweetly inquired.
The petroleum jelly shone on Anderson’s upper lip.
“See that industrial-size deodorizer up there?” Marino nodded his head to the special ventilation system- in the ceiling. “Guess what, Anderson? Ít ain’t gonna do a goddamn bit of good when this bag’s unzipped.”
“I’m not planning on staying;” she replied.
That was obvious. She hadn’t even put on a pair of surgical gloves.
“You shouldn’t be in here at all without protective wear,” I said to her.
“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out talking to witnesses and want you to page me when you have information on what happened to him,” she said.
“What witnesses? Bray sending you over to Belgium?” Marino asked, his breath fogging up his shield.
I didn’t believe for a minute that she had come into this unpleasant place to tell me anything. Anderson had shown up with some agenda other than this case. I looked at the dark red body pouch to see if it might have been disturbed in any way, as cool fingers of paranoia touched my brain. I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine.
“Call me,” Anderson said to me as if it were an order.
The doors sucked shut in her wake. I picked up the intercom phone and buzzed Rose.
“Where the hell’s Chuck?” I asked.
“God only knows,” Rose said, making no attempt to hide the disdain she felt for the young man.
“Please find him and tell him to get here now,” I said. “He’s making me crazy. And make a note of this phone call, as usual. Document everything.”
“I always do:”
“I’m going to fire him one of these days,” I said to Marino when I hung up. “As soon as I get enough on him. He’s lazy and completely irresponsible, and he didn’t used to be.”