Medical impedimenta scattered as I frantically dug out of my bag the small canister of Mace I always carried, and he bellowed when the heavy stream hit him in the face. He clawed at his eyes, rolling around, screaming, while I grabbed the phone and called for help. I squirted him one more time for good measure just before the security guard hustled in. Then the cops arrived. My hysterical hostage begged to be taken to the hospital as an unsympathetic officer wrenched his arms behind his back, snapped on cuffs, and frisked him.
According to his driver’s license, the intruder’s name was Jeb Price, age thirty-four, address Washington, D.C. Wedged in the back of his corduroy trousers was a Smith & Wesson 9-millimeter automatic with fourteen rounds in the clip and one in the chamber.
I don’t remember going into the morgue office and getting the keys off the pegboard for the other state car leased by the OCME. But I must have, because I was parking the dark blue station wagon in my driveway as night began to fall. Used to transport bodies, the car was oversize, the tailgate window discreetly covered with a screen, and in back was a removable plyboard floor that required hosing down several times a week. The car was a cross between a family wagon and a hearse, and the only thing harder to parallel park, in my opinion, was the QE2.
Like a zombie, I went straight upstairs without bothering to play back my telephone messages or turn off the answering machine. My right elbow and shoulder ached. The small bones in my hand hurt. Laying my clothes on a chair, I took a hot bath and numbly fell into bed. Deep, deep sleep.
Sleep so deep it was like dying. Darkness was heavy and I was trying to swim through it, my body like lead, as the ringing telephone by my bed was abruptly cut off by my answering machine.
“… don’t know when I’ll be able to call back, so listen. Please listen, Kay. I heard about Gary Harper …”
My heart was pounding as my eyes opened, Mark’s urgent voice pulling me out of my torpor.
“… Please stay out of it. Don’t get involved. Please. I’ll talk to you again as soon as I’m able …”
By the time I found the receiver I was listening to a dial tone. Replaying his message, I slumped against pillows and began to cry.
9
The next morning Marino arrived at the morgue as I was making a Y incision on Gary Harper’s body.
I removed the breastplate of ribs and lifted the block of organs out of the chest cavity while Marino looked on mutely. Water drummed in sinks, surgical instruments clattered and clicked, and across the suite a long blade rasped against a whetstone as one of the morgue assistants sharpened a knife.
We had four cases this morning, all of the stainless-steel autopsy tables occupied.
Since Marino didn’t seem inclined to volunteer anything, I introduced the subject.
“What have you found out about Jeb Price?” I asked.
“His record check didn’t come up with squat,” he replied, staring off and restless. “No priors, no outstanding warrants, nothing. He ain’t singing, either. If he was, it’d probably be soprano after the number you done on him. I stopped by ID right before I came down here. They’re developing the film in his camera. I’ll bring by a set of prints as soon as they’re ready.”
“Have you taken a look?”
“At the negatives,” he answered.
“And?” I asked.
“Pictures he took inside the fridge. Of the Harpers’ bodies,” he said.
I had expected as much. “I don’t suppose he’s a journalist for some tabloid,” I said in jest.
“Yo. Dream on.”
I glanced up from what I was doing. Marino was not in a jovial mood. More disheveled than usual, he had nicked his jaw twice while shaving and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Most reporters I know don’t pack nine mils loaded with Glasers,” he said. “And they tend to whine when they get leaned on, ask for a quarter to call the paper’s lawyer. This guy’s not making a peep, a real pro. Must’ve picked a lock to get in. Makes his move on a Monday afternoon, a state holiday, when it’s not likely anybody’s going to be around. We found his ride parked about three blocks away in the Farm Fresh lot, a rental car with a cellular phone. Got enough ammo clips and magazines in the trunk to stop a small army, plus a Mac Ten machine pistol and a Kevlar vest. He ain’t no reporter.”