busy work. A half hour later, she picked it back up.
With her mind clear, she tried to read it with fresh eyes. On the second
read-through, something jumped out at her: namely, how many times the
term ‘accession number’ appeared. Of course, she wasn’t surprised. After
all, the accession number was to a body what a Social Security number
was to a living individual. It was a form of identification that allowed
the morgue to keep track of the thousands of bodies and consequent
paperwork that passed through its portals. Whenever a body arrived at
the medical examiner’s office, the first thing that happened was that it
was given an accession number. The second thing that happened was that a
tag with the number was tied around the big toe.
Looking at the word ‘accession,’ Laurie realized to her surprise that if
asked she wouldn’t have been able to define it. It was a word she’d just
accepted and used on a daily basis. Every laboratory slip and report,
every X ray film, every investigator’s report, every document
intramurally had the accession number. In many ways, it was more
important than the victim’s name.
Taking her American Heritage dictionary from its shelf, Laurie looked up
the word ‘accession.’ As she began reading the definitions, none of them
made any sense in the context of the word’s use at the morgue, until the
next to last entry. There it was defined as ‘admittance.’ In other
words, the accession number was just another way of saying admittance
number.
Laurie searched for the accession numbers and names of the bodies that
had been picked up during the night shift of March fourth when
Franconi’s body disappeared. She found the piece of scratch paper
beneath a slide tray. On it was written: Dorothy Kline #101455 and Frank
Gleason #100385.
Thanks to her musing about accession numbers, Laurie noticed something
she’d not paid any attention to before. The fact that the accession
numbers differed by over a thousand! That was strange because the
numbers were given out sequentially. Knowing the approximate volume of
bodies processed through the morgue, Laurie estimated that there must
have been several weeks separation between the arrivals of these two
individuals.
The time differential was strange since bodies rarely stayed at the
morgue more than a couple of days, so Laurie keyed Frank Gleason’s
accession number into her computer terminal. His was the body picked up
by the Spoletto Funeral Home.
What popped up on the screen surprised her.
‘Good grief!’ Laurie exclaimed.
Lou was having a great time. Contrary to the general public’s romantic
image of detective work, actual gumshoeing was an exhausting, thankless
task. What Lou was doing now, namely sitting in the comfort of his
office and making productive telephone calls, was both entertaining and
fulfilling. It was also nice to say hello to old acquaintances.
‘My word, Soldano!’ Mark Servert commented. Mark was Lou’s contact at
the FAA in Oklahoma City. ‘I don’t hear from you for a year and then
twice in the same day. This must be some case.’
‘It’s a corker,’ Lou said. ‘And I have a follow-up question. We found
out that the G4 plane I called you about earlier had flown from Lyon,
France, to Teterboro, New Jersey, on January twenty-ninth. However, the
guy we’re interested in didn’t pass through French Immigration. So,
we’re wondering if it’s possible to find out where N69SU came from
before it landed in Lyon.’
‘Now that’s a tricky question,’ Mark said. ‘I know the ICAO . . .’
‘Wait a second,’ Lou interrupted. ‘Keep the acronyms to a minimum.
What’s the ICAO?’
‘International Civil Aviation Organization,’ Mark said. ‘I know they
file all flight plans in and out of Europe.’
‘Perfect,’ Lou said. ‘Anybody there you can call?’
‘There’s someone I can call,’ Mark said. ‘But it wouldn’t do you much
good. The ICAO shreds all their files after fifteen days. It’s not
stored.’
‘Wonderful,’ Lou commented sarcastically.
‘The same goes for the European Air Traffic Control Center in Brussels,’
Mark said. ‘There’s just too much material, considering all the
commercial flights.’
‘So, there’s no way,’ Lou remarked.
‘I’m thinking,’ Mark said.
‘You want to call me back?’ Lou said. ‘I’ll be here for another hour or