There were a number of cars parked behind the morgue when I pulled in. My deputy chief, Fielding, was already there. So was my administrator, Ben Stevens, and morgue supervisor, Susan Story. The bay door was open, lights inside dimly illuminating the tarmac beyond, and a capitol police officer was sitting in his marked car smoking. He got out as I parked.
“Safe to keep the bay door open?” I asked. He was a tall, gaunt man with thick white hair. Though I had talked to him many times in the past, I couldn’t remember his name.
“Appears okay at the moment, Dr. Scarpetta,” he said, zipping up his heavy nylon jacket. “I haven’t seen any troublemakers around. But as soon as Corrections gets here I’ll close it and make sure it stays closed.”
“Fine. As long as you’ll be right here in the meantime.”
“Yes, ma’am. You can count on that. And we’ll have a couple more uniform men back here in case there’s a problem. Apparently there’s a lot of protesters. I guess you read in the paper about that petition all those people signed and took to the governor. And I heard earlier today some bleeding hearts as far away as California are on a hunger strike.”
I glanced around the empty parking lot and across Main Street. A car rushed past, tires swishing over wet pavement. Streetlights were smudges in the fog.
“Hell, not me. I wouldn’t even miss a coffee break for Waddell.”
The officer cupped his hand around his lighter and began puffing on a cigarette. “After what he done to that Naismith girl. You know, I remember watching her on TV. Now, I like my women the same way I like my coffee – sweet and white. But I have to admit, she was the prettiest black girl I ever seen.”
I had quit smoking barely two months ago, and it still made me crazy to watch someone else doing it.
“Lord, that must’ve been dose to ten years ago,” he went on. “I’ll never forget the uproar, though. One of the worst cases we’ve ever had around here. You’d’ve thought a grizzly bear got hold of -” I interrupted him. “You’ll let us know what’s going on?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’ll radio me and I’ll give you the word.”
He headed back to the shelter of his car. Inside the morgue, fluorescent light bleached the corridor of color, the smell of deodorizer cloying. I passed the small office where funeral homes signed in bodies, then the X-ray room, and the refrigerator, which was really a large refrigerated room with doubledecker gurneys and two massive steel doors. The autopsy suite was lit up, stainless steel tables polished bright. Susan was sharpening a long knife and Fielding was labeling blood tubes. Both of them looked as tired and unenthusiastic as I felt.
“Ben’s upstairs in the library watching TV,” Fielding said to me. “He’ll let us know if there are any new developments.”
“What’s the chance this guy had AIDS?” Susan referred to Waddell as if he already were dead.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll double-glove, take the usual precautions.”
“I hope they’ll say something if he had it,” she persisted. “You know, I don’t trust it when they send these prisoners in. I don’t think they care if they’re HIV positive because it’s not their problem. They’re not the ones doing the posts and worrying about needle sticks.”
Susan had become increasingly paranoid about such occupational hazards as exposure to radiation, chemicals, and diseases. I could not blame her. She was several months pregnant, though it barely showed.
Slipping on a plastic apron, I went back into the locker room and put on greens, covered my shoes with booties, and got two packets of gloves. I inspected the surgical cart parked beside table three. Everything was labeled with Waddell’s name, the date, and an autopsy number. The labeled tubes and cartons would go in the trash if Governor Norring interceded at the last minute. Ronnie Waddell would be deleted from the morgue log, his autopsy number assigned to whoever came in next.
At eleven P.M. Ben Stevens came downstairs and shook his head. All of us looked up at the clock. No one spoke. Minutes ticked by.