“I’m not ‘most people,’ and having a brother murdered is unusual. At least it is for me.”
The attendant picked up the phone and conveyed instructions to prepare the body for viewing. Then he opened the door to his office, motioning Fiske to follow him. After a short walk, they entered a small room that carried a medicinal smell several times stronger than that in a hospital. In the center of the room stood a gurney. From under the white sheet rose a number of edges representing the head, nose, shoulders, knees and feet of the body. As Fiske headed toward the gurney, he clutched at the same irrational hope that everyone in his position would leap for: that the person under the sheet was not his brother, that his family was still reasonably intact.
As the attendant gripped the edge of the sheet, Fiske slid one hand around the metal side of the gurney and squeezed tightly. As the sheet rose upward, exposing the head and upper torso of the deceased, Fiske closed his eyes, looked upward and mouthed a silent prayer. He took a deep breath, held it, opened his eyes and then looked down. Before he knew it, he was nodding.
He tried to look away but couldn’t. Even a stranger could have looked at the slope of the forehead, the arrangement of the eyes and mouth, the flow of the chin, and concluded that the two men held some close familial bond. “That’s my brother.”
The sheet was replaced and the attendant gave Fiske the ID card to sign. “Other than the items the police have retained, we’ll release his personal effects to you.” The attendant glanced at the gurney. “We’ve had a busy week, and we’re backed up with bodies, but we should have autopsy results fairly soon. This one looks pretty simple anyway.”
Anger flared on Fiske’s face but then quickly faded. The man was not paid to be tactful. “Did they find the bullet that killed him?”
“Only the autopsy can determine cause of death.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” The attendant looked startled. “I saw the exit wound on the left side of his head. Did they find it?”
“No. At least not yet.”
“I heard it was a robbery,” said Fiske. The attendant nodded. “He was found in his car?”
“Right, wallet gone. We had to trace his identity through his license plate.”
“So if a robbery, why didn’t they take the car? Carjacking’s the hot thing right now. Beat the victim’s ATM password out of him or her, kill them, take the car and hit a few banks, load up on money, ditch the car and go on to the next one. Why not with this one?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Who’s handling the case?”
“It happened in D.C. Must be D.C. Homicide Division.”
“My brother was a federal employee. United States Supreme Court. Maybe the FBI will be involved too.”
“Again, I don’t know anything about that.”
“I’d like the name of the detective at D.C. Homicide.”
The attendant didn’t answer, but jotted some notes down in the file, perhaps hoping that if he remained quiet Fiske would just go away.
“I’d really like that name, please,” Fiske said, edging a step closer.
The attendant finally sighed, pulled a business card out of the file and handed it to Fiske. “Buford Chandler. He’ll probably want to talk to you anyway. He’s a good guy. Probably’ll catch the person who did this.”
Fiske looked briefly at the card before putting it in his coat pocket. He settled a clear-eyed gaze on the attendant. “Oh, we’re going to get whoever did this.” The odd tone in his voice made the attendant look up from his file. “Now I’d like some time alone with my brother.”
The attendant glanced over at the gurney. “Sure, I’ll be outside. Just let me know when you’re done.”
After the man left, Fiske pulled a chair next to the gurney and sat down. He had not shed a tear since learning of his brother’s death. He told himself it was because positive ID had not been made yet, but now it had and still no tears. On the drive up, he had caught himself counting out-of-state license plates, a game the brothers had played growing up. A game Mike Fiske had usually won.