“Did he have any ID?” Tony asked.
“Yeah,” Gurney said. “It’s just like the lady told us. He’s Bruno Frye.”
***
Cold.
Air conditioning thrummed in the walls. Rivers of icy air gushed from two vents near the ceiling.
Hilary was wearing a sea-green autumn dress, not of a light summery fabric, but not heavy enough to ward off a chill. She hugged herself and shivered.
Lieutenant Howard stood at her left side, still looking somewhat embarrassed. Lieutenant Clemenza was on her right. The room didn’t feel like part of a morgue. It was more like a cabin in a spaceship. She could easily imagine that the bone-freezing cold of deep space lay just beyond the gray walls. The steady humming of the air conditioning could be the distant roar of rocket engines. They were standing in front of a window that looked into another room, but she would have preferred to see endless blackness and far-away stars beyond the thick glass. She almost wished she were on a long inter-galactic voyage instead of in a morgue, waiting to identify a man she had killed.
I killed him, she thought.
Those words, ringing in her mind, seemed to make her even colder than she had been a second ago.
She glanced at her watch.
3:18.
“It’ll be over in a minute,” Lieutenant Clemenza said reassuringly.
Even as Clemenza spoke, a morgue attendant brought a wheeled litter into the room on the other side of the window. He positioned it squarely in front of the glass. A body lay on the cart, hidden by a sheet. The attendant pulled the shroud off the dead man’s face, halfway down his chest, then stepped out of the way.
Hilary looked at the corpse and felt dizzy.
Her mouth went dry.
Frye’s face was white and still, but she had the insane feeling that at any moment he would turn his head toward her and open his eyes.
“Is it him?” Lieutenant Clemenza asked.
“It’s Bruno Frye,” she said weakly.
“But is it the man who broke into your house and attacked you?” Lieutenant Howard asked.
“Not this stupid routine again,” she said. “Please.”
“No, no,” Clemenza said, “Lieutenant Howard doesn’t doubt your story any more, Miss Thomas. You see, we already know that man is Bruno Frye. We’ve established that much from the ID he was carrying. What we need to hear from you is that he was the man who attacked you, the man you stabbed.”
The dead mouth was unexpressive now, neither frowning nor smiling, but she could remember the evil grin into which it had curved.
“That’s him,” she said. “I’m positive. I’ve been positive all along. I’ll have nightmares for a long time.”
Lieutenant Howard nodded to the morgue attendant beyond the window, and the man covered the corpse.
Another absurd but chilling thought struck her: What if it sits up on the cart and throws the sheet off?
“We’ll take you home now,” Clemenza said.
She walked out of the room ahead of them, miserable because she had killed a man–but thoroughly relieved and even delighted that he was dead.
***
They took her home in the unmarked police sedan. Frank drove, and Tony sat up front. Hilary Thomas sat in the back, shoulders drawn up a bit, arms crossed, as if she was cold on such a warm late-September day.
Tony kept finding excuses to turn around and speak to her. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her. She was so lovely that he made him feel as he sometimes did in a great museum, when he stood before a particularly exquisite painting done by one of the old masters.
She responded to him, even gave him a couple of smiles, but she wasn’t in the mood for light conversation. She was wrapped up in her own thoughts, mostly staring out the side window, mostly silent.
When they pulled into the circular driveway at her place and stopped in front of the door, Frank Howard turned to her and said, “Miss Thomas … I … well … I owe you an apology.”
Tony was not startled by the admission, but he was somewhat surprised by the sincere note of contrition in Frank’s voice and the supplicatory expression on his face; meekness and humility were not exactly Frank’s strongest suits.