Ethan rolled from the seat and crashed to the floor under the table, screams from the other patrons piercing his ears. He grabbed Fredericks’ coat, yanking him down. Fredericks fell over in the booth. Blood dripped from his mouth, his breathing ragged.
Fredericks coughed, the sound of it wet and sickening. His eyes fluttered, and when they opened again Ethan saw resignation there. Fredericks knew he was gone, but his lips were moving. Ethan barely heard his voice over the screams filling the café.
“I’m … done … Tannor …” Fredericks coughed again, swallowing the blood in his mouth. “Go …” The Captain’s eyes were glassy now and Ethan knew there was nothing he could do to help.
The file! His eyes shot upwards. The folder was still on the table near the edge. Hopefully it had been spared from the coffee spill. He reached up for the folder and more shots pelted the table near his hand.
He yanked back to safety, cursing. He couldn’t turn the table over to get the file because it was bolted to the wall. Another flurry of shots exploded, and Fredericks absorbed a volley of bullets. Then Ethan felt something drop onto his legs and glanced down. It was the folder. Fredericks had enough of his mind left to realize Ethan’s predicament and had somehow managed to lift his arm to the table, pushing the file off to save Ethan from placing himself in danger.
Ethan looked into his friend’s frozen eyes and his chest stung with grief. He’d never be able to thank Fredericks for his sacrifice. But he couldn’t think about that now. He had to get out of here.
He steeled himself and edged closer to the wall, standing up behind the barrier. He peered out at the building across the street. On its third floor the tip of a rifle was sticking out of an open window.
The sniper’s vantage appeared to be limited to only the first couple of booths by the window. Ethan calculated he could make it to the end of the diner and out through its rear exit. This path to safe escape had already occurred to the other customers; they were moving en masse toward the back in a rush of panic, shrieking as they fled.
Ethan pushed off the wall and surged forward, throwing up his arms to shield his face at the sound of exploding tiles behind him. Chips of flying debris nipped at his legs, but the damage was minimal. Sunlight from the alley struck his face as he approached the open door, and he knew he was home free. For now.
19 Doctor Strange Gloves
April 23, 1986, 8:33 AM
Ethan walked into the county morgue, doing his best to remain calm. Two medical examiners were in deep conversation by the front door and he rechecked his posture, making sure to appear casual as he approached the service counter. After witnessing Fredericks take half a clip of ammunition, Ethan was surprised he was holding it together so well. This whole morning had felt unreal, like reality had lost its grip in New York City and anarchy was taking hold.
He reached the counter and mentally congratulated himself on not having a public meltdown. Another set of MEs – a middle aged, balding man and a younger woman – stood on the other side making idle conversation. The woman appeared to be on her way home from the night shift; she held a set of car keys in her hand and had a purse slung over one shoulder. Ethan waited for them to come over. The man gave him a curt nod but continued the conversation with his colleague. The woman offered a slight glance in his direction, clearly not interested to extend herself in service; shift was over, who cared if a citizen needed assistance?
Ethan eyed the little hand bell on the counter and formulated various ways to get their notice. First, he thought about ringing the shit out of it. Then he envisioned throwing the damn thing straight at them. Instead he stood silently for a few more moments, hoping their sense of duty would kick in.
When it became obvious their sense of duty was nowhere to be found, he pulled out his detective shield and rapped it against the glass window. The woman snapped her head around, saw the glint of gold, and said a quick goodbye to her co-worker. She exited through a side door in the hall, throwing a nasty look at Ethan before disappearing outside.
The man she’d been talking to approached the desk window. He cleared his throat before asking, “May I help you, officer?”
“Detective,” Ethan corrected.
“Okay …” the man paused, “Detective, how may I help you?”
“You should have received an elderly man about two days ago. I’m here for the autopsy report.”
“Officer – I mean Detective – we get lots of elderly people coming through here. Can you be a little more specific?” He spoke with a tone of condescension that Ethan found irritating.
“The individual would have suffered a gunshot wound to the head. His name is Tobias Keane.” Ethan pulled out the necessary medical release forms he’d stuffed in his pocket and pushed them through the slit at the base of the communication window. He’d decided to leave their file folder in his car. It was splattered with Fredericks’ blood.
The ME skimmed over the forms to validate their authenticity before he finally spoke. “Ahhh, yes – that was a clear-cut autopsy; he expired due to massive brain trauma from the blast of a large caliber handgun –”
Ethan cut him off. “How about a little respect for the dead –” he glanced down at the man’s name tag. “Greg. This isn’t an animal carcass we’re discussing.”
“My apologies, Mr. …?” Greg tried to make it sound like he was interested to know Ethan’s name for ease of conversation, but Ethan imagined the underlying reason would be for lodging a complaint with the police department about this one-on-one experience with a member of New York’s finest.
“Tannor. Ethan Tannor. The victim was my uncle and had no other family, so you could say it’s a little personal for me.”
“My condolences, Mr. Tannor.” Greg’s attempt at sympathy didn’t sound convincing.
“Is it possible for us to continue this conversation in the other room with the full report in your hands? I’d hate to get all the information from just your memory, in case you forget to tell me something important.” Ethan plastered on a stiff grin that probably made him look like he wanted to bite the man’s head off.
Greg gave a faux smile of his own. “I suppose. Normally I just hand over the paperwork, but seeing as you’re the next of kin I guess I can accommodate you by extending that courtesy.”
“Thanks Greg, that is much appreciated.” Ethan made no effort to stifle the sarcasm in his voice.
Greg pressed a button to release the door and a buzzer rang out. Ethan went through and the two men walked side by side down a long white walled hallway. As they passed by a few rooms, Ethan could see through the observation windows on the doors that there were several autopsies in progress. They took a quick left and passed two more closed rooms before the doctor pushed open a door and allowed Ethan to pass through first.
“Wait here just a moment, Mr. Tannor,” he said, peering at Ethan over the top of his wire rimmed glasses.
“That’s Detective. Let’s not forget, I’m also on police business.”
The man let out a loud huff, indicating – if there was ever any doubt before – his irritation at Ethan’s presence, questions, and apparent egotism about his title. “I just need to grab your uncle’s charts … Detective.”
“Take your time, no rush, these bodies aren’t going anywhere.” And then Ethan bit his tongue, remembering that just moments before he’d chastised the good doctor to have a little regard for the dead. Ethan, you hypocritical idiot; will you ever learn to shut up while you’re ahead?
It wasn’t long before Dr. Greg walked back from the other room. He was carrying a folder under his arm and snapping on a pair of purple examining gloves, the sound of it loud in the quiet room. Greg readjusted his glasses, opened the file, and began reviewing its contents.
“Okay, the notes say that your uncle did in fact commit suicide. He had powder burns on his right hand, the bullet passed through his temple causing severe damage to the frontal and temporal lobe.” He looked up at Ethan. “If you’ve been wor
king in this city for any length of time, you know by now the damage that a high caliber bullet can cause to tissue and brain matter.”
Ethan said nothing to that, just nodded to concur with the doctor’s statement. Then he began his line of questioning. “Were there any other findings – toxicology, blood work, anything? My uncle mentioned that his health had been failing. Any idea what he had?”
The doctor began leafing through the pages, flipped back a few and then forward again. “This is weird,” he said in sudden alarm.
Ethan leaned forward, trying to read portions of the written ME report and decipher the chicken scratch and medical abbreviations. He couldn’t glean anything understandable, so he finally asked, “What is it?”
Greg frowned up at him through his smudged lenses. “There are pages missing from his file and others have been inserted in the wrong places.” He returned his attention to the papers, confusion etched on his face. “Some of the things we sent to the lab haven’t been sent back, and we should have gotten those results within twenty-four hours.” He gave Ethan the folder.
Ethan scanned the pages and noticed a Polaroid attached to the report with a paper clip. It was a snapshot of Tobias’s torso; on his chest was a solid black tattoo of an ‘S’ in between two five-pointed stars. Ethan had never seen the odd tattoo before, but it didn’t answer any of his questions, so he sifted further through the file. The handwriting was even more illegible up close, if that were possible.
Greg sensed Ethan’s lack of comprehension and said, “Even this is incorrect.” He pointed a wrinkled index finger at one of the papers where a section indicated blood type. Finally something he could read; the notation ‘AB+’ stood out in clear print.
“That isn’t right,” Ethan mused.
“I know,” the medical examiner said. “I’m the one who did the work on your uncle’s blood. I clearly remember when I typed up the report I put AB negative in that field. The reason I remember is because it’s a rare blood type and we don’t get many of those.”
“I want to see the body – now,” Ethan said with a sharpness in his tone that wasn’t there before. His instincts were tingling like a real-life version of Spidey-sense.
The doctor consulted his paperwork again, and then went to one of the refrigeration units against the wall. Scanning the labels on the metal doors, he stopped at one and said, “Here we go – RU-4.”
He twisted the handle, releasing its latch, and pulled on the sliding metal drawer. The container breathed out a cloud of frigid air, and when the cold fog dispersed, they were staring at an empty slab.
20 Invasion of the Dead Body Snatchers
April 23, 1986, 8:46 AM
“What’s her name and where does she live, Greg?”
Despite the cold air circulating in the morgue, Greg was perspiring like he’d just finished a sprint. He readjusted his glasses – he’d been doing it nonstop since the discovery of Tobias’s missing body, and it was annoying the shit out of Ethan. “I’ll have to look that information up in the file room,” Greg said.
“Look it up then – quickly!”
“One moment.” Greg went to fetch the information. Ethan followed, despite the non-verbal request to wait. The man headed into the file room and opened a cabinet, thumbing through the folders until he came across the one in question and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Here she is. Becky – or, I mean, Dr. Rebecca Wilson. She lives at 14397 Juniper Way.” Greg looked at Ethan, pushing up his glasses once more. “If you’ll wait a moment, I can make a copy of this –”
Ethan snatched the page from Greg’s hand. Without saying another word, he left with the newly procured information, leaving the shaken doctor to contemplate the repercussions of losing a body in his morgue.
***
April 23, 1986, 10:02 AM
What was supposed to be a twenty minute drive took triple the time, courtesy of New York City drivers who had obvious difficulty remembering where the gas pedal was located on their vehicles.
Ethan now stood on the faded brick patio in front of the house and cross-checked the number on its door against the employee hire sheet. This was the right place, and the hood of the car in the driveway was still warm, so he knew she was here. He gave the heavy oak door three strikes with his fist. When it wasn’t answered right away impatience got the best of him, and he raised his arm to pound again just as the door opened a crack.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s eyes were skittish, yet Ethan noticed that she had a look of recognition on her face. Up close, he had a better view of Dr. Rebecca Wilson. She was a petite woman, and – now he realized – quite pretty in the right lighting.
“Yes Ma’am.” He pulled his trench coat open to expose the detective shield attached to his belt. “I believe I saw you this morning at the coroner’s office. I’m Detective Tannor. Do you remember me?”
“Not the name, but I remember seeing you.”
Ethan edged closer, staring into her wary eyes. “Could we talk inside?”
She began to open the door then pushed it back, alarm reddening her face and causing her breathing to quicken. “What’s this about?” Her voice hitched a little when she asked the question, like this wasn’t the first unpleasant encounter she’d had with an operative of the state.
“Just some routine questions about one of your autopsies,” he said, putting on his best smile. “Greg was unable to answer some of them and he mentioned that you were the lead examiner on the case I’m investigating.”
Her face relaxed and she stepped away, letting the door swing open. “Come in – I’d offer you coffee, but I work the night shift and was just getting ready for bed.”
“Thanks, I’d love some.” Ethan’s sarcasm was on auto-pilot, the result of his simmering anger. Now, he berated himself for allowing the inconvenience at the morgue to snowball down upon the exhausted woman.
She led him through a short, darkened hallway that creaked as they walked and into a small kitchen and dining room combo. Her hair was damp from a recent shower and the smell of honey and almonds left a beautiful trail through the house; the fragrance of her seemed to pull him along behind. She held her robe closed as she reached for a canister of Maxwell House. Then she hesitated and turned back to Ethan. “Regular or decaf, Mr. Tannor?”
“I don’t see the point in decaf,” he answered, not bothering to rebuke her for failing to use his title as he’d done with Greg. Perhaps her beauty had something to do with it. If Ethan wasn’t careful his tongue might start lolling out of his mouth, like those cartoon characters on TV.
Rebecca poured water into a kettle and placed it on an open flame of the gas stove. Then she pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, taking care to keep her garment in place, but not before Ethan caught a flash of naked thigh and lacy bra. Rather than ask him for permission to change into something more comfortable, she seemed determined to hurry up and conclude their business.
“Okay,” she said on an exhale. “Can I see the file?”
“Actually, I’m not here about an autopsy. I need to discuss a missing person with you.
Worry lines etched her forehead. “Shouldn’t you be dealing with the regular police department then?”
For a moment, he considered asking her what constituted an ‘irregular’ police department, but he decided against it. “The person in question – my uncle – happens to be the deceased. And until yesterday, he was an occupant at your morgue. Dr. Greg informed me the body disappeared on your watch, and I want to know where it is, Miss Wilson,” he said, intentionally omitting her professional title.
She fidgeted in her seat, readjusting her robe and glancing around self-consciously. She didn’t even bother to correct his lack of professional courtesy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ever since Ethan arrived, his cop intuition had been telling him that something about this woman wasn’t adding up to his previous assumptions – and something about the house, too. But he was so
fixed on getting information from her – and so distracted by the curvaceous shape beneath the robe – that he couldn’t put a finger on what was amiss.
“Look Miss Wilson, I’m not here to arrest anyone; I just want answers. Where’s my uncle’s body, and why was it taken? Did someone break in last night?”
She was eerily quiet and sat very still, her eyes pensive.
“Is someone threatening you? Did anyone talk with you?”
She stared down at her hands and began fiddling with a ring on her finger. “I can’t!” she burst out and her eyes welled up with tears.
He adjusted the tone of his voice to that of calm assurance. “I’ve already said I’m only here to ask questions. I’m not going to arrest you – of this I promise. I just need to find out who stole his body and why his chart contained incorrect information.”
She glanced up in alarm and Ethan knew this vein of inquiry could lead him in the right direction.
“Why was his blood sample swapped? Or was it just documented incorrectly?” he asked. The house creaked a little, as though urging her to open up and tell him everything.
“His blood was irregular,” she said slowly, avoiding his eyes. “That’s possibly even why he chose suicide; it may have been causing problems with his brain.”
“Irregular, how?” Ethan felt a surge of eagerness for the answer to Tobias’s mysterious ailment and leaned forward with expectation.
She shook her head, still toying with her fingers. The house creaked again and seemed to sigh. The kettle on the stove began to whistle.
And then Ethan had that moment – a switching on of the mental light bulb – when he figured out what was wrong with his earlier perception of Rebecca Wilson. Now it was clear: the two types of coffee, the lacy bra, and the gold ring she twisted around her finger.