The Corpse Wore Stilettos

by MJ O'Neill

  “No, Meg, I didn’t help steal the body.”

  “Don’t be so modest, babe.” The pudgy-faced Marshall stood near a cubicle, a doughnut in each hand. “I tried to tell Dr. Hawthorne you were trouble,” he teased in a grinning doughnut muffle. Marshall wore his usual light-colored polo shirt—too small for his torso, so his stomach always stuck out—and khaki pants. All of which he covered with a long white lab coat, hoping to confuse people into believing that he was more important in the hospital than he really was. One time he was suspended for pretending to be a doctor. Thankfully, a nurse figured him out before some poor old guy went to surgery for removal of a tumor he didn’t have.

  “The suspension is just a precaution.” DC moved closer to me. Strength in numbers. He always looked strange to me here at the morgue and wearing scrubs. They never seemed to fit his slender figure quite right, making him look like a schoolkid who had stolen his parent’s work uniform for show-and-tell. “You know, kind of like how women treat you. Cautiously and in need of supervision, pending legal action.”

  “What DC meant to say,” I said, glaring as I turned past him, “is that while I wasn’t involved in the body heist, except to try to stop it, I’m very sorry that it’s affecting everyone here so much. And it’s made me realize that we haven’t really had the opportunity to get to know each other as much as I’d like.”

  A loud clanging came from the side where the coffeepot was. Sam Winston had a wrench in his hand. He beat the defective coffeepot, reciting several expletives as he did. The thing was always on the fritz. The blue-gray cross tattoo peeking out at his neckline matched his blue-gray scrubs today. “That’s okay, kid. We aren’t exactly a social club here.” He turned around, coffee cup in hand, eyeing me over the top of it.

  I eyed him back, wondering why Burns had used his full name as if he were a serial killer—Sam Allen Winston. He hadn’t used the middle name of any of the other workers. His bald head reflected the bad lighting coming from the institutional fixture above him. Coffee clung to his goatee before he reached up with a scar-covered hand and wiped his chin. Looking at him closer, I could imagine him digging a shallow grave for Joy’s body. I tried to shake off the shudder.

  “True, but I can’t help but think I haven’t gotten off on the right foot here. I want to make it up to everyone. Plus, look at this place.” I watched as heads surveyed the room. “We deserve a better working environment than this. We’re lucky OSHA hasn’t shown up.”

  “Yeah, right. What were we thinking, squandering our interior decorating allowance,” Marshall said, holding up a broken coffee cup.

  “A 2010 study confirmed that pleasantness of working environment has a direct impact on employee morale, productivity, and satisfaction,” I said.

  “Are you saying we aren’t worth a nice space?” Sam eyed Marshall and flipped the wrench still in his hand into the air.

  “Yeah, what does that mean?” Meg moved forward.

  For a minute, I thought she might bop Marshall with her bag. I was starting to like her.

  “Don’t blame the messenger.” Jelly dripped down Marshall’s chin. “All I’m saying is that with the bad publicity we’ve received thanks to Miss Slippery Fingers here”—he pointed at me—“I don’t think there’s going to be budget for undergoing a makeover anytime soon.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” DC said. “Kat’s got it all figured out. Tell ’em, Kat.”

  “What would you think if I hosted a morgue makeover party and open house?” I spoke slowly, accentuating the important words and trying to sound cheerful. I smiled big.

  “I thought you didn’t have any money?” a soft voice I recognized as Henry said. He popped out from behind another cubicle wall. The supple roundness of his face coupled with his floppy feathery hair always made me want to squeeze him like a teddy bear.

  “Well, I don’t. But my family’s been fundraising for worthy causes for years. And I can’t think of a more worthy cause than you all.”

  “Plus, her new boyfriend has money connections, and he’s into security. After what happened, no one can doubt that this place needs some new security,” DC added.

  I didn’t think the reference to my new fake boyfriend was necessary, but mentioning that he worked in security seemed to have some impact.

  “You do such unsung work, I think you should be celebrated.” I put my hands on my hips in a cheerleader stance—eyes forward, shoulders back. A study of body language had confirmed that for some weird reason, that stance always seemed to make people peppy. This situation called for pep.

  “Will there be cake?” Meg asked.

  “Oh yes, definitely cake,” DC said. “But y’all have to help.”

  “Help? I’m not a very good baker. Meg’s the creative one.” Henry blushed.

  “Not with the cake,” DC said.

  “With the makeover. You know, the painting and stuff. There’s pride in ownership. Don’t you think it would be a lot nicer to come to work if the morgue didn’t look like such a... morgue? I mean, look at this place! It’s depressing,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t mind helping. I’ve been known to be pretty handy.” Sam clanked the wrench down on the table next to the coffee maker.

  “Us too. Right, Henry?”

  Henry kept eyeing Sam’s wrench. “If Meg’s in, I’m in.”

  “Excellent! Then it’s settled. I’ll talk to Dr. Hawthorne about it, and we’ll aim for next Saturday.”

  “Talk to me about what?” Dr. Hawthorne came out of the morgue room.

  Everyone then returned to their work as if things were normal. DC and I followed him to the back of the main entry room, toward the computers. Marshall trotted behind us like a stray puppy afraid he might miss something.

  Dr. Hawthorne was in an ugly off-white short-sleeved shirt, buttoned all the way to the collar. I wondered why men didn’t realize that short-sleeved dress shirts were not attractive. Several pens protruded from his pocket.

  “I’m not sure I can handle any more surprises at the moment,” he said.

  “Kat has an inspired idea, doesn’t she, Marshall?” DC asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Pins and shoes, Marshall!” I glared at him.

  “Oh yeah. It’s definitely inspired, Dr. Hawthorne.” Marshall whimpered as DC pushed him into the computer area, leaving me standing at Dr. Hawthorne’s desk.

  “Now, you have to have an open mind. I found us a sponsor who wants to throw us a makeover party. We’ll remodel the morgue and then have an open house so the community can come and learn all about us.”

  “A remodel of the morgue and a party? I don’t think so, Katherine.” His tone was unusually sharp. He suddenly looked panicked.

  “But Dr. Hawthorne, you have to say yes. It’s free for the morgue, the benefactor is willing to buy us some of the new equipment you’ve been wanting, and I think it would really help everyone’s morale.”

  “Who is this mysterious rich benefactor?” he asked.

  “Oh, Kat landed herself a new man. He owns an investment and security firm,” DC chimed in.

  I smiled and tried to look confident. While I had expected some resistance from the administration, I hadn’t quite expected Dr. Hawthorne to say no to free equipment—or to be so suspicious of the plan.

  “I thought you were engaged to that Boston fellow,” the doctor said.

  “Our Kat leads a complicated life. It was true love at first sight,” DC said. I elbowed him to get him to stop talking.

  “Regardless of my relationship status, this is a good plan. It’s free money for state-of-the-art security equipment that Lord knows the county can’t afford right now, and the party for the community will help counter the recent bad publicity. We could even auction off some of the stuff from the old evidence-holding room.”

  Dr. Hawthorne knocked over his drink on his desk. “Oh goodness, someone grab some towels!”

  We all worked to help clean up the mess. By the time we were
through, Dr. Hawthorne seemed calmer. “Well, Katherine, I’m not opposed to free equipment, but we will have to get permission from the administration, which, given everything that’s happened, is no sure bet.”

  “Oh goody,” DC squealed, jumping up and down and clapping.

  “Thank you, Dr. Hawthorne. You won’t regret it.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to get approval. Now, back to work. You’ll be working with Dr. Jaffe today, Katherine. Marshall will help assist, but we have a family-requested autopsy today, and you’re the best closer.”

  Closers were technicians who put the body back together after all the autopsy work was complete and the body needed to be readied for the mortician. My three years of sculpture class had made me the best closer here.

  My heart sputtered. This would be the first time I’d seen Dr. Jaffe since Marshall had told me the doctor might be involved in implicating me in the body theft.

  Chapter 9

  When DC and I had made our plan the night before, I hadn’t expected to run into Jaffe today. I had no idea what I would say to him or how I would get him to admit he’d played a role in setting me up.

  On top of it all, I had Marshall to deal with. The two of them together would be a lot to handle.

  I sighed and headed to get ready. I bundled my hair into a pony and suited up before putting on the cute hot-pink surgical hair cap DC bought me for my birthday and coordinating with matching pink gloves. Before entering the room, I pulled out my bottle of Clive Christian perfume and spritzed. Granted, it was an interesting way to use three-hundred-dollar-a-bottle perfume. But I wasn’t getting out to many fancy clubs these days, and I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. That would be like admitting defeat. Plus, the pleasant smell helped me stay in my happy place during an autopsy.

  “You’re late,” Jaffe said, not looking up.

  As a med student and resident, Dr. Jaffe operated most of the time on two hours of sleep and too much Red Bull. He was an order-barking jerk and a pig. Not the nice Maybell-type pig or even the creepy Marshall sexist pig but the more pedestrian slob kind of pig. An autopsy room needn’t look like something out of a Quentin Tarantino movie. Autopsies could be neat and tidy. Despite his sloppy habits, he was a clean-cut guy with an unusually long, narrow head. No one’s head should be that long.

  “It’s to be expected,” Marshall said. He leaned in close to where Dr. Jaffe was cutting. Dr. Jaffe stared at him, and he backed off.

  The doctor had completed the initial cut. I tried not to look as I moved to the other side of the table. “I had some business.”

  “This isn’t your sorority,” Jaffe said and, after making his last cut, finally looked at me. “What are you wearing?”

  “Working in a morgue does not preclude good fashion sense.” I proceeded to the body.

  The business of death was a giant bureaucracy that was all about the money. After a death was reported, the medical examiner determined the need for an autopsy and gave it a particular designation that indicated who would pay for it. Medical examiner jurisdiction ruled when foul play was suspected, as with Joy. That meant the county paid. An autopsy for a hospital death had to be approved by the hospital pathologist for the county to pay. If the hospital pathologist declined, then the family could request to have an autopsy conducted by a private pathologist for a fee. Doctors were always complaining about these death designations. When a patient died unexpectedly, doctors liked to know why. Due to funding limitations, Dr. Hawthorne often had to decline autopsy requests.

  Today’s autopsy winner was Dr. Hutchinson. He had a male—white, sixty-three—die after a simple operation. When Dr. Hawthorne wouldn’t budge after denying the funding, Hutchinson convinced the family to pay for it. Jaffe, the jerk, was here doing his bidding as usual.

  “Who can tell me what pulmonary surfactant is?” he asked.

  I blinked at him. This wasn’t Jeopardy.

  “I’m sure I couldn’t surpass your level of knowledge greatness, Doctor,” Marshall said.

  I thought I saw Dr. Jaffe’s eyes roll.

  Ignoring the question, I instead stared at the face of the man on the table, studying it, trying not to get blood on my pretty gloves.

  “What are you doing?” Jaffe stopped what he was doing and stared at me.

  “Looking at him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has a story to tell, and I like to know who’s telling it before I start.”

  “Blessed with the A-team today,” Dr. Jaffe mumbled under his breath. In fine Tarantino fashion, he’d strewn blood everywhere, and I had to walk carefully so as not to slip. “Are you wearing perfume?” Jaffe sniffed as I passed him.

  “Smell cells are renewed every twenty-eight days, so every month you ostensibly get a new nose.” His questions were irritating and getting on my nerves. “You forgot the string.” I pointed at the man.

  “What?” Jaffe barked.

  “This man will be going to the mortician soon. You need to leave a trail so the mortician knows where to go. Otherwise, the body ends up less family-friendly for the showing. I know you doctors don’t care about such cosmetic things, but it’s important to the family.”

  He stared at me for a moment as if he didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Seriously?” Marshall was such a kiss ass. He looked at me over his mask with his weasel eyes. “It’s your fault Dr. Jaffe is behind today, you know, with your body snatching and all.” He wrinkled his nose as if he’d snorted feathers and might sneeze.

  “As I’ve already said, I had about as much to do with that poor girl’s body being stolen as Dr. Jaffe here.” I pointed at the doctor.

  “Me?” He stumbled into the instrument tray, catching it before it toppled. “Why would you say that? I didn’t have anything to do with it. Why am I always stuck with idiots?” He took off his gloves and threw them on the floor dramatically. “I’m done here.” And he stomped off, leaving me with Marshall.

  I hadn’t had a chance to absorb Dr. Jaffe’s freak-out at the suggestion of his involvement before Marshall started in again.

  “Do you think he’s mad at me? What if he tells Dr. Hawthorne?” He brought his hand up, almost covering his mouth. His bloody, gloved hand. I tried not to hurl.

  “Right. He might be in there right now telling Dr. Hawthorne what an incompetent idiot you are,” I said. “You better hurry.” I tried to look alarmed. Marshall started to look alarmed, too, and followed Dr. Jaffe. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  My mind wandered to the missing body. Today was the day we should have been doing the autopsy on Joy. I supposed the good news was that thanks to the body theft, at least someone was paying attention to her death now. I wondered if anyone besides Burns would have even cared about her murder if her body hadn’t been stolen. What was one more dead prostitute, after all? But Joy had a story, and it deserved to be told. I decided to clean up then go see what I could find on the other murders.

  “Psst.”

  I heard a sound coming from the hall. I looked up but didn’t see anyone.

  “Psst.”

  I heard it again and went toward the hall to locate the noise. Before I got there, DC intercepted.

  “How’d you get in here, Wiggins?” DC asked.

  Jorge Wiggins, a mortician from one of the local funeral homes, stood dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him. He had a noticeable lisp and overly moussed hair. “I heard you had a hot one.”

  “And what, you thought we’d just give him to you if you weaseled your way in here?” I asked, coming into the hallway.

  “With the trouble the chickie’s been having,” Wiggins said to DC, pointing at me and taking a roll of bills out of his pocket, “I thought you all might be persuadable.”

  Competition thrived in the county’s funeral business. I’d heard about other dieners taking kickbacks for sending business to particular funeral homes but didn’t think it was true.

  “Put that away and get out of here, you
moron,” DC said, pushing the man back up the hall.

  “Wait!” I said, grabbing Wiggins’s arm and tucking it under mine. “How are you doing?”

  He eyed me warily. “Why? What do you want?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. I’m just worried about you. You know, with the police snooping around and all,” I said. “We wouldn’t want any suspicion to fall on you, would we, DC?”

  “Oh no,” DC said, quickly catching on to the plan.

  “Why would the police think I had anything to do with this?” Wiggins began to sweat as we walked toward the door.

  “Well, here you are, aren’t you?” DC said. “It would look awfully suspicious to the police, don’t you think, if someone told them you were here soliciting bribes when a body had recently gone missing as a result of a bribe?”

  “Terribly suspicious,” I agreed. Wiggins tried to pull his arm away, but I held firm. “Now, if you had any insight as to who here at the morgue was on the take, we might be able to persuade the police to consider them as a suspect instead of turning their attention on poor you.” I batted my eyes at him.

  “All right! Stop. I get it.” Wiggins yanked his arm out of mine. “I’ll tell you. But you have to swear you won’t tell him you heard it from me.”

  “Scout’s honor!” DC held up a peace sign.

  Wiggins looked at DC then me. I nodded.

  “It’s Henry Johnson.”

  “Henry? Sweet, mousy Henry?” DC asked.

  “Sweet my ass. That guy’s got a serious problem. He’s into me for about three Gs a month.”

  “What does ‘into you’ mean? And keep it clean. I don’t need you scaring my delicate insides with your gross images,” DC said.

  “Relax, it’s nothing kinky. He funnels me bodies, and I give him a kickback. He lets me know they’re here before he alerts any other home and then tricks the family into believing sending the body to me was all official procedure. I get ’em to sign off the paperwork when they come in to talk about it.”