Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

  Gloves off, he unfolded the paper. In bold letters at the top, flush left: US Department of Homeland Security; flush right: Notice to Appear.

  Ms. Therese Marroquin was being deported. Clipped to the notice was a small photo, larger than wallet-sized: a selfie of a smiling dark-skinned man in a white-sheeted metal-frame bed with an IV leading to his arm. Beyond him in the photo, the rest of the room was dark and stark and third world–ish, no furniture, with a slightly ajar steel door that was scraped and dented, cinnamon in color.

  Muscle tendons and bone had jammed into the underpinnings of the next two cars. Philo tossed a second red biohazard bag out from under the passenger car so Hank could retrieve it. Hank used a Sharpie to label it with the location, date, time, “Blessid Trauma,” and the specifics of their finds, in this case “misc. human parts.” Hank passed the Homeland Security deportation notice and the photo of the Hispanic man along to the Amtrak cops.

  They toiled quickly, efficiently, the second bio-clean company now working from the train’s other end, professionals like Blessid Trauma, which meant there’d be little drama between the two contractors. Crime scene cleanup business in and around Philadelphia was plentiful.

  Partway along the third passenger car, the last one they would clean today, Patrick saw it first.

  “There,” he said to Philo, steadying his headlamp. “Right there, sir.”

  A bald hand puppet was pressed face-out against the inside of the housing of a wheel bogie, frozen there like a sports pennant push-pinned into drywall, its tiny arms spread wide. One of the sleeves was flat, empty. Protruding from the other was a chubby, porcelain-like hand, same color as the puppet head. Both sleeves, like the rest of the outfit, were crinkly-stiff from the cold. Philo trained his lamp where Patrick pointed, then located a putty knife. On closer inspection he noticed a string hanging from its wrist. The puppet’s blouse came into focus, a Dora the Explorer imprint. And on yet a closer look, it wasn’t a blouse, it was pajamas, their bottom half missing, ripped away at the waist. And it wasn’t a hand puppet.

  From the neck up, here was a sleeping cherub, the baby’s eyes shut, her skin still supple, her cheeks smudged with dirt and only a few scratches. From the neck down, save for an arm and a fisted, chubby little hand, the pajama fabric was empty. A balloon string was tied to her wrist.

  Philo’s deeper, filtered breath became a resigned sigh. He’d seen carnage as horrific as this before, during his prior career overseas, some of it just as graphic and unforgiving. Images with staying power. He eyed his partner to gauge its impact on him.

  “You good, Patrick?”

  “I’m good, sir,” he said, no emotion.

  Philo returned the scraper to a tool belt, unzipped a pocket, and produced the surgeon’s scalpel.

  “All right then, no one better than you, big guy. Just point and shoot. Get the ‘before’ shots, then we’ll take care of this, okay?”

  Patrick steeled himself, swiped his tongue across his top lip, and gulped in some filtered air. “No one better than Patrick, sir.” He raised his camera phone. “No one better than Patrick…”

  Click, click, click.

  Philo poked at the shredded bottom edge of the pajamas with his scraper, separating the front material from the back, peeking inside. Room there for a puppeteer’s hand had it actually been a puppet. The inside was instead filled by a tiny, gooey rib cage that dropped out and past Philo’s shoulder onto the ballast, inclusive of stringy internal organs. The infant’s bottom half had been found earlier that morning at the accident scene via a canine search, in weeds a short distance from the tracks, dashing the family’s hope that the baby might have somehow survived. Which was what had prompted the request to the Blessids to please-please-please find the other half of their beloved newborn niece so they could attend to her arrangements properly.

  “Patrick”—Philo pointed at the tiny rib cage on the ballast between them—“would you please, ah—”

  “I’m on it, sir.” Patrick turned onto his stomach and surrounded the baby’s organs and ribcage with his gloved hands, scooping them up between them like a child collecting a wounded bird, and depositing them in a small hazmat bag destined for special handling.

  Philo tugged gently at the infant’s head, but it didn’t budge, then he tugged more forcefully; still didn’t loosen. He produced the scalpel, inserted it between the skull and the black metal plate it was stuck on to see if a cut of some kind could free it. No luck.

  “Hank,” he called. “Get me the hair dryer.”

  A long extension cord led back to their step van for juice. After a few minutes on high heat, the frozen blood turned gooey enough for Philo to wiggle the head. That’s when he saw the curved metal hook behind it, embedded sideways just above the base of the child’s skull.

  He reached into the tool bag and retrieved the bone saw. He started at the top.

  2

  The medical examiner pronounced all parts of the infant dead.

  Two ambulances that had parked just short of the rear of the train bookended multiple pieces of fire equipment. The firemen switched out some of their tools, took gulps of coffee, then steeled themselves before wandering back up the tracks toward the point of impact. Philo, their work completed, removed everything attached to his person in a particular order, Grace’s safety-first-always voice in his head. He stepped out of his biohazard suit, stuffed his disposables into a hazmat bag, then climbed into a fleece-lined coat guaranteed to warm him better than the Tyvek suit. He found a Blessid Trauma baseball cap, snugged it up, then blew out as best he could, the soul-crushing, nightmarish, deathly air his lungs had sucked in from under the train, easing himself away from a meltdown. A canvas duffel laundry bag, tall and stuffed full of dirty Blessid Trauma uniforms, leaned against the back of the driver’s seat. He blinked hard at the bag; acid rose in his throat. He turned his ball cap backward, and with lips pressed into a grim line he unloaded on it, throwing heavy-handed fist-bombs against the thick canvas, crushing it, grunting with each blow.

  These…were KIDS, damn it. Innocent little ANGELS…

  …What—a fucking—WASTE…

  He exhaled, sucked in air to calm himself, good, crisp, head-clearing oxygen. He resettled his ball cap bill-forward, found Patrick at the rear of the step van. “You okay, bud?”

  Patrick sat oblivious on the bumper, still in his hazmat onesie, the back doors open. His hands were in his lap. “I’m okay, sir, but…” He pushed the hood off his head and pointed. “Over there, sir. That guy. I saw him before.”

  “Okay. Is that a problem?”

  “Before, sir. While I was in the coma, before I woke up.”

  Philo watched as an EMT a few tracks away manhandled his gear, tossing it with bad intentions into his rescue vehicle. Tall, wide, and looking disappointed, the guy dropped his butt down hard on the emergency vehicle’s rear bumper, lit a cigarette, and sat staring at his feet like a benched ballplayer, the cigarette hanging off his lower lip. His eyes narrowed, focusing in the direction of the Blessid van; he exhaled the smoke. He straightened up, suddenly interested in them, or at least maybe in Patrick.

  Patrick’s personal history was scant. Given the attention, this was worth a short walk by Philo across the tracks for a chat.

  “Hey. Philo Trout. Look, my buddy over there—”

  “I know who you are,” the EMT said, taking a drag. “Heard you bought out the Blessids. And I think I know him,” he said, pointing with his chin, “but my guess is he probably doesn’t remember me.” He raised his hand to greet Philo. “Lamar Cribbs.”

  A quick handshake. “So tell me then, Lamar, you say you know my buddy. Enlighten me. Who is he?”

  “Oh. Right. No, sorry, I don’t know his name. He was a Doe at the hospital. The emergency docs who first treated him, that’s what they called him. Patrick Doe.”

  “Yeah, old news. No other insights?”

  “Cracked skull, a subdural hematoma when they brought him in. I was an E
R nurse back then. They drilled a hole and suctioned out the blood. He bolted the hospital after coming out of his coma, from what I remember. Had to be like, what, three, four years ago?”

  “Three.”

  “He looks good. He ever learn his name?”

  “No. Goes by Patrick Stakes.”

  “Too bad—young kid like that. Awful. But it looks like he filled out pretty good. Give my regards to him. I gotta get packed up. Today’s been shitty. All our prospective business went into the red bags. How’d he end up with the Blessids?”

  “A walk-on,” Philo said. “They took him in, taught him the business, got close to him. The kid’s a natural.” He glanced across the tracks at Patrick, a protective reflex that accompanied the concern he felt. “But he’s still not right. Struggles a lot because of the trauma. Other than that, he’s a workhorse.”

  “Huh,” Lamar Cribbs said. “So the Gore Whore has a heart after all. How’s business? You keeping her clients happy?”

  A shout pierced their quiet conversation, from a contentious Grace inside the Blessid van. “Philo! How about hurrying it up?”

  “Heh,” the EMT said, “that’s the bitch I remember. Still wears the pants. Suppose I’ll see you ’round, Trout.”

  “Philo!” Grace called, doubling down on the bitter. “Goddamn it, now!”

  Philo arrived at the Blessid van, stepped inside and slid the door shut. “You need to cut that shit out, Grace. Last I checked, you work for me now.”

  Grace’s scowl didn’t let up after his ass hit the tufted seat. She took a hit of oxygen then cursed right through his verbal stop sign. “Why the fuck you talking to that guy?”

  “Calm down, Grace, you’ll hurt yourself.” He would not out Patrick as a reason. Worker bros stuck together. “Look, he just wanted to wish me luck with your company.”

  “Fat fucking chance, Philo. He’s a wolf guarding the hen house. What did he want?”

  A concerned Patrick unhooked his seat belt and squatted between Grace and Philo in the front seats. “M-my fault, ma’am. I, um, told Mr. Trout I thought I knew him. Not sure from where, though.”

  “He knew you from the hospital,” Philo said. “He was a nurse in the ER when they brought you in.”

  Patrick got animated. “He was? What’s he know? What’s his name? I wanna—”

  “Sorry, bud, nothing more than you already know. Just that the ER docs did a good job patching you up. His last name is Cribbs. Knew nothing else about you, before or after you left the hospital.”

  Grace was done holding her tongue. “Fucking blood-sucking ghouls. He works for an ambulance outfit tied to that goddamn body parts surgeon Dr. Andelmo.”

  Philo recognized the name. The successful doctor fronted a consortium of partners sponsoring a new urgent care services company local to Philadelphia and its environs. Their TV advertising presence was significant, like the law firms and big-money pharmaceuticals.

  Grace continued, unadulterated: “That zombie prick Andelmo’s facilities are popping up everywhere. Someone needs to fry that man’s unethical ass. Working with him in the ER got Cribbs and all the people around him fired.”

  “For what?” Philo asked.

  “Some patient at Andelmo’s hospital, a Philly house painter, died due to complications from a lung condition. When the family claimed his body, some of his organs were missing. Heart, lungs, pancreas. The explanation was the organs were ‘donated for education.’ No family consent. The cavities were stuffed with newspaper. Andelmo dodged the allegations, but the rest of his staff was nailed. That Cribbs guy was one of them. I’m shit-sure he’s trying to work his way back into prime-time hospital nursing. I don’t trust any of them, Philo. This business is crazy enough already.”

  Her cough kicked in, a smoker’s hack but worse, her face reddening, clearly painful. “Word gets around (ackkk) you’re associating with them, people get the (cough) wrong idea.”

  “Okay, Grace, I got it. Jeez, just relax, you’ll cough up a lung.” Soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. “Sorry, Grace, not trying to be a wiseass.”

  “No worries. But listen to me. Those guys, and some of the other rescue outfits, there’ve been rumors of complicity. Bounties on patients, alive or dead, based on leads.”

  “Patrick—” Husband Hank interrupted Grace’s diatribe, grabbing and pointing the melancholy kid toward the empty jump seat. “Have a seat so we can get going, son. Philo, maybe we could break for lunch now?” Hank winked at Patrick, a conspiratorial thing. Today was a big day for Patrick.

  “Sure, why not,” Philo said. “Let’s go get this guy his birthday lunch.”

  Philo, Grace, and Hank each had a cheesesteak, the sandwiches in their wrappers in their laps, the three of them staying warm inside the truck while it idled curbside next to Pat’s King of Steaks. Traffic cones guaranteed them rock-star parking; the Pat’s Steaks guys had been expecting them. A special bond here, with Patrick enjoying the hell out of his “cheesesteak wit” as in “with onions” at a picnic table under the overhang, two Pat’s sandwich guys keeping him company on their breaks.

  Philo ate, his head still locked onto speeding trains versus flesh and blood people. A glance at Patrick, then a glance up the street while horrific thoughts gathered and took aim at his heart, piercing it, letting the horror ooze out.

  …Cold outside, but the zoo was open. Their desperate mother took them to see the animals, some special last thing she wanted them to enjoy. Then, in an instant, gone, all of them, balloons tied to their wrists, obliterated by an eighty-mph train, their severed body parts crammed into the wheel housings, spinning inside until ground into little pieces, or jettisoned onto the ballast, or into the weeds. Skin, bones, organs, heads…

  …violent, gruesome, nightmarish—

  …hacked bodies—

  …sorties in Afghanistan—Libya—

  …a raid in Abbottabad, Pakistan—

  “Philo. You okay, Philo?” Grace asked.

  “Some really nasty shit back there on the tracks,” Philo said, not skipping a beat. “No worries.”

  Grace breathed through her hacking while she rewrapped what was left of her sandwich and dropped it into the same greasy brown bag it had arrived in. She reached for more oxygen. After three or four deep breaths she retrieved an unfiltered cigarette from her pocket, stuck it between her lips and sucked on it, unlit.

  Today was February fifteenth, a date that served for Patrick’s birthday, the day he’d been found in the dumpster. Grace smiled absently in Patrick’s direction from inside her closed window, engrossed like a concerned mother watching her son. Outside, Patrick shared grins with his benefactors, chuckling with his mouth full, gesturing with a French fry, and sitting there in the cold, carefree as a young person should be in his early years, like he was at a hot dog stand at the beach with his buddies in midsummer.

  “He’s stuffing his face,” Grace said, “and he’ll do it again tonight when we take him to a nice restaurant for a sit-down meal and a birthday cake. Steak sandwich now, steak tartare later. The kid’s an animal when it comes to eating. Likes steak as bloody as they can make it, and sushi.”

  Raw meat and fish, she said, a freak for both. Patrick was a living public service commercial for Alaska.

  “You going to try again?” Philo asked her, changing topics.

  “Meaning?”

  “Help him find his true identity?”

  “Why? He’s seems content, doesn’t he?” she said, a sideways comment meant to ease her conscience, her emotions still mixed; she’d told Philo as much before. “Hank and I are done with it. We did what we could. Three years of newspaper ads, a local TV profile, postings with missing persons networks, facial recognition, fingerprinting, cold-calling police departments in Alaska, all over Canada. All dead ends. No missing persons reports found on him anywhere. It’s like the kid dropped out of the heavens into that fucking dumpster. Patrick still pursues it, is still hopeful. His call to stay with it I suppose, but I
hope he stops. ’Course, I admit I’m a little biased.”

  Grace was tough on the outside, but on this topic, she wore her heart for all to see. She was afraid that if Patrick found his identity, he’d leave.

  “You ought to do the DNA thing,” Philo said.

  “Fuck DNA testing. The cheap tests only give ethnicity. Too much on our plates at the moment, Philo. We’ll be out of the business soon,” she said, sniffling and coughing. She hacked hard into a tissue, which camouflaged her tears. After her tumult subsided: “And my, um, my wait on the list—it’s just not working out.”

  The lung transplant list. For her, thirty-seven months and counting.

  A furtive glance over her shoulder. Behind them Hank sat with his head back and a small pillow behind it, resting, his phone earbuds on. She straightened up and thrust out her chin, regaining control.

  “Yeah, fine, I’ll think about the DNA. Maybe we can pay for more extensive testing, but…”

  The “but.” Philo completed her thought, didn’t share it: But if I do, I might lose him.

  “What the hell, Philo. Yeah, okay, we’ll think about it,” she repeated, trying to convince herself. Then, with her bitch back on: “That EMT you were talking to, he’s one of them.” She sucked on her unlit Camel, expelled nonexistent smoke and flicked invisible ashes.

  “Grace, please,” Philo said, “a little less chatter on conspiracies today.”