Human Remains

by Melissa Yi

  Paramedics hustled to the scene with a stretcher, a kit, and a monitor. One of them sliced open the head bag with scissors, reminding me that it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

  The sour smell of vomit hit the air. I held my breath while the other paramedic cut open the jacket to apply electrodes to the man's chest. Yes, it did look like a man. No breasts.

  The CPR officer was gasping, so I said, "Do you want to switch off?" He nodded, and I signalled another officer, who ran in, dropped to his knees, and started compressions so enthusiastic that the man's slim, dark brown-skinned chest indented with each one.

  We paused for a second to check the rhythm: an occasional narrow QRS complex at 30 beats per minute. No pulse.

  Hypothermia is one of the causes of pulseless electrical activity.

  So is hypoxia.

  "Restart CPR! And I can get an airway in!" I called, moving to the head, but the airway guy was already on his stomach, shoving what I assumed was a laryngeal mask airway or a Combitube into the man's mouth. It was hard to see what was going on, in the dark, with everyone shouting on their radios, and Roxy still barking up a frenzy.

  "Got it!" called the airway guy.

  "Great. Let's get him warm and oxygenated. Can you get a sat?" I turned to stare at the yellow tracing on the monitor, which spiked with every compression. No oxygen saturation.

  "It's not picking up, but the CO2 detector is yellow."

  "Good job! Give him an amp of Epi!" I said. We had airway and we were providing primitive breathing and circulation. Epi is controversial in hypothermia, but you can give one dose.

  "Let's load him up and protect his C-spine," said the second paramedic. I helped lift the legs on to the stretcher while they managed to get a cervical spine collar on him and some padding on either side of his head. A third officer took over CPR.

  "I can take over compressions," I told the CPR police officer, even though I've never done them while jogging along beside a stretcher, but he shook his head.

  The patient's belly looked distended. I opened my mouth to mention a nasogastric tube, when they had the chance, but a female police officer took my arm and said, "We have some questions for you. Could you come to the station with us?"

  Chapter 3

  "Where were you, before you found the body?" asked the female police officer.

  I blinked before answering. I wasn't crazy about how they'd split me and Ryan up to question us at the police station.

  But I was raised to answer police officers, and two of them sat in front of me, in this small, white-walled, table-free room.

  It was hard to resist looking at the ceiling-mounted camera, after giving them permission to film me, but they'd instructed me to treat this as a normal conversation. I glanced at the male before turning back to the female officer. "I was driving to Ottawa from Montreal. That's where I'm living as a resident doctor." Should I explain that they used to call us interns? No, maybe not. "I'm staying with my parents in Orleans. It was snowing, so I didn't take any detours."

  "What time did you leave Montreal?" said the woman. The bronze badge on the right side of her chest, gleaming against her black uniform, said E. Edwards.

  E. Edwards seemed awfully interested in my whereabouts today. The hairs tingled on the back of my neck.

  I stared at E. Edwards, then at the man. They both met my gaze, unblinking. The man smiled a little, as if to put me at ease. E. Edwards did not.

  They were both white, probably in their thirties. The woman had wrapped her dark hair in a neat bun. The man, R. Antunes, had opted for a brown buzz cut. The metal police badge on the left side of their chests and the fabric Ottawa police badges on their arms were unstained. I noticed a billy club hanging on their hips, and I'm sure they had guns or Tasers, but they had so many things hanging on their belts, it was hard to identify each item without seeming to gawk at their crotches.

  At a glance, they both looked pretty fit. No doughnut police jokes here. Neither of them needed glasses, so they continued to stare back at me, unfiltered. Her eyes were blue and his were brown.

  "Do you think I had something to do with the body?" I asked. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. They wouldn't be able to see the goose bumps under my long-sleeved, cobalt blue shirt, although I suddenly wished I had a sweater.

  "We're looking for information, Hope. That's all," said the man.

  I didn't like the way he said my name. Maybe I should tell him to call me Dr. Sze.

  "You understand why we need that information, right, Dr. Sze?" said the woman.

  Somehow, she'd picked up on the fact that I didn't like them using my first name. That was both impressive and dangerous.

  I licked my lips. They felt cracked under my tongue. My lips got dry in the winter, and I hadn't had any water since I'd left my car. "I understand that you need information, but I'm wondering if Ryan and I should have a lawyer present," I said.

  I glanced around the room. No table, no carafe of water, only chairs and the omnipresent eye of the video camera. I couldn't stand hunger and thirst. Not since I'd been trapped in a foodless room with the possibility of a bullet through the brain. But I didn't want to request any favours from the police. Especially when I'd asked for a lawyer.

  "That's your choice, of course, Dr. Sze. I can't give you legal advice," said the woman.

  "We're only asking some questions, Hope," said the man. "Would you like some water?"

  It was like they could read my mind, but of course they couldn't. My lips were flaking and peeling under their scrutiny. Plus, I know that I broadcast every thought across my face. I lie as well as a two-year-old. So even though I didn't answer, the man nodded and left the room.

  Montreal police had saved my skin more times than I cared to count. But I was starting to recognize that I'd changed cities, and even changed provinces. These cops wore black uniforms instead of baby blue. They didn't know that I was the "detective doctor," unless they read the newspaper. They had no idea who I was.

  The man returned with a plastic cup, and I sipped the tepid water, trying not to grimace. Both of them had placed their hands on the table, probably thinking that it made them look more open and showed that they didn't have any weapons, but really made me think, What big hands you have, officers.

  "I want to know that Ryan's okay," I said.

  "He's fine," said the man. It was possible he could've gotten an update through his radio. They wore little grey radios on their right shoulders.

  "I'd like to see him myself."

  "Dr. Sze," said E. Edwards, "if you answer our questions, which shouldn't take more than a few minutes, we'll bring you to Mr. Wu."

  I glanced at the clock behind my head. It was 10:37 p.m.

  "You can time us," said the woman, reading my thoughts again. "We'll be done here by eleven, if you answer the questions quickly."

  "Okay." The boy and girl in blue (or black) were on my side. I was willing to give up my theoretical lawyer if that meant I could see Ryan faster. "I left Montreal before 6 p.m." I meant to leave in the wee hours of the morning, but of course, that didn't happen. Saying good-bye to John Tucker took a lot longer than that.

  "And you drove straight to Ottawa?"

  "Yes."

  "To your parents' house?"

  "I had to stop for gas." I'd stopped once I crossed the Ontario border. "I have the receipt, if you want it."

  "That would be helpful," said the man, which gave me an excuse to dig through the purple leather wallet my mom had bought me for my birthday. Of course I had ten million receipts in there—more receipts than cash, which was a measly $20 bill—but I passed the correct stub across the table, thankful that the ink hadn't already worn off the receipt. "I took the 40 and then the 417 to Orleans."

  "Where do your parents live?"

  I drained the cup. "Are you going to harass them?"

  They exchanged a quick look. The man said, "We don't harass people. We're the police. We may have to ask questions, but o
nly when necessary."

  I didn't like it. I glanced at the neighbouring wall, where Ryan should be, and I told them, "They live on 288 Silver Lane. My brother—I don't want you to bother my brother. He's only eight. My family has nothing to do with this."

  The woman nodded acknowledgement while the man took notes. "What time did you leave your parents' house tonight?" said the woman.

  "Around 9:10. No, closer to 9:15." Kevin had asked me to hang out a little longer, and to be honest, I wanted to. Every time I looked at him, I thought, This could be the last time. We'd started reading Harry Potter together. We were on my least favourite book, The Order of the Phoenix. The one with the most evil antagonist, but the one I'd get to read to him in person instead of over the phone or Skype.

  "Why were you driving to the lab, even though you told us your first day is tomorrow?"

  "I wanted to figure out where it was and where to park, so I wouldn't be late tomorrow."

  They didn't say anything, but I thought they understood. Cops are organized and rule-bound, more like the person I was trying to become. They made me walk through finding the body and starting the code.

  I explained how I was torn about leaving the bag on his head as evidence and ripping it off as a doctor. We went over that several times. Then the questions got more bizarre.

  The woman said, "Did you recognize the victim?"

  "Recognize him? Of course not. I told you, I just came from Montreal."

  "Had you met him before today? Maybe when you were visiting Ottawa on a previous occasion?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think so. I didn't get a good look at his face. He had a bag on his head, and even after they cut open the bag, he was covered in vomit."

  "You saw his features, though. His skin tone. His build," said the man. "Do you think you recognized him? Had you seen him another day?"

  I shook my head. They stared at me, and I realized they wanted me to say it out loud, for the cameras. "No. I don't think I'd ever seen him before. I think he was black—I mean, it was hard to tell, it was so dark—but I didn't know him."

  The man lit up. "Yes, he was of African heritage. Did that make him seem familiar to you?"

  "No. I'm saying that I didn't know him at all. He didn't look like anyone from my high school or university that I remember."

  "No?" The man looked disbelieving, but he said, "All right, then. How did you find work at the stem cell lab in Ottawa, when you were established in Montreal?"

  "I set up a research rotation with Dr. Thomas Zinser."

  "How did you know Dr. Zinser?"

  "I, uh, one of my friends suggested him." My cheeks reddened. The man raised his eyebrows.

  "One of my fellow residents, Dr. John Tucker, knew him, or knew him by reputation."

  The two officers grew still as soon as I said Tucker's name. They knew him. Of course they did. Tucker knew everyone. Seven point five billion people in the world meant 7.5 billion more friends for Tucker.

  "Dr. John Tucker," said the woman.

  "Yes."

  "He was seriously injured during the hostage-taking at St. Joseph's Hospital in Montreal."

  I closed my eyes. So they knew about that. I nodded. When I opened my eyes, they were watching me even more closely. The tone of the room, already sober, turned grim.

  "You must have had an interview with Dr. Zinser at the stem cell lab before starting your work," said the man.

  I shook my head. "Dr. Zinser and I e-mailed, and we Skyped together once. I never met him in person. We were both too busy." Dr. Zinser was supposed to send me some forms, but he forgot. I decided not to mention that.

  "You never came to the lab?"

  "No. That's why I wanted to come early tonight, so I wouldn't get lost tomorrow morning. And because I tried to take a shortcut, Ryan and I were cutting through the park, in the snow, with the dog … "

  My memory cast back to my boots sinking into the ground, our steps making muddy imprints in the snow, and I stopped right there. "The footprints," I said out loud.

  The cops exchanged a look. The man leaned forward. "What about the footprints?"

  "You can see our footprints in the snow. Me, Ryan, and Roxy. All the way from my car to the … victim. You know Ryan and I had nothing to do with this. Or at least you will in the morning, when you can see everything. You'll know we're all innocent."

  I sagged into my seat with relief. The only way this day could've gotten any worse was if they picked me and Ryan up and slammed us in jail. Well, that wasn't going to happen. Science would save us.

  "Hope," said the man, "no one is accusing you of anything, boot prints or not."

  The woman reached her hand forward and said, in a too-gentle voice, "Do you want something to eat, Dr. Sze?"

  I blinked at them. They kept asking if I knew the victim. They made me give an alibi, right down to my gas stub. Of course they were accusing me!

  I dug my hands into the edges of the chair, which was made out of smooth plastic and didn't dent my fingers, but felt cool against my skin. That grounded me a little.

  I said quietly, "I'm not hungry. I want to finish up here so I can see Ryan Wu." That, I was sure about. I needed to see him and John Tucker as soon as possible, with my own eyes, to make sure they were all right.

  "Soon, Dr. Sze," said the female officer. "Very soon."

  Chapter 4

  "You found a body, Hope?" Kevin burst out of the living room on my left. "That's so cool!"

  Good thing my little brother was fist-punching the air instead of jumping on me. My ankle was a bit sore. Not enough to complain about, but I'd be less nimble catching an almost nine-year-old. Kevin was shoulder-height on me now, and growing every day.

  "God! You get all the good stuff, and I get the violin lessons." Kevin heaved a sigh.

  "I'd rather have the violin lessons," I said under my breath, taking my glasses off and shaking them to encourage the condensation to evaporate. Even with my myopic eyes, I saw my dad's brow crease with concern as he examined my face under the yellow lights of the hallway. He said, "Are you all right?"

  I shook my head, but my mother was already yelling from the kitchen, which lay directly in front of me. "We made bone soup. It's very good! At first, it didn't taste like anything, but Dad added some salt, and now it's perfect. I'll get you a bowl."

  My stomach twisted. My parents' soup tends to be tasteless, greasy, and full of animal bones. The steamy, soup-laden air made me think of the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretel. I know this sounds weird, but I hadn't felt good about eating meat since 14/11, my secret nickname for the hostage-taking on November fourteenth.

  Ryan called out something in Cantonese to my mother, but she said, "Mo, mo, mo," and bustled into the hallway, nearly spilling a white bowlful of soup, and switching back to English for me because they never taught us Chinese. "You need your strength!"

  "I need a shower." That, plus a gallon of water. I started walking to the bathroom, feeling Ryan's eyes on me. He needed a shower, too. I glanced at him over my shoulder, and I knew we were both thinking of past, soapy times, him closing his eyes against the spray, his body slick with water before he bent me over—

  "It says here that bodies decompose more slowly in the cold. That makes sense," said Kevin, holding up his iPad and killing my buzz. "How long do you think the body was there? Do the cops know?"

  "They know it's there. They interviewed us," I said, sighing. I couldn't even fantasize anymore. Was the rest of December going to be like this? Probably.

  "Because rigor mortis starts in the first half hour or so. First the muscles get loose, and then they stiffen up after 30 to 60 minutes. It depends on the temperature."

  My little CSI guy. I touched his hair, wanting to feel the dark spikes against my palm, but he twisted away. I guess he thought it was too babyish. I cleared my throat. "Good point. I'm not sure how much of that was the freezing temperature and how much was rigor mortis," I said, and my mother nearly spilled the soup again, while my
dad said, "Hope—"

  "What?" Kevin rounded on them. "I'm nine years old in eight days!

  Why should she get to have all the fun!"

  "It's not fun," I said. It was wretched.

  Roxy barked from the back of my car, clearly audible through the brick walls of our house. Ryan said, "I'd better check on her."

  "Do you have a dog?" said Kevin, and obviously that beat researching a dead body, because he and my dad reached for their boots beside the door. I squeezed over—it's not a very big front hall, so we're supposed to put our boots in the closet to the right of the door, but no one wants to bother—while my mom said, "I've got your soup! You need your strength. You're going to fall over. Forget about the dog."

  Dad said, "We're going to help Ryan get his car. He left it at the hospital so he could drop Hope off."

  "Eat some soup first!" Mom hollered at all of their backs, and then she rounded on me. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "I've got to shower, Mom."

  "Not before you eat soup!" She held the bowl aloft.

  Was I supposed to slurp it standing up? "I'm not hungry," I said, shoving my boots in the closet. One of them toppled over, but I didn't care. It seemed fitting.

  I finally made it down the hall, which led directly into the bathroom. My parents own a small, snug bungalow in Orleans, a suburb of Ottawa. My parents tell me the area started off as farmland, but now we've got schools, a grocery store, and even a wave pool and hockey rink a few blocks away, on Tenth Line Road. That shiny newness seemed so distant from the Death Star I figured must've been embedded in Montreal's historical stone buildings. I thought I'd be safe at home.

  "But you have to eat soup!"

  "Mom," I said, trying to soften my tone. My parents loved me. They welcomed me back, even though I was a serious downer who triggered Kevin to look up rigor mortis. "If I eat soup right now, I might puke."

  Her eyes widened. She took an involuntary half-step back, sloshing the soup. A few spots drizzled on the parquet floor.