No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  The constable turns just his head and says placidly, “Hey there, Doc. Didn’t know you were there. The chief’s in his office. Been waiting for you.”

  “Is that right?” I mumble, registering briefly that the first-shift, front-desk officer has warmed to me these past three months. He addresses me directly now, and shocker, he even greets me occasionally. A greeting, that’s what that was. What he still doesn’t do is give much away as far as his personal gumption to live. If ever there was a human being who acted like an android, it’s Abraham Farrell.

  “McCoy!” he bellows in his uniquely cringe-worthy way.

  My heart bashes into my ribcage, and my eardrums reverberate. Holy mackerel! I grit my teeth for the next impact as I hurry down the aisle. I take my android comment back for modifications. Abe is like a drill sergeant for two fifteen-minute intervals Monday through Saturday, and the rest of the time he’s more cyborg than Royce Butler or Everly were. He’s maybe on a par with Mrs. Cook, our cook.

  He has gotten better, but I wish Archer would find a way to quiet him down once and for all, such as making duct tape a requirement of his uniform. (Of course, we’d have to invent it first; the adhesive version of cotton-duck tape—as it was originally called for its water repellent properties—doesn’t make its debut until World War II.) The man must be hard of hearing, or he thinks everyone else is.

  “I need your report on the incident this morn. McCoy!” he continues.

  I close Archer’s office door firmly behind me and brace my back against it. “Do something, man!” I whisper loudly to my brother, who glances up from his study of some paperwork and takes a whiff of the air.

  Although his natural voice has a slightly high-pitched quality to it, in a perfectly audible yet modulated tone, Dennis McCoy replies, “Yeah. I’m putting it together right now. Have it to you in a jiffy.”

  Without bothering to acknowledge this, Abe launches his next missile. “Stewart! Same! Where is it? I want your report no later than half-past two. You hear me?!”

  “Oh yeah, Abe, loud and clear,” comes another even-keel and still discernible response from one of the side rooms.

  “Don’t Abe’s pronouncements make you want to jump out of your skin?” I ask, casting a sidelong glance at the pull-chord for the blinds, which are not at all like the reinforced acoustic louvers at Clarion.

  “Abe forgets. I remind him. That’s the way it works,” Archer says. “So … what’s that you got there?”

  When the constable halts, presumably to breathe, I move away from the door and toward Archer. “You know what it is. Two corned beef sandwiches. Fries. Two dill pickles. Sorry, no soup. I forgot my thermos.”

  “Mm-mmm. I was hungry an hour ago.”

  “I figured you’d forgone sustenance.”

  He shoves the papers on his desk aside, nods once, and takes the proffered bag. “I’m glad you came by.”

  “I bet.”

  “Not for the food, but thanks for that. No, something’s come up. But we’ll talk about it when I’m done.”

  “Fine. So … while you can still hear me, you need to remind him more often. It’s gotta sink into that thick noggin’ of his at some point.” I slap my hands together and yield skyward, “Hear me, almighty whoever, please grant my brother Archer the power to strike Abraham Farrell practically mute, not quite but practically. Make it so.”

  When I look at Archer, he’s wiping away a grin with his thumb. “I won’t do that in front of the others.”

  “Why not? Plug it as teamwork or something. I think a few others badgering him now and again would lighten the load on you. And maybe it would help with the whole ‘I’m not your dad, go take a piss if you have to’ bit. They’re still sir-ing you left and right as far as I can tell.”

  “You’re the one who told me to get used to it, River,” he says around a mouthful of food. “Besides, they don’t ask me as many stupid questions anymore.”

  “Whatever,” I murmur, wincing as Abe resumes his tirade. At least Archer had the glass inserts in his door caulked and secured. They would rattle with every door that closed, heavy footfalls just outside the office, and during the constable’s ritual pronouncements. “How you keep your cool is remarkable. And yet every one of them is afraid of you. I think Farrell would lose his voice entirely if you just shouted back. That might be nice for a change, hmm?” I ask, hopefully. “I’m sure he’d be just as productive without it.”

  Archer shakes his head a little at my suggestion. “It’s the face,” he says.

  “Oh, it’s more than that,” I suggest, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders.

  “I’m telling you,” he begins, pointing at himself with a pinky finger, fry in one hand, the sandwich in the other, “a good deal of practice has gone into this.” His expression remains stern, except for the tiniest waggle of his eyebrows as he takes another bite. He then gulps down the contents in his coffee mug and refills an empty glass with water from a fancy crystal decanter.

  “If I didn’t know better—”

  “Hold it right there. I’m not even going to try to guess where this runaway train of yours is headed, but it’s about time someone told you that you only think you do,” he says coolly. After a pause, he clarifies. “Know better.”

  “I was just going to say that you seem to have acquired a sense of humor somewhere between this dimension and the last. So, it must be even harder work.”

  He allows his expression to slack into an easy grin; though rare, it’s a good look for him. The same can’t be said when he smiles outright, however. He doesn’t seem to know how. All the right changes take place. His ocean blue eyes glint and crinkle at the corners; there’s a flash of brilliant, straight teeth; and his lips don’t stretch out weirdly. And still, a smile just looks strained on him, like he’s passing gas. I think he knows it.

  “You used to call me … never mind.”

  “Mr. Arrow Up-my-ass or just Arrow on less formal occasions.”

  A chuckle rumbles deep in his throat. “Right. You could wind me up pretty good back then. Took every ounce of effort for me not to duct tape your mouth shut.”

  I open my mouth into an O. “Uncanny how once something enters your sphere of consciousness, it’s everywhere all of a sudden. I was just thinking about the very usefulness of duct tape myself just a few minutes ago.”

  “I considered keeping a supply handy, particularly in the sideboard in the dining room and potentially in the liquor cabinet in the salon. But I told myself you needed to eat, alcohol might calm you down, and Reid seemed to find you entertaining.”

  “How sweet of you to be concerned for mine and Reid’s welfare.” I reach over, grab a fry, and nibble on it thoughtfully.

  “Of course. That’s what big brothers are for.”

  “I didn’t realize you took that role seriously along with everything else,” I quip, annoyed with myself the moment the words are out of my mouth. I catch the flash of regret that bends across his lips. “You have loosened up a little. I’m so proud of you,” I say with a simper and a nod of approval, confiscating another fry. But, by now, his eyes are hooded, possibly lost in the dulled pain of grief. “Though you were more vocal about it, you didn’t take too well to Archie either from what I recall.”

  “What’s wrong with Archer? Same number of syllables.”

  “It’s endearing. Like Johnny, Billy, Robbie, you know? But now, that’s puzzling,” I say. “You never once showed your dislike for Arrow. Even in the earlier stages of my ERR, I knew you hated it. So, I wonder if Archie isn’t really a case of the gentleman doth protest too much.”

  “Christ. No.”

  “Should we try it again?”

  “River, …” he warns.

  “Hm?”

  “First of all, you say ‘either’ as if either should be acceptable.” A wry grin once again plays on his lips.

  “And second?”

  “Second. Archer will do just fine,” he growls out.

  “Adaptability
is an excellent quality to have, brother dear.”

  “I never could intimidate you. Why is that? Even before your augmentation, you were such a brave pipsqueak.”

  After considering the question for a minute, I say, “I think because of Reid and Quinn.”

  “What does your bravery have to do with them?”

  “Reid could have been just as much of a bully as you but wasn’t; so, I somehow knew you couldn’t be entirely ferocious. And Quinn, while he’s as serious as you are, he doesn’t have the same, I don’t know what to call it, aura or something that makes the weak quake in their boots when you do that I can-snap-you-like-a-twig thing. I’ve seen it a thousand times. You don’t have to lift a finger or even open your mouth.”

  “So, you think everyone else is weak. You would.”

  “Well, to be fair, I’m not talking about those who’ve been damaged by some experience. But generally, if he—it’s always a he, isn’t it? If he doesn’t know you, then he’s judging you solely by appearance, which is a simple-minded thing to do. And if he does know you and is generally a good sort of person, what can he be afraid you’ll do? Pummel him, tear him to shreds? Without ever having seen you lose it? Whatever it is, this kind of weak person can’t get past a fear that has no real basis.”

  “I’ll buy that. Although some take a while to learn the difference between menace and authority, they do eventually get past the fear. Adams and Dent, for example.”

  Crumpling the bag and wax wrappers, Archer tosses them into a metal wastebasket and then gets to his feet. He wipes his hands with a handkerchief, pushes his shirtsleeves up his forearms, and stands there looking at me almost blankly. I notice a hint of tension around his mouth, and I have an idea of what this is about. Tomorrow is Marlowe’s birthday.

  An affected stroke over my mustache usually cracks my brother’s veneer, so I try that. And still he says nothing, does nothing except skim a glance over the papers on his desk. Then a faint “tut” escapes his lips, a wannabe tsk, which I hear less often these days. I want to tell him that we might shoulder the hardship together if only he’d let me in, but Archer and I aren’t there yet. Maybe next year.

  Combing my shorn and therefore useless fingernails down one raven sideburn, I eye him curiously. “Something on your mind?” I ask finally, hopping to my feet like a jumping bean and leaning over to jab a finger into his chest.

  “Watch it, River.” He squints at me and then flicks his chin at the door. Even after a year of pretense, I forget myself.

  Ignoring my question and rounding the desk, he says, “Let’s walk over to the morgue. Tanner and Theo went out to collect a body. They should be back by now. Go on,” he says with a gesture. He closes his office door behind us with care, though not for the door’s sake. He’s restraining himself, I realize.

  My usual tact is to pelt him with questions, even knowing he’ll only talk to me when he’s good and ready. However, this time, I sense his reservations are personal. Something to do with Kate? I wonder. Instead, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner about my new client?”

  At the front desk, Archer prompts, “Abe?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  My brother crooks his finger, beckoning the officer closer. He then leans over the counter and mumbles curtly in a low tone. Farrell folds his lips over one another into a straight line and nods, the color splotches up his neck into his jaw, stopping short of the flat plains of his cheeks. I avoid eye contact to save him from further embarrassment. But there wouldn’t be a repeat performance of the solo-shouting match, at least not for the rest of the day.

  “So, …” Archer resumes, turning abruptly. When I almost collide into his back, he jabs a finger over my head toward his office. He doesn’t like walking through the waiting area where visitors can waylay him with questions or demand his attention; he prefers to go around using the side aisles. “I didn’t mention it because I wanted us to look her over together initially before you started on the postmortem.”

  “And you didn’t want to think about that over lunch,” I fill in, observing the slight curl of his upper lip.

  “Mm. And Reid, …” He hesitates. “Henry Ennis brought this one to our attention earlier today. Rings a bell. Connected possibly with my meeting with him yesterday, though the incident happened sometime afterward. We may have a murder investigation on our hands.” He looks askance at me just as we reach the double doors of my lab. “A healthy woman suddenly died this morning after giving birth. In this case, the baby is fine, however.”

  “A lot of women die in childbirth. I don’t see the connection.” A few minutes ago, I’d debated bringing up my encounter with Miss Edwina Carr but decided it was not a conversation to be had at the office. “You’re not referring by chance to Birdie Day, are you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A woman I met today mentioned her. We can talk about that more at home.” I push at the heavy doors. “Ugh. A little help, …”

  “Something is wrong with the mechanism?” He gives the doors a single shove, and they fly open with a deafening CRAACK! then bounce before hitting the walls. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “It’s been iffy lately. The pistons aren’t always catching anymore.” A brief whoosh engages once the doors close gently behind us. I look over at the canvas-covered body on my table. “The cause of death’s not unusual and definitely not grounds to cry ‘bloody murder,’ Archer. But Ennis, huh? I take it Dr. Varga was her physician?”

  “Correct.”

  A blast of colder air greets us. I rub my hands together furiously. “I’m just going to get rid of my jacket and put on my smock. Will you see to the stove?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  When I return, I head straight for the long counter against the wall and crank the tap to increase the flow of gas under the Bunsen burner a smidgen and light it. The mixture just under the thin layer of skin is liquified, but I’ll need it melted enough to dip my hands into before I can truly begin. Already the faint scent of menthol, wax, and rubber, wafts under my nose. I then extract two thin dowel rods and a pair of prongs from a drawer. Without further delay, I fold the sheet over the corpse, leaving her head, neck, and shoulders exposed.

  “Fair of features. In her mid-thirties, I’d say. Somewhat plump, understandably so. Looks to have passed peaceably. Her coloring is typical for being within eight to twelve hours of rigor mortis too.” Although I wouldn’t touch the woman until I’m ready to begin the process, chances are good that the time of death will need to be adjusted. Strenuous activity prior to death affects the onset of postmortem rigidity. “Do you know what time the baby was born?”

  “No. Her husband said in the early morning hours. The baby was gurgling away happily in a cradle, and Birdie Day was fast asleep beside her when he came in.” Archer rubs his bottom lip with the pad of a thumb. “Ennis visited the Days at about nine-thirty this morning and noticed the clocks were stopped at twenty-past eight. So, she could have died any time after giving birth and before eight-twenty.”

  I have enumerated before on the many strange Victorian death rituals. But they are also somewhat helpful from a medical perspective, such as in determining the time of death. Typically, if the person dies at home, the mirrors throughout are covered, and the clocks are stopped to aid the deceased’s spirit in escaping from the material world. Otherwise, it’s honestly believed that the soul of the dearly departed will be stuck in the in-between space. Though, now that I know that there really are multiple time dimensions, I question less the probability of a parallel otherworld for ghosts. Still, I shudder to think what traveling from one stratum to another has to do with time. Could it mean we passed through purgatory on our way here? Certainly not a pleasant thought.

  I notice a piece of fabric stuck to the back of her head and gingerly pull at it with my tongs—it’s a hair cap. Next, I poise my two sticks at her clavicles and lift the tarp, peering under it to assess the state of her clothing. Although she isn’t wearing a robe over her n
ightgown, the ankle-length cotton shift is modestly buttoned up to her throat. “Why was the good shrink there? I wonder. Birdie Day obviously wasn’t a prostitute. There would be little call for him to be over at the Days’ counseling her about her options after giving birth.”

  “Jedidiah Day is a friend, or Ennis befriended him recently. So, Mr. Day called for him when he discovered his wife this morning.”

  “And does Mr. Day know of the shrink’s suspicions? That Varga is a ‘wolf’?”

  “No. Henry—”

  “It’s Henry now, is it?” I cock a glance at Archer, who glares back at me, though expressionlessly. I don’t like the idea of anyone in my tiny circle getting too buddy-buddy with Henry Flynn Ennis. Mainly because I don’t want to have to see him, hear him, or hear about him in any personal sense if I can help it.

  “Henry, …” Archer stresses.

  I harrumph and roll my eyes.

  “He assures me he’s not let on to Mr. Day.”

  “Mm-hm. Well, a postmortem will reveal if there were any obvious complications, of course, but if her life were sabotaged after the baby’s birth, that’d be much harder to prove.”

  “I know.”

  “From this quick assessment, everything looks perfectly normal with her. I’ll run the toxicity tests and the usual panel, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Hell, River. I’m not hoping Ennis is right about Varga. What do you think I am?”

  A few minutes after eight o’clock, a sudden crr-aack! rents the silence. “Hell!” Archer erupts and as an afterthought yells, “Sorry, slipped my mind. I’ll have that seen to.”

  “Slacker.”

  “Yes,” he says almost in his usual tone.

  “You should just designate one of the officers as your direct underling,” I project from the anteroom.

  “Mm, I should. I’ve just the man for the job too. Anyway, are you done for the night or will you be catching a cab back on your own?”

  “Be right out. I’m just putting her on ice.” I’ve devised a makeshift technique to slow degradation and keep the stink at bay for up to ten days. The corpse is typically picked up by someone from the family’s chosen funerary services or some other agent of cadaver disposal before then, but sometimes we need to preserve it for the duration of an investigation.