by Downs, Tim
The ancient red oak flooring creaked and groaned as they stepped into the center of the high, arching atrium. The walls were lined with dark cherry paneling that disappeared into the darkness above. Directly ahead, a wide doorway opened into a small chapel lined with short pews. On the far wall a Gothic stained-glass window sent streams of multicolored light to meet them. To their left, a smaller doorway opened into an office.
“Remarkable.” Nick’s voice shattered the silence. “It’s amazing the trappings that your species attaches to a simple biological function like death.”
A moment later the figure of Mr. Schroeder appeared in the office doorway. His hands were folded in front of him as he walked, and the floor made no sound, as if he had somehow learned to become a part of the stillness around him. He wore a dark suit with a black-and-silver tie, and a white carnation glowed from his left lapel. His silver hair was combed neatly back, and his face seemed to be frozen in an expression of permanent compassion, deep sorrow, and profound concern.
“Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn!” he said in a half-whisper, taking both of her hands in his. “How good it is to see you again. I don’t believe we’ve had a visit from you since … why, since we had the privilege of caring for your mother.”
“I assume you mean since her mother died,” Nick said, running his hand admiringly over the cherry paneling.
Mr. Schroeder cringed slightly at the sound of the forbidden word, taking note for the first time of the bizarrely clad stranger beside Kathryn. Whatever his thoughts, his expression never faltered; Mr. Schroeder had long ago learned that constant politeness, tolerance, and patience were vital assets in his profession. After all, in a town the size of Rayford, almost everyone was an eventual customer.
“And who might this be?” he smiled warmly to Kathryn.
“Mr. Schroeder, I’d very much like you to meet Dr. Nicholas Polchak.”
Nick smiled broadly, folded his hands in front of him, and cocked his head slightly to one side. Mr. Schroeder didn’t seem to notice, but the mimicry didn’t escape Kathryn. She shot him an angry glare.
“It is an honor, Doctor,” Mr. Schroeder said warmly and then turned to Kathryn again. “Tell me, does your visit today concern Andrew? Has there finally been some resolution to the situation? I do hope so, for your sake.”
Kathryn winced slightly and looked at the floor. “No, Mr. Schroeder. Nothing has changed. His body has never been recovered. This is not about Andy.”
“Ah,” he said, sighing deeply, “perhaps one day.” There was an appropriate moment of silence—Mr. Schroeder’s stock-in-trade—and then he smiled at both of them again. “Well then, how can we be of service to you today?”
“Mr. Schroeder, I understand that you are receiving the body of Jimmy McAllister.”
Mr. Schroeder looked suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow. “Oh yes, a very sad affair, very sad. We were happy to make our facility available to the sheriff’s department until the immediate family can make their wishes known regarding the final disposition.”
“Mr. Schroeder, please—may I see him?”
At this, Mr. Schroeder uttered a deep moan and closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Kathryn thought he looked exactly like the ghost of Jacob Marley; she saw Nick turn away to disguise a smile.
“My dear Kathryn,” he intoned, “you must understand the situation. I’m told that Mr. McAllister has been deceased for almost a week now. How can I put this delicately? He will be in no condition to receive visitors—as I’m sure the good doctor can testify.”
“The body will be in a stage of decomposition known as putrefaction,” Nick said abruptly, “perhaps even black putrefaction, considering the ambient temperature lately. The gut will be bloated by intestinal bacteria—so will the eyes and tongue, if there’s anything left of them. The skin will be blistered and loose. There will be major larval infestations here, here, and here”—he pointed casually to Kathryn’s temple, eyes, and mouth—“and brother, it will stink to high heaven.”
Each additional description seemed to rocket off the walls and violate the solemn atmosphere like an obscenity shouted in a cathedral. Mr. Schroeder looked as though he might never recover.
“Nevertheless,” she continued, “I still want to see him.”
“Kathryn, please,” Mr. Schroeder implored. “This is not how Mr. McAllister would want you to remember him. Don’t do this to him. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Please. It will only be for a few minutes.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said, sighing. “I’d like to accommodate you, but you must understand my situation. First of all, the deceased has not arrived yet. And even when he does, without direct permission from the next of kin I cannot allow a viewing. Have you such permission?”
“I know Jimmy’s sister, but … well … it’s kind of complicated …”
“There isn’t time,” Nick cut in. “When the body arrives, you won’t bring it in the house—not in the shape it’s in. You’ll store it in the garage, and you’ll dust it with Formalin powder as fast as you can to control the stench. That will kill every insect on the body.”
Mr. Schroeder looked at him closely, as if for the first time.
“Look,” Nick said, “we’re not asking to do an autopsy here—we just want to collect a few bugs.”
A look of astonished realization swept across Mr. Schroeder’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly, “what you ask is out of the question. You’re not requesting a viewing at all, you’re intending to conduct some kind of examination. What you suggest is quite unethical and improper—and possibly illegal as well.”
“Please,” Kathryn pleaded now, “I have to see him. If only you knew how important this is to me …”
A prolonged and awkward silence followed—then Nick spoke up abruptly. “Mr. Schroeder, I understand your situation completely. As a fellow professional I can appreciate the awkward position that Mrs. Guilford has put you in. We’ll contact the immediate family in the next few days to see what options might be available to us. Thank you for your time.”
Kathryn watched open-mouthed as Nick wheeled around and walked quickly out the door. She turned, muttered something incoherent to Mr. Schroeder, and hurried after him. She caught up to him halfway to the car.
“What’s the matter with you?” she shouted after him. “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking back there?” Nick said nothing, but got into the car and started the engine. Kathryn hurried around and climbed in, slamming the door hard behind her.
“Easy on the door,” he said, pulling away from the curb in a puff of blue smoke. “It’s held together by Bondo.”
“I thought you said we don’t have a few days! What happens if he puts that powder on the body?”
“Then you’ve got no bugs. No bugs, no Bug Man.”
“No Bug Man, no twenty thousand dollars!” she reminded him. “I don’t understand why in the world you—”
“This should be far enough.” Nick pulled over to the curb again a single block farther down the road, just out of sight of Schroeder’s Funeral Home. “You coming?” he said as he climbed from the car. She stared for a moment in utter disbelief, then hurried after him.
“It was obvious we were getting nowhere with Mr. Schroeder,” he called back over his shoulder. “But he still helped us out in his own small way, bless his icy little heart. He told us that the body hasn’t arrived yet.”
“So what?”
“Mr. Schroeder can’t show us what Mr. Schroeder doesn’t have, so why waste our time on him? Let’s go around to the garage and wait for the delivery man.”
“But won’t the delivery man tell us the same thing?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Funeral directors often contract out to have somebody else do the dirty work of collecting bodies. If the collector is an employee of the funeral home, he’ll probably tell us to get lost. But if he’s just some local yokel, then what does he care?” Nick turned and winked. “He j
ust might let us take a peek.”
The garage was the business end of the stately funeral home, providing direct access to the chrome-and-porcelain preparation rooms inside. Schroeder’s Funeral Home was first and foremost a place of comfort and condolence and dignity, so it was prudent to attempt to conceal the true nature of the business—the receiving and processing of dead bodies. The garage and driveway entrance were masked by a screen of tall redbuds.
Nick slung off his knapsack and dropped it on the driveway in front of the garage. He stretched out on the pavement and laid his head against the knapsack, folding his arms across his chest and tipping his Pirates cap down over his spectacled eyes.
“Wake me if you see a car.” He yawned. “A big black one.”
Kathryn was in no mood for sleep—or for humor. She paced nervously back and forth, looking first down the driveway, then around the side of the house, then at the reclining form of Nick—but mostly at Nick.
“Is this against the law?” she demanded.
“Maybe,” he said without moving. “Does it matter? I thought you said you have to know.”
“I just like to know what I’m getting myself into. I do have a position in this town, you know. I don’t want the headline in tomorrow’s Courier to read, ‘Bank Officer Charged with Breaking and Entering.’”
“We’re not breaking and entering,” he assured her. “The headline will read more like, ‘Woman Charged with Molesting Dead Man.’”
“That’s not funny! What if Mr. Schroeder comes out?”
“It’s still daylight. I’m sure Mr. Schroeder stays in his coffin until midnight.”
Nick peeked out from under his cap and took note of the stone-cold expression on Kathryn’s face. “Relax,” he said, pulling his cap down once again. “The law is a little fuzzy about this kind of thing. When a body is first discovered it belongs to the local medical examiner until he signs off on the death certificate. Later on the funeral home releases the body to the immediate family, and then they own it. But in-between—whose body is it? It’s not exactly clear. We’re not hurting anyone, Mrs. Guilford—least of all your pal Jim.”
“What happens if we get caught?”
Nick sighed heavily and sat up. “Mr. Schroeder will raise the roof, and he’ll probably call the next of kin. If he’s really mad, he’ll call the police too. You’ll get a nasty call from the sister, and the police will say, ‘Don’t make a hobby out of this.’ Finito.”
“What would happen to you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Nick said under his breath. “They can’t send me anyplace worse than this.”
Behind them there was a loud click and the whir of an electric motor, and the garage door suddenly began to rise. Nick jumped to his feet and peered down the driveway. The long Cadillac hearse rolled slowly up the pavement and pulled into the garage. Behind the wheel was a young man of no more than eighteen, with an even younger boy beside him.
“This looks good, very good. Tell you what”—he smiled, glancing at Kathryn—“this time, why don’t you let me do the talking?”
The boys stepped from the car and nodded to their unexpected visitors, then proceeded silently to the rear of the car. The older boy wore baggy denims that hung low on his hips and draped about his feet. He wore a green plaid button-up that hung open over a gray T-shirt beneath, and he sported a pair of silver rings in his left ear. His hair was shaved close on the sides, and his sideburns were thin and long. A tangled tuft of red hair lay atop his head. The younger boy was similarly clad. Both wore bright bandannas around their necks, one red and one blue.
“Can I give you fellas a hand?” Nick asked, taking a position opposite them as they rolled the long gurney from the hearse. “Ready? One, two, three.” They lifted and pulled, and the stretcher’s wheels dropped and locked in place. Atop the stretcher was a black vinyl bag, zippered down the center.
“I’m Dr. Nicholas Polchak.” He smiled, extending his hand to each of them. “Call me Nick.”
“I’m Casey,” said the older boy, returning the handshake.
“Griff,” said the second, his voice a full octave higher.
“I’m with the medical examiner’s office in Chapel Hill,” Nick lied.
Kathryn winced.
“It seems we missed a few things in the initial investigation, and they sent me down to take a final look. Why don’t we set up over here?” He guided the gurney into the left side of the garage, out of sight of the driveway.
“You guys know Mrs. Guilford? It seems she knew the deceased here, so I said she could tag along.” Both boys looked at Kathryn, but Casey looked a little longer. Kathryn smiled back nervously and waved, not trusting her voice.
“Can we watch?” Casey asked hopefully.
“I could use your help. Tell me what you’ve got here.”
“We picked him up this morning, in the woods off Weyerhaeuser Road. Musta had to carry him a mile, maybe more. A big guy, weighed a ton. He’s been dead a week—a real rotter. Another few days and we woulda had to use the straps to bag him.”
“Well, let’s take a look.” As he reached for the zipper, each boy slid his bandanna up over his nose and mouth. Nick stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath through his nose.
“You don’t use anything?” Griff asked in astonishment.
“Whoa,” Casey muttered through his bandanna, “you’re the man.”
As Nick slowly pulled the zipper, it suddenly dawned on Kathryn that she was about to view the remains of one of her oldest and dearest friends—and it wasn’t going to be pretty. “Don’t do this to him,” Mr. Schroeder’s words returned to her. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
A wave of doubt came over her. Did she really need to do this? Did she really want to? Is this the way she wanted to forever remember her friend—not as a handsome, always-smiling companion, but as a decomposing, insect-infested corpse? She had hired Dr. Polchak to do the examination. Why did she need to be here at all? She remembered Dr. Polchak’s words: “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Was he really warning her, or were his words just more of his arrogant posturing? She edged closer to the body, then stepped quickly back again. She wanted to know—but did she really need to see?
Nick spread open the body bag near the head and tucked the flaps under the shoulders. “Mrs. Guilford,” he said without looking up, “you might want to watch out for—”
Too late. The stench hit Kathryn like a punch in the gut. It was more than a smell—the word was ridiculously inadequate to describe what Kathryn now experienced. Something had reached deep into the limbic region of her brain and triggered an ancient memory—a memory that every human being possesses yet no one needs to learn—the smell of death.
The three men watched as she lurched for the open doorway and dropped to her knees, convulsing. “Now that,” Nick sneered, “is what I call gross.”
Casey stooped over Kathryn and slid off his bandanna. “Try this. It’s covered with Vicks.”
“That’s an old gravedigger’s trick,” Nick said. “They used to use camphor. You guys really know your business.”
Both boys grinned from ear to ear.
“Casey, open that backpack. We’ve got to work fast—I mean, I’m on a tight schedule here. See those plastic containers? Pop off the lids and take out the labels. Griff, you hold the containers for me. Casey, you write what I tell you on the labels.” He took out a penlight and a pair of long forceps.
Kathryn was already on her feet again, though both legs fluttered like sparrows. She felt a wretched emptiness inside as though her very soul had been sucked from her body. With her right hand she pressed the life-saving bandanna tight against her face; her left hand clutched her stomach, hoping to prevent it from once again hurtling into the abyss. She staggered around the gurney half-doubled over, slowly regaining her strength, taking in everything she could.
She watched Nick pluck several plump white maggots from the open wound in the right temple and d
rop them into one of Griff’s containers.
“You can close that one,” he said. “Put, ‘right temporal region, entry wound.’” From the opposite side he selected several more. “‘Left temporal region, exit wound.’”
He collected specimens from each ocular region, then used his penlight to prop open the jaw and peered inside. “We’ve got a cave full of bats,” he said, as he stepped aside to allow Casey and Griff to have a look, much to their delight. Kathryn felt her stomach convulse like kneading dough.
From deep within the nasal cavity, Nick slowly removed one fat, wriggling larva that was easily twice the size of any he had collected yet. “Jimmy’s been a bad boy.” He whistled and held the specimen aloft for all to see. “Would you look at the size of that bugger? Label this big boy ‘nasal septum.’”
Casey pointed to a missing hand. Nick gathered a few specimens and scraped away several others to examine the exposed stump. “This is from predator activity. Looks like everybody liked Jimmy.” He winked at the boys.
He worked quickly now. “The infestation is consistent with the estimated time of death,” he noted to Kathryn, “and so is the general condition of the tissues.” He pulled the tattered shirt sleeves up and observed the purplish black coloration on the dorsal surface of the arms where the skin lay against the gurney. He moved around to the legs and removed the shoes and socks. The left foot had the same burgundy discoloration along the heel and continuing up the leg—but the right foot was completely purple from heel to toe. He jerked up the right pant leg. The color ended abruptly just above the ankle. The leg above it had no stain at all.
“How did you find the body? How was it lying? Show me.” He nodded toward the floor. Griff lay down and stretched out on his back, arms and legs straight out.
“You’re sure? Exactly like that?” Both boys nodded confidently.
He moved around to the side of the body and began to search inside the bag itself. “Help me out here, all three of you,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of the bag. “I’m looking for late-instar larvae—really big ones—and especially for little brown capsules about this big. Sort of like brown rice. Check the pockets and the folds in the clothing too—quick now.”
