Working Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “Shouldn’t you be typing something?” I ask.

  She dismisses my question with a wave of her hand. “Nothing urgent. I can bang it out in no time.”

  I roll my eyes and bite my tongue.

  “Hey, Nancy just hung up. Let me tell her you’re here.” She picks up the phone and buzzes the intercom. “You’ll never guess who’s here to see you,” she says. Then she giggles. “Nope, it’s Mattie Winston.” A pause, then, “No kidding!” followed by “Okay.” She hangs up the phone. “Go on in,” she says, rubbing her hands together with glee. She follows close on my heels as I head for Nancy’s office and I know she’ll be parked outside the door as soon as I close it, her ear to the wood.

  As are many directors of nursing, Nancy Molinaro is often referred to as the DON. The term derives from the initials in the title but it’s used on Molinaro for a totally different reason. Rumor has it she’s a former mob boss who underwent a botched sex change operation before entering the witness protection program. She has a broad stocky build and unusually long sideburns. The dark hair on her head is both shorter and thinner than that on her arms and legs. Bleach does little to hide the push broom on her upper lip and a broken jaw that never healed properly gives her a whispering lisp. There are those who swear that a horse’s head is her favorite bedtime companion.

  People she doesn’t like or who cross her in any way have an odd habit of disappearing. Though no one has actually seen it, everyone knows she maintains a hit list, which is sometimes called the shit list, but more often referred to as the Molinaro Fecal Roster. Anyone who makes it onto the list will eventually get a Friday afternoon summons to the nursing office, then never be heard from again. Some think the Friday timing is so administration will have an entire weekend to find a replacement. Personally, I think it’s so Molinaro will have an entire weekend to hide the body.

  “Hello, Mattie.” She greets me with a phony-looking smile and a suspicious gleam in her eye. “What a nice surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see David, but I figure they won’t let me into the OR on my own. I want to talk to him about Karen Owenby.”

  “Karen Owenby?” Molinaro sits up straighter, her tone as wary as her expression. “What business do you have with Karen?” She probably thinks I’m here to exact some sort of revenge. Apparently she doesn’t know someone beat me to it.

  “None. I need to see David.”

  “Karen’s not here today, anyway,” she adds quickly. “She took a few personal days.”

  More than a few, I think. “I guess you haven’t heard yet. Karen’s dead. Someone broke into her house last night and shot her.”

  Molinaro’s reaction surprises me. There isn’t one. Finally she says, “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious,” I answer, an admittedly bad choice of words.

  “How do you know about it already?” Molinaro asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “I was there.”

  Molinaro’s right hand drops off the desk toward her lap. I imagine she is fingering the revolver she keeps strapped to her leg, trying to get it loose without snagging any hairs.

  “I was there officially,” I explain. “I work in the ME’s office now.” I pull out my badge and flash it at her.

  She weighs the facts a moment and apparently finds something amusing in them, because a hint of a smile curls her mustache.

  “Anyway, I need to talk to David.”

  “Why?”

  I don’t think telling her I need to rule him out as the killer will open many doors for me, so I opt for evasiveness. “Official business. Part of my new job and all. You know.”

  Molinaro stares at me for the longest time and I find myself feeling relieved it isn’t a Friday. “He’s not in the OR,” she says finally. “He’s down in the ER. We had a multicar pileup this morning and there are several surgical candidates in the aftermath.”

  There is an undeniable tone of glee in Molinaro’s voice. No doubt she hears the ka-ching of dollar signs adding up. Multiple trauma on young patients with insurance is good business for a hospital, especially if they end up in the OR, where the rooms are rented by the minute and the average markup on items is somewhere around 2,000 percent. For the price of one OR Band-Aid you can buy ten cases of the suckers at Wal-Mart.

  “Come on,” Molinaro says, rising from her chair. “I’ll take you down there.”

  Walking into the hustle and bustle of the ER is like a ride in a time machine. Izzy was right, damn it. I hadn’t merely liked working in the ER, I’d loved it. The sounds and smells of the place bring back a delicious feeling of anticipation.

  As I follow Molinaro toward the main desk, the curtain on one of the cubicles we pass is flung aside and Phyllis Malone steps out. “Mets!” she hollers when she sees me. “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too, Syph.”

  Syph is short for syphilis. Nurses in the ER have a tendency to refer to patients by their disease or diagnosis rather than their name. Instead of Mr. Jones or Mrs. Smith, it’s “the Leg Fracture in Bed Two” or “the Kidney Stone in Bed Six.” Back when I worked in the ER, we sat around one night discussing this habit, then decided to pick out nicknames for ourselves that were both a disease and somewhat close to our real names. It took a while but eventually everyone had a nickname and, over time, they stuck. The best we came up with for Mattie was Mets—short for metastases, the term used for the spread of cancer. It isn’t great—not nearly as good as Ricky’s Rickets or Lucy’s Lupus—but at least I fared better than Phyllis.

  “We’re looking for Dr. Winston,” Molinaro announces in her haughty, lisping tone.

  Syph says, “I think he’s in Bed One with the Blunt Abdominal Trauma, Probable Ruptured Spleen.”

  “Thanks,” says Molinaro. “Do you have an empty room anywhere?”

  “I don’t think anyone is in the ENT room,” Syph says, her gaze bouncing back and forth between me and Molinaro.

  I hear the sliding doors to the ambulance bay open, look over, and see Hurley stroll in. I quickly step to one side, hoping to hide behind Molinaro, but it’s like trying to hide a redwood behind a rose bush.

  David chooses that moment to appear from behind curtain number one like the booby prize in Let’s Make A Deal. He sees me right away and freezes to the spot. He blinks and stares at me for several long seconds, then says, “Mattie?”

  With that, Hurley turns and sees me, too, the expression on his face reminding me of the one my nephew Ethan gets when he sees a bug on the wall. “What are you doing here?” Hurley asks.

  “I used to work here,” I tell him with as much indignation as I can muster, hoping it will disguise the fact that I am more or less avoiding the question.

  Hurley studies me, his eyes giving me a head-to-toe perusal that leaves me confused about whether I want to run and hide, or wrap my legs around his waist and ride him home. He turns to David. “You are Dr. Winston?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d like to speak with you please. If you have a moment.” Hurley flips his detective badge out like it’s an invitation.

  “Sure. But make it quick. I have a patient I need to get up to the OR.”

  “In private,” Hurley says.

  I realize Hurley is going to haul David away, which means I won’t be able to see David’s reaction when he finds out about Karen. Then Molinaro, of all people, saves the day. “Is this about Karen Owenby’s murder?” she asks.

  Hurley shoots me a look that makes my toes curl up like the witch under the house in The Wizard of Oz. He is clearly pissed. He doesn’t stare at me for long though, because David lets out a “What?” that sounds like the yelp of a wounded dog. All the blood drains from his face and he staggers back as if he’s been hit.

  Syph, who is standing across the room, looks up at the sound of David’s outburst and studies the faces in our group for a second. Then she approaches and says, “Let me guess. You told them about that nipple incident, didn’t you?”


  Chapter 7

  Hurley hauls David off, just as I feared he would. I try to tag along but Hurley shoots me another one of his looks and says, “Stay put. Your turn is coming.”

  I take that as my cue to leave. Molinaro is in a huddle with several of the ER nurses as I make my exit through the doors to the ambulance bay, planning to walk around the outside of the building so I can avoid another encounter with Gina and her TV crew.

  I head for work, where I find Izzy in his office. Sitting next to him is a man about my age with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing glasses so thick they make his eyes look bigger than his head.

  “Ah, Mattie,” Izzy says. “We were just talking about you. I want you to meet Arnie Toffer.”

  Arnie stands and gives my hand a hearty shake. He’s about six inches taller than Izzy, which still leaves him a good half-foot shy of me. I’m starting to feel like Snow White.

  “Arnie just got back from a seminar on fiber analysis,” Izzy explains. “He’s an evidence technician and someone you’ll need to work closely with. His job involves processing fingerprints, tire tracks, fibers, tox screens…that sort of stuff. Snagged him from LA. He’s one of the best.”

  I instantly make the connection that, as an evidence technician, Arnie is the person most likely to be in possession of my underwear, which means he is about to become my new best friend. And despite what the cliché says, I know that the quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach, it’s through his penis. So I shift into light flirt mode, hoping that Arnie isn’t gay and likes to read comic books about women from the planet Amazon.

  “You sound like a pretty versatile guy,” I tell him, making and holding eye contact. “You must be very smart to know how to analyze all those different types of evidence.”

  “Well, I have had a lot of experience,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit.

  “I’ll bet you have,” I say, flavoring my tone with the barest hint of innuendo. “And since I need to learn how to do some of this stuff, I’d love to be able to watch what you do. To see you in action.”

  Arnie’s smile broadens into something uncomfortably close to a leer. He stares at me a moment and then officially completes our little mating dance by ogling me from head to toe and winking. “I’d love to show you some action,” he says with a crooked, half grin.

  Damn, Animal World would be proud.

  “Good idea,” Izzy says, seemingly oblivious to all the innuendo zipping through the air. “We don’t have any autopsies pending so why don’t you take Mattie up to your office, Arnie, and show her a few ropes.”

  The mention of me and ropes in the same sentence makes Arnie’s eyes grow wide. “Sounds good to me,” he says, licking his lips and making me wonder if I’ve taken the flirting thing a bit too far.

  “When you’re done with Arnie you can take the afternoon off if you like, Mattie. Make up for the time we spent out in the field last night.”

  “Thanks. I could use a nap.”

  “One other thing,” Izzy says, opening his desk drawer. “I want you to have this so I can reach you more easily.” He hands me a cell phone along with a battery charger, and I realize my days of ignoring pages are over. Then he hands me a piece of paper. Typed on it is the number for my phone and instructions for its use. At the bottom, written in Izzy’s hand, are instructions for paging his beeper.

  Fully wired for communication, I leave Izzy’s office and follow Arnie down the hallway, studying a bald spot that is starting to appear on the crown of his head. He stops by a locked door that marks a flight of stairs, sliding a card into a panel on the wall. I hear a faint click and he pulls the door open.

  “Only one flight up,” he says.

  “A key card?” I say with a sinking feeling. Without access to the area where the evidence is kept, it’s going to be much harder than I thought to steal back my underwear.

  “Didn’t Izzy give you one yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “He should have. Ask him about it. He probably just forgot. All the employees have one. It’s one of the security measures we use to assure the integrity of any evidence we keep here.”

  I make a mental note to ask Izzy about the key card as soon as possible. Arnie waves me through the door, insisting I go up the stairs first. I sense his eyes on me as I climb and try to clench my ass cheeks together so they won’t jiggle too much. But this makes me feel like Herman Munster when I walk so I give up, letting my jiggly parts jiggle and letting Arnie watch. I consider it a fair trade. After all, I did gawk at his bald spot.

  Arnie’s office is nothing more than a desk parked in one corner of a laboratory. Lining the walls are various machines, several of which are humming, whirring, or making other odd mechanical noises. A gooseneck lamp sits on the desk—the only significant source of light in the room at the moment, though I notice there are fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.

  “This is the true brain of forensics work,” Arnie says proudly as we enter the room. “Sometimes the cause of death is as obvious as the nose on my face and then there are times when the cause isn’t obvious at all. That’s when you have to get down to the microscopic level to find the real answers.”

  He pauses and gives the room a wary once-over, as if he expects to see someone lurking in the shadows. When he looks back at me his eyes are drawn down to a steely glint. “Even when the cause of death seems obvious, it may not be,” he says, his voice a few decibels lower. “There are things…people…ways…. You know what I mean?”

  I don’t and start to wonder if Arnie might be a slice or two shy of a full loaf.

  “You married?” he asks me.

  “Not exactly,” I answer, taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

  “Last time I checked, the law says you either are or you aren’t.”

  “What are you, the marriage police?” I sneer, wishing an instant later that I could take it back. I need Arnie to like me.

  He chuckles. “Divorced, eh? I figured as much when I saw the band on your finger.”

  “I’m not divorced yet. But I will be soon,” I add quickly. “And what band?” I examine my hand, curious. I’d removed my wedding ring the day after I moved out of the house and haven’t worn it since.

  “That white band of skin at the base of your left ring finger,” Arnie says. “Shows you were wearing a wedding band until recently. That, combined with your bitchy attitude when I asked about marriage, suggests divorce.”

  “Oh,” I say, seeing that there is indeed a small band of skin at the base of my finger that looks like the underbelly on a fish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that it’s still a sore subject.” I settle into a nearby chair, grimacing as I hit the seat a little harder than planned, reminding myself of another sore subject in the most literal sense. “Didn’t Izzy tell you about my situation?”

  Arnie shook his head. “Izzy doesn’t talk much about personal stuff. He values his own privacy a lot so he’s pretty good at respecting others’. If you have a secret you don’t want to get out, it’ll be safe with him. Discretion is an important part of his job. And his life.”

  I know that what Arnie says is true. In a small town like this where old-fashioned values still prevail and dirty secrets don’t stay secret for long, having an openly gay government official is a bit unusual. While the position of coroner is a state-elected office, a county board can opt to appoint a medical examiner for an unlimited term instead of, or in addition to, electing a coroner. In counties with populations over five hundred thousand, a medical examiner is mandated, but in our county, the presence of a trained forensic pathologist who was interested in the job was all it took.

  Izzy does his job and does it well and that results in a lack of flack from the citizenry. And while Izzy doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s gay, he and Dom always exercise great discretion when it comes to their relationship. They live together and that alone is enough to raise an eyebrow
or two. Whenever they appear in public together, they are models of just-friends behavior.

  “Though really,” Arnie goes on, “in today’s society privacy is nothing but an illusion. The government knows everywhere you go, everything you do. You know those little magnetic strips on the back of your credit cards and bank cards?”

  I nod.

  “Tracking devices. They’re encoded with all kinds of information about you. Every time you use one of those cards, a bunch of information gets recorded in some secret computer the government has hidden away. They put trackers on money, too. Little wires embedded right into the fabric of the bills. And those UPC codes they use to scan purchases? That’s the government’s way of keeping track of everything you buy. They know what you like to eat, what you like to wear, your favorite color, even your favorite TV shows. Cable works both ways, you know. While you’re watching it, someone else is watching you. And do you know why it seems as if the homeless problem in this country has become so rampant?”

  I don’t answer, which is just as well since Arnie doesn’t stop long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

  “Because half of those people aren’t really homeless, that’s why. They’re spies…government spies. The government learned long ago that it’s the perfect cover. No one is as invisible as a homeless bum on the street.”

  He pauses to breathe and I guess my skepticism is showing because then he says, “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “Well…” I eye him warily, unsure if I should try to humor him and slowly back out of the room, or if it’s safe to go ahead and tell him I think he’s nuttier than my Aunt Gertrude’s pecan pie. “Maybe some of that stuff is possible,” I venture, “but I don’t think the government uses it much. I mean why would they care about what I eat or what TV shows I watch?”

  “Because, while our free society is just an illusion, it’s an important illusion. It’s what keeps us happy and content. It keeps us from rising up against the government. It keeps us placid. But the truth is, our government is far from a democracy. A few key people have all the power and pull all the strings. The rest of them are merely for show.”