Mortal Remains

by Peter Clement

  A large lady gestured with her thumb to a distinguished, white-haired gentleman at her side.

  “Fred here adores my pot roast.”

  He turned beet red and fiddled with his hearing aid.

  Nell proceeded to lead the rest of the room in a free-for-all of off-color innuendos about food and sex. It grew so loud that Mark barely heard the phone ring. He didn’t have a secretary. Hiring anybody locally had proved impossible. Whomever he picked, someone inevitably commented, “I don’t want that person seeing what’s in my file.” Since he knew his patients the way only a country doctor could and the practice pretty well ran itself anyway, he’d kept it a one-man operation – except when it came to all the forms for Medicare and Medicaid. They drove him crazy. His aunt Margaret used to process them for him. Now a company from Saratoga did it. They charged him a hefty commission, but he figured it well worth the price, since he could use the extra hours to run or hike.

  “Dr. Roper,” he answered, blocking his other ear in order to hear over the brouhaha.

  “Mark, it’s Dan. Hey, sounds like you’re in a tavern. The whole gang there, huh?”

  “Yep. Everyone over seventy-five is here to party. That’s my waiting room!”

  He chuckled. “Well, I hate to be the pooper, but I’ve got Chaz Braden and his father, plus Kelly McShane’s parents in my office, all of them squabbling over her remains.”

  “What?”

  “It started last night with phone calls from their lawyers, just as soon as Everett made it official that everything is now in our hands.”

  Son of a bitch. “I’ll be right over.”

  Dan’s office was in a large, colonial building that dominated Main Street. Shabby wood siding toward the back made it look as if the contractor had run out of money. Once nicknamed the White House, the building hadn’t been painted in years and was now a sooty gray. Inside, county officialdom was cut down to size. The courthouse, the jail, a records room, the fire hall, the police station – all were crammed into three floors and a basement. There was even a small coroner’s office that Mark used only during inquests or for campaign headquarters on those occasions when someone challenged his reelection.

  Floorboards creaking under his feet, he walked up to a door with a clear window that had SHERIFF written across it and peeked in at the people he’d be dealing with.

  Dan slouched in his chair massaging his temples. An immaculately groomed, sophisticated-looking older woman sat across from him. She wore a well-tailored black suit and hat. Lord, Mark only saw hats like that in old movies these days. She held black leather gloves in her left hand and kept tight hold with her right on the gold clasp of a black snakeskin handbag in her lap. Behind her stood a compact man, also elderly, but his tanned complexion, though creased, had a youthful tautness that was at odds with his shock of white hair. Arms folded across his chest, his mouth grim, he seemed to be studying his shoes.

  Kelly’s parents, Mark assumed. He hadn’t seen them since he was a small boy. They’d moved away shortly after their daughter’s disappearance.

  Charles Braden III was the only one who seemed to be at ease. Mark remembered him vividly from his days as a resident at NYCH when the man served as outgoing chairman of the Obstetrics Department prior to retirement. Still sleek, sporting the same wiry, brushed steel haircut, and dressed in a two-thousand-dollar suit, he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.

  By contrast, his son Chaz looked anxious, though no less sartorially splendid. His wiry body was taut; dark circles underscored his eyes.

  Mark took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in, adopting the swift stride he used to impose his authority while making rounds at Saratoga General, another arena where money tried to outrank him. “Good afternoon, everyone.”

  They all looked up at him.

  Before Mark had enough time to clear his throat, Mrs. McShane was on her feet, her handbag placed precisely on her chair, and standing before him. “Dr. Roper, I am Kelly’s mother-”

  “Samantha, my dear-” Her husband followed on her heels, reaching out, placing his hands supportively on her shoulders.

  She wrenched away from his touch. “Please, Walter, let me have my say.” She turned a beseeching face to Mark. “Do forgive me, but I simply must demand a little respect here as Kelly’s mother.” She had a tremor in her voice that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn’s performances in her later movies like On Golden Pond or A Lion in Winter. “My darling girl meant everything to me and to learn that I was right all along, that she didn’t run away from us, that someone viciously murdered her – well, I’m sure you understand how devastating, how traumatic this has been for me.”

  From behind, Mark heard one of the Bradens mutter, “Garbage!”

  Samantha obviously had also heard. She drew herself up to her full height, but didn’t turn around. “As I was saying, Doctor, it should be a parent’s right to bury her only child, her beloved chi-”

  “For heaven’s sake, Samantha,” Chaz said, stepping forward. “You and Kelly hadn’t exchanged a single civil word in years before she-”

  “That’s quite enough!” Walter said. His arm shot protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “And after all you put Kelly through during those years, how dare you say anything about us. The least you can do now is agree to let Samantha give her a proper, loving funeral.”

  “I have every right to bury my wife,” Chaz shot back. “Every right. It was you two and Kelly who were estranged, but we, Kelly and I, were not. Let me repeat that. We weren’t the ones estranged, and I insist-”

  “You insist?” An incredulous look rearranged Samantha’s beautifully made-up face. “All her friends said she wanted to leave you, and you know it. If Kelly estranged herself from anyone, it was you.”

  “I don’t know any such thing!” Chaz said, alarmingly red in the face.

  “And you drove her away from me,” Samantha continued. “Every chance you had. You’re the last one who’s going to take her from me now by trying to turn the tables on me like this.” Walter still steadied her as if she were a fragile piece of Baccarat.

  This was fast growing out of control, Mark thought. He glanced at Dan, who shrugged, rolled his eyes, and raised his hands as if to say, “See what I’ve been trying to deal with?”

  Then Charles Braden III moved into the middle of the fray. “Chaz, please, we know you adored Kelly and are distraught, but, as I’ve said before, have a care for a mother’s feelings as well. Do sit down, Chaz.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder. “And let’s all try to remember that Kelly would have been dreadfully upset by this wrangling.”

  Although Charles sounded reasonable, Mark thought, the guy was so smooth he reeked of hypocrisy. Time to take charge himself, and impose his own agenda. “Listen up, people,” he said, moving to position himself behind Dan. “I’m afraid neither side will get any satisfaction today. Her remains are evidence still, and I’m not releasing them to either party.” He knew that he couldn’t get anything more out of the bones from a forensic point of view, yet instinctively balked at letting them go.

  Everyone looked surprised.

  “I thought you’d have done everything necessary by now,” Chaz said, walking quickly around the end of Dan’s desk to where he could stand toe-to-toe with Mark. He exuded anger, but also seemed edgy, his fingers continually opening and closing as if he were practicing his grip. “What are you playing at?”

  Not exactly a presence to back down from, Mark thought. In fact, why not probe a little. See how the man reacts to the prospect of his wife’s death being looked at locally. “You think I’m playing here, Chaz? This investigation is just beginning, and I’m bound to hold Kelly’s remains for as long as I need to do a proper inquiry.”

  He got even more flushed. “You? But the NYPD told me as far as they were concerned it was a cold case. They’re not working on it.”

  “They dumped it in Dan’s and my laps.”

  “That was just for you to do th
eir paperwork, for Christ’s sake. Any fool could see that. Surely you’re not going to drag this out?”

  Mark caught the condescension, and an old enmity stirred. But he kept it in check.

  Nevertheless, he saw Dan looking up at him apprehensively.

  “Listen to me, Roper,” Chaz said. “You may think you’re some kind of big shot here, being coroner and all, but I can rally enough votes to fix that at the next election.”

  Mark’s discipline in dealing with assholes nearly folded. He smiled, slowly, showing his teeth a few at a time. “Take your best shot.”

  “This is not fitting for Kelly,” Braden Senior said. His tone had the quiet authority of someone who never raised his voice to get an order followed.

  Mark had to admit Braden had spoken the truth. “I’ll say it’s not fitting.” He kept his gaze on Chaz.

  “There can’t be much more you need to examine,” Braden Senior continued. “Besides, both the McShanes and my son and I probably will lawyer you to death if you persist. Now I’m no judge, but in a court of law you’ll be hard-pressed not to accord both families the closure of putting her in a grave.”

  Again, Mark knew he was right.

  “So for our Kelly’s sake, why not now?” Braden Senior pressed.

  Mark looked over at him. “Can you people agree on arrangements so that Dan and I don’t have to decide between you? Neither of us is a Solomon, you know.”

  He got no immediate response, except Chaz walked over to rejoin his father.

  Mark forged on. “Mrs. McShane, you mentioned a funeral, right?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “What if you agreed to hold the funeral, which Chaz and his father may attend, and let the Bradens hold a memorial service a couple of weeks later, which you and your husband may attend?”

  Samantha appeared to be taken aback, but to his right he could see that both the Bradens were smiling, albeit reluctantly.

  “I think you are a Solomon after all, young man,” Braden Senior said. “A real peacemaker. Well done.”

  Braden was complimenting him. Dan looked relieved, and the McShanes appeared to accept his compromise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that even Chaz nodded slightly. Why, since he had put this potential fracas to rest, did he have such a bitter taste in his mouth?

  4:00 P.M.

  Mark started his run as usual, going down to the foot of his driveway and turning left. After this afternoon’s business, he figured it would take at least an hour on the road to work off the tension.

  The air was cool, the light gray, and leaden clouds promised snow. He’d worn gloves and a hooded track suit, but initially he still felt cold. He also carried a small flashlight in his pocket since it would be dark before he finished.

  By the first hundred paces, he started to feel the flush of his endorphins. Within fifteen minutes, his runner’s high kicked in like a shot of morphine, first vanquishing the pain of protesting muscles, then wiping the Bradens and McShanes off his radar. His world became the sound of his breathing, the thudding of his heart, and the soft slap of his running shoes on asphalt. When the first few flakes began to float down around him and fall on his cheeks, he even welcomed their sting against his skin as they melted, the sensation invigorating him. It was a mindless state, and he reveled in it.

  Thirty minutes later, well along the uphill part of his trek, he trotted by a gated muddy road that led into a thickly forested property. Off to one side a rusted plaque pompously announced THE BRADEN FOUNDATION CLINIC.

  At least they hadn’t hung a scarlet A in front of the place.

  He had passed this place a hundred times, never giving it a thought. But now, the crumpled clipping about the place that his father had kept popped to mind, and on a whim, he slowed, walked over to where a wire fence abutted against the post at the right of the entrance. Ignoring a faded NO TRESPASSING sign, he climbed to the other side. The rickety barrier swayed under him, suggesting the whole thing might soon collapse, maintenance obviously no longer a priority.

  He started along the center hump between two little-used ruts, resuming the same jogging pace as before. The falling snow disappeared as soon as it hit the bare earth, and in the brittle undergrowth of wild grasses that lined a shallow ditch on either side it collected around the roots like frizzy bits of fluff before melting. The sight made him feel slightly forlorn, not an unusual emotion at this time of year; he preferred it when everything finally turned white and Christmassy. Lately, though, as the change of season drove away the summer crowd and emptied the countryside, instead of enjoying the drop in his workload, he sometimes felt left behind. The sensation, when it occurred, puzzled him. He had nowhere else he wanted to live or work. No matter. Whatever it was that disquieted him, he figured it couldn’t be what he’d seen happen to Dan and others. He just wasn’t the type to get bushed.

  Deeper into the woods the russet foliage of ancient giant oaks intertwined to form a thatched arch high above his head and cast a further layer of shadow over the thickening dusk, forcing him to watch his step.

  In the far distance he heard the “Boom! Boom! Boom!” of rifle shots.

  “God, I hate hunting season,” he said out loud. He’d not worn the prescribed orange vest or gaudy cap, so he began to whistle at full volume between breaths, figuring that making a lot of noise was his best protection against being mistaken for a deer. Every November he and Dan hauled out some poor Joe who had a stray bullet or crossbow arrow in him. He medevacked the living by helicopter to the nearest trauma center, usually Albany; but sometimes, when patient volume at local facilities made them too busy, he had to ride with the victim, fighting to keep him stable all the way to New York City and his old alma mater, NYCH. The dead they body-bagged and sent to Blair’s.

  He rounded a bend and stepped out of the shadows into a clearing the size of a baseball field. At its center stood the lifeless hulk of the building. Made of stone and four stories tall, it had the dimensions of a medium-sized apartment block and had most of its windows punched out. Not even falling snow in twilight could soften the dreariness.

  He hadn’t been here since sneaking in with friends when they were kids. They’d deemed it “haunted” back then and prowled the dark corridors as a rite of passage. Even a few of the broken panes were their doing. The rest had been target practice for the crowd that roamed the woods at this time each year.

  Might as well take a look, he thought, not that he expected the reason for his father’s interest in the place to jump out at him. But as coroner he’d learned the value of visiting a site. Every place had a feel to it, and sometimes the physical layout of a building spoke to him. It didn’t necessarily give answers, but often begged specific questions – Who was here? And why? What were they doing? How did their presence relate to the death under investigation? And in forensics, like medicine, the first step in solving a problem was asking the right question.

  He started across the open space, pushing through the bare branches of bushes and saplings that were waist high. These soon gave way to a field of spindly grass up to his knees. Dormant like everything else and beige in color, it appeared to have once been a lawn that had long since gone to seed. Several medium-sized trees dotted the area.

  He mounted a half dozen stone steps and stood in front of a massive wooden door suitable for a cathedral. He gave the ornate handle a jerk. Locked solid, just as it always had been. No matter, he thought, walking over to the broken window he and his pals had used. Verifying that the frame was still free of glass bits, he hoisted himself up on the sill and crawled through.

  A familiar musty smell of mold, dust, and dead mice filled his nostrils, sharp as memory. It was much darker in here, and he fished the flashlight from his pocket. Passing the beam around the room, he found his bearings as quickly as if he’d been here yesterday. He and his buddies hadn’t known then the exact nature of what once went on inside, only that it used to be a kind of hospital where women without money came to have their babies. Eyein
g the wooden counters and ceiling-high shelves that he’d scrambled up and over while playing tag, he now figured this must have been the reception area. He stepped through its only doorway, and the wooden floorboards creaked loudly, as they’d done two decades ago. Staring down the dark passageway that ran the length of the building, he felt a familiar, yet old anxiety reassert itself. Then it had been part of a game, titillatingly effervescent, the sort of thrill he experienced in a horror movie or at the summer carnival’s House of Terror, not the foreboding he sensed now. His beam of light didn’t help any, making the faded wood along the barren corridor only seem more ghostly.

  He began to walk, having no idea what he was looking for, yet kept his mind open to impressions, allowing them to play loose and free through his head where, with luck, they would offer some brilliant insight into what he saw. At least that was how it was supposed to work.

  On either side of him were small bare rooms, each about fifteen feet square, twenty of them in all. Bleak and dismal under his white probings, the curls of peeling paint on the walls and clumps of dust on the floors cast shadows that made everything look ragged. Sleeping quarters? The idea of being shut up in one of them, even when it would have been clean and less decrepit, gave him the creeps.

  At the far end of the hallway, he came across a pair of large, tiled chambers situated opposite each other, many of the white ceramic squares cracked or missing altogether. In one a row of round black holes across the floor indicated where the toilets had stood; in the other a half dozen open stalls stripped clean of all nozzles and taps, even the drains, were all that was left of the communal showers. Scratching noises came from deep within the uncovered plumbing, and he pictured legions of rats waiting down there, ready to crawl out as soon as night fell.

  He found a stairway and headed for the upper floors.

  Mark imagined the culture of shame and censure that had driven all those women to this bleak, isolated place. The practice at the time would have been to whisk them away from their homes, out of sight of friends and neighbors as soon as they started to “show” in the second trimester. Steeped in guilt, they’d then endure months of waiting in “homes” such as this. He could almost see them, heads cowed over swollen bellies as they shuffled to and from their rooms, made to feel they’d sinned by the sanctimonious silence of the staff. At least that’s how it had been described to him by some of the veteran nurses during his obstetrical training. They’d wanted to impress on the residents how far society had come regarding single moms.