To Obey

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  On a broad ledge beside the sink lay an oversized bound book, the type of thing a fairy-tale giant might keep in an old-fashioned castle. Crossing the room, Susan headed for it, opening it to a random page. Apparently built specifically for the book, the ledge accommodated the open cover perfectly. The two pages she examined had typed titles in a variety of boxes, the remainder of the area filled with neat handwriting. Clearly a logbook for bodies and autopsies, it contained areas for such things as name, weight, length, hair color, eye color, and distinguishing features, as well as check boxes to confirm the means of identification.

  Apparently, the pathologists preferred using the book to risking smearing body tissues and microorganisms onto a keyboard. A book, at least, could survive the sterilizer. Suddenly aware of the possibility of teeming bacteria in such a setting, Susan hoped it had done so recently.

  Still not fully certain if the coroner had brought her father’s body here, Susan shifted the bulk of the pages toward the front of the logbook. She thumbed cautiously through it, backward, until she found his name written in black marker. Susan closed her eyes, not quite ready to read a piece of paper that would reduce her father to a few vital statistics. Then, steeling herself with a slow, deep breath, she opened them.

  The page was mostly blank, which meant the autopsy had not yet been started. That did not surprise Susan; in a busy morgue, it might take a week or longer to get around to an individual body. His name, John Woodrow Calvin, was written fluidly in the appropriate area. Beside it, someone had marked the fingerprint box in the “absolute identification” area. There was also a check in the “presumptive identification” area, indicating the presence of a picture ID. For length, they had written 5′10″; for weight, 174 pounds. Both gave Susan pause. Her father stood an easy 6′8″, and though he sometimes struggled to keep meat on his slender frame, he usually weighed in at a solid two hundred. Susan felt sure she would have noticed if he had dropped twenty pounds. Obviously an error.

  Susan supposed blood loss could account for the difference in weight, although she would have expected the scene to have appeared far more gruesome. Perhaps the body had, somehow, fully drained of any remaining bodily fluids on the trip to the morgue. The length discrepancy seemed far more perplexing. It would take a careless examiner to make a ten-inch mistake and not repeat the measurement. The eye and hair color boxes were empty, which also seemed odd given the meticulousness of pathologists in general and what she had seen so far in the logbook.

  Or misidentification. Hope trickled into Susan’s thoughts, despite her best attempts to squelch it. A misprint in the morgue would not bring her father back to life. She glanced at the last box the attendant could fill in without actually opening the body, labeled “distinguishing features.” The box contained a single word, one that froze Susan’s blood so abruptly it lanced through her like physical pain. A shiver racked her, then grew into a relentless, irrepressible trembling.

  Then a voice came from behind Susan, loud and accusatory. “Hey! Who are you? And what are you doing?”

  Susan whirled to face a woman of Amazonian proportions, dressed in olive-drab scrubs with a white apron, a paper hairnet, and comfortable boots that looked more suitable for fishing than hospital work. A head taller than Susan, she glared down at the psychiatry resident through sharp hazel eyes, her broad lips pursed, and her hands clamped to shapely hips otherwise lost in the layers of scrubs and apron.

  “Dr. Susan Calvin, R-2.” Susan waited for a return introduction before continuing.

  The woman regarded her like an unidentified thing found deep inside a body cavity. She made it clear she did not feel fully satisfied with half an answer, though she did oblige with her name and title. “Dr. Twilla Farnaby, chief resident.” She cocked her head, awaiting the rest of Susan’s explanation.

  Susan never took her eyes from the other woman, whom she found unnerving. She suspected most men, however, would consider her strikingly handsome. She was not wearing any rings, but Susan suspected no one did in the pathology area. If not an outright rule, it would be understood that wearing rings and earrings risked trapping decomposing tissue beneath them. “My father was murdered yesterday. I wanted…more to the point, I needed to see the body. I also hoped you might have some findings that explained…” Susan trailed off. Explained what? Why some heartless goon killed him?

  Twilla’s expression softened, probably about as much as it ever did. “If it happened yesterday, we wouldn’t get to him for another couple of days.” She hesitated a moment, making the appropriate connection. “Calvin, you said. As in John Woodrow?”

  Susan nodded briskly.

  The pathologist’s expression changed, but Susan found it unreadable. She had exotic features, indicative of mixed heritage, her nose strong, her cheekbones high, her eyes mildly canted, and her generous mouth enhanced with lipstick. Her skin had a rich olive hue. Her hair strained the confines of the paper hat, suggesting long, full locks that cascaded in private life. “I understand your desire to hurry things along, but these things take time.” Her tone was patronizing. “Next time, Dr. Calvin, you should use the visitors’ entrance.”

  Susan tipped her head, wishing she had Kendall’s ability to cock a single eyebrow. “I’m hardly a visitor to Manhattan Hasbro. I practically live here.”

  “Not in the Pathology Department.”

  Susan continued to stare. “And I suppose if a beloved family member of yours was rushed to Neuro in status epilepticus, you would strictly adhere to visiting hours? I suppose you would allow some nurse practitioner to steer you to the waiting room?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t get underfoot.”

  Susan glanced around, as if she had not already fully grasped the scene. “Am I interfering with an ongoing autopsy?”

  “Not yet.” Twilla could hardly claim otherwise, given the clean tables wholly devoid of bodies. “But I’m about to start.”

  “On my father?” Susan’s throat tightened as she spoke. She had to focus to keep from squeaking out the question.

  “Not yet. He’s third in line.” Twilla sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Susan…” They had apparently switched to a first-name basis. “Susan,” she repeated, and her tone became soft, almost matronly. “I don’t know what the police have told you, but this is not the way you want to remember your father. When I’m finished, I’ll make things as neat and clean as possible before sending him on to whichever funeral home you choose. Once he’s dressed and tended, he’ll look so much more…dignified. So much more…as you remember him.”

  Susan swallowed hard. She would not be denied. “Look, Twilla. I appreciate your trying to spare me, but I’m not some soft-handed florist unaccustomed to death and disfigurement. I want to see my father.”

  Twilla’s jaw clicked shut. She was clearly unused to anyone disobeying her commands. Susan could imagine men snapping to attention at her beck and call, women intimidated by her size, appearance, and self-assured manner. She had probably never received a ticket of any kind in her life. “I think you should leave.”

  Susan folded her arms across her chest. If Twilla wanted her out of the autopsy room, she would have to physically remove her. Susan suspected she might prove capable of it but doubted she would dare.

  For a moment, they stood in perfect stalemate. Then Twilla reached into her apron pocket for her personal Vox. “I’m calling security.”

  “Okay.” Susan kept her tone flat and did not budge.

  “I mean it.”

  Susan shrugged. “Mean it in all sincerity. I certainly haven’t done anything destructive or violent. I haven’t threatened you in any way, and I’m certified to be in any medical-service area of this hospital as long as I’m wearing the proper protective gear.” She shook an edge of her paper gown. “What are you going to tell security that won’t make you look like a heartless, mean-spirited harpy?”

  The pathologist’s look went positively predatory. “Was that a threat?”

  �
��Merely a description. Had I added that I savor eviscerating harpies and scooping out their brains to sprinkle over my cereal, that would be a threat.”

  Twilla took a step backward, which seemed wholly unconscious. “Is that a threat?”

  “A clarification,” Susan said, remaining calm. The conversation was taking an uncomfortable turn. “Look, Twilla. I’m not going to do anything to you or this facility, other than to wait here until you allow me to see my recently deceased father. Professional courtesy demands you allow me to do so, even if not graciously or against your medical advice. Security might be able to remove me, but if they try to prevent my immediate return, I will flash my bona fides.”

  Apparently unfamiliar with the term, Twilla looked scandalized. “Flash your what?” Her gaze strayed to Susan’s chest.

  Susan could not help noticing when it came to such things, Twilla probably had some impressive “bona fides” hidden beneath the layers her job demanded. “My identification. As I’ve stated, as a resident employee of Manhattan Hasbro, I have a right to be in all the medical-service areas of this hospital. That includes pathology.”

  Twilla’s eyes narrowed, obviously uncertain whether Susan spoke the truth. Susan was not wholly sure herself, but she suspected hospital security would balk at removing a medical doctor from any part of Hasbro. Finally, Twilla slumped, defeated, at least for the moment. She put the Vox back into her pocket, an unusual storage site. Once affixed, few Vox ever left their owners’ wrists. Twilla’s action reaffirmed Susan’s suspicion that either rule or convention kept pathologists from wearing jewelry or other items that might contaminate themselves or their work. “Susan, I swear I’m only trying to protect you. Your father is not in a state fit for viewing by loved ones.”

  Susan swallowed hard, suddenly forced to focus on the written word that had startled her just before Twilla’s arrival. “I know,” she forced out. “He’s been…decapitated.” Again, Susan felt the rush of ice water through her veins. The word seemed abruptly strange, weirdly foreign, a Latin holdover as ridiculous in modern vocabulary as “defenestrated.” She doubted many people off the street knew the meaning of either word, and why should they? How often did one need to speak of headless bodies or objects thrown from windows?

  “You know.” Twilla no longer looked intimidating; more like a fellow resident in a difficult position. “And you still want to see?”

  Susan thought it best not to reveal the truth that she had arrived without the knowledge and had gained it only by reading the logbook. It was probably something the police hoped the family would never have to know. Twilla might blame herself if she discovered the means of Susan’s knowledge. Better for the Pathology chief resident to believe the police the source of Susan’s information.

  Abruptly, most of the previous blanks in Susan’s mind became filled. Decapitation explained why the police had used fingerprints instead of retinal scanning, why the pathologist had measured him at only 5′10″, and even the missing weight. Two things remained a mystery. The first, she could explain. If a gap of time existed between the killing and the removal of John’s head, the blood could have fully clotted, leaving the scene relatively clean. This was also a bit reassuring, as it meant the severing of John Calvin’s head was not the brutal and horrible cause of his death. The bigger question remaining was why anyone would hack off a man’s head after his death.

  Nausea bubbled into Susan’s throat, and she forced herself to swallow the bitter-tasting fluid. After her stalwart demands, she could not back down now, and she would surely regret it if she did. She would not likely get a second chance. “I have to see him. I won’t sleep until I do.” She avoided the “closure” cliché, though it seemed apt. Too many people had come to hate the word.

  “Very well.” Twilla stepped around Susan to one of the drawers, started to pull it open, then slammed it suddenly shut. She whirled to face Susan, her back pressed to the enormous drawer. “I’m sorry, Susan. You really are going to have to leave.”

  Susan let out a noise of irritation. “Haven’t we already done this? Because if not, I’m suffering a severe case of déjà vu, and I’m completely out of patience.”

  Twilla left all emotion from her words. “Please believe me. It’s best for everyone if you leave. Right now.”

  Susan shook her head briskly. “I’d sooner sleep on the dissection table. I’m not leaving until I see my father.”

  Twilla’s nod had an air of inevitability. “Then you’re here for good.” She pulled open the drawer amid a small cloud of condensation as refrigerated contents met the warmth of the room. Two bodies lay neatly inside, neither of them John Calvin’s. The third tray was empty, only a smear of dark, dried blood to indicate it had ever held a corpse. “John Calvin’s body has gone missing.”

  Chapter 12

  Susan discussed the day’s events with Kendall over a take-out grilled chicken dinner in his apartment. They sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by stainless-steel appliances and built-in wooden cupboards, at a rickety portable table that seemed wholly out of place. In no other room did it seem quite so obvious that the equipment and storage areas came with the apartment, while Kendall had supplied the furniture and embellishments. At least he kept them clean and polished. He covered his sorry excuse for a dining table with a festive tablecloth decked out with circus animals on a brilliant red background. They ate off reusable plastic plates with flimsy tableware that had taken too many rides in a hot dishwasher.

  “The body was missing,” Kendall repeated, fork stopping halfway to his lips. He placed it back on his plate, untouched. “Are you sure it wasn’t…misplaced?”

  Susan was not in the mood for silly questions. “Well, I hardly thought it had risen from the slab and lumbered off, seeking human brains.”

  “Give me some credit, Susan. I wasn’t going to make a crude joke about your recently deceased father. I just meant, did you search the other drawers?”

  Susan also stopped eating. It was not squeamishness that stopped her; she had chowed down after Human Anatomy with the odor of formaldehyde still nestled in her hair. It just seemed dishonorable to casually shove food in her mouth while discussing her father’s decapitated and purloined corpse. “No sign of my father, headless or otherwise.”

  Kendall’s features crinkled. “What did the Pathology chief resident think?”

  Susan could not help recalling the stare of stupid panic that had lodged itself on Dr. Twilla Farnaby’s face. “Clearly stunned. She assured me no body had ever gone missing before, and I believe her. Who would steal a corpse?”

  Kendall had answers, if not particularly good ones. “Some crazed necrophiliac?”

  Susan finished the thought as if it were an open sentence: “—wouldn’t choose a mature, headless man over a supple young woman with all her parts intact.”

  “The murderer or murderers? To prevent discovery of the means of death because it might…implicate them.”

  Susan considered the possibility, though it seemed farfetched. It might explain why they had taken the head; if, for example, they had left a bullet from an identifiable gun lodged inside it. But Sammy Cottrell’s body still lay on its slab in the morgue, probably dispatched with the same weapon. Until they left the Calvins’ apartment and blundered into Sammy, the murderers had aroused no suspicion. They had had plenty of time to dismember the body or toss it off the balcony. Splattered on the pavement ten stories below, the body would have given the police and coroner a much more difficult puzzle.

  Appetite fully lost, Susan ignored her plate.

  Kendall studied her. “Susan, did you talk to the police about this?”

  “Of course.” Susan’s mind wandered to the oddity of that conversation, apparently for several moments, because Kendall prompted.

  “And?”

  Susan reluctantly abandoned her thoughts for words. “I mentioned only the missing body, not the decapitation. They had to know about that already, and I wanted to see if they would finally tel
l me.”

  “And did they?”

  “No. And when it came to the missing body, the first officer I spoke with seemed surprised. He fobbed me off on a second guy, who switched me to a third.”

  Kendall demonstrated no impatience, though he clearly wished Susan would get to the point. Anyone would, but he seemed to realize she had a reason for everything she said. In this case, Susan wanted his reaction to what seemed like odd and inappropriate evasiveness. “You can certainly understand their being a bit blindsided. It can’t be often a family member drops a bombshell like that. If the pathologists didn’t even know until you insisted on seeing the body, how could the police?”

  Susan continued, “The third guy informed me the body never went to Manhattan Hasbro. He said they planned to send it to Hasbro but chose the office of the chief medical examiner instead.”

  Kendall nodded thoughtfully. “That would explain it. Even the great Dr. Calvin can’t be in two places at once.”

  Susan was not wholly sure to which Dr. Calvin Kendall referred, and the realization her father’s body and his head were certainly in two separate places made the comment seem unintentionally morbid. “Except it doesn’t make sense. I mean, they sent Sammy Cottrell’s body to Hasbro. Why would they want to split up the investigation of two victims of what appears to be an extension of the same crime?”

  “Second opinion?” Kendall suggested.

  Susan rolled him a critical look. “On a dead man? Who does that?”

  Kendall absently shoved a forkful of coleslaw in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe there just wasn’t enough room, or the wait was too long. Maybe they wanted to examine your father right away, but they felt the woman could wait.”

  Susan planted her elbows on either side of her plate and placed her chin in her hands. “Reasonable thoughts, as long as you discount the fact that the body was logged in, physically received at Hasbro. The police said nothing about moving the body, and I gave them every opportunity. I didn’t mention I looked in the logbook; I wanted to see what they said. Also, he was clearly tagged and bagged there. His name was on the drawer door, and the slot where he belonged was empty. The chief pathology resident was at least as shocked as I was to find him missing.”