Postmortem(11)

In my mind I saw the violin on the music stand inside the living room, and the surgical journals and books on the desk in the bedroom. Her hands. They were her most prized instruments, something with which she healed and made music. He must have deliberately broken her fingers one by one after she was bound.

The microcassette recorder spun on, recording silence. I switched it off and swiveled my judge’s chair around to the computer terminal. The monitor blinked from black to the sky blue of the word-processing package, and black letters marched across the screen as I began typing the autopsy report myself.

I didn’t look at the weights and notes I’d scribbled on an empty glove packet when I was performing the autopsy. I knew everything about her. I had total recall. The phrase “within normal limits” was playing nonstop inside my head. There was nothing wrong with her. Her heart, her lungs, her liver. “Within normal limits.” She died in perfect health. I typed on and on and on, full pages blinking out as I was automatically given new screens until I suddenly looked up. Fred, the security guard, was standing in my doorway.

I had no idea how long I’d been working. He was due back on duty at 8:00 P.M. Everything that had transpired since I saw him last seemed like a dream, a very bad dream.

“You still here?” Then hesitantly, “Uh, there’s this funeral home downstairs for a pickup but can’t find the body. Come all the way from Mecklenburg. Don’t know where Wingo is . . .”

“Wingo went home hours ago,” I said. “What body?”

“Someone named Roberts, got hit by a train.” I thought for a moment. Including Lori Petersen, there were six cases today. I vaguely recalled the train fatality. “He’s in the refrigerator.”

“They say they can’t find ’im in there.”

I slipped off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “Did you look?”

His face broke into a sheepish grin. Fred backed away shaking his head. “You know, Dr. Sca’petta, I don’t never go inside that box! Uh-uh.”





Chapter 3




I PULLED INTO MY DRIVEWAY, RELIEVED TO FIND Bertha’s boat of a Pontiac still there. The front door opened before I had a chance to select the right key.

“How’s the weather?” I asked right off.

Bertha and I faced each other inside the spacious foyer. She knew exactly what I meant. We had this conversation at the end of every day when Lucy was in town.

“Been bad, Dr. Kay. That child been in your office all day banging on that computer of yours. I tell you! I as much as step foot in there to bring her a sandwich and ask how she be and she start hollerin’ and carryin’ on. But I know.” Her dark eyes softened. “She just upset because you had to work.”

Guilt seeped through my numbness.

“I seen the evenin’ paper, Dr. Kay. Lord have mercy.” She was working one arm at a time into the sleeves of her raincoat. “I know why you had to be doin’ what you was doin’ all day. Lord, Lord. I sure do hope the police catch that man. Meanness. Just plain meanness.”

Bertha knew what I did for a living and she never questioned me. Even if one of my cases was someone from her neighborhood, she never asked.

“The evenin’ paper’s in there.” She gestured toward the living room and collected her pocketbook from the table near the door. “I stuck it under the sofa cushion so she couldn’t get hold of it. Didn’t know if you’d want her to be readin’ it or not, Dr. Kay.” She patted my shoulder on her way out.

I watched her make her way to her car and slowly back out of the drive. God bless her. I no longer apologized for my family. Bertha had been insulted and bullied either face-to-face or over the phone by my niece, my sister, my mother. Bertha knew. She never sympathized or criticized, and I sometimes suspected she felt sorry for me, and that only made me feel worse. Shutting the front door, I went into the kitchen.

It was my favorite room, high-ceilinged, the appliances modern but few, for I prefer to do most things, such as making pasta or kneading dough, by hand. There was a maple butcher block in the center of the cooking area, just the right height for someone not a stitch over five foot three in her stocking feet. The breakfast area faced a large picture window overlooking the wooded backyard and the bird feeder. Splashing the monochrome blonds of wooden cabinets and countertops were loose arrangements of yellow and red roses from my passionately well attended garden.

Lucy was not here. Her supper dishes were upright in the drainboard and I assumed she was in my office again.

I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of Chablis. Leaning against the counter, I shut my eyes for a moment and sipped. I didn’t know what I was going to do about Lucy.