SETTING DOWN MY SCENE case and other belongings, I open the big hardbound ledger with its pale green lined pages.
“How are you this evening?” I ask Wyatt. “Thanks for holding down the fort while I’ve been gone.”
“As best I can.” He dabs his lips with a napkin, the crinkle of paper amplified by the window’s speak-thru, and he’s got his air purifier going full tilt.
I can see from the log that since Marino drove away with me about this time last night, eight cases have come in. Two motor vehicle fatalities, a suicide by hanging, two natural causes, and the three possible overdoses pending toxicology. Most of the bodies have been released, including the one I saw inside the bay a few minutes ago.
“Did you just get here?” I notice the remains of a meal from Wendy’s on his desk, the overflowing trash can, and how tired and stressed he looks.
“No, ma’am. I’ve been here since eight o’clock and won’t get off until midnight.”
“Why are you doing a double shift?”
“It’s not like I had a say about it.” Dipping a french fry into ketchup, he lets me know that the security officer scheduled to come in this morning wasn’t feeling well, supposedly.
“I’m sorry to hear that’s happened again.” It’s not the first time, and it would have been nice for Maggie to tell me.
“Another headache that he blames on allergies.” Wyatt takes a loud sip of his melted Frosty. “Huh. The only thing he’s allergic to is work.”
“I’m sorry you were inconvenienced,” I reply, and it’s just one more thing to straighten out. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you eat in your office.” I know full well how much he hates the morgue. “You always have your meals in the breakroom.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct,” he says, and I go on to remind him that the library and conference room also are options.
There are video monitors in most places, making it easy for the security officers and people like me to keep an eye on the surveillance cameras. In other words, it’s safer and far more civilized to eat upstairs.
“You don’t have to tell me.” He doesn’t hide his aggravation. “Especially after that funeral home just wheeled a dead body out. And they don’t know what killed the person or two others that were autopsied today. How do I know what’s in the air? It wasn’t my idea to eat down here, and when Fabian made a Wendy’s run, he dropped my food on my desk. I was told to stay put.”
“He told you that?”
“Maggie passed the message along through him,” Wyatt says resentfully, and my secretary acting like she’s in charge seems to be an intractable problem. “She’s worried about reporters showing up. Especially that woman whose crew’s been hanging around because of the big story she’s doing.”
“Dana Diletti,” I presume.
“Uh-huh, the one whose house got broken into. Well, Maggie’s got it in her head that some reporter like that might sneak in when the bay door opens or who knows what.” He takes another bite of chili while I turn the log’s big heavy pages back eight months.
He informs me that until a little while ago, there were TV trucks pulled off the road beyond our parking lot. Journalists and their crews were filming around the complex as staff and police, the hearses and vans were coming and going. Apparently, the hope is to capture Gwen Hainey’s body being driven away, and I let Wyatt know she’s not going anywhere today.
“Probably not tomorrow, either. Hers is a complicated case, and she may be with us for a while yet,” I say to him. “And you don’t need to feel trapped inside your office. That’s ridiculous.”
I don’t care what Maggie or anyone else says. As long as he’s down here when there’s a pickup or delivery, that’s what matters. The rest of the time he can hang out upstairs, and turning another page, I find Cammie Ramada, her name neatly written in black ink. The address where her death occurred is the beach at Daingerfield Island, and I have to wonder what she was doing on the shore after dark.
Her body was delivered to the morgue at 12:50 A.M. on Sunday, April 11, and it would seem her correct identity was known from the start. Perhaps some form of identification was found at the scene, her cause of death “possible drowning.” The manner of it is abbreviated as “UND” for undetermined, and I hear Fruge’s voice in my head.
“But your office eventually decided it was an accident without a doubt, and without testing evidence I might add,” she said, and I remember being struck by the word eventually.