He did as he was instructed, trying not to breathe. It afforded him a bit of separation. He found nothing in the pockets but a butt of a stogie the woman was probably saving for a special occasion. He showed it to Dani. She took it and tucked it into the pocket of the dead woman’s blue dress.
He didn’t know what it was about that gesture, the returning of something saved and something valued, but emotion rose in his throat, sudden and sharp, and he gathered up the filthy pile of clothes and turned away, wondering if he would need his damn handkerchief again after all.
“You can put the soiled items in a pile by the clothing table,” Dani said. “What is salvageable, I’ll reuse. Some folks come in here in rags. I don’t want them buried in rags.”
“And what do you do with the stuff you can’t salvage?” He needed to keep talking. It helped him avoid thinking too much. What could Dani do with the Butcher’s victims? The thought made him pause . . . and shudder.
“There’s a rag and paper company on Scovill,” Dani replied. “The owner will pay a few pennies per pound. It adds up.”
He walked to the pile, shook out the clothes, and folded them neatly, buying himself a little time to find his balance. When he walked back to Dani, she had washed the woman’s face and hands and tidied her hair. Then she straightened the woman’s clothes and folded her arms across her chest.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
She didn’t respond for a moment but pulled out her paper and pencil and prepared to write. She hesitated, though, her pencil poised.
“I don’t know what her name was. I can’t tell. Her light was . . . dim. She was sick and tired. I’m not sure what to write.”
“Just write that she loved a good cigar and lilies, and her favorite color was blue,” he said, gathering the details like he always did, from the things he observed.
“You’re good at this.” She smiled at him.
He cleared his throat again, embarrassed, but handed her a pair of socks for Wally.
“Where did you find those socks?”
“They were in the bottom of the bag,” he said, not missing a beat.
“No, they weren’t.”
“Yes, they were.”
“I packed that bag myself. There were no socks. I’d run out. I’m not terribly fond of darning socks or knitting new ones. It takes more time than I have.” She stared at the socks, frowning, and then peered up at him, suspicious.
“Michael, did you give Wally your socks?”
“Of course not.”
She bent over and yanked up his pant leg, checking to see.
“Good God, Dani,” he snapped, embarrassed, and jerked away from her. “I put on two pair this morning.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “You have a good heart, Michael Malone. That much has not changed.”
By the time they were finished, the pile of soiled clothing was high and the daylight was gone. They both scrubbed at their hands and forearms in the small sink, took off the surgeons’ gowns, and tossed them on the pile for washing as well. Dani insisted they would wait to bring them home in the wagon. Then they donned their coats and hats and scarves and made their way out of the nondescript morgue.
“They’ll come and get them in the morning,” Dani said, referring to the dead. “And within a few days, there will be more for me to see to.”
“Next time, I’ll bring you in my car.” He was already regretting the loss of his second pair of socks.
“I don’t need a ride. I have my wagon. And you don’t want to transport that clothing in your car. But thank you very much.”
Their footsteps crunched on the ice-sharpened snow, warning the street that they were coming, and he rolled his shoulders, grateful for the gun tucked beneath his left arm. He wouldn’t use it—he wouldn’t be able to see who or what approached—but he was glad he had it all the same. Chicago was every bit as cold and windy as Cleveland. But it had never felt as dark.
“You shouldn’t walk alone like this at night, even for a few blocks,” he told Dani. She probably shouldn’t walk alone, period. Especially not near the Run.
“I can’t always finish before sundown, not this time of year. Someone has to do it. If not me, who?”
If you don’t do it, who will?
“Nobody cares about those people . . . or their stories,” she added.
“Yeah. Well . . . they all have their heads. That’s the only story the papers care about right now. My question is, Why do you care so much about them?”