first marriage. I’d turned Sandra from a trusting young woman into a shrike who hated me almost as much as I hated myself. I didn’t want to risk doing the same thing to Angel.
Now, I’m in control of my drinking, or at least I think I am, but it’s a daily struggle to keep it from getting out of hand. In fact, I could go for a shot right now. When Angel said she needed something of her own, I think she really meant someone of her own, someone ready to get off the fence and make the kind of commitment that requires a Justice of the Peace and a ring.
Whatever it is I am. Those words haunt me.
Today, if I get killed on the job, Angel has no legal standing. In the eyes of the law, we’re simply “shacked up.” Everyone at the Rexford loves her, but it’s a wide world and Angel has to live in it, hopefully with a modicum of dignity.
Then there’s Tom, a good young man who doesn’t lug around the baggage I do. If I were noble, I’d step aside, but I’m not that selfless. On the other hand, if I don’t make a decision, someone will make it for me and I probably won’t like it.”
* * * *
“Murder? You mean hit and run, don’t you? Negligent homicide?”
“No, the old fashioned, premeditated kind,” says Homer.
I shiver and rub my arms. It’s freezing in the basement morgue of the old Victorian house on Cedar Street. The air smells sharply of formaldehyde, which conjures up a lot of unpleasant images, starting with dissecting frogs in high school biology.
“What about the paint on the jacket?” I say, still thinking about Roland’s green sedan.
“Poster paint. The kind kids use in school.”
“Hmm.” There are two autopsy tables in the room. The boy is under a sheet nearest the entrance. An elderly man is on the one against the back wall.
“Who’s his neighbor?” I ask.
“Wexler Culken. A couple nights ago Wex was coming home from his 80th birthday party when he was broadsided by a drunk. Happened over on Cork and St. Ambrose. The man who hit him was treated for a broken thumb. I’d rather have the other guy on the table, but you take ’em as they come.” Homer walks over and covers the dead man’s face with a sheet. “Wex gets his send-off tomorrow. You look a little pale, Jack. You sure you’re up to this?”
“I’d rather be home reading the funny papers if that’s what’s you mean.”
Homer laughs and snaps on his rubber gloves. “Okay, let’s get it done. I’ll show you what I found.”
We step up to the table and he pulls back the sheet. The boy has a freckled face and elfin ears. He would have been a cute kid before he ended up on a slab. His stomach is sunken and I can count his ribs. I see no blood. No bullet holes. No stab wounds.
“He’s about seven years old and pitifully undernourished,” says Homer.
“I see a few bruises like kids get on the playground and an abrasion on the bridge of his nose, but it doesn’t strike me as significant. I don’t see an obvious cause of death. If he wasn’t hit by a car my second guess would be hypothermia due to lack of body fat and exposure to the elements. What am I missing?”
“I found something I should have looked for when the other boy came to me back in September. I put the first case down as blunt force trauma due to hit and run, because internal injuries aren’t always apparent on external examination and opening the body was against his parent’s beliefs. Now, I’m having second thoughts.” He lifts the boy’s eyelids with gloved fingers, first one then the other. His once blue eyes are bulged and frosted over in death, the whites webbed with burst capillaries, something I’d seen dozens of times as a Homicide Detective in Boston.
“Okay, I’m on board,” I say. “Petechial hemorrhaging.”
“Yes, check this out,” he says. “Homer raises the boy’s upper lip. Like so many poor children, his teeth are decayed at the gum line. There are swollen lacerations where the teeth cut the underside of
Now, I’m in control of my drinking, or at least I think I am, but it’s a daily struggle to keep it from getting out of hand. In fact, I could go for a shot right now. When Angel said she needed something of her own, I think she really meant someone of her own, someone ready to get off the fence and make the kind of commitment that requires a Justice of the Peace and a ring.
Whatever it is I am. Those words haunt me.
Today, if I get killed on the job, Angel has no legal standing. In the eyes of the law, we’re simply “shacked up.” Everyone at the Rexford loves her, but it’s a wide world and Angel has to live in it, hopefully with a modicum of dignity.
Then there’s Tom, a good young man who doesn’t lug around the baggage I do. If I were noble, I’d step aside, but I’m not that selfless. On the other hand, if I don’t make a decision, someone will make it for me and I probably won’t like it.”
* * * *
“Murder? You mean hit and run, don’t you? Negligent homicide?”
“No, the old fashioned, premeditated kind,” says Homer.
I shiver and rub my arms. It’s freezing in the basement morgue of the old Victorian house on Cedar Street. The air smells sharply of formaldehyde, which conjures up a lot of unpleasant images, starting with dissecting frogs in high school biology.
“What about the paint on the jacket?” I say, still thinking about Roland’s green sedan.
“Poster paint. The kind kids use in school.”
“Hmm.” There are two autopsy tables in the room. The boy is under a sheet nearest the entrance. An elderly man is on the one against the back wall.
“Who’s his neighbor?” I ask.
“Wexler Culken. A couple nights ago Wex was coming home from his 80th birthday party when he was broadsided by a drunk. Happened over on Cork and St. Ambrose. The man who hit him was treated for a broken thumb. I’d rather have the other guy on the table, but you take ’em as they come.” Homer walks over and covers the dead man’s face with a sheet. “Wex gets his send-off tomorrow. You look a little pale, Jack. You sure you’re up to this?”
“I’d rather be home reading the funny papers if that’s what’s you mean.”
Homer laughs and snaps on his rubber gloves. “Okay, let’s get it done. I’ll show you what I found.”
We step up to the table and he pulls back the sheet. The boy has a freckled face and elfin ears. He would have been a cute kid before he ended up on a slab. His stomach is sunken and I can count his ribs. I see no blood. No bullet holes. No stab wounds.
“He’s about seven years old and pitifully undernourished,” says Homer.
“I see a few bruises like kids get on the playground and an abrasion on the bridge of his nose, but it doesn’t strike me as significant. I don’t see an obvious cause of death. If he wasn’t hit by a car my second guess would be hypothermia due to lack of body fat and exposure to the elements. What am I missing?”
“I found something I should have looked for when the other boy came to me back in September. I put the first case down as blunt force trauma due to hit and run, because internal injuries aren’t always apparent on external examination and opening the body was against his parent’s beliefs. Now, I’m having second thoughts.” He lifts the boy’s eyelids with gloved fingers, first one then the other. His once blue eyes are bulged and frosted over in death, the whites webbed with burst capillaries, something I’d seen dozens of times as a Homicide Detective in Boston.
“Okay, I’m on board,” I say. “Petechial hemorrhaging.”
“Yes, check this out,” he says. “Homer raises the boy’s upper lip. Like so many poor children, his teeth are decayed at the gum line. There are swollen lacerations where the teeth cut the underside of
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