The City When It Rains by Thomas H. Cook Page A

slightly. “I could use a little help, Harvey,” he said.
    Grossbart looked surprised, as if he thought Corman was about to ask for a handout. He said nothing.
    â€œI need to find out some things about this woman,” Corman told him.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m trying to work up a story.”
    Grossbart shrugged. “It’s not my case. You need to talk to Lang.”
    Corman shook his head.
    â€œYou got something against him?”
    â€œThe way he is,” Corman said.
    â€œThe perfect combination,” Grossbart said with a slight sneering smile. “Stupidity and corruption.”
    Corman nodded.
    â€œBut the way it is, you got to work with everybody,” Grossbart said. “Like a friend of mine said, ‘Birth ain’t a screening process.’”
    Corman smiled.
    Grossbart took a draw on the cigarette. “What are you after?”
    â€œJust call it a gig,” Corman said. “I want to track her down a little.”
    Grossbart shrugged. “So go ahead. It’s a free country.”
    â€œHow could I find out who she was?” Corman asked.
    â€œWell, the only guy besides Lang who’d know about her ID right now would probably be Kellerman at the morgue. He’d have to have a confirmed ID before he could release the body.”
    Corman nodded.
    Grossbart looked at him curiously, with a hint of disappointment.
    â€œYou never struck me as the grab-for-the-brass-ring type,” he said.
    Corman thought of Lucy. “Depends on the ring, I guess,” he said as he gathered up his things and headed for the subway and the morgue.
    * * *
    Sanford Kellerman was the assistant ME in charge of the morgue. He was just finishing up an autopsy when Corman walked into the dissecting room. Body parts were scattered here and there, some in jars, some in transparent plastic bags, and the smell, despite the heavy doses of disinfectant, was almost more than Corman could stand.
    Kellerman nodded as Corman stepped up to the table. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
    â€œThere was a suicide last Thursday night,” Corman said. “In Hell’s Kitchen.”
    â€œThe one on 47th Street?” Kellerman asked. “Jumped out the window?”
    Corman nodded.
    â€œAll the work’s been done already,” Kellerman said. He picked up a severed hand, dropped it into a transparent plastic bag. Then his eyes shot over to Corman. “You look familiar.”
    â€œWe’ve met before,” Corman told him.
    â€œOh yeah,” Kellerman said. “I remember now.” He sunk his hands deep into the meaty open cavity of the body on the table. “That’s right, you’re a … a …”
    â€œPhotographer,” Corman said. “Free-lance.”
    â€œYeah,” Kellerman said. “You came down about a year ago.”
    â€œTo shoot a few faces,” Corman reminded him. “I had a death-mask idea.”
    Kellerman laughed. “Death mask, huh?” He shook his head. “Everybody’s interested in the morgue except the people who work in it.” He laughed again. “Sometimes I want to get one of them down here to clean out the condensation drains. That would give them a taste of what it’s really like. You have somebody crawl up a pipe and scoop out a handful of maggots, that’ll be the last of their interest in the morgue.” His eyes returned to the body. “So what are you interested in now, more death masks?”
    â€œThat woman I mentioned,” Corman said. “Did anyone come down to identify her?”
    Kellerman nodded. “Surprising, too. Like they say on the street, a zip-top piece.”
    â€œShe was Jewish?”
    Kellerman smiled. “Unless she was trying to pass,” he said.
    â€œName’s Rosen. Sarah Judith Rosen.” He shook his head at the thought of it. “You know, we don’t get many nice Jewish girls down