I nodded and asked a question I’d always been curious about. “Are they heavy? The caskets?”
“Very. In fact, we recently had a burial where the six adult grandchildren wanted to be the pallbearers. Three of them female.” He shook his head. “We tried to dissuade the women, but they insisted. It made things more difficult for everyone. Two of my men had to pitch in at the head and foot just to get it off the transport into the hearse.” Making a noise of disdain, he added, “Some people just won’t listen to reason.”
I moved toward the door leading to the other embalming room, thinking that if I wanted to be a pallbearer for someone close to me, I wouldn’t “listen to reason,” either. If it took two extra sets of hands to get the job done, then so be it. Silently, I sent kudos to the three women who’d held their ground.
“I’m surprised. I haven’t seen any refrigeration units,” I said. “I guess I expected—”
“Yes, well . . .” Nicky’s hands came up and he picked at his cuticles. “We generally don’t take visitors to our refrigeration area.”
“Can I see it?”
“That’s the thing,” he said, continuing to pick at his fingers, “the refrigeration room is just on the other side of the embalming room next door.”
“Can’t we just . . .” At once I realized why Nicky was reluctant. “You have someone in the next room, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid the remains aren’t suitable for viewing right now. Privacy laws and all that.”
I got the picture. There was a nude dead body in the next room. “Oh,” I said, injecting disappointment into my voice, “I was really hoping to get a look at all the back rooms.”
“You were?”
My curiosity was at an all-time high. Here was my chance for a tour few people get to experience, at least while they’re alive to appreciate it. The chances of this happening again were pretty slim and the chances of me pressing Nicky for more favors after today were even slimmer. I figured I should take advantage now.
“I think it’s fascinating,” I said. I knew I sounded coy, but it was no lie.
“Well, then,” Nicky seemed suddenly ill at ease. “Hmm. I suppose I could . . . all right. Just a moment.”
He disappeared through the metal door so quickly that I wasn’t even able to get a peek. Delighted to be on my own, I started to wander about the room, examining it. There had to be something wrong with me, I decided, that I was this engrossed by the rituals of death.
There were three blue coolers on the floor next to the porcelain table. They were the kind you’d take on a picnic, just big enough to hold a six-pack of beer and a few sandwiches each. It seemed odd to have them here, open, airing out, as though waiting to be grabbed for a concert up at Ravinia.
Ravinia? Not beer, then. Wine, maybe.
A machine that looked something like an oversized blender drew me over. I’d just decided it must be a pump, when Nicky returned.
“That was quick,” I said. “What’s this?”
I was right. It was a pump. Nicky seemed pleased to be able to explain the process. “We use an arterial embalming process. We make two incisions in the neck of the remains,” he pointed to his own neck. “The carotid artery and the jugular vein. We send the embalming fluid through the artery, and drain the blood out from the vein.”
“How long does it take?”
“It depends. Most of the time, we send about three gallons of fluid and water through the remains. But, sometimes things don’t go exactly right. Every body is different. We massage the remains to be sure we’re getting through everywhere. And there are size and weight considerations. Clots can throw things off a bit, too.”
“I’ll bet.” I studied the pump. “This gets everything?”
“Well, no.” Nicky reached over and grabbed a long metal pole. Or at least that’s what it looked like. He handed it to me. “We use this extensively.”
“What is it?” The pole was over two feet long. It looked to be a stainless steel tube about a half inch in diameter. At one end was a very sharp, three-sided point with a hole at its center. The other end was open.
“It’s called a trocar,” he said as I examined it. “We attach a waste tube to the back end and use it to suction out the body’s lower cavity.”
I turned it over in my hands, tempted to spin it like some sort of morbid baton twirler might. “It’s got heft.”
“This is an extremely handy tool. We have to jam it, hard, into the remains’ abdominal cavity, just below the sternum.”
I tried to picture it.
“Are you game?” he asked.
“For what?”
He motioned to the embalming table. “Why don’t you get up there and I’ll show you.”
“Me? Get up there?” My voice rose and I vehemently shook my head. “No thanks.” What a creepy thing to suggest. Lying faceup on a tilted table was not something I wanted to do while I still had a choice in the matter.
The look on Nicky’s face made me cringe. It made me wonder what other talents he planned to demonstrate if I’d have agreed to hop onto his little table. I put the trocar back on the countertop and stepped away.
He smiled. “Just kidding.”
Yeah, right.
“Let me explain,” he said, picking the trocar up again. Its ultra-sharp slashed point—like that of a giant needle—made me uncomfortable.
“That’s okay,” I said.
“No, watch,” he said, all business now. Okay, maybe I’d imagined his perverted fantasies. Maybe the place was getting to me after all. “Here.” He positioned himself at one end. “This is where the head would be and this is where I’d stand to get the best leverage.”
I nodded.
Wielding the trocar with both hands, he thrust it forward into the empty space where a body would lie. “See?” he said. “It’s imperative that you get just the right spot, but what’s even more important is that you jam it hard. Human skin is amazingly resilient. If you don’t give it all you’ve got, you risk damaging the remains, and having to start all over again.”
His explanation continued, “Once the trocar is in place, you suction out the entire area. You have to move the end around a lot,” he demonstrated using a push–pull motion, “to make sure you get everything.”
Made sense. “Kind of reminds me of liposuction I’ve seen on TV.”
He made a so-so gesture with his head. “I can see that.”
I would have liked to watch an actual embalming on a true dead person, but Nicky here had reacted badly when he thought I might catch a glimpse of the client in the next room, so I didn’t push. “Is the embalming fluid clear?”
He pointed to a supply of containers I hadn’t noticed. “I use a brand with a slight pinkish dye. It helps to preserve a more natural look.” He added, “Rosey soles and pinky toes.”
“Excuse me?”
With a shrug, he gestured for me to follow him. “That’s a mortician’s little saying. To remind us to be sure that the embalming fluid has gotten everywhere. Once the feet take on a healthy pink glow, we know we’ve done a good job.”
Healthy pink glow. Was that a contradiction in terms, or what?
“Then you’re done?”
“Hardly,” he said. This time he opened the metal door wide, allowing me to follow. “We still have to work with the abdominal cavity, we have to do further disinfecting, stitching, washing, dressing, and makeup. That and the hair, takes a lot of time. So does arranging the remains in the casket. You know, it’s important that they look like they’re sleeping.”
The adjacent room was the mirror image of the one we’d just left. The two glaring differences was the putrid smell that assailed us as we made our way in, and the fact that this embalming table was occupied. A blue paper sheet covered an adult-sized body and I made my way around it, following Nicky’s brisk pace—aware of the corpse both because of its proximity and because of its smell. “Is it always like this?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
/> Nicky had rushed to the next door, and stood with it open, eager to hand me through. “Unfortunately, you just experienced one of the difficulties of handling the final disposal of the indigent. We sponged down the remains with a disinfecting solution—twice—but the smell is so fully ingrained in the body that we’re having a hard time getting rid of it. We have another solution to sponge on. I think it will work this time.”
“I hope so,” I said. “For your sake.”
The refrigeration room was cold. I finally understood that term: “bone-chilling.” The area was huge, a built-on section that felt like a warehouse. The ceiling soared at least fifteen feet above us, and the walls were covered with small doors looking like the old-fashioned ice boxes, with those lever-like handles that clunk shut. Where iceboxes were wood, however, these were all gleaming stainless steel. Three walls were covered with these small doors, and I started to count how many bodies could be stored here at one time when Nicky interrupted.
“I installed all this. This was how I was able to grow the business.” He moved over toward the nearest wall to caress one of the silver latches, a small smile of pride on his face. For the first time, his eyes took on a hard look that I couldn’t figure out until he said, “I did this myself. This was my idea. I told Ketcham for years that we needed to expand, but he wouldn’t listen.” Nicky’s grin grew more broad as he wiped a finger along the top of the small door. “But I was right. I wish the old man was still alive today so I could show him I was right.”
“Why do you need so many units? You can embalm . . . what? Four or five people at a time? But you must have forty drawers here. It’s like a mini morgue.”
“The work I do with the indigent,” he said. When I didn’t understand his train of thought, he continued, “There are a lot of homeless people who require burial. I provide a tasteful disposal of their remains at minimal cost to the county.”
“How can you do afford to do that?”
He shrugged and I got the feeling he didn’t like discussing money with a relative stranger. “I make . . . something . . . on each disposal. But the work buys me much, much more in goodwill.”
“I bet.”
“In fact, the county has been so satisfied with my services, that they’re bringing all the homeless dead to me. And you know how big Cook County is.”
I did. I also knew I wanted a sweatshirt. My arms came up around me again. I hugged myself, striving for warmth. “Wow,” I said. “Pretty cold.”
Nicky shrugged and glanced at my breasts. “You get used to it.”
All of a sudden I wanted to be out of this place. But I’d made an issue out of wanting to see it, so I threw a couple of polite questions at him. “Is this an embalming room, too?” I asked, noticing the equipment on the wall’s far side.
Nicky made his way over. “It can be. But we only use this room in unusual circumstances. Say we have all four other rooms in use, or maybe we have an obese body to take care of.” He pointed to a set of double doors. “Those lead to a holding room and garage where we take all deliveries. All average-sized remains are brought in here, placed in a refrigeration unit, and then brought to an embalming room when necessary. Significantly sized remains are hard to handle. That’s why this room is outfitted with a bigger table, and a ceiling-mounted lift.” He pointed upward. “See that?”
I nodded staring at the mechanism attached to the ceiling. It really was an overhead lift. I had a sudden vision of a skyscraper building site with large bodies hanging from cranes, floating across the sky. “You don’t need to use this very often, do you?”
“Not very,” he agreed, then shot me a smile. “And we’d never use it on someone as petite as you are.”
Yuck. Thanks, Nicky, I thought. That little comment would bring me cheer for the rest of the day.
Nicky must have realized his faux pas. “It’s a good thing to have just in case,” he said. “And I’ve found other uses for it, too. Whenever we need big pieces of equipment moved, this helps the workers lighten the load by handling the bulk of the weight. I’ve used it for that purpose a lot of times.”
A long chain hung vertically from the apex—the point where all the weight-bearing wires met. At the chain’s bottom, a gigantic hook hung, looking sinister. “What on earth do you need that for?”
Nicky reached up and draped a hand in the hook’s curve. “Lots of things,” he said.
I decided not to pursue the subject. And I’d seen enough. “So,” I said, “how about that visit to the homeless shelter?”
Ron Shade
It was close to five by the time I got off the tollway and got to my house. I called George back and told him there was no way I could make dinner, but thanked him for the invitation.
“It’s not like the Ron Shade I know to pass up a free, home-cooked meal,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I wanted to go check on Ken tonight.”
After a moment of silence he said, “Maybe we can make it breakfast at Karson’s in the morning, instead.”
I sighed, considering. “Actually, we’d better make it Thursday. I have to drive down to Furman County tomorrow.”
“Furman County? That’s way the hell down there, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, but I’m working on a case. Guy was killed in a traffic crash down there. Or maybe not. The officer who investigated the crash is working tomorrow.”
He snorted. “Well, good luck. Just remember, you piss off any cops down there, it’s way too far for me to come to bail your sorry ass out.”
“As usual, your confidence in me is inspiring.”
We traded a few more good-natured insults as I started to feed my cats. All three of them met me at the door with a chorus of plaintive wails, and continued to follow me from room to room. I poured each of them some dry cat food goodies and detected a powerful odor in the air. They’d obviously filled up the litter boxes with a bunch of welcome home gifts in my absence, so I took care of that, too. Then I put a chicken dinner in the microwave, grabbed some cranberry juice, and sat down to go over what I had so far.
Robert Bayless’s behavior seemed consistent with a guy ready to bolt. The affair with his secretary, the spats with the missus, the upgrades in the insurance policies. The description that Herb had given me suggested a man planning something. But could it have been suicide? From the description, he hadn’t sounded like the type. But exactly what is the type? I looked up the policies and verified that he’d kept the beneficiaries the same. His wife, Linda, and son Chad. The other one listed a few corporate officers for the Manus Corporation. So Bob Bayless allegedly left this world knowing his family and his company would be well compensated by his demise. A comforting thought. But who was it that Herb Winthrope had heard laughing the horse laugh in Sin City? What about the other alternative? What if the guy had engineered the ultimate escape from a hum-drum life?
Of course, if Bayless had faked his own death, it would make sense to relocate far from the shores of Lake Michigan. But was Vegas a good choice? It was one of the fastest growing cities in the country, with wall-to-wall people. Nothing like getting lost in a crowd of drunken revelers. What would the odds be that someone from your past life would show up and see you? Or hear your distinctive laugh? On the flip side, everybody and their brother goes to Vegas. If you wanted to be free of prying eyes from the past, why not move to someplace like Missoula, Montana?
Las Vegas was also a big tourist spot, so just because Herbie had seen the late Bob Bayless, it wasn’t a given that the laughing dead man actually lived there. He could have settled in Montana, and just have been visiting Vegas to blow some of his money. The thought of trying to track someone unknown in a city with that kind of transient population sent a shudder down my spine. Either way, this was going to be like trying to find the three double-paying bars in a slot machine.
Money . . . that was another question that had to be answered. If Bayless took the bail-out, and if he was still alive with a new identity, how the hell was he supporting him
self? And the pretty young thing that was supposedly hanging on his arm at the blackjack table. Stepping away from a minimum wage, deadbeat job was one thing, but finding another career, at a middle-aged juncture like your early forties, with a new identity and a hot girlfriend, would be tricky. It wasn’t likely a guy who was the CEO of Manus Corporation would be content doing the double shift flipping soybean patties at Fat Burgers or McDonald’s. I’d have to get a look at Bayless’s finances before his demise. Maybe he’d been socking some away. But wouldn’t someone have noticed? Maybe he was skimming from the company funds. Something else I’d have to check on. I’d have to be very ingratiating to the accountant at Manus. Of course, knowing that I was looking into possibly taking back their ten million might make them less than anxious to please me. I’d have to use my charm, and if that failed, a whopper of a good lie.
Georgio, my huge, cream-colored cat, jumped up on the table and sauntered right over the open file. He paused, gave a slight mewing sound, and plopped down on his side, obscuring the papers. Little Rags, the runt, began using my shin for a scratching post, and Shasha rubbed against my other leg leaving, I was sure, a substantial amount of her white hair on my dark pants. I stretched and glanced at my clock, amazed that it was already six-thirty.
Time flies when you’re having fun, I thought, and stretched again. I still had time to hit Chappie’s for a light workout and then get some sleep. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a very busy day. But I had that other stop to make first. Tonight was Tuesday and that meant Ken Albrecht’s therapy session would have been this afternoon. I made it a point to stop by the clinic and talk to the nurse each week to get a progress report on him.
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