Читать книгу Abandoned - John Schlarbaum - Страница 4

“Malone!” Mitch Carson called out into the newsroom bullpen. “When you’re done gossiping about the new Liam Neeson movie with Cassie, can you give me an update on the Mayville story?”

Jennifer Malone gave a dismissive wave of her hand in the direction of her boss. “Give me a minute, Dad. This is like very important girl talk time,” she said, continuing her discussion with the paper’s Lifestyle section editor, who doubled as the relationship columnist under the penname Ms. Love.

Also ignoring Carson’s intrusion, Cassie Hendricks leaned forward and asked Jennifer in a low tone, “So that was the end of the date?”

“Not exactly,” Jennifer smiled. “A girl’s gotta eat, right?”

“You let him buy you dinner, knowing he wasn’t the one?”

“He was the one, just not the long-term one.” Jennifer gave Cassie a little wink and grabbed a manila folder off the desk marked Mayville. “It was fun while it lasted, trust me.”

Cassie laughed. “When you do find true love you won’t know what to do with yourself – let alone him.”

“I’ll know what to do. He’ll be the one needing to catch up.”

Jennifer stood and made her way into Carson’s office. He was giving her a strange look as she entered.

“Boy trouble again, Malone?”

Jennifer took a seat across from the desk, crossed her legs and folded her hands over the file folder. “What do you mean by ‘again’?”

“Oh sorry – I meant still.”

“That’s more like it,” Jennifer said. “There are simply no quality men in this city for me.”

Carson relaxed back in his chair and put both hands behind his head. “What was this last sap’s fatal flaw? Wasn’t he a stock broker – someone smart?”

“He was, although I don’t know how he achieved such a brainy position with his limited musical background.”

There was a pause as Carson shifted and began to shake his head, closing his eyes as in disbelief. “Are you for real?”

“Seriously, who doesn’t like The Beatles?” Jennifer replied, exasperated.

Carson opened his eyes. “Did he come out and say, ‘I hate The Beatles’ or was it along the lines of, ‘I’m a Rolling Stones fan’?”

“Had he said that, he wouldn’t have got to first base.”

Carson cracked a smile. “Why are the Fab Four your litmus test for finding Mr. Perfect? Their final album was released in 1970 – a full decade and a half before you were born. Shouldn’t you be asking if he likes Def Leppard or Nirvana instead? Pearl Jam, maybe? What about Phil Collins?”

Jennifer gave her superior a withering look. “It’s a sign of respect to be familiar with such things, Mitch. You should know – you lived through that era ... cause, well ... you’re old.”

“No comment.”

“You need further proof? This guy thought Eleanor Rigby was Jude’s mother.”

Carson burst out laughing. “Enough said. He’s not a good fit for anyone.”

“Thank you. I knew you’d eventually see it my way.”

Carson sat straight and shuffled through papers on top of his desk. “Returning to planet Earth ... what’s happening with the Honey Mayville story? Have you tracked her down?”

Jennifer opened the folder on her lap and reviewed its contents. Twenty-three-year-old Becky Mayville, aka Honey, aka Hot Beckster, aka Councilman Roger Tilley’s whore mistress, was on the lam from the media and Mrs. Tilley. “I’ve got a few feelers out on the street that I hope will pan out. When the price is right, she won’t stop talking, even if you want her to. Word is a ‘classy dame’ she’s not, though the term ‘gold digger’ comes up a lot.”

Carson looked disappointed. “Splendid.” He handed Jennifer a piece of paper. “Until she surfaces, I want you to go to Met Hospital and speak with the coroner about that body they fished out of the river a couple days ago. They haven’t identified the guy, but if you can get some newsworthy tidbits for tomorrow’s Metro section, that would be great.”

Jennifer glanced at the facts Carson had provided: Caucasian male, mid-20s?, fully clothed, no wallet, foul play? “Who found him?”

“Couple of joggers out for a run. The coroner might have their names, if you’re eager to find them for a statement.”

“Did any of the Metro hacks take a shot at this?” Jennifer asked as she stood to leave.

“Shields was going to, then his mother got sick and he didn’t come in today,” Carson replied.

“Figures. He’s such a momma’s boy.” Jennifer stepped out into the bullpen. “I’m on it.”

“Oh, while we’re on the topic of mothers,” Carson interjected. “Jude’s mother – wasn’t that Lady Madonna?”

Jennifer stopped and turned to face Carson, who was wearing a huge grin. “That is why you and I don’t date. And believe me, you’re missing out on something special.”

“If you do say so yourself,” Carson countered, jotting down a note on his assignment sheet.

“Oh, I do.”

***

Jennifer never tired of she and Carson’s platonic flirtations and entertaining tête-à-têtes. In another time and place, maybe they would have gone out for drinks. As it was, the seventeen-year age gap was a tad too wide. She could wait a few years to become the trophy wife of a distinguished pre-senior citizen. At thirty-three she still enjoyed enticing males her own age – or better yet, younger ones, but not too much younger. Her current cut-off age was twenty-eight. At this stage in her potential husband’s life, his education was finished, student loans were paid off, a clear career path was established, and he’d be dying to shower a girl of her stature with all the attention she deserved, and often craved. Cassie was always warning her that being a serial dater would lead to a houseful of neutered and spayed cats and no gentleman callers.

Jennifer had no response to this scenario and continued to hope for the best, enjoying her single status as long as possible.

“One day,” she kept telling herself.

On this particular day, Jennifer hadn’t accomplished a lot. She attributed this to working a Sunday against her will, due to the new owner’s edict that reporters be scheduled one weekend a month to keep things fresh. “There’s news happening, or there isn’t, no matter who’s available to write it,” argued the crotchety old scribes accustomed to their regular Monday-Friday gigs.

Jennifer stopped at her desk to get her reporter’s notebook and walked two blocks (instead of the normal ten on weekdays) to her car for the short trip to Metropolitan Hospital. The early evening mugginess that had blanketed the city for days was keeping people indoors, including the petty street criminals, or so said the Police Chief. For Jennifer this news didn’t hold much sway, as she’d always felt comfortable when walking alone and travelling by herself on the subway. Part of her strength was her intimidating glare, even when wearing her usual short, fashionable business dresses and low-heeled shoes. These clothes represented her outer armour, regardless of the flimsy material they were made of, but it was her steely, no-nonsense, ‘Don’t you dare think of approaching me, punk,’ stance that sealed the deal. Years earlier, after her roommate was assaulted while on a pub crawl, Jennifer attended a free self-defence class the college offered and took the instructor’s words to heart: “Keep your head up and eyes forward,” he’d advised. “Look like you belong.”

Although this wisdom had no doubt kept her safe on the mean streets, Jennifer often wondered if it had also deterred prospective suitors from approaching her for a date. Maybe I should tone down my attitude when out socially. Otherwise, I’ll soon be assembling carpet covered scratching posts throughout the apartment, she thought, as she parked in front of the hospital, and then walked into the lobby to the security desk.

“Can I help you?” the petite female officer in her early 20s asked, looking up from her smartphone where her Twitter feed was displayed.

“Hi, my name is Jennifer Malone from The Daily Telegraph newspaper. I’m here to speak with the coroner. I believe his last name is Richmond or possibly Singh.”

“Oh, hi,” the guard replied, brightening up. “Can I just say that I love your work? I’m a journalism student – second year.” She looked to her left and then her right. “I’m only doing this job for the money until I graduate. I’m Maryanne, by the way,” she said, eagerly extending her hand for Jennifer to shake.

“Ah, a fan,” Jennifer said, giving her admirer a quick handshake.

Maryanne removed her hand and stood, pointing to a nearby corridor by the Admitting area. “The Coroner’s office is next to the morgue, down this hall to your left. As for who is in, it could be either Martin Richmond or Alpa Singh.”

“I was close,” Jennifer said with a smile, acknowledging her mistake. “Always double check your information before asking a question. I hope they still teach that old gem. I might have skipped that class.”

“It’s not your fault,” Maryanne offered. “Generally, hospitals have one coroner, but we currently have two as Dr. Richmond is retiring this week. Dr. Singh is his replacement.”

“Oh. I suppose one can only take seeing so many dead people before wanting to hit the beach to watch a bunch of live bodies parade by.”

“Precisely,” Maryanne concurred.

Jennifer took a step away from the desk. “Thanks for the information, Maryanne. Maybe I’ll see you at the paper in the future.”

“Do you think so? Next semester is my co-op and I was going to apply to The Telegraph.”

Jennifer looked into the wide eyes of her fan. “Tell you what – send me your school’s required paperwork and I’ll deliver it to my editor.”

“Mitch Carson?”

“Wow, you are a true Telegraph believer. But yes, I’ll forward your application to Mr. Carson.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you won’t make me look bad.”

“I won’t!”

“With that settled, I’m off to see a dead guy and his keeper,” Jennifer said as she walked toward the hallway. “Take care, Maryanne – and follow me on Twitter.”

Maryanne was astonished as she realized that during their short conversation Jennifer Malone – THE Jennifer Malone – had noted her social media activity. “I hope I’m that observant when I’m a reporter,” she said, as she again sat at her desk to search for Jennifer’s page.

From previous visits, Jennifer knew the hospital’s ground floor was a labyrinth designed to test the best maze runners. The wall signage listed too many departments, followed by small arrows pointing in every direction. The coloured lines on the floors and walls were equally useless to the majority of patients and their caregivers. By sheer will of perseverance, Jennifer navigated through the bland painted hallways, past the E.R. entrance, to a non-descript area by the rear loading docks. Although she was in the right corridor, she decided to ask a male in his early 20s wearing blue scrubs walking in her direction.

“Where are you headed?” he asked with a knowing grin before Jennifer could form her words into a question.

Cute smile. Nice hair. Hot body in scrubs.

“Am I that obviously lost?” she said returning his smile. “Luke, is it?” she added reading his nametag.

“It is,” he said, now standing in front of the attractive blonde. He could smell her perfume and was curious. “Your perfume.”

Someone as on the ball as me – check.

“Oh, is there a problem with it?”

“No,” Luke stammered slightly. “It’s just ....”

“That it’s a man’s cologne?”

“Yes. Fahrenheit, right?”

“Now it’s my turn to say, ‘it is’,” Jennifer replied. “The hospital didn’t go all scent-free since the last time I was here, did it?”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago.”

“The bad news is the policy is two years old,” Luke said. “The good news is that it’s more of a suggestion than an enforceable rule.”

“So I’m safe?”

“I’m not going to say anything.”

“I thought maybe I was sentenced to walk these hallways until the scent was sufficiently undetectable. Only then could I speak with the coroner.”

“Richmond or Singh?”

“I don’t know. My editor was heavy on assigning me this mission, yet light on actual details.”

“No worries. Let’s find out who’s in.”

Luke stepped away from Jennifer and peered into an office window partially obstructed by a vertical blind. Pressing his hands together and leaning against the glass, Luke said, “Looks like ... Alpa is on duty today.”

Luke’s work radio crackled to life.

“Hey, Luke, Rob will meet you upstairs for that back door call.”

“I’m getting the cart now.” He placed the radio back in his pocket.

“Back door? What’s that?” Jennifer inquired, unfamiliar with the term. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t involve going to the proctologist’s exam room.”

Luke laughed. “Ah, no ... kind of the opposite. Back door means the morgue, which is where I was headed to get the body cart to transfer a patient.”

“Oh my god,” Jennifer said flustered. “I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“Trust me, there’s no real rush for this call.”

Luke let the implication hang in the air.

It doesn’t even faze him anymore. Jennifer knew cops and paramedics who had the same attitude toward the deceased. She now regretted her earlier snide remark to Maryanne. “Of course not,” she managed to say.

“So ... I think Dr. Singh is performing an autopsy,” Luke began, trying nonchalantly to change the subject, “which is in the same section as the morgue. It’s down here by the linen carts.”

“Okay,” Jennifer said, following Luke. “Besides being the Cart Pusher of Death, what’s your job title?”

“Patient Transporter, or porter for short.”

“It must be awesome to wear scrubs every shift.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of like wearing pyjamas to work.” Luke took out a key ring to unlock a door marked G1098. “Come on in.”

On the right was a large table top attached to one wall, while the other wall consisted of four stainless steel, ground-to-ceiling doors. Next to them was a dry erase board listing shelf numbers and the corresponding names of the recently departed.

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” Jennifer stated.

“With five hospitals within an eight block radius, each with their own morgue, this one seems about right size-wise,” Luke said, as he pressed an intercom button on the wall. “Dr. Singh, are you in? It’s Luke. There’s a visitor out here for you.”

A couple seconds later, Dr. Singh replied, “Who is it?”

Luke held down the button again and said, “I don’t really know.”

“It’s Jennifer Malone, Dr. Singh. I’m a reporter with The Telegraph, here about the John Doe.”

Luke let go of the button. “Do you have a card? One of the guards here wants to be a reporter–“

“And you’d rack up some goodwill points, right?”

“Something like that,” Luke smiled, taking Jennifer’s card from her.

“Here’s a second one for your goodwill collection,” Jennifer said, offering another card. In similar situations she’d have written her cell number on it and suggested the recipient call to discuss how the world worked over drinks, but she didn’t get the vibe Luke was interested.

He’s doing his job, leave him be, she chastised herself.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Dr. Singh reported back.

Jennifer surveyed her sterile surroundings. “I’m going to wait in the hallway. I saw a chair against the wall.”

“That’s your best bet.” Luke opened the door and let Jennifer out, deciding not to go into the rules against civilians being alone in the morgue. “It smells nicer out there too, if only marginally,” he said re-entering the room.

Several moments later, Luke propped the door open and pushed the body cart into the hall, locking the door behind him.

“That’s a fancy cart,” Jennifer said, noting the elevated canvas cover top featuring butterflies painted on it.

“It’s not much, but most of the patients and visitors who see it don’t realize what it contains, which is a good thing. They might freak out otherwise.” Luke stepped on the stretcher’s steer lever and continued toward a service elevator. “If Rob and I don’t get back here before you leave, it was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too, Luke.”

Jennifer took her seat and watched as a cleaning lady up the hallway wiped down a stretcher, and then put on a bottom sheet, blanket and pillow for use in the E.R. Even though she tried to give off a devil-may-care attitude, in this environment Jennifer saw how fragile life could be and she didn’t like it.

An ambulance being backed into the nearby E.R. bay was not helping. Soon, paramedics removed a patient wearing an oxygen mask laying on an industrial-sized stretcher that was swiftly pushed through the hospital doors.

“Jennifer Malone?”

Startled, Jennifer jumped from her chair and glared at Dr. Singh, an East Indian female who might stand four foot ten ... if barely.

“Is that what passes as morgue humour?” Jennifer cried out, clutching her chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Without missing a beat, Dr. Singh replied, “If that were the case, I’d call for Luke to take you to the cardiac wing. They are top notch up there.”

Jennifer stared at the tiny woman in the bright white smock and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “I got so involved in the drama outside – a paramedic jumped on top of the patient’s chest and rode them into the E.R. on a stretcher. It was like a rodeo tryout. I didn’t hear you come out.”

“It’s okay, dear. I sneak up on a lot of people. What can I do – it’s genetics.”

The tension broken, both laughed.

“I feel so stupid,” Jennifer admitted. “I’m usually not this jittery, Dr. Singh.”

“This isn’t a good place to relax. The only perks are high-grade prescription drugs and warm blankets. At least that’s what I’ve heard Luke tell the patients he transports from room to room.”

“That doesn’t include the dead ones, right?”

Dr. Singh looked back at the spot in the morgue where the body cart was regularly parked. “I don’t think so, but you never know with part-timers. Please, let’s go to my office where it’s less stressful.”

“Deal.”