Page 68 of Unnatural Death

“You know you’re not supposed to park in here.” Marino can’t resist reprimanding him loudly and from a distance.

“There’s plenty of room,” Fabian replies.

“What’s to stop others from doing it?”

“At this hour? Whatothers? Hardly anyone’s here,” Fabian says as we walk up the ramp. “And I didn’t move my car inside until it was getting dark. No way it was safe leaving it out there. Especially with the drone that’s been buzzing around, obviously up to no good.”

“Fortunately, it’s gone,” I tell him. “Or at least we didn’t see it when we were walking through the parking lot just now.”

It pleases me that the epoxy-painted concrete is damp from being hosed off. The trash cans have been emptied and I don’t see traces of blood anywhere. Fabian’s been busy.

“Everything looks much better than it did this morning,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

“At least somebody notices.”

“Speaking of cleaning things up. Make yourself useful.” Marino hands over our bags of clothing to be laundered in the morgue’s industrial machines.

“This is what I’ve been talking about,” Fabian says as we enter the intake area, and he closes the door behind us. “Ask nicely, Marino.”

This is me being nice.”

“You want help with your dirty laundry, then don’t be a jerk.”

“Remember, no bleach. Not even a whiff or I break out in hives.”

“Which is what you deserve. It’s probably your own body rejecting you.” Fabian sets the bags of laundry on top of an empty gurney.

“And if I insulted you that way?” Marino is enjoying himself. “You’d be going after me with all yourwokebullshit.”

“Don’t say that in public unless you want to get canceled …”

I tune them out, walking over to the chipped Formica ledge outside the security office. Opening the morgue log, I begin skimming the lined sheets of pale green acid-free paper. I get an idea of bodies in and out in recent hours. A motor vehicle fatality. Someone hit by falling construction debris. A suspected suicide by gunshot. A possible overdose on prescription opioids.

CHAPTER 26

THE MORGUE LOG’S HANDWRITTEN entries are initialed by Fabian. He’s been running the show with no help from Norm, and I feel a wave of annoyance. On the other side of the security office’s bulletproof glass are no signs of recent occupation, and I get more irritated.

Unlocking the door with my master key, I look around, feeling the emptiness. The stale air is tainted by fast-food wrappers that have been in the trash since Wyatt was here hours earlier. I don’t detect Norm’s pervasive musky aftershave. There’s no sign of his uniform coat, his car key or paperwork generated while meeting with anybody who has business with us.

“I suspect you’ve been on your own dealing with the funeral homes and removal services?” I say to Fabian.

“That would be a correct assumption,” he replies. “And I hate to be a snitch, but Norm showed up an hour late for his shift. It was supposed to start at four sharp and he rolled in around five. When I said something to him about the importance of us always having coverage? He gave me a dirty look as if to say,What are you going to do about it, punk?”

“He said that or you assumed it?” Marino asks.

“Norm didn’t say it but calls me a punk behind my back. I had to cover for him so Wyatt could go home.”

“You can’t be doing that and everything else, Fabian,” I reply. “And you’re not security.”

“I’m better security than two out of the three.” He means Tina and Norm.

“I’m afraid that’s probably true,” I agree.

“Where is he?” Marino scowls up at the intake area’s wall-mounted security video screen. “His Suburban is here. Otherwise, who the hell would know? I’m not seeing him anywhere. You notice how good Norm is at avoiding the cameras? It’s like he was a burglar in another life.”

“He’s bitching about all the money he’s losing because of the weather.” Fabian rolls an empty gurney off the floor scale, parallel parking it against a wall. “I don’t know if you’ve been following the forecast. But the big winter storm front that was supposed to blow out to sea, didn’t. It’s going to start snowing within the hour. We could get six inches or more, and that’s one thing we don’t have in Louisiana. I’m so psyched!”

“I’m very sorry about any fares Norm might miss. But he has a job here and gets a state paycheck, such as it is,” I reply, and the cricket starts chirping again.

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