LITMIR.BIZ

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to soften as he saw the anguish on John’s face.

      “Never mind,” said the guard, “go on in.” He pulled the door open for John to enter.

      Inside, John was almost overcome with the smell of decomposing bodies. Clearly some had resided in the morgue too long without embalming. A squirrelly, short man wearing a long lab coat and safety glasses approached him. The man held a clipboard binding hundreds of pages. He looked at John and said in a mechanical voice, “Morgue concierge . . . sorry for your loss . . . name of victim?”

      John couldn’t speak; he just pointed to Cassandra’s name on the posting he held.

      The man shuffled through his papers, saying to himself, “Not here . . . not here . . . not here either . . . She doesn’t seem to be on the log in list.”

      He paused for a moment, looking somewhat perplexed; he checked the name again on John’s sheet.

      “Great, this is putting me behind,” he mumbled.

      Then his face brightened and he pulled out some blue papers rolled up in his back pocket. He thumbed through the new papers and his face lit up in a beaming smile.

      “Ah, here she is, on the ASC autopsy list,” he said, “Thought I’d have to do a manual check. Takes forever, you know. Dodged another bullet, I did.” Then he laughed.

      John didn’t see the humor in his situation. He gave the concierge a hard glare.

      The concierge returned to his mechanical voice, “Row twenty-three, gurney K, do not remove items or body parts without an attendant.” He turned abruptly and walked to a crying woman who had just arrived, “Morgue concierge . . . sorry for your loss . . . name of victim?”

      John began moving down the many rows looking for row twenty-three. The rows, in keeping with current government efficiency, had no visible numbers, so he began counting. When he came to the twenty-third row, he went down to the gurney with the letter K. He couldn’t help but notice he was standing under a basketball goal. Black sheets of plastic looking like over-sized garbage bags covered all the bodies on the gurneys. John took a deep breath and pulled the covering back. Underneath laid the naked body of a large, bloated African-American male with a full beard and a number of tattoos. John began cursing loudly.

      A young male attendant wearing a short white lab jacket ran up to him.

      “Sir,” he said in a nasally voice, “I empathize with your loss, but please, no profanity here. Others are in mourning as well.”

      “Sorry, I lost control,” said John, looking around at the scores of other mourners. He felt bad about his outburst.

      The red-headed, freckle-faced attendant smiled and said, “That’s okay. I understand.” He looked at the man on the table and said to John, “Was he your significant other?”

      “No,” responded John curtly, “I don’t know who this is.”

      “Well, it can be difficult to identify loved ones after airwar stings,” said the attendant, smiling empathically, “You may want to look for a familiar mark or perhaps a piece of jewelry you recognize.” He pointed to a flaming snake tattoo in the man’s genital area, “Do you recognize this?”

      “No!” John angrily replied, “I’m looking for my fiancé.” He paused and added with emphasis, “A woman.”

      The attendant looked confused and said, “Sir, this is a man.”

      John bit his tongue and said in a slow steady voice, “I’m trying to find my fiancé who’s supposedly in row twenty-three on gurney K, a woman.”

      “This is row twenty-four,” said the attendant with a knowing smile, “You need the previous row.”

      John was sure he counted correctly, “Are you sure? I took great care in my counting.”

      “Yeah,” said the attendant, still smiling, “but you probably counted row thirteen, and we have no row thirteen. Our senior administrator thinks it’s bad luck. Don’t know why; people in this place are just as lucky on row twelve as thirteen. I think—”

      A shriek of anguish interrupted him. Three rows away a thin middle-aged woman had just located her son.

      The attendant continued to rattle on undisturbed. “I think he does it so people are always begging for more attendants. The more attendants under him, the more power he has. Two days ago, Pete advised him he could reduce attendants by eighty percent if the rows got numbered and added a row thirteen. He fired Pete. So I guess, indirectly, row thirteen is bad luck. Anyway, it’s job security for me,” he said and smiled a big grin.

      John got a feeling he was in a horrible, surreal dream. He wanted to scream, but he held his composure. He looked at the attendant and asked, “Could you please take me to my Cassandra?”

      John stood with the attendant at row twenty-three, gurney K. He reached and pulled back the black plastic cover over the body. Lying before him was a badly bruised and swollen body of a female. John knew if he hadn’t been a physician and hadn’t experienced multiple autopsies in the past, he would have probably passed out again. During an autopsy, pathologists remove the brain by cutting the scalp and peeling it back over the face. Then a saw slices the skullcap, which is popped off, exposing the brain. They hadn’t bothered to pull the scalp back or to replace the cutoff skullcap. John reached to pull the scalp back off the face, but the attendant grabbed his arm. John stopped, looked at the attendant, and said, “I’ve got to be sure,” and the attendant released his grip.

      The face revealed was grotesque and twisted from bruising and swelling. He looked at the misshapen body. It looked like Cassandra, but the numerous contusions made it difficult. He was trying to think of identifying moles or marks, but then he noticed a shiny object on the ring finger. It was a heart-shaped diamond sandwiched between two rubies. It was the engagement ring given to her on their trip. John’s heart sank. He again felt a dark hollowness in his soul as the last bit of hope expired.

      John started to remove the ring, and the attendant cleared his throat, “Ah, doctor . . . umm . . . you need to leave the ring. I’ll need it in the future . . . umm, I mean . . . for further ID.”

      John noticed the attendant slip his hand into his lab coat pocket as he was saying this, almost as if he was reassuring himself something was there. John thought he heard high-pitched sounds of metallic objects bumping together.

      John stopped and moved slightly toward the attendant, who had now removed his hand from his pocket. John suddenly shoved his own hand in the attendant’s lab coat pocket and retrieved several rings, necklaces, and other small jewelry items. John defiantly held the jewelry up in the face of the attendant, then put them back in the attendant’s pocket. He then went back to Cassandra’s body and began removing the ring. The attendant started to back away as if he was leaving.

      “Wait!” said John brusquely, “I’m not finished with you.”

      The attendant stopped and looked like a dog caught crapping on the living room rug. John resisted the urge to slug the fellow in the gut.

      “Why was Cassandra autopsied?” demanded John.

      “Are you going to tell?” said the attendant with his head hung low, “I only borrow from those without families. I didn’t know she had a fiancé. That’s not listed in the records. The others will take from anyone, not me.” He lifted his head and stuck out his chest, giving it a thump, as if he were proud of his disclosure.

      “So you believe your ill deeds are excused by more wicked actions done by others?” John said with a steely stare.

      The attendant looked at him blankly.

      John, frustrated, angry, and not at the moment interested in getting in a discussion of morality, said, “Forget it. Tell me what I want to know about Cassandra.”

      The attendant looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. The middle-aged woman was three rows away, but she was weeping so loudly

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