stops across from the stairs and turns off the engine. “The coroner knows we’re coming. He agreed to meet us when he called.”
“He’s dedicated.”
Nolan looks at me. “How are you feeling?”
I repeat the question then look down at the bandage covering my missing finger. I want to answer him, but I can’t. I feel nothing, no sadness, no anger, no fear.
Just emptiness.
Nolan waits, then says, “Let’s get this over with.”
My first steps are a struggle, but once I get my legs under me I feel pretty good. I follow Nolan across the parking lot to the stairs then down.
Nolan knocks on the green metal door. The sound echoes in the stairwell. He glances back at me on the steps and shakes his head.
“I told you not to open that goddamn bottle.”
I tell him I’ll make it, and I do.
We wait another minute, then Nolan knocks again. This time a bolt clicks and the door opens. The man standing inside is older, dark hair peppered with gray, and well over six feet tall. He’s carrying a manila file in one hand and wearing a white lab coat that looks two sizes too small for his frame. The word coroner is stitched across the front pocket in heavy black thread.
He looks from Nolan to me, then back.
“Detective Nolan?”
Nolan nods, then introduces me and says, “We appreciate you sticking around tonight. I realize it’s late.”
The man mumbles something I don’t quite hear, then stands aside and motions for us to come in. As we pass, I notice deep lines around his eyes and a smooth pink burn scar along the side of his jaw.
I start to ask him about it, but I change my mind.
It occurs to me that my focus is on everything except Diane and what I’m about to do. I went through too many group therapy sessions in detention not to know that this is a defense mechanism and that I’m trying to distance myself from what’s coming.
This realization brings me back.
The coroner closes the door and slides the bolt, then walks past us down a long hallway.
We follow him.
The building is deserted. All the rooms are dark. The only light I see comes from one of the offices at the far end of the hall. The glow is soft and white and reflects silver off the polished tile floor.
Once inside the office, the coroner takes a set of keys from behind the desk. He looks at me, then opens the manila file he’s carrying and reads, “Diane Reese, age twenty-seven. Husband, Jake Reese.”
It’s not a question.
He closes the file and says, “Is there anyone else we should notify? Any other family members?”
The air in the office feels thin and smells sharp, like ammonia. It doesn’t mix well with the sour taste of alcohol in the back of my throat, and my head starts to spin. I can’t think clearly.
“No, it’s just the two of us.”
“Okay.” The coroner drops the file on the desk and says, “Follow me.”
We walk back into the hall and head down, farther into the dark. There’s no light, and all I see is the back of the coroner’s white coat.
I try to stay focused.
A moment later I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, then hear him say, “You okay, Jake?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I almost believe it.
“All you have to do is look and say yes or no. A positive ID, that’s it.”
I tell him I know.
I tell him I’ve done this before.
The coroner stops in front of a large metal door and pulls back on the handle. He steps inside and flips a switch. A row of fluorescent lights flickers to life across the ceiling and turns the room a pale green.
There is a white autopsy table to the right, and six small doors built into the far wall.
For the first time since we arrived, I start to feel sick. I’d convinced myself, on some level, that this was all a mistake, that Diane wasn’t really here, that she wasn’t really dead.
Now I’m not sure.
The coroner crosses the room to the six doors along the far wall. I don’t move.
Once again, I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, guiding me.
I pull my arm away
“He’s dedicated.”
Nolan looks at me. “How are you feeling?”
I repeat the question then look down at the bandage covering my missing finger. I want to answer him, but I can’t. I feel nothing, no sadness, no anger, no fear.
Just emptiness.
Nolan waits, then says, “Let’s get this over with.”
My first steps are a struggle, but once I get my legs under me I feel pretty good. I follow Nolan across the parking lot to the stairs then down.
Nolan knocks on the green metal door. The sound echoes in the stairwell. He glances back at me on the steps and shakes his head.
“I told you not to open that goddamn bottle.”
I tell him I’ll make it, and I do.
We wait another minute, then Nolan knocks again. This time a bolt clicks and the door opens. The man standing inside is older, dark hair peppered with gray, and well over six feet tall. He’s carrying a manila file in one hand and wearing a white lab coat that looks two sizes too small for his frame. The word coroner is stitched across the front pocket in heavy black thread.
He looks from Nolan to me, then back.
“Detective Nolan?”
Nolan nods, then introduces me and says, “We appreciate you sticking around tonight. I realize it’s late.”
The man mumbles something I don’t quite hear, then stands aside and motions for us to come in. As we pass, I notice deep lines around his eyes and a smooth pink burn scar along the side of his jaw.
I start to ask him about it, but I change my mind.
It occurs to me that my focus is on everything except Diane and what I’m about to do. I went through too many group therapy sessions in detention not to know that this is a defense mechanism and that I’m trying to distance myself from what’s coming.
This realization brings me back.
The coroner closes the door and slides the bolt, then walks past us down a long hallway.
We follow him.
The building is deserted. All the rooms are dark. The only light I see comes from one of the offices at the far end of the hall. The glow is soft and white and reflects silver off the polished tile floor.
Once inside the office, the coroner takes a set of keys from behind the desk. He looks at me, then opens the manila file he’s carrying and reads, “Diane Reese, age twenty-seven. Husband, Jake Reese.”
It’s not a question.
He closes the file and says, “Is there anyone else we should notify? Any other family members?”
The air in the office feels thin and smells sharp, like ammonia. It doesn’t mix well with the sour taste of alcohol in the back of my throat, and my head starts to spin. I can’t think clearly.
“No, it’s just the two of us.”
“Okay.” The coroner drops the file on the desk and says, “Follow me.”
We walk back into the hall and head down, farther into the dark. There’s no light, and all I see is the back of the coroner’s white coat.
I try to stay focused.
A moment later I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, then hear him say, “You okay, Jake?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I almost believe it.
“All you have to do is look and say yes or no. A positive ID, that’s it.”
I tell him I know.
I tell him I’ve done this before.
The coroner stops in front of a large metal door and pulls back on the handle. He steps inside and flips a switch. A row of fluorescent lights flickers to life across the ceiling and turns the room a pale green.
There is a white autopsy table to the right, and six small doors built into the far wall.
For the first time since we arrived, I start to feel sick. I’d convinced myself, on some level, that this was all a mistake, that Diane wasn’t really here, that she wasn’t really dead.
Now I’m not sure.
The coroner crosses the room to the six doors along the far wall. I don’t move.
Once again, I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, guiding me.
I pull my arm away
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