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Authors: Richard Preston
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smell would not fill the morgue area.
“There’s the ladies’ room,” Nathanson said, pointing to a door off the morgue. “You can change in there.”
It was cleaner than most rest rooms in morgues. Austen found a shelf holding fresh surgical scrub suits. She removed her street shoes and took off her blouse and skirt and changed into the scrubs. Then she put on her Mighty-Tuff boots, and laced them up.
She found Nathanson, Dudley, and Kly in a storage room on the other side of the morgue, putting on the next layer of clothing. The storage room was full of metal shelves holding biosafety equipment. They put on disposable surgical gowns over their scrub suits. Over the surgical gowns they tied heavy plastic waterproof aprons. They put surgical covers on their shoes, surgical caps on their heads.
Glenn Dudley pulled a disposable button mask down over his nose and mouth. It was a soft cup made of biofilter material, like a surgeon’s mask. It had a blue button in the center. His voice came out of the mask. “Hey, Dr. Austen, where’s your space suit? I thought you guys from the C.D.C. have to work in space suits.” He laughed behind his mask.
“I’ve never worn one,” she said.
They put on plastic safety glasses, to prevent blood or fluid from splashing into their eyes. Dudley didn’t need safety glasses, since he was already wearing eyeglasses.
They put on rubber surgical gloves.
Then Glenn Dudley fitted a glove made of stainless-steel chain mail over his left hand. The chain-mail glove indicated that he was going to be the prosector—the leader of the autopsy, the person who did the cutting. In the New York O.C.M.E. the prosector wears a metal glove on one hand; it is a sign of medical authority and, more important, a safety measure. Most accidental knife cuts during autopsy occur on the pathologist’s nondominant hand. In most people that’s the left hand. You hold the knife in your dominant hand, so accidental cuts usually occur on the nondominant hand. You wear a chain-mail glove on your nondominant hand.
They put on heavy yellow rubber dishwashing gloves over their surgical gloves. Dudley drew a rubber glove over his metal glove.
“The decedent is in 102,” Ben Kly said.
They followed Kly through the morgue as he wheeled an empty pan around the ring-shaped room to a stainless-steel door, crypt number 102. Inside, lying on a tray, was a white body pouch. A stale odor came out of the crypt.
“Dr. Austen, the smell doesn’t affect you?” Nathanson asked.
“It’s a little stronger than what I’m used to.”
“They do them fresh in hospitals,” Ben Kly remarked, rolling out the tray. A human form gave shape to the white pouch.
Nathanson said, “Manhattan is not like other places. People come to Manhattan to live alone. It means they often die alone. We handle a surprising number of putrefied bodies. What you are smelling is the stench of loneliness, Dr. Austen.”
Kly took the shoulders, grasping them through the pouch, while Dudley took the feet. In one expert motion they lifted up the body and transferred it to the pan. Kly wheeled it over to a floor scale and read the dial. “A hundred and eighteen pounds,” he said, writing it on a clipboard.
He pushed the gurney through a pair of doors into the autopsy room.
“Welcome to the Pit,” Kly said.
The autopsy room was seventy feet long, and was partly underground. In it stood eight stainless-steel autopsy tables, lined up in a row. This was autopsy central for Manhattan, one of the busiest autopsy rooms in the world. Four of the tables had pathologists working at them; they were in the process of laying out bodies, preparing to go to work; some had begun cutting. The Pit was a gray zone, a place neither definitely hot nor definitely safe. It was somewhere in between. An ultraviolet light on the wall shed rays into the room that were supposed to kill airborne pathogens, viruses and bacteria. On the floor, air-filtering machines
“There’s the ladies’ room,” Nathanson said, pointing to a door off the morgue. “You can change in there.”
It was cleaner than most rest rooms in morgues. Austen found a shelf holding fresh surgical scrub suits. She removed her street shoes and took off her blouse and skirt and changed into the scrubs. Then she put on her Mighty-Tuff boots, and laced them up.
She found Nathanson, Dudley, and Kly in a storage room on the other side of the morgue, putting on the next layer of clothing. The storage room was full of metal shelves holding biosafety equipment. They put on disposable surgical gowns over their scrub suits. Over the surgical gowns they tied heavy plastic waterproof aprons. They put surgical covers on their shoes, surgical caps on their heads.
Glenn Dudley pulled a disposable button mask down over his nose and mouth. It was a soft cup made of biofilter material, like a surgeon’s mask. It had a blue button in the center. His voice came out of the mask. “Hey, Dr. Austen, where’s your space suit? I thought you guys from the C.D.C. have to work in space suits.” He laughed behind his mask.
“I’ve never worn one,” she said.
They put on plastic safety glasses, to prevent blood or fluid from splashing into their eyes. Dudley didn’t need safety glasses, since he was already wearing eyeglasses.
They put on rubber surgical gloves.
Then Glenn Dudley fitted a glove made of stainless-steel chain mail over his left hand. The chain-mail glove indicated that he was going to be the prosector—the leader of the autopsy, the person who did the cutting. In the New York O.C.M.E. the prosector wears a metal glove on one hand; it is a sign of medical authority and, more important, a safety measure. Most accidental knife cuts during autopsy occur on the pathologist’s nondominant hand. In most people that’s the left hand. You hold the knife in your dominant hand, so accidental cuts usually occur on the nondominant hand. You wear a chain-mail glove on your nondominant hand.
They put on heavy yellow rubber dishwashing gloves over their surgical gloves. Dudley drew a rubber glove over his metal glove.
“The decedent is in 102,” Ben Kly said.
They followed Kly through the morgue as he wheeled an empty pan around the ring-shaped room to a stainless-steel door, crypt number 102. Inside, lying on a tray, was a white body pouch. A stale odor came out of the crypt.
“Dr. Austen, the smell doesn’t affect you?” Nathanson asked.
“It’s a little stronger than what I’m used to.”
“They do them fresh in hospitals,” Ben Kly remarked, rolling out the tray. A human form gave shape to the white pouch.
Nathanson said, “Manhattan is not like other places. People come to Manhattan to live alone. It means they often die alone. We handle a surprising number of putrefied bodies. What you are smelling is the stench of loneliness, Dr. Austen.”
Kly took the shoulders, grasping them through the pouch, while Dudley took the feet. In one expert motion they lifted up the body and transferred it to the pan. Kly wheeled it over to a floor scale and read the dial. “A hundred and eighteen pounds,” he said, writing it on a clipboard.
He pushed the gurney through a pair of doors into the autopsy room.
“Welcome to the Pit,” Kly said.
The autopsy room was seventy feet long, and was partly underground. In it stood eight stainless-steel autopsy tables, lined up in a row. This was autopsy central for Manhattan, one of the busiest autopsy rooms in the world. Four of the tables had pathologists working at them; they were in the process of laying out bodies, preparing to go to work; some had begun cutting. The Pit was a gray zone, a place neither definitely hot nor definitely safe. It was somewhere in between. An ultraviolet light on the wall shed rays into the room that were supposed to kill airborne pathogens, viruses and bacteria. On the floor, air-filtering machines
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