gaze bored into the other man’s eyes. “I want to know what happened.”
Ralston’s hand dropped to his side, and even though Keith Converse was still on his feet, he lowered himself back into the chair behind his desk. “I can tell you what happened,” he said. “What I can’t tell you is why it happened.” He paused, and finally Keith sank onto the wooden chair that was the only piece of furniture in the room not covered with files or papers. He listened in silence as Ralston told him what he knew. “Two of our officers were on the way up to Rikers with your son when a car rammed their van. The van went over and caught on fire.” Keith flinched, and Ralston’s hands clenched into fists. “There was nothing that could be done, Mr. Converse. Two correction officers were trapped in the van, too. No one survived.”
No one survived.
The words seemed to hang in the air, echoing and reechoing off the walls of the room, battering at Keith’s mind like a jackhammer. As the words sank in, the hope he’d been clinging to ever since Ralston called him faded away. “I want to see him,” he said quietly. His eyes fixed on Ralston once again, but this time the captain saw only pain in them. “I want to see my son.”
Ralston hesitated. He’d already seen the bodies of the two officers who had died in the burning van, and he wondered if Keith Converse would be strong enough to deal with what he would see when he looked at his son. But he knew that Keith Converse had no more choice than he himself had a few hours ago. Looking at the bodies—actually gazing upon the countenance of death—had been the only way Ralston could accept the reality of what had happened to his two men, and he knew it was no different for Keith Converse.
“He’s at the Medical Examiner’s office,” Ralston finally said. He started to write down the address on the back of one of his cards, then changed his mind. “I’ll take you there.”
T wenty minutes later, Keith Converse steeled himself as the attendant pulled open the drawer containing his son’s body. As the young man started to pull back the sheet, Keith almost changed his mind, almost turned away. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, the attendant looked at him, as if to ask whether he truly wanted to do this. Keith nodded. The attendant drew the sheet back.
A face—or what had once been a face—lay exposed to the bright fluorescent glare. The skin was burned away, the eyes nothing more than charred sockets.
The nose had been smashed flat, and broken teeth showed through a lipless grimace.
What remnants of clothing hadn’t burned had been carefully picked away. To Keith, there was something obscene about the nakedness of the body, and he had to fight an urge to turn away from it. But he couldn’t. He had to look at Jeff, had to see him one last time.
As the attendant finally dropped the sheet back over the inert form, Keith found himself making the sign of the cross for the first time in years, and uttering a silent prayer for his son’s soul.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Converse,” Mark Ralston said softly as they started out of the morgue.
Keith didn’t speak until they left the building. “I can’t believe it,” he said then. He sucked air deep into his lungs and blew it out hard, as if trying to expel not only the foul scent of formaldehyde that had hung in the air, but also the terrible image that was the last memory he would ever have of his son.
“I wish there was something I could say . . .” Ralston began. He groped for the right words for a moment, then gave up, knowing there was nothing he could say that would give Keith Converse any comfort.
Keith shook his head. “I’ll be okay—I just need to get used to it.” He took another deep breath, and this time a shudder shook his body. “And I gotta figure out how I’m gonna tell his mother.”
“It’s hard,” Ralston said. “I just wish there was something I could do. . . .”
Keith looked up
Ralston’s hand dropped to his side, and even though Keith Converse was still on his feet, he lowered himself back into the chair behind his desk. “I can tell you what happened,” he said. “What I can’t tell you is why it happened.” He paused, and finally Keith sank onto the wooden chair that was the only piece of furniture in the room not covered with files or papers. He listened in silence as Ralston told him what he knew. “Two of our officers were on the way up to Rikers with your son when a car rammed their van. The van went over and caught on fire.” Keith flinched, and Ralston’s hands clenched into fists. “There was nothing that could be done, Mr. Converse. Two correction officers were trapped in the van, too. No one survived.”
No one survived.
The words seemed to hang in the air, echoing and reechoing off the walls of the room, battering at Keith’s mind like a jackhammer. As the words sank in, the hope he’d been clinging to ever since Ralston called him faded away. “I want to see him,” he said quietly. His eyes fixed on Ralston once again, but this time the captain saw only pain in them. “I want to see my son.”
Ralston hesitated. He’d already seen the bodies of the two officers who had died in the burning van, and he wondered if Keith Converse would be strong enough to deal with what he would see when he looked at his son. But he knew that Keith Converse had no more choice than he himself had a few hours ago. Looking at the bodies—actually gazing upon the countenance of death—had been the only way Ralston could accept the reality of what had happened to his two men, and he knew it was no different for Keith Converse.
“He’s at the Medical Examiner’s office,” Ralston finally said. He started to write down the address on the back of one of his cards, then changed his mind. “I’ll take you there.”
T wenty minutes later, Keith Converse steeled himself as the attendant pulled open the drawer containing his son’s body. As the young man started to pull back the sheet, Keith almost changed his mind, almost turned away. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, the attendant looked at him, as if to ask whether he truly wanted to do this. Keith nodded. The attendant drew the sheet back.
A face—or what had once been a face—lay exposed to the bright fluorescent glare. The skin was burned away, the eyes nothing more than charred sockets.
The nose had been smashed flat, and broken teeth showed through a lipless grimace.
What remnants of clothing hadn’t burned had been carefully picked away. To Keith, there was something obscene about the nakedness of the body, and he had to fight an urge to turn away from it. But he couldn’t. He had to look at Jeff, had to see him one last time.
As the attendant finally dropped the sheet back over the inert form, Keith found himself making the sign of the cross for the first time in years, and uttering a silent prayer for his son’s soul.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Converse,” Mark Ralston said softly as they started out of the morgue.
Keith didn’t speak until they left the building. “I can’t believe it,” he said then. He sucked air deep into his lungs and blew it out hard, as if trying to expel not only the foul scent of formaldehyde that had hung in the air, but also the terrible image that was the last memory he would ever have of his son.
“I wish there was something I could say . . .” Ralston began. He groped for the right words for a moment, then gave up, knowing there was nothing he could say that would give Keith Converse any comfort.
Keith shook his head. “I’ll be okay—I just need to get used to it.” He took another deep breath, and this time a shudder shook his body. “And I gotta figure out how I’m gonna tell his mother.”
“It’s hard,” Ralston said. “I just wish there was something I could do. . . .”
Keith looked up
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