Ethan pushed off the wall and surged forward, throwing up his arms to shield his face at the sound of exploding tiles behind him. Chips of flying debris nipped at his legs, but the damage was minimal. Sunlight from the alley struck his face as he approached the open door, and he knew he was home free. For now.
19
Doctor Strange Gloves
Ethan walked into the county morgue, doing his best to remain calm. Two medical examiners were in deep conversation by the front door and he rechecked his posture, making sure to appear casual as he approached the service counter. After witnessing Fredericks take half a clip of ammunition, Ethan was surprised he was holding it together so well. This whole morning had felt unreal, like reality had lost its grip in New York City and anarchy was taking hold.
He reached the counter and mentally congratulated himself on not having a public meltdown. Another set of MEs — a middle aged, balding man and a younger woman — stood on the other side making idle conversation. The woman appeared to be on her way home from the night shift; she held a set of car keys in her hand and had a purse slung over one shoulder. Ethan waited for them to come over. The man gave him a curt nod but continued the conversation with his colleague. The woman offered a slight glance in his direction, clearly not interested to extend herself in service; shift was over, who cared if a citizen needed assistance?
Ethan eyed the little hand bell on the counter and formulated various ways to get their notice. First, he thought about ringing the shit out of it. Then he envisioned throwing the damn thing straight at them. Instead he stood silently for a few more moments, hoping their sense of duty would kick in.
When it became obvious their sense of duty was nowhere to be found, he pulled out his detective shield and rapped it against the glass window. The woman snapped her head around, saw the glint of gold, and said a quick goodbye to her co-worker. She exited through a side door in the hall, throwing a nasty look at Ethan before disappearing outside.
The man she’d been talking to approached the desk window. He cleared his throat before asking, “May I help you, officer?”
“Detective,” Ethan corrected.
“Okay …” the man paused, “Detective, how may I help you?”
“You should have received an elderly man about two days ago. I’m here for the autopsy report.”
“Officer — I mean Detective — we get lots of elderly people coming through here. Can you be a little more specific?” He spoke with a tone of condescension that Ethan found irritating.
“The individual would have suffered a gunshot wound to the head. His name is Tobias Keane.” Ethan pulled out the necessary medical release forms he’d stuffed in his pocket and pushed them through the slit at the base of the communication window. He’d decided to leave their file folder in his car. It was splattered with Fredericks’ blood.
The ME skimmed over the forms to validate their authenticity before he finally spoke. “Ahhh, yes — that was a clear-cut autopsy; he expired due to massive brain trauma from the blast of a large caliber handgun —”
Ethan cut him off. “How about a little respect for the dead —” he glanced down at the man’s name tag. “Greg. This isn’t an animal carcass we’re discussing.”
“My apologies, Mr. …?” Greg tried to make it sound like he was interested to know Ethan’s name for ease of conversation, but Ethan imagined the underlying reason would be for lodging a complaint with the police department about this one-on-one experience with a member of New York’s finest.
“Tannor. Ethan Tannor. The victim was my uncle and had no other family, so you could say it’s a little personal for me.”
“My condolences, Mr. Tannor.” Greg’s attempt at sympathy didn’t sound convincing.
“Is it possible for us to continue this conversation in the other room with the full report in your hands? I’d hate to get all the information from just your memory, in case you forget to tell me something important.” Ethan plastered on a stiff grin that probably made him look like he wanted to bite the man’s head off.
Greg gave a faux smile of his own. “I suppose. Normally I just hand over the paperwork, but seeing as you’re the next of kin I guess I can accommodate you by extending that courtesy.”
“Thanks Greg, that is much appreciated.” Ethan made no effort to stifle the sarcasm in his voice.
Greg pressed a button to release the door and a buzzer rang out. Ethan went through and the two men walked side by side down a long white walled hallway. As they passed by a few rooms, Ethan could see through the observation windows on the doors that there were several autopsies in progress. They took a quick left and passed two more closed rooms before the doctor pushed open a door and allowed Ethan to pass through first.
“Wait here just a moment, Mr. Tannor,” he said, peering at Ethan over the top of his wire rimmed glasses.
“That’s Detective. Let’s not forget, I’m also on police business.”
The man let out a loud huff, indicating — if there was ever any doubt before — his irritation at Ethan’s presence, questions, and apparent egotism about his title. “I just need to grab your uncle’s charts … Detective.”
“Take your time, no rush, these bodies aren’t going anywhere.” And then Ethan bit his tongue, remembering that just moments before he’d chastised the good doctor to have a little regard for the dead. Ethan, you hypocritical idiot; will you ever learn to shut up while you’re ahead?
It wasn’t long before Dr. Greg walked back from the other room. He was carrying a folder under his arm and snapping on a pair of purple examining gloves, the sound of it loud in the quiet room. Greg readjusted his glasses, opened the file, and began reviewing its contents.
“Okay, the notes say that your uncle did in fact commit suicide. He had powder burns on his right hand, the bullet passed through his temple causing severe damage to the frontal and temporal lobe.” He looked up at Ethan. “If you’ve been working in this city for any length of time, you know by now the damage that a high caliber bullet can cause to tissue and brain matter.”
Ethan said nothing to that, just nodded to concur with the doctor’s statement. Then he began his line of questioning. “Were there any other findings — toxicology, blood work, anything? My uncle mentioned that his health had been failing. Any idea what he had?”
The doctor began leafing through the pages, flipped back a few and then forward again. “This is weird,” he said in sudden alarm.
Ethan leaned forward, trying to read portions of the written ME report and decipher the chicken scratch and medical abbreviations. He couldn’t glean anything understandable, so he finally asked, “What is it?”
Greg frowned up at him through his smudged lenses. “There are pages missing from his file and others have been inserted in the wrong places.” He returned his attention to the papers, confusion etched on his face. “Some of the things we sent to the lab haven’t been sent back, and we should have gotten those results within twenty-four hours.” He gave Ethan the folder.
Ethan scanned the pages and noticed a Polaroid attached to the report with a paper clip. It was a snapshot of Tobias’s torso; on his chest was a solid black tattoo of an ‘S’ in between two five-pointed stars. Ethan had never seen the odd tattoo before, but it didn’t answer any of his questions, so he sifted further through the file. The handwriting was even more illegible up close, if that were possible.