“Of course I heard of the crash.” He waved as if shooing away a fly. “And that is another reason not to let you see the body. It might be a medical examiner’s case, being an accident and all.”
George threw his hands up in disgust. “Okay. Fine. I’m out of here.” It was a lost cause, and he didn’t want to hear the guy babble anymore. “Thanks anyway,” he added sarcastically.
George made his way back to the elevator and punched the call button. “What a jackass,” he silently voiced. When the elevator arrived he boarded, irritably pressing the first-floor button.
Just as the doors were about to close, he noticed the doors of the elevator across the way opening. He got a fleeting glance at the passenger stepping off.
Was that Clayton?
George hit the OPEN button on his car just in time. The doors retracted back, and George leaned out. It was Clayton! And he was hurrying in the direction of the morgue. What the hell was Clayton doing?
Making a snap decision, George stepped out of the elevator and hurried after the radiology chair. Maybe he was going someplace other than the morgue. But what else was in the sub-basement that might interest him? George had no idea.
George hustled down the hallway and rounded a corner, briefly catching sight of Clayton farther ahead and immediately disappearing as the corridor turned again. He was definitely moving fast, George thought. Was he carrying a package of sterile gloves? That’s what it had seemed like from the brief look George got before the elevator doors had closed.
George rounded the final corner in time to glimpse Clayton arrive at the morgue and enter.
George slowed down. His intuition was telling him to leave. But his curiosity propelled him forward.
He approached the morgue’s double entry doors and peered through one of the small windows. George noticed that the diener seemed much more accommodating with Clayton. George watched him nod as Clayton spoke to him and then lead the way into the morgue proper while Clayton followed, donning his gloves.
What the hell?
George debated what to do. His intuition was still telling him to get the hell out before Clayton reappeared. This time George listened.
17
George opened the door to his apartment and slumped in. He was exhausted. His afternoon at the ER had been extremely busy, with multiple major trauma cases pouring in, requiring all sorts of X-rays and CT scans. A few MRIs had been needed as well to diagnose strokes. It had been even more chaotic after three when Debbie Waters’s shift was over. Her replacement was not nearly as adept.
George found some leftover Chinese take-out in his refrigerator and popped it in the microwave. He scoffed it down while standing in the kitchen. To call it a meal would be kind.
Without turning on a light George threw himself onto the couch. With his hands behind his head he eyed the darkening ceiling. The sun had set, and he faced another long, lonely night. Tired as he was, he could not sleep, thinking about Amalgamated. There was no doubt in his mind that the combination of the federal health care reform empowering the insurance industry and Amalgamated introducing iDoc would turn medical care on its head. And what had Clayton been doing down in the morgue? George still thought it was odd.
George was roused from his musings by a knock on the door, a rare occurrence that was fast becoming rarer still with Sal gone.
It was Zee. A pair of sunglasses and a frown covered his still acne-prone face. The fact that there was no sun was apparently immaterial.
“What the hell happened, dude?”
“You mean in the ER?” George knew Zee was one of the few people in the complex who spoke to Sal.
“Yeah.” Zee walked in uninvited and collapsed on George’s couch. “Man, it is wicked dark in here.”
George turned on a lamp and sat down. He considered suggesting to Zee that he remove the sunglasses, but thought better of it.
“That crash was on my Twitter stream all day. Everyone thought he was a suicide bomber at first.” Zee looked around the room, taking in George’s sparse furnishings. “You need a decorator or something. This place is depressing.”
George frowned. He knew Zee was right, of course, but it bugged him being called out on it by someone whose own apartment was also nothing to write home about.
Zee shifted back to Sal. “He totally trashed Westwood on his way to the hospital. It’s like he OD’d on Grand Theft Auto or something.” He gazed up at George’s ceiling and sighed. “I liked Sal. He was always cool with me.” Then he squinted at George. “So… you were there, right? You saw it?”
“Yes. I watched them pull him out of the wreckage.”
“No shit.” Zee whistled. He was oddly impressed. “What did he look like? Cut to shit, I bet.”
“It wasn’t pretty,” George agreed. “He exited his vehicle through his windshield. No airbag. Didn’t use his seat belt. I really don’t know much beyond that.” George felt odd talking about it, as if doing so were disrespectful of Sal.
Zee sensed George’s reluctance to talk about the crash. “Sorry, dude. I know you were tight with him. Guess that’s why I stopped by.” Zee paused, looking like he wanted to say something else. After a minute he continued.
“A lot of people are now saying suicide.”
“I heard that, too,” said George. “But I don’t think so, Zee. I think he was having a health emergency and was just trying to get to the ER.”
Zee nodded. “Weird, though. I would have called an ambulance or gotten someone to drive me.”
“Who knows what he was thinking?” George shrugged.
“Does he have any family? Someone to notify?”
“Two sisters. I met them once back when I first moved in three years ago.”
“A suit on the five o’clock news was saying he had no known family.”
Now that George thought about it he was surprised the police hadn’t asked more questions about the sisters when he mentioned them. Zee suddenly launched himself off the couch.
“Gotta roll, dude. It’s a damn shame about Sal.” He headed out the door. “Catch you later, I got an online session scheduled. I’m up eight hundred for the week.”
“Later,” George said as he got up. “Thanks for stopping by.” George knew Zee was referring to his new career as an online gambler. It supposedly subsidized his living expenses. He had to be doing rather well, considering his rent was $1,500 a month and his unemployment insurance couldn’t have been much more.
George sat back down. Someone should make an effort to contact Sal’s sisters. George thought he would do it if he had their phone numbers. But he didn’t even know what state they lived in, or their names. Were they married? Did they use their maiden name? He had no idea.
Since Sal had listed George as the person to contact in case of emergency, he thought there was a good chance no one had spoken to them. Believing it was the least thing he could do for Sal, George went down to see the building superintendent.
George knocked on the super’s door. He could hear the television on inside. It sounded like a baseball game. He knocked again, this time on the narrow window next to the door. The blinds parted and a pair of red eyes peered out.
“Whadda ya want?” The tone wasn’t unfriendly; in fact it was the opposite, it was hopeful. But the man was clearly inebriated.
“I just… never mind. Sorry to bother you.” George waved him off and took a step back. From past experience George knew that when the guy was this far gone, he talked endless gibberish. George did not want to subject himself to that. He’d find another way.