Cemetery Dance

Chapter 34

Monica Hatto's eyes flew open and she straightened at her desk, squaring her shoulders, trying to look alert. She glanced around nervously. The big clock against the tiled wall opposite her indicated it was half past nine. The last night — desk receptionist in the morgue annex had been fired for sleeping on the job. Adjusting the papers on the desk, she looked about once again, relaxing somewhat. The fluorescent lights in the annex cast their usual pall over the tiled floors and walls, and the air smelled of the usual chemicals. All was quiet.

But something had woken her up.

Hatto rose and smoothed her hands down her sides, adjusting her uniform over her copious love — handles, trying to look neat, alert, and presentable. This was one job she couldn't afford to lose. It paid well and, what's more, came with health benefits.

There was a muffled sound, almost like a commotion, somewhere upstairs. A "mort" was on its way, perhaps. Hatto smiled to herself, proud of her growing command of the lingo. She slipped a makeup mirror from her handbag and touched up her lips, adjusted her hair with a few deft pats, examined her nose for that horrid oily shine.

She heard a second sound, the faint boom of an elevator door closing. Another once — over, a dab of scent, and the mirror went back into the bag, the bag back over the arm of her chair, the papers once more squared on the desk.

Now the sound of pounding of feet came, not from the bank of elevators, but from the stairwell. That was odd.

The feet approached rapidly. Then the stairwell door flew open with a crash and a woman came tearing down the corridor, wearing a black cocktail dress, running in high — heeled shoes, her copper hair flying.

Hatto was so surprised she didn't know what to say.

The woman came to stop in the middle of the annex, her face gray in the ghastly fluorescent light.

"Can I help you—" Hatto began.

"Where is it?" the woman screamed. "I want to see it!" Monica Hatto stared. "It?"

"My husband's body! William Smithback!"

Hatto backed up, terrified. The woman was crazy. As she waited for an answer, sobbing, Hatto could hear the rumble of the slow, slow elevator starting up.

"The name's Smithback! Where is it?"

On the desk behind her, a voice suddenly bawled out of the intercom. "Security breach! We've got a security breach! Hatto, you read?"

The voice broke the spell. Hatto punched the button.

"There's a—"

The voice on the intercom overrode hers. "You got a nutcase coming your way! Female, might be violent! Don't engage her physically! Security's on its way!"

"She's already—"

"Smithback!" the woman cried. "The journalist who was murdered!"

Hatto's eyes involuntarily flickered toward Morgue 2, where they had been working on the famous reporter's cadaver. It was a big deal, with a call from the police commissioner and front — page stories in the newspaper.

The woman broke for the Morgue 2 door, which had been left open by the night cleaning crew. Too late, Hatto realized she should have closed and locked it.

"Wait, you're not allowed in there—"

The woman disappeared through the door. Hatto stood, rooted by panic. There was nothing in the employment manual about what to do in this kind of situation.

With a ding! the elevator doors creaked open. Two portly security guards came huffing out into the annex. "Hey," gasp, "where'd she go—" gasp.

Hatto turned, pointed mutely to Morgue 2.

The two heaving guards stood for a moment, trying to catch their breath. A crash came from the morgue, the slamming of steel, the screech of a metal drawer being flung open. There was a tearing sound and a cry.

"Oh, Jesus," one of the guards said. They lumbered back into motion, across the annex toward the open door of Morgue 2. Hatto followed on unwilling legs, morbid curiosity aroused.

A scene greeted her eyes that she would never forget as long as she lived. The woman stood in the center of the room, her face like a witch's, hair wild, teeth bared, eyes flashing. Behind her, one of the morgue drawers had been pulled out. She was shaking a body bag, bloodied and empty, with one hand; the other hand held up what looked like a small bundle of feathers.

"Where's his body?" she screamed. "Where's my husband's body? And who left this here?"