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Chapter 31

The morgue smelled unnaturally clean. William walked the hall, his shuffle step pronounced, shoes squeaking on tile. He couldn’t find an elevator, so he labored down a flight of stairs to the basement.

Two cops and a coroner awaited him, standing before a picture window covered from the inside with a blackout drape. The big cop produced a card with a flourish. ‘I’m Detective Markovic. This is my partner. And the coroner.’

Everyone nodded awkwardly.

‘I’m sorry for this,’ Markovic said. ‘There’s never anything useful to say.’

‘No,’ William said. ‘There isn’t.’

‘When’s the last time you saw your brother?’ the black cop asked.

‘Months.’

‘What was he doing down here?’

‘Hanley was a drifter.’

‘Fortunate you were in the area.’

‘I was in San Diego for business. I drove right up when you called.’

They’d found William’s cell-phone number in Hanley’s wallet. The brothers carried each other’s number in case of emergency since they were purposefully hard to locate; the house and land were still under their grandma’s maiden name, which she’d gleefully gone back to after the old man succumbed to liver cirrhosis. The call, dreaded as it had been, was not a surprise. William had known that something was off right away, of course, but with the cavalry en route to the crime scene and no call from Hanley, he and Dodge, waiting in the van a few blocks away, hadn’t had many options.

‘We found your brother in a house. With a severely injured woman. Annabel Wingate. Any idea of his relationship to her?’

‘He was always something of a ladies’ man,’ William said.

The black detective made a noise deep in her throat that implied a lack of surprise.

‘Did she die?’ William asked. ‘The injured lady?’

‘She’s critical.’

William scratched at the stubble of his neck, the rasp pronounced off the concrete walls. ‘Huh,’ he said.

Markovic nodded at the coroner, who cleared her throat nervously. She was an attractive woman, blond. ‘I’m going to push this button, and the curtain will rise. The body is lying inside on a table. I’d like to forewarn you that there was some trauma to the head, so-’

‘Do it,’ William said.

She clicked the lever, and the curtain rose. There lay Hanley on his back, presented like some ceremonial dish, his gray skin catching reflections off the stainless-steel table. A medical-green sheet was draped over him, folded back to his chest. Though his head was in the correct position, it was all wrong, as if it had been popped off and screwed back imprecisely. The left side of his face was dented, flesh draped like parchment over the space that bones should have lent form to.

William reached over, touched his fingertips to the cold glass. Though Boss Man had confirmed Hanley’s death already, William realized he’d held out a fantasy of a mix-up. It took him a moment to find his voice. ‘Yeah. That’s Hanley.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Markovic said.

‘I want to touch him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Elzey said. ‘There’s an active investigation-’

William wobbled over to the door. ‘I want to touch him.’ His voice wavered. He waited, stooped, pathetic, eyes on the floor.

The silence was thunderous.

Finally the coroner said, ‘He could use latex gloves…?’ A box was fetched. William pulled on the gloves, stepped inside. The room, a good twenty degrees cooler, smelled of bleach, metal, and musk. The odors seemed to lodge in William’s lungs. The detectives and coroner kept their respectful distance, if respectful was watching him pay his last respects through a picture window. He put his back to them, blocking their view, and slid off one glove. Reaching out a steady hand, he laid it on his baby brother’s cheek. It never ceased to amaze him how devoid of life dead flesh felt.

‘Hanley,’ he murmured.

He pushed his brother’s eyelids down, then wormed his hand back into the glove.

He stepped out, passed the others without a word, and labored down the hall. Getting up the stairs, he broke a sweat. His grip on the railing felt arthritic, and he tugged at the fabric of his pants to hurry his legs up a step at a time.

Walking out, he let the nighttime breeze blow through his face into his lungs to drive out all those scents. Dodge was waiting in the van, hands on the wheel, staring ahead as if driving.

William struggled into the passenger seat, cranking down his window. He reached for the sunflower seeds on the dash, then thought better of it. Dodge stuck two cigarettes into his mouth, lifted a cheap plastic lighter from the breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt, and lit them up. He passed one across to William, who took it with trembling hands. They sucked, breathed smoke. William flicked his yellowed nails against one another. He rubbed his eyes, then finally looked over and nodded at Dodge.

‘When we get him,’ William said, ‘we’ll take our time with him.’

Dodge dropped the steering-column gearshift into reverse. He said, ‘Course.’

Ten minutes later, even with the freeway air blasting in his face, William couldn’t get his lungs clear.