Rusty Nail

“Paperwork. Just got a memo, telling me that efforts are being made by the county to reduce the amount of paperwork. The memo came with a twenty-six-page report I have to fill out, in triplicate. I’m not a fan of irony.”

“Have you taken a look at Steve Jensen, transient hotel death from five days ago?”

“Mackerel man? He’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Mackerel man?”

“A joke one of the attendants made. Mouth full of hooks. Guy obviously took the bait. I’m not a fan of humor either.”

“Then why did you call him Mackerel Man?”

“I try to fit in.”

Strange bunch, coroners.

“Any chance you can tear yourself away from that interesting report and do a prelim for me?”

“When do you need it?”

I checked the dashboard. Coming up on nine o’clock.

“An hour?”

“I’ll check my tackle box for my hook remover. Could use some fresh coffee, you got any.”

“See you at ten.”

I hung up, then plugged my phone into the cigarette lighter to charge it.

“Are we going to the morgue?”

“No. I’m going to the morgue. Note my use of the singular, rather than the plural.”

“I’m free.”

“And I’m not. I’m working.”

“Come on, Jack. I can’t go home now. It’s probably wall-to-wall naked midgets.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why should it? Little people need love too.”

“I meant that Harry’s cheating on you.”

“We’re not married yet. But just because it doesn’t bother me doesn’t mean I want to see it.” She placed her hand on my arm. “Let me go in, Jack. It will be like my bachelorette party.”

“Viewing a dead body?”

“I’ve seen bodies before.”

“And it’s something you’re eager to do again?”

“Not really. But if you don’t let me come with you, I’ll keep you up all night asking a bazillion questions about what I missed.”

“Holly… it’s against the law for a civilian to enter the county morgue.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Cross my fingers.”

She did, indeed, cross her fingers. I sighed.

“Don’t talk, don’t touch anything, and don’t let the M.E. know you’re not a cop.”

She hugged me, and I almost swerved off the road.

“Holly, if we’re going to be friends, we need to talk about this hugging thing.”

We didn’t talk about the hugging thing. Instead, the conversation shifted to tae kwon do.

“I’m working on my fourth dan. My pyonson keut chireugi are getting there. I busted a finger last year, breaking boards.”

That impressed the hell out of me. Pyonson keut were thrusting strikes using the fingertips. If Holly could break boards using her fingers, she was way ahead of me.

“I’m better at kagi than chireugi.” Though, if I were being honest with myself, my leg strength and flexibility weren’t what they used to be.

“Where do you train?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I set foot on the mat. “I haven’t trained in a while. I should probably get back into it.”

“It would be fun to spar with you.”

Maybe, if I equated bleeding with fun. Holly had two inches, more experience, and about fifteen pounds on me. And from what I could observe, that extra fifteen pounds was all muscle. She’d kick my ass.

Instead I said, “Yeah. That would be fun.”

We stopped at a chain donut shop to pick up donuts and coffee for Phil. I also got a coffee. Holly got a frozen mochaccino with extra chocolate, and three glazed donuts.

“Old habits die hard. I’ll do a thousand extra sit-ups tomorrow.”

The county morgue was in Chicago’s medical district, on Harrison. I pulled into the circular driveway behind the two-story building and parked in a spot designated for hearses and ambulances. Before we got out of the car, I had a heart-to-heart with Holly.

“Morgues aren’t very pleasant. Do you have a weak stomach?”

“I haven’t thrown up in years.”

I hoped she was telling the truth. I’d hate to see those donuts again.

“Try to stay professional, and if you do need to hurl, don’t hurl on a corpse. Phil hates that.”

“Got it.”

We went in.

After I signed the check-in book for myself and Holly, the attendant took us back through the loading station and into the cooler. It smelled like a butcher shop, which essentially is what it was; racks and racks of refrigerated meat. They were operating at capacity, and over two hundred bodies lay on metal shelves, warehouse-style. Some leaked fluids. Some seemed frozen in bizarre poses. Some looked like they might open their eyes and start talking.

Holly took it all in, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“This is pretty freaky.”

“Shhhh. Act professional.”

“Check out that guy. He’s hung like an elephant.”

“Holly-”

“Jesus, Jack, look at it. You’re single. Grab a knife and take it home.”

Phil Blasky poked his head out of the autopsy room, and I elbowed Holly in the ribs to shut her up.

“Hi, Phil.”

“Hello, Jack. Who’s your friend?”

Holly waltzed over to him, hand outstretched. “Detective Holly Frakes. I’m a cop. Really.”

I tried not to wince. Phil glanced at her hand, then glanced at his own, covered by a bloody latex glove.

Holly noticed this and patted him on the shoulder instead of shaking.

“Nice to meet you, Phil. I hear people are dying to get into this place.”

Ouch. But Phil seemed just as entranced with Holly as everyone else she met, and he even offered a weak chuckle.

“A pleasure to meet you too, Detective. I’ve found out some interesting things, if you’ll step into my office.”

We followed Phil into the back room, where the body of Steve Jensen lay naked on a metal table, a block propping up his head. Beneath him was a small puddle of what I called people juice; not blood, but a pink, semiclear fluid that looked like the stuff at the bottom of the package when you bought a steak at the supermarket.

Phil hadn’t made the Y-incision on Jensen yet, or sawed open the skull, but the body had been washed down.

Jensen had been a trim man, muscular, with straight brown hair and tattoos covering both arms, the motif ru

“Average.” Holly frowned. She was looking at his joint.

Phil missed it. “As you can see by the condition of the body, the body bears over thirty stab wounds of various sizes and depths. I can safely assume that the inquest jury will rule out suicide.”

He chuckled again. The second chuckle I’d heard in the ten years I’d known him.

The only place to set the coffee and donuts was on a medical tray, next to some bloody implements. I hoped the cardboard box was thick and nothing leaked through.

“What’s wrong with his mouth?” Holly asked.

Jensen’s cheeks were sucked in, as if he were about to blow us a kiss. His lips were shredded and resembled hamburger.

Holly bent down for a closer view. “Looks like he’s in serious need of some Chapstick.”

Phil grabbed onto the lower lip and pulled, revealing half a dozen brass fishhooks, skewering Jensen’s mouth closed. He picked up a scalpel and wedged it between the teeth, levering the mouth open, tearing the lips even further. He positioned the head so the overhead light could penetrate the mouth, and then used a water squirt pen that hung from the ceiling on a spiral hose to spray out the excess blood.

It wasn’t pretty. Jensen had a puckered appearance because his tongue and i

“He was alive at the time.” Holly pointed. “See the bruises on his face? Someone shoved hooks in his mouth, then slapped him around to get them stuck.”

Blasky put his hand on the victim’s neck.

“I can feel some bumps in the throat. He probably swallowed, or inhaled, hooks as well.”

I finally spoke up. “What’s the cause of death, Phil?”

“This wound right here.” Blasky tapped a two-inch puncture on Jensen’s chest. “Thin-bladed knife, slipped between the ribs and ruptured the heart. Won’t know what exactly went wrong until I crack the chest.”