I’m not that crazy about the morgue. I made the point again. “It should be a member of her family.”
Yee stuck to his guns. “You are listed as the contact in case of . . .”
“I hear you. My point is that Laura must have some family members who will be pretty upset if someone else IDs her. You have to make every effort to contact them.”
“We’ll work with you on that,” said Yee, cagily. “But before we contact them, we need the body identified. It will speed things up.”
“Come on, guys. Maybe it’s not even Laura Brown. This is all so bizarre, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Then you would inform us the individual was not Laura Brown, and we would pursue her identity through the proper channels.”
I felt a new throb in my temples. Whatever the circumstances, there was something horrible about leaving a person in the morgue waiting for ID because of a clerical screw-up.
And if the person wasn’t Laura, at least some other family would be informed early rather than late.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But we have to walk the dog first.”
I took Mrs. Parnell’s Volvo to the hospital. I didn’t like the idea of sitting in the back seat of a cruiser. Too many of my former legal aid clients had been there. Yee and Zaccotto stopped the cruiser in the entryway. I found a parking spot and walked back. They waited for me to catch up. As we headed into the bowels of the hospital, they walked slowly but, even so, I found myself lagging on the endless stretch of corridor. My heart had already started to thud. Once you’ve identified your husband on a stainless steel tray, even six years later, the route to the morgue will be intensely disturbing. In recent months, I thought I’d come to grips with Paul’s death, but in front of the door to the morgue, I struggled with old images.
Any emotional upheaval triggers my father’s voice in my head. A lifetime of aphorisms and advice. “MacPhees are not afraid to do the right thing. No matter what the cost.”
I took a deep breath. I had forgotten about the chemical smell and how it can kick-start memories. Images flooded my brain, shattered bone, jagged slash against a pale lifeless cheek, hands that could never hold or be held again.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Yee said.
“Fine.” I wasn’t fine, but that was none of their goddam business. I wanted to run like hell for home, crawl into the unmade bed and wail.
Yee and Zaccotto waited.
“You’re awful white. You aren’t going to pass out, are you?” Zaccotto said.
My father’s voice said, “When faced with a hard task, get it over with.”
I braced my shoulders and instructed myself not to think of Paul. I followed the officers through the door.
I hated the harsh lighting, I didn’t find the stainless stylish, and I didn’t even wish to speculate about the background noises.
Two minutes later, the attendant slid the body toward me. The attendant lifted the sheet. Her hair was out of sight, her right cheek bruised and scratched.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Laura Brown’s luminous smile was gone.
I don’t know what felt stranger, the contrast of the bright sun after the morgue, or the fact I was walking out holding a small stack of Laura Lynette Brown’s possessions. Of my few memories of Laura, she was usually sitting in the sun. Now she’d never see it again.
Her fanny pack contained a house key and wallet. A few pieces of ID, no credit cards. Nothing else. I saw for myself where Laura had carefully hand-printed my name and address, in green ink, right down to the apartment number and postal code. Why would she specify next-of-kin anyway? I didn’t have my next-of-kin noted anywhere. Even your passport just asks for emergency contact. It was too weird for words.
The two constables were still walking with me.
I said, “May I ask you not to release her name until I locate her family? I wouldn’t want them to hear it on the news.”
Not a problem, apparently. They promised to follow up on that.
As Zaccotto and Yee sped off in their cruiser, I headed for the Volvo. The sight of it, still unscathed, was at least a relief. I climbed in and turned on my cellphone.
It rang immediately.
I was actually hoping it would be a “blocked number” call, but no such luck. Instead it was Alvin, calling from the balloon.
I held the phone away from my ear, but not far enough to drown out his words.
When the tirade died down, I said, “Are you finished, Alvin? Because contrary to your suggestion, I had a good reason for missing the launch, and it was not just to make people miserable. I was identifying a friend at the morgue.
“Come on, Alvin, I am not making that up. Why are you acting like such a jerk lately?
“No, I don’t believe I am the most self-centred person ever born. Nor is it true I don’t have a friend left in the entire world because no one can count on me. Is Mrs. Parnell there? I’d like to talk to her, if you’re quite finished raving.
“Well, the same to you, Alvin.”
I turned off the cellphone after that.
Even if Ray Deveau did manage to call, who had time to talk? I needed to track down a goddam candy-apple red balloon.
There wasn’t a single balloon in the evening sky at eight-thirty when I finally gave up. I couldn’t figure out where Alvin and Mrs. Parnell had drifted. They could have been miles down the Rideau River or half-way up the Ottawa. Or in the Gatineau Hills. Even back in Mrs. Parnell’s living room swilling sherry.
Plus, I still wasn’t any closer to understanding the Laura Brown situation.
Life was definitely not a bowl of cherries. On the other hand, since I did have Mrs. Parnell’s Volvo at my disposal, since I was tense and jumpy after my visit to the morgue, and since I had pretty well lost my appetite, I figured I might as well check out Laura’s place. It was bound to shed some light on her life. Something would point to her parents or friends. I could hand over the fanny pack, the ID and keys along with the responsibility of being next-of-kin.
Laura Brown had lived in the Glebe. No surprise there. She would have fit perfectly in this affluent, tree-lined neighbourhood, home to professionals, coffee shops and quirky boutiques. The area was still sprinkled with enough students, artists and musicians to keep it interesting and funky. And it was close enough to walk to Parliament Hill but far enough not to notice.
Laura’s address was a few blocks from Bank Street on Third Avenue. I found a small, attractive infill single with the distinctive touches of a local architect. I glanced around the street, hoping to find someone to talk to.
It was before nine on a Friday night. In the Glebe, I would have expected lots of neighbours puttering in gardens, strolling slowly along the sidewalk, chatting in small groups. But I saw no one.
The key opened the front door, no problem. The problem arrived with the shriek of the alarm. Within a minute, a telephone rang nearby. Lucky for me, the phone was close to the foyer. Thank God, someone was calling Laura.
“Yes?” I was slightly out of breath as I shot into the living room to pick up the receiver.
“Pronto Security. We have a report of an alarm going off in your residence.”
“Thank you. Can you turn it off?”
“Are you the homeowner?”
I said. “Not exactly.”
“Do you know your code?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Do you have an access card?”
“An access card?”
“Are you listed as having access to the house?”
I raised my voice. “Probably not. It’s hard to hear with the noise.”
“Where is the homeowner?”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead? Are you the police?”
“No. Turn off the alarm.”
“Do you know her mother’s maiden name?”
“Of course not. Please turn this thing off.”
“Sorry, can’t do that.”
“Look, I’m a lawyer.” Well, I’m still a lawyer when it suits me, which it did at that moment. “Laura Brown has died, and I can’t waste time.”
“Nice try,” he said. “Are the police there yet, or do you want to make a run for it?”
“I think that’s them now.”
I stepped back out to the front porch, carrying the portable receiver. The alarm was a loud one, very effective, the type that gets folks in an upscale area engaged. The previously invisible neighbours were already gathering. A cluster of people were actually advancing toward the house.
“I didn’t see a sign that said premises protected by anybody,” I said, peevishly.
“That’s the idea,” the dispatcher said. “The element of surprise.”
“Well, I’m surprised. Hang on,” I said and waited for a chance to explain to the police how I was the next-of-kin but didn’t know about the alarm, the alarm code, the homeowner’s mother’s maiden name or anything else.
As the first squad cars converged on the house, roof lights flashing, I stepped toward them. Two young officers, a male and a female, got out, leaving the doors open.
“Hi,” I said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
I was right.
After a longish time, they reached Yee and Zaccotto on the radio and confirmed my right to enter Laura Brown’s home.
My inner lawyer knew this was not as clear-cut as Yee and Zaccotto thought, but I kept that to myself.
The officers entered the house.
“Maybe you should talk to the security company,” I said, as yet another cruiser pulled onto the street. Neighbours continued to spill from their houses. We now had an audience three deep.
The female officer was young, black and brisk. She dealt with the security company, spelling out my name among other things.
“They need to know your birthday,” she said.
“August 10th,” I said. I’d turned thirty-six, and the less said about that the better.
“August 10th. Good. And your mother’s maiden name?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Do I look like the kidding type?” she said.
“MacDonald,” I said. “M-A-C.”
“MacDonald,” she repeated. “M-A-C.”
Three seconds later, she punched in a code and finally, blessedly, the alarm stopped.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem. They had your details on file.”
“What?”
“They have you listed as an authorized person. But you should have had your access card on you. Could have saved all this trouble.”
“No one ever sent me an access card for the security system.” Of course, compared to not mentioning I was next-of-kin, it seemed a minor oversight.
“Not our problem. Better arrange to get your card from them,” the cop said, handing me the receiver.
I gave my particulars to the dispatcher.
“That it?” he said.
“How about a new code? Can you give me one?”
“You just select a four digit number and key it in.”
“You don’t give it to me?”
“No. You’re the only one who knows it. That’s why you have to remember it. Four numbers. Something you won’t forget. Not 1111, and not your birthday either. Key it in now.”
“That’s all?”
“You key it in once. You key it in again to make sure it’s the same. I’ll confirm. Then all you got to do is use it when you leave, then you key it in again when you come back. Easy.”
I picked 1986. The year I’d met Laura Brown. I was troubled. How and why had Laura gone to the trouble to find out my mother’s maiden name?
“We’ll send you an access card. Call the 1-800-number on the alarm box. Write it down and keep it with you.”
The cop waited until I finished.
“This call’s going to cost you sixty bucks for a false alarm. You’ll get a bill.”
That was truly the least of my problems.