CHAPTER 29

Ah, loving God, defer not thy coming. I await impatiently the day when the spring shall return.

Martin Luther

The fading winter continued to be dry. Homer and Mary began to hope they might creep through the rest of the season without a snowstorm if they kept their heads down. One Wednesday afternoon Homer arranged to meet Alan Starr and little Charley Hall in the Public Garden.

“He certainly is a cute little guy,” said Homer, bending down to smile at Charley. Charley smiled back.

Homer melted, feeling a pang at being childless himself, a twinge that came over him now and then. Fortunately the feeling vanished whenever other people’s children fought with their siblings or screamed in supermarkets. Mary and Homer had settled the matter long ago, telling themselves to look upon their shelf of books as offspring. The books weren’t cuddly and cute, but on the other hand they didn’t keep them awake at night and they weren’t about to be arrested on a drug charge. It was only when some particularly plump cherub came into view, gurgling cheerfully, chuckling when prodded, that Homer’s equilibrium was upset.

Charley Hall was just such a child. Homer and Alan stood beaming down at him beside the duck pond, while pigeons waddled around them on pink feet, looking for handouts. Other pigeons flew over the pond and landed on the roof of the little Chinese temple. “Next month,” said Homer, “the swan boats will be out of drydock. I’ll take him for a ride.”

They started around the pond. “Tell me about autopsies,” said Alan, pushing the buggy along the asphalt path. “Suppose the burned body hadn’t been cremated? Could they have identified it, even when it was all charred like that?”

“Oh, yes. They can determine how the skull corresponds with photographs, and how the teeth compare with dental records. And what’s more—”

“Wait a minute.” Alan swerved the stroller out of the way while a flock of small children toddled past, roly-poly in their snowsuits, sporting orange tags. They were led by a stout young woman in a purple jacket. Another woman held hands with two of the children in the middle, and a third brought up the rear.

Alan waved at the woman in the purple jacket, and explained to Homer as the small crowd trudged by, “It’s Ruth Raymond, from the new daycare center in the church. All those little kids spend the day in the basement.”

Ruth Raymond was blowing a whistle, shouting at her charges. “Okay, you guys, time to feed the ducks.” The little kids shrieked with joy and followed her to the shore of the pond. At once a fleet of mallards paddled up to them, expecting to be fed.

One of the children clung to Ruth Raymond’s legs. Homer had seen the little girl before. It was Martin Kraeger’s daughter Pansy.

“Where was I?” he said. “Oh, I was going to say there are ways you can tell whether or not a person was killed by smoke inhalation and fire, or if she was already dead when the fire occurred.”

“You can?” Alan turned the stroller so that Charley could see the ducks. The three women were passing around a bag of bread crumbs, and the children were throwing handfuls into the water with delighted cries.

“They test the blood and see if it contains carbon monoxide from inhaling the fumes, and look for soot in the air passages and for vital reactions in cutaneous burns. It’s tricky, but a good pathologist knows how to do it.”

“I see,” said Alan. “You mean the body in the car might have been dead before the car burned up? Somebody might have put the corpse in the car and set fire to the whole thing?”

“That’s right, only now we’ll never know, because it was cremated before the pathologist could get his hands on it. I must say, it seems a little strange. You know, I’ve got a morbid fascination with morgues, cadavers in drawers, labels on frozen toes, dissecting tables, livers plopped onto steel trays. The pathologist said it was a regrettable mistake, but you can’t help but wonder.”

Alan trundled the stroller to the edge of the pond. “See the ducks, Charley? Ducks, Charley, ducks.”

Charley obligingly said his second word, “Doggy!”—embracing all zoological species under one stupendous heading, and they laughed.

“Just a minute, guys,” cried Ruth Raymond, “Pansy needs the ladies’ room,” and she went rushing off, dragging Pansy by the hand.

“It’s time to take Charley back,” said Alan. Turning the stroller, he led Homer across the bridge and along the path in the direction of Charles Street. Above them the tall trees were still leafless. They bore signs, Ulmus Hollandica Belgica, Fagus sylvatica. Alan stared at the path, then glanced sideways at Homer. “Do you believe Rosie really said she wanted to be cremated?”

“I don’t know. Who called the morgue and told them that? It wasn’t either of her great-aunts.”

“I’ll tell you why I don’t believe she said it. She was young. I mean, she was about my age, and I never give the matter a thought. Oh, I can see you might start thinking about it at your age, Homer, but I’m only twenty-nine.”

Homer took the insult graciously. “Well, maybe she was more philosophical than you are, Alan, and she had a skull on her desk like St. Jerome, and contemplated her own end, the terminus ad quem, the last days, the final judgment, the eschatological conclusion to—”

“Oh, Homer, I don’t think she’d think of stuff like that. I doubt she said anything to anybody about it at all. Somebody wanted the body cremated before it was examined, so they wouldn’t discover that it wasn’t Rosalind Hall, it was somebody else.”

“So this mysterious person called the morgue and told them it was what she wanted, is that it? And then it was just good luck that they made a mistake and got the stiffs mixed up and cremated her anyway?” Homer shook his head doubtfully, and reached for the stroller. “My turn now.”