An older man, maybe seventy-five, greeted Steve in the softly lit reception area of the Bruck Mortuary. Scarlet velvet curtains with gold brocade hung over an inner doorway. A large chandelier issued muted light. The room had an abundance of ferns that may or may not have been real. It wouldn’t matter to the stiffs, Steve mused.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the gentleman said. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, red tie. His white hair was wispy, like a bird’s nest. The nameplate on his desk said Edward Hendrickson.
“I was sent over here from the sheriff’s station. I was told the sheriff was here.”
“He’s in with Mr. Bruck,” Hendrickson said. “Would you like to wait?”
“It’s about Lieutenant Oderkirk,” Steve said.
“Oh. Yes. I see.” It didn’t seem like he saw, but he picked up the phone and pressed a button. Into the receiver he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bruck, but a gentleman is here regarding Lieutenant Oderkirk. No, I didn’t get his name.” He looked at Steve.
“Conroy.”
“Conroy,” Hendrickson repeated. Then, “Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “Mr. Bruck will be right with you.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. “Would that be the original Mr. Bruck?”
“Oh no. It’s third generation. William. This was all started by his grandfather.”
“And the sheriff. What’s his name again?”
“Mott, sir. Owen Mott.”
“How long’s he been sheriff?”
“Long time. Fifteen years at least.”
The velvet curtains flapped and a guy about Steve’s age stepped in. He wore an open-collared shirt and a black coat and slacks. New breed of mortician, Steve thought. More hip. Make the bereaved think their dear departed has all the latest, whatever that might be in this business.
“Hi, I’m Bill Bruck.” He offered his hand. He was a head shorter than Steve, with thick black hair gelled flat. “Mr. Hendrickson says you’re here about Larry Oderkirk.”
“In a way.” Steve handed him one of his cards.
“Lawyer?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you representing Larry for something?”
“No.”
“Friend of the family?”
“Not exactly.”
He frowned. “How can I help you?”
“I was actually hoping to talk to the sheriff.”
“Oh.” Bruck made little squeezing motions with his fingers, like he was holding a little rubber ball. “Well, we’re going over some details right now. I wonder if you can arrange an appointment.”
“Thing is, I’m heading back to LA. I had some business with Lieutenant Oderkirk and I thought I could ask the sheriff about it.”
A uniform stepped through the curtains. “What sort of business was that?”
He was tall and thin, with a salt-and-pepper moustache and tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a sheriff’s star on his chest. The pants of his uniform were stuffed inside black cowboy boots.
“Sheriff Mott?” Steve said.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Steve Conroy. I spoke to Lieutenant Oderkirk recently.”
Bruck handed Steve’s card to the sheriff, who gave it a quick once-over. “Uh-huh. What about?”
“He was helping me locate an autopsy record.”
Mott looked at Bruck, who kept working the phantom super ball.
“And I guess that autopsy was done right here, back in 1983,” Steve said.
“Before I was elected,” Sheriff Mott said.
“My dad was running the business then,” Bruck said.
No one offered anything else, so Steve said, “Maybe you could help me, Sheriff. If I want to locate the full record of the case, can I get that at your office?”
“We’re in a transition period at the moment,” Mott said. “A lot of the old records are in San Bernardino being transferred to microfiche. So I’m afraid now is about the worst time to ask.”
“You must have some sort of index, a centralized record.”
“What is the nature of your interest, Mr. Conroy?”
“The victim was my brother.”
Mott nodded. “I see. Let me suggest this. Call our office on Monday and have Sandra fax you an official request form. Fill that out and fax it back to us. We’ll see what we can do.”
Steve glanced at Hendrickson, the man behind the desk. He was looking down at what appeared to be nothing.
To Bruck Steve said, “Do you keep records of autopsies?”
Mott answered. “I’d rather you go through the proper channels, Mr. Conroy. That way we can make sure it’s all done right. Is that the only reason you drove out here from” — he looked at the card again — “Canoga Park?”
“I had some other business.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“Legal matter.”
Mott waited for Steve to add something. He didn’t.
“If that’s all,” Mott said, “then I’ll be sure — ”
“One more thing,” Steve said. “What were the circumstances of Lieutenant Oderkirk’s death?”
“And your reason for that information is what?”
“Just curious.”
“Curious just isn’t enough, Mr. Conroy. As a lawyer, I’m sure you understand.”
Steve heard something that sounded like a ticking clock. It was the old guy at the front desk. He was tapping a pencil on the edge. When he saw Steve looking at him, he stopped. An embarrassed silence descended from the dark crimson ceiling.
“Well,” Mott said, “I think we all have things to do. Nice meeting you, Mr. Conroy.”