To Bw Determined
Brad Wilk
Flipping pages of ‘Mad’ Magazine, Neil Crawford took great comfort in the buzzing fluorescent lights. Tilting back his chair, he put one leg on top of his city issued desk then raised the other. He wore blue corduroy pants, a white button down shirt and a beat up pair of Converse sneakers. Anticipating a blind date with Susan Fisher, he clasped his hands behind his neck, closed his eyes and played the perfect evening over in his mind. They were laughing, touching; enjoying endless glasses of Merlot, completely lost in each others company. He pictured them finishing the night with a passionate kiss and a long, heart felt good bye. Yes, Neil Crawford was tightening up, just like he always did before meeting someone new.
Rocking his chair forward he planted both sneakers on the white tiled floor, than laid the magazine on the desk, stood up and slipped his sweaty hands as deep as he could into the back pockets of his corduroy pants. The morgue had been slow he thought. On a standard night, at least five bodies were delivered. But that would even out he reasoned, his nerves settling with the thought, because tomorrow there’d be ten, possibly more.
Neil Crawford was quite taken with the dead girl delivered earlier that night and couldn’t get her face out of his mind. Unlike the others, she died with grace. There were no cuts or abrasions, no signs of pain. Whether killed by natural causes, poisoned or strangled Neil didn’t know, but he would certainly read the autopsy report when it became available. He pulled the steel coffin out from the wall. The girl looked just as she did when she arrived. She appeared to be sleeping peacefully; looking neither cold nor stiff. About twenty years old, she had wavy, blonde hair, an oval shaped face and a slender build. Breasts were small and perky; legs were toned and recently shaved and the red nail polish on her toes and fingers appeared fresh as if painted just seconds before her death.
Neil stroked the girl’s thick hair and smelled her strawberry scented conditioner as he moved his nose along the side of her neck. Her recently moisturized shoulders felt smooth to his touch. Suddenly, a cold shiver shot down his back then quickly subsided. The girl took excellent care of herself, he thought, that’s for sure. Her bathroom, he figured, probably resembled a shelf in a drug store; lotions, perfumes, cosmetic pads. He imagined her bedroom and the big, white pillows stacked high on her queen sized bed with a square patterned quilt hanging over the sides. What was she like? He wondered. Had she ever made love before? Is there a chance she’s still a virgin?
Neil raised the girl’s hand to his face, pressing it firmly against his cheek. He had a hard time remembering the last time he was touched. It had been too long. He moved her hand across his neck, then underneath his shirt and around his chest. He closed his eyes and let the tense muscles ease in his back.
Since working at the Mercy Hospital morgue Neil had never acted on his feelings. Not once, although he always wanted, did he ever play with the dead. No names. No faces. Just store them away and keep them cold he would say. But this girl was different. She was beautiful. There were things she needed to say, emotions she wanted to share. No. No. No. She wasn’t ready yet. She needed more time!
Having come this far he had to know more. Where she was from? What time she died? Married? Children? That sort of thing. In the brightly lit morgue, file cabinets stacked to the ceiling spanned the entire length of the back wall. Each was marked with a letter, and at the far end, connected to a ceiling track was a wooden ladder angled towards the top cabinet. Climbing halfway up, Neil opened a draw and pulled out the girls file. He decided to read at his desk. Why not wait a little longer? He thought. And as he reveled in the foreplay aspect of it all, he quickly moved down the shaking ladder then jumped to the floor, skipping the last three rungs. Finally at his desk, he sat, then opened the manila folder marked Susan Fisher and glided his index finger down page one.
Twenty- tree.
Single.
No dependents.
Pronounced dead at 7:48 pm, August 21, 2004
Cause of death: TO BE DETERMINED.
Leaning back, his face taught with thought, Neil ran various murder scenarios over in his mind, trying to picture her last words, the last person she spoke with, the last breath she took. He dismissed natural death. She seemed too healthy, too vibrant for that. But perhaps she had an aneurism or an unlikely heart attack of some kind. Could there be a drug problem? Did her heart cave in from the stress? No, that was impossible. This girl was too clean. Her arms showed no signs of heroin use. Her nostrils appeared normal; no inflammation to speak of. It had to be murder. She was too beautiful. Someone was jealous. That had to be it. Yes, Susan Fisher was definitely murdered. There was no other explanation. But who would do such a horrible thing?
Neil finger combed his thick black hair then licked the palm of his right hand and wetted down his eyebrows. Cupping both hands around his mouth he exhaled and checked his breath. Not satisfied, he popped a breath mint. “Ah, much better” he said, than moved over the body.
Sleeping peacefully, the girl looked as if she could spring awake at any moment. Neil whispered softly in her ear. “Who did it my love?” He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, then down her neck and across her breast. He felt aroused. “Tell me who did this to you?” he pleaded, his whisper becoming louder, more pronounced. “Why don’t you speak to me?” Eyes pressed, forehead burrowed, he shook the dead girl’s arm. “Tell me, my love. Who did this to you?” The girl rocked inside the cold coffin. “Did you deserve it?” he yelled. Tears dripped down his face then landed on the dead girl’s belly button. “Why are you doing this to me?” he cried, “Tell me who it was. I love you. Please let me help.”
Neil slumped down to the cold tile floor and wiped his away tears as the girl opened her eyes. She stared into the glaring fluorescent bulbs that hummed above, motionless and awe struck. Her eyes were deep blue and her lashes long and willowy. Her voice sounded sleepy, slow, possessed “Don’t do it stepmother. Please don’t” Neil gathered himself off the floor, grabbed the side of the steel coffin and raised himself up. He was filled with hope. “You’re alive” He grabbed the girls face, moving his lips close to hers. “Stepmother Ð Your stepmother did this?” he whispered.
Her eyes were fixed on the lights. “Stepmother didn’t like my dress”
“What dress, what didn’t she like about it?”
Her eyes closed and Neil shook her again. “What dress?” He yelled, “Speak to me, tell me about the dress”
Her eyes snapped open. They were filled with fear.
“Daddy liked the dress.” Nodding, she giggled softly. “He said you’re beautiful sweet heart, you’re my little angel” She tilted her head towards Neil. She looked curios, naïve. “He said I was his princess, that nobody would ever hurt me.” She reached for Neil and touched his face. Her hand was motionless on his cheek. “Daddy is that you? Is that you Daddy?” Neil stared blankly. “She didn’t like the dress you bought me Daddy.”
Neil played the part. “Why sweetheart? Why didn’t she like the dress?”
Susan smiled. Her face became relaxed. Again, she was at peace. She stared at the lights. Her heavy eyelids opened then closed. She struggled to stay awake. “It was a pretty dress, wasn’t it Daddy?”
“Yes it was angel.”
“I loved that dress Daddy.” Her eyes fluttered then closed. Sighing, she whispered, “Stepmother, never likedÉ” then tilted her head to the side. Resting a hand on her cheek, Neil felt the warmth exit her face. He could see her color vanish, her spirit disappear. She felt cold and stiff.
Collapsing to the floor, Neil buried his face between his legs. The pull on his shoulders was constant. The stress was pulling him down. “I know who killed her. I’m going to get her. She won’t get away with this. That bitch will pay in blood. Susan. Susan, don’t go!”
Trudging though the blue and white painted corridor of the Mercy Hospital basement, Bob Jenkins carried a rolled up sports section in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. At the steel door, he disengaged the lock, pulled the handle up, than entered the brightly lit morgue.
“Not again’ he muttered, looking at Neil curled up on the floor, “That kid sleeps more than the stiffs do”
Bob ran the night shift, the busiest one at the Mercy Hospital morgue and had grown tired of waking up the young, lazy rookie. He set his paper and thermos on the desk, worked his away towards his chair, than plopped his three hundred pound frame down. He concentrated on getting his breathing under control by taking short, measured breaths. Taking a handkerchief from the back pocket of his faded black slacks, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and cheeks. He squirmed, found a comfortable position in his chair, than opened the paper and snapped it before his eyes. “NEIL” he barked, “Wake the fuck up. Nap times over kid. Get your ass off the freaking floor. I ain’t no wake up service you know Ð snap to it. There’s a Holiday Inn down the block Ð get all the sleep you want”
Neil squinted from the rush of harsh light. His cheek pressed flat against the cold tile, he could see Bob’s tattered sneakers and tree trunk thighs beneath the large metal desk. Sniffing, he took in the nose clearing odor of Clorox used by the night time janitor just hours before. He blinked, than blinked again. The last thing he remembered was reading ‘Mad’ magazine and leaning back in his chair. What the hell happened? He continued looking along the floor, trying to make sense of his new surroundings, attempting to distinguish dream from reality. He needed a drink, some water, anything. His lips cracked as he wiggled the muscles in his cheeks. He felt a brief sense of relief as he gathered himself off the floor but also disappointment in leaving the dream behind. It had been so real he thought, her face, her lips, how she spoke.
He pulled the metal casket out from the wall, hoping to make sense of the whole thing, maybe find some proof. He looked in disbelief at the empty coffin. “I saw her” he exclaimed, pointing where the girl’s head had been, “She was right there.”
Bob lowered his paper, smiled and leveled a gaze down on Neil “Easy on those drugs kid, there playing with your mind.” Bob snickered. “You’ve only been here a month?” Neil nodded. “God help us” said Bob, shaking his head. “Next thing I’ll see you dancing with the dead” Bob raised his paper, still smiling, still shaking his head. “God help us” he muttered, “What in God’s name is happening to our young people today? Whole damn country is going to hell in a hand basket”
Neil glanced at the clock above the steel door. “Shit” he said, as he pushed the coffin back inside the wall “My date. She’s going to be furious”
Bob lowered his paper. The kid was lazy he thought but had a flare for the dramatic. He gave the otherwise boring place a little excitement. Bob liked the kid, had a real soft spot for him but couldn’t stand the fact that he was young, so much younger than himself. “Got a live one tonight?” he asked, rustling the paper on his lap.
“If I get there soon enough” yelled Max as he opened the door and rushed out.
Bob raised the paper and took a look at the American League standings as the door clicked shut. Yankees up four games. Red Sox in second. Man, he thought, sighing loudly, I wish I were twenty again.
As he scurried down the dimly lit hall, Neil made his way past an orderly pushing a white corpse on a gurney. Each gave the other a courteous nod. Here they come, Neil thought, it always evened out. He emerged through the swinging doors of the service entrance then walked briskly over the expansive parking lot. At his restored 72’ Dodge Dart, he swatted an empty coffee cup off his seat, planted himself down and turned the ignition over. Even in the warmth of August he had to wait several minutes for the engine to find its groove. He nudged the volume control up on his stereo. Please to meet, won’t you guess my name blasted from his Alpine speakers. Finally, the engine hummed. The date was August 20. The report in the dream said August 21. There was still time. No matter what, Susan Fisher had to know of her stepmothers intentions. She had to be warned. She had to believe. Neil Crawford could see the future. At this point he didn’t understand his power; it was all so new, so unbelievably weird. Was it a gift or a curse? Either way, he reasoned, Susan Fisher had to be told of her murder. She had to know her fate.
