REQUIEM, chapter 1

REQUIEM

1.

Sergeant Pruitt sniffed the air and grimaced. Few things could ever entice him to enter the morgue, and today his superiors had enumerated most of them at length, as well as the penalty for refusal. Someone had to attend for purposes of identification, and arrange disposal of the remains; that unfortunate someone was him.

The damp grey walls of a poorly lit corridor stretched before him, as inviting as a walk to the gallows. There was a desk to one side of the entry hall, where he had paused briefly for a haggard attendant to note his name and point the way. Pruitt was directed toward the third door to the left. His destination was the room furthest away, deepest in the bowels of this wretched monument of death.

The sergeant’s pace was quick and steady; the sooner he could dispense with morbid formalities, the sooner he would be back outside in the comparatively fresh air of dust and smoke-- in the living world. Reaching the door, he paused only long enough to read the yellowed placard tacked on the wall.

‘Examination Room’
.
Rather a moot point, Pruitt quietly mused. What need did any of these poor devils have for an examination? Perhaps some genteel administrator thought ’Necropsy’ too coarse a term. The door was partly open, so the sergeant pushed it further and stepped over the threshold to find himself practically gagging from the stench.

Far to his right across a large room, another door stood open. Through it the sound of water was heard, being sprayed from a hose. He could see a workman in black apron and boots, washing down a naked and elderly female corpse hanging from the wall. Near to choking on breakfast, Pruitt turned his head and coughed behind a fist. The rest of his surroundings were just as grim.

Midway across the spacious chamber, a tall man, fair-haired and wearing spectacles, stood beside a slate top table. This fellow was in his shirt sleeves, covered in an apron, and was brandishing a scalpel. There was a body on the table before him, heavyset and ruddy skinned which the sergeant mistook for a man, possibly a Moor. Further study proved it had once breathed life as female, the settling of blood giving the skin its dark shade. As a police officer, he was painfully familiar with such conditions; his prior encounters had been more than sufficient.

Three additional attendants completed the living cast of the horrid tableau. These were working at posts around the room, oblivious to the visitor, going about their mundane duties of collecting charts, carrying buckets, or using a scrub broom near the drain. The room stank not only of death, but of a noxious mix of chemicals and cleansers, which made drawing a breath all the more unpleasant.

“I beg your pardon?” The gentleman at the table finally spoke. “Is there something I can do for you, sergeant?”

Pruitt was only too happy to focus attention on the speaker, who smiled politely and wiped his blade on the gore covered apron.

“Yes, I was sent by headquarters.” Pruitt explained in brief. “You are the doctor?”

“Ah yes. I am Dr. Bryant. We’ve been waiting for you.” He stepped around the table idly cleaning his hands with a rag already covered in filth and motioned to one of the assistants. “Number 47.”

The officer was obliged to wait as the young workman went to fetch the mentioned ‘Number 47’.

“You are alone?” Bryant seemed mildly surprised.

“Yes, sir. And I apologize for the delay. They are rather busy in the ward today, and I was the first man available.”

“And you have some knowledge of the deceased? There was a card in his pocket, but we can’t say with any certainty it is the same man.”

“Inspector Fulton.” Pruitt nodded. “I will recognize him readily enough, I should think. That is, unless he has suffered some injury to his face?” The sergeant felt himself wince involuntarily; how better to make an unpleasant duty all the worse, than to add a mutilation?

A metal cart had now been delivered, and a corpse, shielded by a greasy canvas shroud, lay stretched on it. Bryant excused his man with a wordless wave of hand, and rather abruptly turned the canvas sheet down, revealing the body to midsection. Pruitt was shocked by the rather tactless motion, but did not flinch.

“Found wedged under a boat. Scared some poor fool half to death.” The doctor related the essential facts in an indifferent tone, though he seemed to be admiring the deceased, as if observing a loved one while they slept. “You’ll note I have not as yet done an invasive exam.” Here Bryant ran the back of a finger along the lifeless chest, demonstrating the absence of incision. “Do you recognize him?”

The sergeant stared for a few silent moments. The corpse seemed smaller then a man of Fulton’s height, but such was the way with a figure reclined.

The hair was full, thick and black, laced slightly with silver, and bordered by side whiskers. The skin appeared a bit pale, somewhat more so than it was known to be in life. Shoulders broad, arms leanly muscled, chest well formed and as smooth as that of a much younger man. He would not have thought someone of Fulton’s years and habits could possess so ageless an appearance behind all that starch and regulation. With a sigh, the sergeant gave a single nod.

“It is Fulton. You’ve determined cause?”

“Without an internal study, I can give rudimentary conclusion that he drowned. When stripped and prepared, quite a quantity of river water was expelled from his mouth. He was apparently alive when he entered the water.” Bryant rifled the dark thatch of hair that crowned the corpse’s head almost affectionately, as he explained further. “There is no evidence of a blow, no swelling or fracture demonstrated on palpation. No entry or exit wound of projectile or blade anywhere-- the body is in remarkable health-- apart from being dead, of course. The only imperfection seems to be a redness at the side of his throat, in one area, here.”

“Could he have been throttled, or strangled?” Pruitt offered, as he might on any investigation. He lowered his gaze from the doctor’s face to the area mentioned.

“Well, I can tell you that the wound was not post mortem, like the sort of damage done to a body floating with the current. Notice the darker region? Indicating an effusion of blood to the vicinity? It appears to be a slight irritation, in response to an eruption of the skin, possibly a boil, or other pustule. Or perhaps the infected bites of a flea, or other vermin. Almost as if he attempted to drain the infection himself. In any event, your man suffered this injury sometime prior to, but not necessarily at the time of his death. There’s the absence of further marks and discolored bruising as one would find from a ligature, or manual strangulation. And no defensive bruising, which leads me to believe it is not related to cause.”

“Very well. Death by drowning.” The officer had seen-- and smelled-- quite enough. “If you feel confident without…cutting him?”

Bryant shrugged. He was happy to forego this routine procedure, having a backlog of bodies already prepared and awaiting his attention, all cases of questionable death. If the police felt no need to pursue the matter, neither would he.

“I understand suicide is suspected?” The doctor remarked casually and tossed the cover back in place with little show of humanity or respect. Pruitt was disturbed by the notion that Fulton would take his own life. “You needn’t act surprised, sergeant. There were plenty of rumors concerning a missing Inspector, long before he surfaced. There was no note found on his person, nor did I detect a hint of drink on his clothes or body, ruling out accidental fall due to intoxication. No matter. Will the family be expected to collect him?”

“He has no family.” The answer seemed rather abrupt, even to Pruitt. He covered his embarrassment with a second more charitable consideration. “At least, I don’t believe so.”

“Hmm. I suggest you have someone at your office make careful search of the records. I would hate to see him tossed into a pauper’s lot prematurely. Especially as an outraged relation or two could eventually surface and prove most aggravating to your office as well as mine. Unless your department or some friends would care to see to his arrangements?”

Pruitt already knew that was unlikely unless someone from Fulton’s past, perhaps with a odd sense of loyalty, were to appear. But all this would take time to discover or eliminate.

“Where will you keep him?”

“Not here, despite what you assume about our spacious facilities.” Bryant sarcasm was at least as sharp as the blade in his hand. He waved a man forward, took a ledger from him and then gestured for the mortal remains of Inspector Fulton to be taken away. This was done without a word, in order to deposit corpse and cart back into a shadowy corner with others awaiting final examination. “He has been identified by the State, and we are under no obligation to retain him further. He is Catholic?” Pruitt could only nod blankly, having no idea if the Inspector recognized any religion beyond the Law. “For the duration, I can at least see he is removed to the holding vault at St. Vincent’s yard, if that is convenient for you?”

Pruitt thought a moment. As the only representative of the department, he was responsible for this decision. He could easily sign the release that would place the remains in an unmarked public plot, provided by the auspices and expense of the State. Still, it would perhaps be better to err on the side of caution. When he replied, it was with some confidence.

“Very well. You will have him redressed and placed in a plain box, to be removed to vault at St. Vincent’s. I am sure any possible family would appreciate that we afford him some semblance of dignity.”

“As you wish, sergeant. I will just need you to sign for disposal.”

As simple as that. A few strokes of a pen and Pruitt would be free to escape the miserable sights and stench of the place for sunlight and more breathable air. It was ironic, that those same simple strokes would be the final record and notice given Fulton’s life-- or death.