Part 4 (1/2)

8.

She did her telephone punch-in when she got to Rellingford Hospital, and then proceeded down the long rose-colored hallway to the ER. She pa.s.sed some medics and other nurses, said the obligatory morning h.e.l.los and listened to the lukewarm jokes, but her mind was elsewhere and she was craving coffee. The staff in the ER was small, like everything else in Rellingford. There was simply the doc-Dr. Davison-and a unit clerk, and a few nurses on the day s.h.i.+ft. Night s.h.i.+ft was even more bare bones. Not a lot happened out in Rellingford on a continuing basis for the ER, and some days, nothing happened beyond a twisted ankle or a kid who need a few st.i.tches and a hug. There were always lab techs around, the respiratory therapists, but it was bare bones in the ER most days, with an on-call staff in case anything major came down.

She picked up the report from Nancy Maier, the outgoing staff nurse, and then grabbed a cup of coffee from the vending machine room, and thank G.o.d it was Starbucks thank G.o.d it was Starbucks or she would've been in a bad mood over the usual mud-in-a-cup, and then she went off to triage to get the long s.h.i.+ft going. or she would've been in a bad mood over the usual mud-in-a-cup, and then she went off to triage to get the long s.h.i.+ft going.

By the late afternoon, two new patients had come in, one of them from a car wreck out on the main highway, which made her think about Hut, and hope that he was okay. Surely, he'd page her or call, and, she had to remember, if something happened to him, she'd have been contacted.

The patient who arrived had been lucky-a broken leg, perhaps, and a dislocated shoulder. With her coworkers and the doc on his way, Julie got to work in triage.

Just before five, her s.h.i.+ft supervisor called her over to an empty office, and said, ”Julie. Something's happened.”

The supervisor had that tone of voice that meant something horrible. Something tragic. She'd heard the tone when the news came about any major public tragedy-from the World Trade Center horror of a few years' previous to the sudden death of one of the visiting physicians. Immediately, Julie thought of the children. Of Matt and his troubles. Of Matt and the time she'd seen him with a knife, and even though he hadn't done anything to himself with it, she had known-he had communicated with his eyes-that he was thinking about his real mother, about where she was, the inst.i.tution outside Philadelphia, about all the things that Matt had whirling in his mind at all times...

”Not Matty,” Julie said, tears already forming in her eyes. Images of Matt, memories of him, his violent outbursts, his tantrums, his moods.

”No,” her supervisor said, softly.

Chapter Four.

1.

The morgue wasn't located in the hospital, but at the sheriff's station one towns.h.i.+p over. It was an area of what New Jerseyans called the Lake District that was less wooded and natural than paved over and set up right off the major highway. The sheriff's station looked like an industrial park, and the morgue was toward the back. Julie had insisted that she could drive, that it was a mistake, that none of this made sense, and she was fine, until she saw the staircase down to the morgue.

It looked like she had to walk down into limbo. It grew cold with each step, and she had to steady herself on the railing. She felt as if, at any moment, she might trip on the stairs.

A policewoman accompanied her, and Julie could tell that the woman watched her to make sure she wouldn't collapse or stumble.

She sat down on the seventh step, and covered her face with her hands.

”We can sit here for as long as you want,” the cop said.

Julie wasn't sure how much time had pa.s.sed. ”I've seen dead people before,” she said, steeling herself, wiping her eyes. ”It's all right. It is. I'm a nurse.” She wasn't sure if she said any of this aloud or not, as she got up and went down to the chilly floor below, where the lights were a flickering blue and the smells were talc.u.m, alcohol, and something that reminded her too much of the Emergency Room.

And then, the room itself: s.h.i.+ny and silver and garish in the overhead lighting, which was flat and made the coroner and the sheriff look as if they, too, were dead, as they stood there over the body. In the far corner of the room, three large blue plastic barrels that seemed out of place. It wasn't as big a room as she had expected, and she felt crowded by the others there, and self-conscious because she was sure they were just watching her as if she might do something irrational.

She hadn't looked at the face of the dead man until then.

2.

”Mrs. Hutchinson?”

”It's not him,” she said. ”Thank G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. It's not him.”

The sheriff was a man named Cottrell, who she knew only from the time he'd brought Matt in when Matt had stolen a car at twelve, and the sheriff told her that the car was undamaged, the owners were willing to drop charges, and Matt had been bawling like a baby. Rellingford was that kind of town. Cottrell had told her, then, that he understood Matt's situation from ”Dr. Hutchinson,” and so he hoped it would just be an isolated incident. Dr. Hutchinson was known in Rellingford. They knew of his first wife, and her ”troubles.” They knew of Matt and his ”situation.”

She thought back then that she probably would never see the sheriff again. How many times in life do you have to see the local authorities?

She took the facial tissue he offered, and wiped her eyes. Her vision came back into focus. She felt a boundless happiness for that moment, and a distant sorrow for this murder victim. She looked at the face. She didn't recognize him at all. She could see why the mistake had been made. Hut had floppy auburn hair, too, and he had that kind of squarish jaw that reminded her of the Midwest and cornfields for some reason. But that was really it. This corpse in front of her was pale, and the lips and nose were all wrong. ”It's a mistake,” she said. ”It's not him.”

”This is Homicide Detective McGuane, from Manhattan,” the sheriff said too formally.

Julie didn't glance up at any of them. People make mistakes all the time. Errors in judgment. This is why they need someone to identify bodies. Human error is the norm in life. Of course that's true. Of course. People make mistakes all the time. Errors in judgment. This is why they need someone to identify bodies. Human error is the norm in life. Of course that's true. Of course.

”Mrs. Hutchinson, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes. Perhaps not right now. Not today. But soon. The sooner the better,” the stranger said.

She couldn't look up at his face.

She kept watching the dead man. She was aware of the wounds and knew that whoever had killed the man on the table had a knowledge of where to strike-there were knife entry wounds at the arm, the lungs, the neck, and the heart. Lacerations on the shoulders and hands, where there might've been a struggle. She had worked in the city, and had seen murder victims before, years ago, when she had been a newly minted RN, and had often worked the graveyard s.h.i.+ft in the ER. She'd seen the victims of gang killings then, of domestic homicide, of any number of ways that a human being could be killed.

She had been able, quickly, to separate herself from the dead, even in her mid-twenties, by viewing them as having gone on-as being empty sh.e.l.ls. It was as she'd been taught in church, and although she only believed sporadically, it helped to think of death that way, particularly a violent death: their suffering is over. They're in heaven now. They're in some afterlife that was somehow better than the raw deal they'd gotten in this world. their suffering is over. They're in heaven now. They're in some afterlife that was somehow better than the raw deal they'd gotten in this world.

”It can't be him.”

”He's your husband,” McGuane said. ”We have his personal effects. Wallet, keys, and so on. Mrs. Hutchinson. This is Dr. Jeffrey 'Hut' Hutchinson. I know this is a tremendous shock.”

She had thought of him so much as Hut that she had nearly forgotten his real first name: Jeff. It's not him. Why do they keep insisting it's Hut? It's not Hut. It's not him. Why do they keep insisting it's Hut? It's not Hut.

She looked at the wounds, at the arms, the belly, and it wasn't until she saw the small circular tattoo on the dead man's left shoulder that it hit her too hard. She felt nausea in her stomach, and a distant, shrill ringing in her ears.

Someone wrapped his arms around her, holding her up. Had she been falling? She tugged away from the arms and stumbled toward the wall, pressing her forehead into the coolness of the wall itself, as if she could press herself through it.

And then, she knew that she was going to fall. She was going to fall, and it seemed in slow motion that she would hit the edge of a small metal cabinet on her way down, and then her head would hit the floor.

3.

She awoke in a darkened room, the only light coming from beneath a door. The smell of fresh coffee somewhere, beyond the darkness. Gradually, as her eyes focused, she saw more: it was simply an office, probably at the sheriff's station. She felt achy and nauseated, but gradually, perhaps a half-hour after opening her eyes, she pushed herself up from the cot. Her head ached, and she reached to touch the back of her skull. Someone had already taped some gauze just under her hairline at the nape of her neck. She remembered the fall, and winced with pain when she moved her jaw a little. She heard voices beyond the small room. She stepped out into a too-bright light, and went to sit in a large chair in a corner of the sheriff's office. He had glanced up from his desk, and laid the phone back in its cradle.