subordinate quickly stepped back, allowing the chief to attempt a solo separation of the women.
“Not really. She’s a dancer and a painter hidden inside the body of an office manager. She’s in a modern dance troupe here in town, but she needs to keep a day job.” The assistant paused to let an image of her form in his mind. “She hates what I do for a living.”
With all his might the chief medical examiner strained to pull the two shoulders apart. He set his legs farther apart on the tile floor, then tried again, holding his breath for strength.
“Give me a hand, will you?” he said, finally exhaling his fatigue and exertion into the room. His assistant moved forward and reached out with both hands, placing one palm in an armpit and the other on the top of a shoulder.
“If the truth be known, I’ve seen a lot more men than women while I’ve been here,” said the assistant. “I guess it’s the nature of this business.”
“I’ve got half a dozen specimens of manhood laid out and cooling in back right now,” answered the chief. As he spoke he nodded toward the darkened morgue. Behind the wall to his back there were five males lying stretched out on refrigerated metal racks. One poor soul had been a bystander at a botched drive-by shooting. Another one was the victim of a carjacking; his body had been found by a jogger in McLaren Park.
Two other bodies were those of homeless veterans who had expired of unknown causes during the night. The corpses had been found beneath the elevated freeway near Potrero Hill. Their dark skin had been hardened by exposure and their knuckles and knees had been indelibly discolored by dirt and grass stains. The fifth body was that of a young schoolboy who had been driven over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge by years of unnatural affection from his own father. His brother before him had done the same thing.
“Did you hear about John Doe 39? He came in about three hours ago. He was working underneath his classic car when his wife and her boyfriend lowered the jack on him. We got a full name for him just about an hour ago. The guy still has a brake pad embedded in his skull.”
The younger man secured the shoulder closest to himself and the two began pulling in opposite directions, each with one foot on a bar beneath the table for leverage. They had been straining for twenty or thirty seconds when one of them released his hold suddenly and without warning. The other almost fell to the floor, just catching himself by hanging on to the stiffened arm of the smaller woman. The two embracing bodies hung precariously over the edge. The long hair of the smaller woman was hanging down like a shimmering tent, enshrouding their frozen faces.
“Let’s get them back onto the table,” said the chief, out of breath and a bit embarrassed at the crudeness and clumsiness of their attempts. “My wife never lets me touch her anymore,” said the chief. “I think she’s projecting.” He gasped. “I’ve noticed that sometimes she’s repulsed by my hands. She pulls away from my touch.” He examined the mutual death grip more closely. “I think we’re going to have to cut them apart. Is there family listed, any claimants? Someone to object?”
“If we knew the answer to that question,” said the assistant, who nodded toward the toe tags, “we wouldn’t have to Jane Doe them.” The assistant laughed uncomfortably. He had lost his mental balance for a moment. During his three years in this office the chief had never once mentioned his wife or his home life. He had never shared even a single personal opinion or feeling. The assistant knew that his glib remark had offended the chief medical examiner, so he added quickly, “Cut the fingers? Should a procedure like that be included on the protocols? What if the relatives do show up?”
After thinking about it for a moment, the chief shook his head. “We have to do what’s necessary. Cosmetics are the least of our worries. I can see now that just one of them has her fingers completely interlocked. I think we only need to cut her at the tendons. Let’s put that on the 36 protocol. After they’re separated you can work on 37. Well, what do you think?”