you think so? Next semester is my co-op and I was going to apply to The Telegraph.”
Jennifer looked into the wide eyes of her fan. “Tell you what – send me your school’s required paperwork and I’ll deliver it to my editor.”
“Mitch Carson?”
“Wow, you are a true Telegraph believer. But yes, I’ll forward your application to Mr. Carson.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you won’t make me look bad.”
“I won’t!”
“With that settled, I’m off to see a dead guy and his keeper,” Jennifer said as she walked toward the hallway. “Take care, Maryanne – and follow me on Twitter.”
Maryanne was astonished as she realized that during their short conversation Jennifer Malone – THE Jennifer Malone – had noted her social media activity. “I hope I’m that observant when I’m a reporter,” she said, as she again sat at her desk to search for Jennifer’s page.
From previous visits, Jennifer knew the hospital’s ground floor was a labyrinth designed to test the best maze runners. The wall signage listed too many departments, followed by small arrows pointing in every direction. The coloured lines on the floors and walls were equally useless to the majority of patients and their caregivers. By sheer will of perseverance, Jennifer navigated through the bland painted hallways, past the E.R. entrance, to a non-descript area by the rear loading docks. Although she was in the right corridor, she decided to ask a male in his early 20s wearing blue scrubs walking in her direction.
“Where are you headed?” he asked with a knowing grin before Jennifer could form her words into a question.
Cute smile. Nice hair. Hot body in scrubs.
“Am I that obviously lost?” she said returning his smile. “Luke, is it?” she added reading his nametag.
“It is,” he said, now standing in front of the attractive blonde. He could smell her perfume and was curious. “Your perfume.”
Someone as on the ball as me – check.
“Oh, is there a problem with it?”
“No,” Luke stammered slightly. “It’s just ....”
“That it’s a man’s cologne?”
“Yes. Fahrenheit, right?”
“Now it’s my turn to say, ‘it is’,” Jennifer replied. “The hospital didn’t go all scent-free since the last time I was here, did it?”
“When was that?”
“Two months ago.”
“The bad news is the policy is two years old,” Luke said. “The good news is that it’s more of a suggestion than an enforceable rule.”
“So I’m safe?”
“I’m not going to say anything.”
“I thought maybe I was sentenced to walk these hallways until the scent was sufficiently undetectable. Only then could I speak with the coroner.”
“Richmond or Singh?”
“I don’t know. My editor was heavy on assigning me this mission, yet light on actual details.”
“No worries. Let’s find out who’s in.”
Luke stepped away from Jennifer and peered into an office window partially obstructed by a vertical blind. Pressing his hands together and leaning against the glass, Luke said, “Looks like ... Alpa is on duty today.”
Luke’s work radio crackled to life.
“Hey, Luke, Rob will meet you upstairs for that back door call.”
“I’m getting the cart now.” He placed the radio back in his pocket.
“Back door? What’s that?” Jennifer inquired, unfamiliar with the term. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t involve going to the proctologist’s exam room.”
Luke laughed. “Ah, no ... kind of the opposite. Back door means the morgue, which is where I was headed to get the body cart to transfer a patient.”
“Oh my god,” Jennifer said flustered. “I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Trust me, there’s no real rush for this call.”
Luke let the implication hang in the air.
It doesn’t even faze him anymore. Jennifer knew cops and paramedics who had the same attitude toward the deceased. She now regretted her earlier snide remark to Maryanne. “Of course not,” she managed to say.
“So ... I think Dr. Singh is performing an autopsy,” Luke began, trying nonchalantly to change the subject, “which is in the same section as the morgue. It’s down here by the linen carts.”
“Okay,” Jennifer said, following Luke. “Besides being the Cart Pusher of Death, what’s your job title?”
“Patient Transporter, or porter for short.”
“It must be awesome to wear scrubs every shift.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of like wearing pyjamas to work.” Luke took out a key ring to unlock a door marked G1098. “Come on in.”
On the right was a large table top attached to one wall, while the other wall consisted of four stainless steel, ground-to-ceiling doors. Next to them was a dry erase board listing shelf numbers and the corresponding names of the recently departed.
“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” Jennifer stated.
“With five hospitals within an eight block radius, each with their own morgue, this one seems about right size-wise,” Luke said, as he pressed an intercom button on the wall. “Dr. Singh, are you in? It’s Luke. There’s a visitor out here for you.”
A couple seconds later, Dr. Singh replied, “Who is it?”
Luke held down the button again and said, “I don’t really know.”
“It’s Jennifer Malone, Dr. Singh. I’m a reporter with The Telegraph, here about the John Doe.”
Luke let go of the button. “Do you have a card? One of the guards here wants to be a reporter–“
“And you’d rack up some goodwill points, right?”
“Something like that,” Luke smiled, taking Jennifer’s card from her.
“Here’s a second one for your goodwill collection,” Jennifer said, offering another card. In similar situations she’d have written her cell number on it and suggested the recipient call to discuss how the world worked over drinks, but she didn’t get the vibe Luke was interested.
