full loaf.
“You married?” he asks me.
“Not exactly,” I answer, taken aback by the sudden change of topic.
“Last time I checked, the law says you either are or you aren’t.”
“What are you, the marriage police?” I sneer, wishing an instant later that I could take it back. I need Arnie to like me.
He chuckles. “Divorced, eh? I figured as much when I saw the band on your finger.”
“I’m not divorced yet. But I will be soon,” I add quickly. “And what band?” I examine my hand, curious. I’d removed my wedding ring the day after I moved out of the house and haven’t worn it since.
“That white band of skin at the base of your left ring finger,” Arnie says. “Shows you were wearing a wedding band until recently. That, combined with your bitchy attitude when I asked about marriage, suggests divorce.”
“Oh,” I say, seeing that there is indeed a small band of skin at the base of my finger that looks like the underbelly on a fish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that it’s still a sore subject.” I settle into a nearby chair, grimacing as I hit the seat a little harder than planned, reminding myself of another sore subject in the most literal sense. “Didn’t Izzy tell you about my situation?”
Arnie shook his head. “Izzy doesn’t talk much about personal stuff. He values his own privacy a lot so he’s pretty good at respecting others’. If you have a secret you don’t want to get out, it’ll be safe with him. Discretion is an important part of his job. And his life.”
I know that what Arnie says is true. In a small town like this where old-fashioned values still prevail and dirty secrets don’t stay secret for long, having an openly gay government official is a bit unusual. While the position of coroner is a state-elected office, a county board can opt to appoint a medical examiner for an unlimited term instead of, or in addition to, electing a coroner. In counties with populations over five hundred thousand, a medical examiner is mandated, but in our county, the presence of a trained forensic pathologist who was interested in the job was all it took.
Izzy does his job and does it well and that results in a lack of flack from the citizenry. And while Izzy doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s gay, he and Dom always exercise great discretion when it comes to their relationship. They live together and that alone is enough to raise an eyebrow or two. Whenever they appear in public together, they are models of just-friends behavior.
“Though really,” Arnie goes on, “in today’s society privacy is nothing but an illusion. The government knows everywhere you go, everything you do. You know those little magnetic strips on the back of your credit cards and bank cards?”
I nod.
“Tracking devices. They’re encoded with all kinds of information about you. Every time you use one of those cards, a bunch of information gets recorded in some secret computer the government has hidden away. They put trackers on money, too. Little wires embedded right into the fabric of the bills. And those UPC codes they use to scan purchases? That’s the government’s way of keeping track of everything you buy. They know what you like to eat, what you like to wear, your favorite color, even your favorite TV shows. Cable works both ways, you know. While you’re watching it, someone else is watching you. And do you know why it seems as if the homeless problem in this country has become so rampant?”
I don’t answer, which is just as well since Arnie doesn’t stop long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.
“Because half of those people aren’t really homeless, that’s why. They’re spies…government spies. The government learned long ago that it’s the perfect cover. No one is as invisible as a homeless bum on the street.”
He pauses to breathe and I guess my skepticism is showing because then he says, “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Well…” I eye him warily, unsure if I should try to humor him and slowly back out of the room, or if it’s safe to go ahead and tell him I think he’s nuttier than my Aunt Gertrude’s pecan pie. “Maybe some of that stuff is possible,” I venture, “but I don’t think the government uses it much. I mean why would they care about what I eat or what TV shows I watch?”
“Because, while our free society is just an illusion, it’s an important illusion. It’s what keeps us happy and content. It keeps us from rising up against the government. It keeps us placid. But the truth is, our government is far from a democracy. A few key people have all the power and pull all the strings. The rest of them are merely for show.”
“Come on,” I argue. “Don’t you think that’s a bit farfetched?”
“You can believe that if you want, but I know the truth. They’re out there. Hell, do you have any idea how many man-made satellites are now in orbit around the earth? More than eight thousand. Eight thousand! Why do we need eight thousand satellites? For cell phones and TV signals? Not hardly. Of course, the official line is that only about six hundred of those satellites are actually working.” He scoffs so hard and fast it sounds like a gunshot.
“Like we’re gonna believe that!” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And even if it is true, we only need a handful of well-placed satellites to handle all the communications and legitimate research needs we have in the world. Know what all those other satellites up there are for?”
I have no idea but I’m beginning to hope one of them is aimed at Arnie. And that it has a death ray of some sort, though I’ll settle for stun mode.
“To watch us. That’s what they’re for. They can remote control a satellite right now and aim it at your house. They have special cameras that can see right through your roof and walls, watch you in your bedroom, watch you in your bathroom, for Christ’s sake!”
My face flushes hot as I think about some super-duper eye-in-the-sky watching me in my bathroom. The very idea gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Arnie sucks in a deep breath and looks around the room with a startled expression on his face, as if surprised to find himself here. “Sorry,” he says. “I sometimes get a little emotional about this stuff.”
The man is a master of understatement.
“So, anyway—he makes a broad sweep with his hand—“this is where I work.”
“It’s…um…very nice. Are you happy here?” I can hear how dumb it sounds even as I say it, but I’m still a bit rattled by Arnie’s rant and it’s all I can think of at the moment.
“Yeah, I love it,” Arnie says. “Izzy is great to work with. He’s got a great mind. And I’m often on my own here. I work better that way.”
That isn’t too hard to believe, I think.
“My primary function is to review, examine, process, and interpret the evidence we collect, everything from fibers and dust particles to bloodstained clothing.”
“So, walk me through a case from start to finish,” I say, glad to have him finally focusing on the topic I want to discuss. “Tell me what evidence was collected and what you did or intend to do with it. For instance, that case that came in this morning, the woman who was shot to death. What have you done with the evidence related to her case?”
I
