Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

3

We headed for a nearby McDonald’s. Since Dobbs wanted to avoid the crowd inside (and the thought of leaving Miss Driscoll’s body unattended seemed—to me, anyway—creepier than our eating our lunch while sitting in the wagon with it), we placed our orders at the drive-thru.

The people in the cars in front of and behind us kept looking at the wagon and trying to look like they weren’t looking. Hard to miss a big-ass white wagon with the word CORONER written across the back and sides (as well as backwards across the front).

Because Dobbs was picky about how his food was to be prepared (so it was going to take a few extra minutes), we were asked to pull out of line and go wait in one of the parking spaces designated Drive-Thru Customers Only.

So we sat there while the rest of the customers took their bags of food and kept looking over.

Two other cars were asked to move out of line and park in our area, which they did, one on either side of us. It was a hot day and everyone—including Dobbs and me—had our windows rolled down.

There are two windows in the rear doors of the wagon, and one on either side toward the back. These side windows come equipped with blinds that can be lowered so as to keep the body from view of passing drivers.

Dobbs had forgotten to lower the side blinds, so the cars parked on either side of us had a clear, unobstructed view of the bagged body.

The man and little girl in the car on Dobbs’ side looked about half sick.

The young woman in the car on my side sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring straight out at the patch of weeds beyond the parking lot. Dobbs finally turned to face the man and little girl on his side. He raised his hand and gave a short wave. “Hi’ya.” “Hey,” said the little girl. “Elizabeth,” said her father, “don’t bother the…nice man.” “Oh, she ain’t botherin’ me,” Dobbs replied. “We’re just waiting on our order.” “Me, too,” said the little girl. Then: “Is that a dead person back there?” “Sure is.” “What’cha doin’ with them?” “Just making a delivery.” The man turned ashen, but the woman sitting in the car on my side was red-faced. The little girl asked, “Where you taking the body?” Dobbs smiled. “That’s a secret.” The little girl looked from Dobbs to the body, then at the golden arches.

The woman in the car next to me made a sound, and I looked over to see her lowering her head, her lips pressed tightly together but quivering; she was trying so hard not to laugh.

About this time, a young woman looking shapely and cute in her Mickey-D’s uniform came out with our order, handing it through the window to Dobbs. “Here’s your order, sir. Thank you for your patience.”

“No problem,” said Dobbs. Then: “So, which door in the back do we go to?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” She looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and sighed. “Oh, no, not you again…”

Dobbs started the engine. “Yes, me again. Now, which door? We go through this every time, and I, for one, am getting bored with this little innocent routine you insist on playing. This stuff won’t stay fresh for long, not in this weather.”

The woman in the car next to me looked like she might burst a vein in her head if she held her laughter in much longer.

“Never mind,” said Dobbs to the Mickey-D’s crewperson. “I understand, all these witnesses and everything.” He winked at her. “We’ll find it.”

The young woman slunk back inside, shaking her head and muttering.

Dobbs pulled his Quarter Pounder out of the bag, unwrapped it, lifted the top part of the bun to check it, and then shrieked. Everyone else—including me—jumped at the sound.

“Oh, my God!” said Dobbs. “It’s true. God help us all, it’s true!”

He backed out then, shouting, “Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is peeeeeeeeeeeeeeople!”

The man in the other car gripped the steering wheel and placed his forehead against the backs of his hands. His daughter was jumping up and down, shouting “Soylent Green is people!” The woman in the farthest car was howling with laughter, and customers inside were lining the windows, staring.

Dobbs stopped at the exit, opened his door, and—brandishing his Quarter Pounder like it was the Olympic torch—stood up on the running board: “I can’t take it anymore! I warn you all—fear the Mystery Meat! Fear it! Fear it! For the love of all that’s good and decent, FEAR IT!” Then he got back inside the wagon and drove away as if nothing had happened.

After we were back on the road, I said: “You’re a very weird person, Dobbs.”

“But not boring. Gotta give me that much.” “What about your pension? Won’t you get into trouble if someone calls to complain?” “I haven’t yet. I pull this routine every time I get a new CS sidekick. Consider it your initiation.” “I thought the idea was to cheer me up.”

Dobbs shrugged. “Actually, the idea was to cheer me up. You were turning into a real Gloomy Gus.”

I figured I wouldn’t be going back to that particular McDonald’s anytime soon.

* * *

The rest of the day wasn’t nearly as interesting.

We took Miss Driscoll to the morgue, filled out the paperwork, then read over our orders for the rest of the afternoon: taking a body from the morgue to the Henderson Funeral Home (then more paperwork), picking up another body from the nursing home and transporting it directly to Criss Brothers’ Funeral Home (two different sets of paperwork on that one), topped off with moving a third body from Criss Brothers’ to Henderson’s because of a screw-up with someone else’s paperwork. (We never did get that one figured out, so no paperwork for us. Hoo. Ray.)

When I got home that night, there were three messages: the first was from Russell Brennert, assuring me once again that my job was safe, not to worry, my crew was doing fine, he’d checked up on them himself, and if I wanted to switch shifts to get in some evening hours during my CS period, he’d be more than happy to arrange it; the second message was from one of my crew members, telling me that things had gone okay and everyone was wondering if I’d still be handing out the paychecks at the end of the month or if they’d have to go to the office for them; and the last message was from Barbara Greer, my lawyer.

“Meet me for breakfast at the Sparta tomorrow morning. 8:30. It’s important.”

I’ve known Barb since high school. She used to date Andy Leonard. Like Brennert, she’d endured no end of suspicion and abuse from people during the months and years after the murders. And also like Brennert, she and I have never once discussed what happened that night.

Barb is not a person who talks in short sentences; she tends to preface things, give details, and lean toward excessive small talk, even when leaving phone messages. (I’ve always suspected that silence makes her uncomfortable, hence her always keeping the conversation going.)

There was a tension in her voice that I hadn’t heard since the murders.

And she used short sentences.

And she hadn’t asked me to meet her, she’d told me to. (Barb never orders anyone. Never.)

Whatever was going on, it must be important. She knew I had to be in the meat wagon with Dobbs by nine a.m. sharp, and if the traffic was on my side I could make it from the Sparta to the coroner’s office in about 15 minutes.

I fixed myself some microwave macaroni and cheese, popped open a soda, and watched a Cary Grant movie called People Will Talk that had one of those happy endings that leaves you with a lump in your throat. After that I washed the dishes, read the paper, then went to bed.

Yes, it’s a full life I lead.