C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

At three o'clock, I locked the office and walked over to the public library, which was two blocks over and two blocks up. I went downstairs to the periodicals room and asked for the previous September's newspapers, now consigned to microfilm. I found a machine and sat down, threading in the first reel. The print was white on black, all of the photographs looking like negatives. I had no idea what I might spot so I was forced to skim every page. Current events, national news, local political issues, fire, crime, storm systems, folks being born and dying and getting divorced. I read the lost-and-found column, the personals, society, sports. The mechanism for advancing the film was somehow out of whack, so that paragraphs jerked onto the nine-by-twelve screen with the focus slightly skewed, generating a motion sickness of sorts. Around me, people were browsing among the magazines or were seated in low chairs, reading newspapers attached to upright wooden lances. The only sounds in the room were the drone of the machine I was using, an occasional cough, and the rustle of newsprint.

I managed to check the papers for the first six days of September before my resolve faltered. I'd have to do this in small doses. My neck felt stiff and my head was starting to ache. A glance at my watch showed that it was nearly five and I was bored to death. I made a note of the last date I'd scanned and then I fled into the late-afternoon sunshine. I walked back to my office building and retrieved my car from the parking lot without going upstairs.

On the way home, I stopped off at the supermarket for milk, bread, and toilet paper, doing a quick tour with my cart. There was so much lyrical music playing overhead, I felt like the heroine in a romantic comedy. Once I'd found what I needed, I moved to the express lane, twelve items or less. There were five of us in line, all surreptitiously counting the contents of each other's carts. The man in front of me had a head too small for the size of his face, like an under-inflated balloon. He had a little girl with him, maybe four years old, wearing a brand-new dress several sizes too big. Something about it spelled "poor," but I don't know why. It made her look like a midget; waistline at her hips, the hem down around her ankles. She held the man's hand with perfect trust, giving me a shy smile so filled with pride that I found myself smiling back.

I was tired by the time I got home and my left arm ached. There are days when I scarcely remember the injury, other days when I feel drained by a constant dull pain. I decided to skip my run. To hell with it. I took a couple of Tylenol with codeine, kicked my shoes oft; and crawled into the folds of my quilt. I was still there when the phone rang. I awoke with a start, reaching automatically for the receiver. My apartment was dark. The unexpected shrill blast of sound had sent a jolt of adrenaline through me and my heart was pounding. I glanced at the clock with uneasiness. Eleven-fifteen.

I mumbled hello, rubbing a hand across my face and through my hair.

"Kinsey, it's Derek Wenner. Have you heard"

"Derek, I'm sound asleep."

"Bobby's dead."

"What?"

"I guess he'd been drinking, though we're not even sure of that at this point. His car went off the road and smashed into a tree on West Glen. I thought you'd want to know."

"What?" I knew I was repeating myself but I couldn't understand what he was talking about.

"Bobby's been killed in a car accident."

"But when?" I don't know why it mattered. I was just asking questions because I couldn't cope with the information any other way.

"A little after ten. He was dead by the time they got him to St. Terry's. I have to go down and identify him, but there doesn't seem to be any doubt."

"Can I do anything?"

He seemed to hesitate. "Well, actually, maybe you could. I tried to reach Sufi, but I guess she's out. Dr. Metcalfs service is tracking him down, so he'll probably be here in a bit. I wonder if you could sit with Glen in the meantime. That way, I can head on over to the hospital and see what's going on."

"I'll be right there," I said and hung up.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I was talking to myself the whole time,, but I didn't feel anything. All my inner processes seemed to be suspended temporarily while my brain struggled with the facts. The information kept bounding back. No way. Nuh-un. How could Bobby be gone? Not true.

I grabbed a jacket, my handbag, and my keys. I locked up, got in my car, started the engine, pulled out. I felt like a well-programmed robot. When I turned onto West Glen Road, I saw the emergency vehicles and I could feel a chill tickle at the base of my spine. It was just at the big bend, a blind corner near the "slums." The ambulance was already gone, but patrol cars were still there, radios squawking in the night air. Bystanders stood on the side of the road in the dark while the tree he'd hit was washed with high-intensity floodlights, the raw gash in the trunk looking like a fatal wound in itself. His BMW was just being removed by a tow truck. The scene looked, oddly, like a location for a movie being shot. I slowed, turning to peer at the site with an eerie feeling of detachment. I didn't want to add to the confusion and I was worried about Glen, so I drove on. A little voice murmured, "Bobby's dead." A second voice said, "Oh no, lets don't do that. I don't want that to be true, O.K.?"