examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?'
'Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.
This has nothing to do with any previous involvement you may have had with the NYPD.' He didn't need to say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about
Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who were involved in my being hunted across the country for a murder I didn't commit. 'I'm going to need you to meet me at the M.E.'s office in one hour. Will that be a problem?'
'No, but I would still like to know what all this is about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have the decency to tell me why.'
'This man I'm speaking of, he was found two hours ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe you were the last person to see him alive.'
'Okay,' I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?
What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?
While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of remorse. 'Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.
Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he's dead, and while it really is a shame, I don't know what I can offer to help the investigation.'
There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou lian said, 'This man's name was Stephen Gaines. Does sound familiar?'
'No, sir, it doesn't.'
'That's very interesting.' I was beginning to worry.
Why was that interesting? 'I'm still going to need you to meet me at the M.E.'s office. One hour,' Makhoulian said, 'because according to his birth certificate and medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother.'
3
There are times in your life when you walk forward despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different permutations in your mind, positive and negative, weighing how each might impact you. Then when the blow comes, you're able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec essary.
When Detective Makhoulian said those five words- Stephen Gaines was your brother -they hit me, knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare, no time to soften the blow.
At first I didn't believe it. Or I didn't want to. But
I'd heard the name Makhoulian before. I'd spent enough time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.
Sitting in the back of a taxi, I tried to wrap my head around it. I'd never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.
The last name did not sound familiar. Gaines.
On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by four or five years. Of course, considering how strung out he looked, it could have swayed a few years in either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn't be able to answer them. At least not all of them.
I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in
Manhattan's Kips Bay. The medical examiner's office had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the building refused to modernize. It was a block away from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker's
Island, as well as criminals from New York's central booking requiring medical attention, were among the most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the emergency room late at night, you'd be in the company of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains, armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were a coffee shop, a bookstore and a multiplex movie theater. Scary to think that while you were busy munching on popcorn, evil lingered so close by, cloaked in formaldehyde.
I approached the entrance tentatively. Who was I going to ID? I'd never met this man before last night, and now I was expected to point him out, feel some deep-down emotion like I'd known him my whole life?
I'd never bonded with this person. Never done things most brothers did. Never played catch. Snuck a drink from Dad's liquor cabinet. Never smuggled dirty maga zines under our covers, or smoked cigarettes until our lungs burned. I was identifying a stranger, yet expected to act like he was my blood. Impossible.
Pushing the door open, I went up to the receptionist.
He was wearing a white lab coat, and didn't look a day over twenty-five. I figured he was some sort of medical intern, manning the phones while studying for his exams.
'May I help you, sir?' he asked. His name tag read
Nelson, Mark. He chewed on a pen while he waited for my answer.
'I'm here to see Binky…er Dr. Binks,' I corrected.
No sense ruining the illusion that Binks was a sane and respected member of the medical profession.
'And you are…'
'Henry Parker,' I said, taking my driver's license from my wallet. 'I'm here to identify Stephen Gaines.'
The name felt foreign on my tongue, yet Nelson's eyes melted with sympathy. He looked down at his desk, pursed his lips.
'Right,' he said. 'I'm sorry for your loss.'
I didn't bother to point out Nelson's faux pas. That it was a little premature to console someone for their loss before they'd actually identified the body. Or that
I felt no loss at all. How could I? Nevertheless, I told him I appreciated it. He asked me to have a seat while he paged Dr. Binks.
I took a seat on a light blue couch. It was hard. There was a small table in front of me. No reading material.
This wasn't your typical waiting room. If you were here, I supposed not even Golf Digest could take your mind off of what lurked below.
After several minutes, I heard the ding of an elevator and out strode Leon Binks. Binks was in his late thirties, graying hair matted against his brow. His eyebrows were as messy as his hair, a collection of short pipe cleaners bent every which way. The medical examiner was perpetually disheveled, as though he cared no more about his appearance than those corpses he worked on would. His hands always seemed to be moving, offering gestures that his dialogue (and lack of social skills) pre sumably could not. I imagined that if, like Leon Binks, my whole life was spent amongst the dead, I might have some personality idiosyncrasies as well.
'Mr. Parker,' Binks said, approaching me with his hand outstretched. I went to meet him, and he shook it vigorously. An awful smell wafted off of Binks, iodine perhaps. I didn't want to ask, but I hoped he showered before attending any dinner parties. 'Thanks so much for coming. Detective Makhoulian is downstairs already.' Then Binky's eyes lowered, and he said, 'I'm sorry for your loss.'
I sighed, thanked him. 'Can I see the body?'
'Oh, of course,' Binks said. 'Follow me.'
Binks led me into a gray metal elevator. He took a key chain from his pocket, inserted it into a slit next to the sole button. Once turned, he pressed the button, and the doors opened. Once inside, he pressed a button marked M. For Morgue. The doors closed, and we traveled in silence, down several flights. Finally the elevator stopped and the door slid open.
Whatever odor had been stuck to Binks was even stronger down here.
Outside of the elevator, the hallway divided into two separate pathways. A plaque mounted on the wall had arrows pointing in either direction. To the left, the arrow read, Morgue. To the right, the arrow read, Viewing
