He parked on a side street just a short distance from the OCME building. He paused a moment before entering but not out of fear of the sights he might be forced to confront within the morgue. Unlike laypeople, he had seen enough dead people to accept it as part of life. He’d even watched several autopsies as a student. He paused because his intuition was telling him loudly that Satoshi’s death, even though he had had nothing to do with it, was going to have serious consequences.
To bolster his courage before entering, Ben reminded himself that there was a chance that the body he was about to see might not be Satoshi’s. He also reminded himself that even if it turned out to be Satoshi’s, there was no reason he couldn’t appropriately and sagely deal with the problems and dangers that might arise. Knowledge was always best. It was ignorance that invariably engendered mistakes. If Satoshi was in fact dead, it was best if he knew it before anyone else, and if it was a natural death, it might not have any consequence whatsoever.
With a bit more confidence than he had had a few moments earlier, Ben pulled open one side of a double door and entered OCME. He checked his watch. It was almost quarter to five in the afternoon. Whatever was to happen, he didn’t want it to take too long because of his commitment to stop either back at the scene or at the Bergen County police station and face Tom Janow for more questions before finally being allowed to head home.
The reception area was crowded with what seemed to be staff ready to leave after a long workday. He pushed through the people and approached the desk and asked for Rebecca Marshall, the clerk he’d spoken to earlier on the phone. He was told Rebecca would be down shortly.
Ben waited on an old vinyl couch, watching the people chatting in their dynamic little groups that formed and re-formed as people departed and new people joined. He wondered if they were aware of how unique their work was, and if they ever talked about it among themselves. They probably didn’t—a good example of the adaptability of the human organism.
“Mr. Corey,” a voice called out.
Ben looked up to his right. Somehow an African-American woman with a pleasant, kind face and tightly curled silver hair had managed to sneak right up to him. She clutched a manila case file and other papers to her chest. “I’m Rebecca Marshall. I believe we spoke earlier.”
Rebecca let Ben through a door to Ben’s right and closed it behind them. “This is called the family ID room,” she explained. It was a modest-size space with a blue couch and a large round wooden table with eight wooden chairs. There were several framed posters with images involving the destruction that occurred on 9/11. Each had the caption NEVER FORGET in bold letters across the bottom. “Please,” Rebecca said, gesturing toward one of the chairs at the table. Ben sat, and Rebecca did as well.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I am an identification clerk. As you can well imagine, identification of any body that is brought here is an extremely important part of our job. Usually we have family members who make the identification. If we have no family members, we rely on friends or coworkers. In other words, anyone who knows the victim. You understand, I assume?”
Ben nodded, and to himself thought,
“Good,” Rebecca said in response to Ben’s nodding. “To start, I need to see your identification. Anything official with a photo. A driver’s license is fine.” Rebecca retrieved a blank identification form from the materials she had been carrying.
Ben took out his driver’s license and handed it to her. When she was satisfied it was him, she wrote down the information on the form. Her tone and gestures were practiced and respectful, giving Ben the sense that she would be equally competent to handle the situation, whether he threw a fit of grief-evoked rage or, as he was doing, expressing apparent indifference.
With Ben’s identification out of the way, Rebecca opened the case file, which was in the form of a large folder secured with an attached rubber band. Opening the folder, she reached in and pulled out more than a half-dozen digital photos. Very deliberately, she placed them in the proper alignment in front of Ben, who purposely kept his eyes glued to Rebecca’s. When she was finished, they locked eyes for a moment before Ben looked down and focused.
The photos were a series of shots, face-on and profile. They were taken purely for identification purposes in that they were only of the face. Any portion of the body that would have been visible was covered with a towel.
Although Ben recognized Satoshi instantly, he purposefully kept his face neutral. He did not know why, but he did. Neither of them said anything, with Rebecca willing to let Ben take his time. In the stillness, an unintelligible murmur of the voices in the reception area could just be heard.
“His name is Satoshi Machita,” Ben finally said, still glancing from one harshly lit photo to the next. He didn’t realize how disappointed he sounded, which he assumed Rebecca reasonably took for grief.
“No,” Rebecca said simply. “We’ve been using photos for years. Before the digital camera, we used Polaroids. It is much better for most people than viewing the body, especially for family members or when the faces of the victims have been traumatized. But we have a way of letting people view the bodies if they insist. Would you prefer to see the body? Would it help your decision?”
“No,” Ben said. “It is Satoshi Machita, I am sure. I don’t need to see the body.” Ben started to stand up, but Rebecca laid her hand on his forearm with the lightest touch he’d ever experienced from a person of authority.
“There’s more, I’m afraid,” she said. “But let me ask a question first. The doctor on this case is still here at OCME this evening. I told her you were coming in for a possible identification. She asked me if she might be able to meet you and ask a few questions if you’d been able to identify the body.”
Ben’s first reaction was no. The last thing he wanted to do was get hung up at OCME, since he’d already committed himself to more questions by Detective Janow. He wanted to get to Janow, get it over with, and get home around the time he had estimated when he had called his wife after leaving the hospital. But then he had a second thought. Maybe it might be a good thing to get hung up on an errand that the detective had sent him on. Maybe he could use getting caught at OCME as a way of begging off from seeing the detective again that night. He’d like to be more rested the next time he saw him. In addition, Ben was curious about Satoshi’s death, and a meeting with the medical examiner handling his case was a promising way to find out the details.
“I can just call her and see if she’s available right this minute. We can take care of the rest of our business in the time it will take her to get down here. If you are willing, I want to make the call now to make sure I catch her before she leaves.”
“All right,” Ben said. “As long as it can happen now and not delay me too much longer. I have another meeting scheduled this evening out in New Jersey.”
Worried that Ben might change his mind, Rebecca immediately called up to Laurie’s office. When Laurie heard who it was, she tried to put Rebecca off, saying, “I’m in a meeting that’s about to end. Can I get back to you in a few minutes?”
“That’s not going to work. The gentleman I mentioned needs to leave for a meeting in New Jersey, and I’ve already taken up too much of his time. He came here out of his way to help us identify the victim, which he’s done. We now know the identity of the case.”
“Terrific!” Laurie said. “Hold on!”
Rebecca could hear Laurie talking but not the words.
Laurie came back on the line. “We’ll be right down!” Then she abruptly disconnected.
Rebecca looked at the phone for a moment as if the phone would tell her who Laurie meant when she had said “we.” Hanging up, Rebecca turned back to Ben. “She’s on her way.”
“So I heard,” Ben said.
“So let’s finish up quickly. I want you to write on several of these photos ‘This is Satoshi Machita,’ and then sign your name.”
“Fine,” Ben said.
“Do you know Satoshi’s last address?”
“I do but not his phone number. I have that at the office.”
“Do you know if Mr. Machita had any particular medical problems, old injuries, or identification marks?”
