Working Stiff

I instantly make the connection that, as an evidence technician, Arnie is the person most likely to be in possession of my underwear, which means he is about to become my new best friend. And despite what the cliche says, I know that the quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach, it’s through his penis. So I shift into light flirt mode, hoping that Arnie isn’t gay and likes to read comic books about women from the planet Amazon.

“You sound like a pretty versatile guy,” I tell him, making and holding eye contact. “You must be very smart to know how to analyze all those different types of evidence.”

“Well, I have had a lot of experience,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit.

“I’ll bet you have,” I say, flavoring my tone with the barest hint of innuendo. “And since I need to learn how to do some of this stuff, I’d love to be able to watch what you do. To see you in action.”

Arnie’s smile broadens into something uncomfortably close to a leer. He stares at me a moment and then officially completes our little mating dance by ogling me from head to toe and winking. “I’d love to show you some action,” he says with a crooked, half grin.

Damn, Animal World would be proud.

“Good idea,” Izzy says, seemingly oblivious to all the innuendo zipping through the air. “We don’t have any autopsies pending so why don’t you take Mattie up to your office, Arnie, and show her a few ropes.”

The mention of me and ropes in the same sentence makes Arnie’s eyes grow wide. “Sounds good to me,” he says, licking his lips and making me wonder if I’ve taken the flirting thing a bit too far.

“When you’re done with Arnie you can take the afternoon off if you like, Mattie. Make up for the time we spent out in the field last night.”

“Thanks. I could use a nap.”

“One other thing,” Izzy says, opening his desk drawer. “I want you to have this so I can reach you more easily.” He hands me a cell phone along with a battery charger, and I realize my days of ignoring pages are over. Then he hands me a piece of paper. Typed on it is the number for my phone and instructions for its use. At the bottom, written in Izzy’s hand, are instructions for paging his beeper.

Fully wired for communication, I leave Izzy’s office and follow Arnie down the hallway, studying a bald spot that is starting to appear on the crown of his head. He stops by a locked door that marks a flight of stairs, sliding a card into a panel on the wall. I hear a faint click and he pulls the door open.

“Only one flight up,” he says.

“A key card?” I say with a sinking feeling. Without access to the area where the evidence is kept, it’s going to be much harder than I thought to steal back my underwear.

“Didn’t Izzy give you one yet?”

I shake my head.

“He should have. Ask him about it. He probably just forgot. All the employees have one. It’s one of the security measures we use to assure the integrity of any evidence we keep here.”

I make a mental note to ask Izzy about the key card as soon as possible. Arnie waves me through the door, insisting I go up the stairs first. I sense his eyes on me as I climb and try to clench my ass cheeks together so they won’t jiggle too much. But this makes me feel like Herman Munster when I walk so I give up, letting my jiggly parts jiggle and letting Arnie watch. I consider it a fair trade. After all, I did gawk at his bald spot.

Arnie’s office is nothing more than a desk parked in one corner of a laboratory. Lining the walls are various machines, several of which are humming, whirring, or making other odd mechanical noises. A gooseneck lamp sits on the desk—the only significant source of light in the room at the moment, though I notice there are fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.

“This is the true brain of forensics work,” Arnie says proudly as we enter the room. “Sometimes the cause of death is as obvious as the nose on my face and then there are times when the cause isn’t obvious at all. That’s when you have to get down to the microscopic level to find the real answers.”

He pauses and gives the room a wary once-over, as if he expects to see someone lurking in the shadows. When he looks back at me his eyes are drawn down to a steely glint. “Even when the cause of death seems obvious, it may not be,” he says, his voice a few decibels lower. “There are things…people…ways…. You know what I mean?”

I don’t and start to wonder if Arnie might be a slice or two shy of a 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,”