There’s little that a newsman doesn’t see if he’s been in the business for a decade or more, but in sleepy Sausalito and its surrounding towns, the deceased have most often been tagged, bagged, and sent on their way to the morgue before a reporter arrives.
This was not one of those times.
Functioning on a blend of determined compulsion and uneasy revulsion, Rob approached what he logically assumed was the body of Warren Bradley.
The face was not ashen but had a wax-like patina. Warren wore a white shirt. The two top buttons were open, revealing a rather dapper-looking gold ascot. Because of Warren’s tweed jacket and black slacks, Rob assumed that the dead man must have requested the delay in filing his column because he had a date.
Rob imagined that Warren most likely nodded off and died peacefully in his sleep sometime later that night after he had returned home.
He must have come out on the porch for a breath of fresh air, Rob thought, perhaps to recover from one too many glasses of wine.
Warren’s hands were shoved down into the pockets of his jacket, apparently to keep him warm on what was likely a chilly night in the gulch.
Dazed by his discovery, Rob walked back to his car and reached for his cell phone. Others in a panic might have called 911, but Rob had stored in his contacts the non-emergency numbers for the Sausalito Police and Fire/Rescue service. In a town with steep hills and blind curves, it would take a few minutes for both the squad car and the fire department’s Emergency Medical Team to arrive, and it was evident to Rob that there was no need to rush.
Chapter Sixteen
Only moments after Rob slipped the cell phone back into his pocket, he could hear the sirens echoing through Sausalito as emergency vehicles began their journey from the bayside flats up into the hills.
There was, of course, no real cause for the sound and light show. Its only possible benefit was to remind taxpayers that their police and emergency service team were busy serving the public. The cacophony of howling dogs set off by the high-pitched noise only added to the community’s sense of curiosity and excitement.
In less than a minute, half of the town was staring out windows to see what was causing the fuss. Two minutes later, the sirens whined to a halt in front of Warren’s humble cottage.
Rob greeted Chief Hans Petersen, Patrol Officer Steve Hansen, and three members of the city's fire and rescue squad with handshakes all around. There was a strained professional posture Rob and Petersen struck whenever in each other’s presence. Rob was continually expecting Petersen's team to stumble, and Petersen was hoping to give a longstanding critic of his work no new ammunition.
“Warren’s weekly column was due at the paper no later than noon today," Rob began, knowing of the long and close relationship that Bradley had with Petersen and his officers.
"Last night, he called and left a message assuring me that he’d have his column in on time. I tried reaching him by phone several times this afternoon when the column did not appear. After I sent the Sausalito edition to the printer, I thought I’d drive up here before heading home for the night, to check up on him. I found him out here on the back porch swing.”
Petersen sauntered over to where, from a distance, Warren looked like he was comfortably enjoying the evening lights coming on across the bay.
“Well, look at that! Give him a glass of Chardonnay and a plate of that dilled salmon he liked to make, and you would think he was just out here enjoying the view and taking in the evening air,” Petersen said, as he circled the swing slowly.
Pompous ass! Rob thought.
“Well that’s the end of those gourmet luncheons he brought us once a month,” Hansen said while crouching down to study Warren’s frozen face. It seemed grayer than it had appeared to Rob when he first arrived, but perhaps that was just a result of the fading daylight.
“How come Bradley never brought us any lunches? All we got was those damn pancakes for our annual benefit breakfast,” EMT officer Dave Nichols asked.
“Because you couldn’t tell him what was going on around town,” Hansen sneered.
“Okay, knock off the bullshit, we’ve got work to do,” Petersen barked.
“What now?” Rob asked, thinking about going home. Although sitting down to dinner seemed pointless since his appetite had vanished.
Petersen shrugged. “Given the fact that the body is colder than Santa's elves on Christmas Eve, I think it’s time we get a call in to the county coroner.”
Hansen went back to his squad car to call dispatch. A few minutes later, he walked back to the group, shaking his head. “There’s been a crash up in Novato on 101—two fatalities. The coroner is up there now. Dispatch requested that we take the body up to the morgue since we’re dealing with a pretty clear case of death by natural causes.”
“Okay, boys,” Nichols said to the two other members of his emergency rescue team, “Let’s get Mr. Bradley on a stretcher and roll him out of here.”
“Beats bagging and tagging, which is what you get when the coroner’s people show up,” Petersen said quietly to Rob, patting him on the shoulder.
Rob smiled and thought, for all Petersen knows Warren and I were longtime friends and colleagues. Assuming the same as Petersen—that Rob viewed Warren as a fallen comrade—Nichols wanted to remove the body in the most respectful manner possible. He came up behind the body and slid his hands under Warren’s armpits and linked them together in the center of his chest.
“Grab both his feet,” Nichols directed one of his crew. “We’re going to lift him up and over the back of this swing.” He then turned to Petersen and Hansen and said, “I’m going to need you guys to back us up. Get on either
