distractions: no TV, no kids, no wife, no nothin’. Just me and Uncle Sam, all alone with his finger up my ass,' and the tinny voice laughed in Jeffrey’s ear. 'I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right. How are the cases coming?'
'Marshall, you’ve called me every night since I started here a year ago, no matter if there were cases or not. Are we sure there isn’t the word 'micro' in front of your title of 'manager,' Buddy?'
Again the voice on the phone laughed. 'Ok… you’re right. I’m mothering you.'
'The cases are going great. Mr. Lodene and Mrs. Harvey are pretty much done and I only have Mr. Robinson to do,' Jeffrey said, reaching over to switch the coffee on to start a fresh pot. 'Now, providing we don’t get any new First Calls, you guys should be OK for the morning.'
'Ok, that’s just great. I have some death certificates to get filed in the morning and…'
A loud metallic clatter interrupted the man’s next thought. The sound came from outside the office, somewhere deep inside the funeral home.
'What the hell was that?' asked Marshall.
'I have no idea,' Jeff said, leaning back and looking toward the loading area. 'I was working with the trocar, maybe it fell from the table. Let me call you back.'
'No, don’t. I’m heading to bed in a while. Me and the wife are gonna have some quality time, if you know what I mean. You check it out and leave a shift report on my desk.'
'Okay. You give my best to the Mrs.'
'I will… right after I give her my best,' again he laughed. 'Oh, by the way, before we hang up, I need you to look on the Case Board and give me Rabbi Feldman’s telephone number. I need to give him some information first thing in the morning about the Jacob service.'
Jeffrey strained, phone cord dragging, until he got to a point in the room where he could see the large, white board where all of the particulars of each case were posted. He scanned the board, found the rabbi’s number, and repeated it into the receiver. After a perfunctory good-bye, he hung up. Taking a quick look at the progress his pot of coffee was making, he made it a point to reach over and turn the radio back up. If there was one thing he hated, it was to feel like he was alone in the silent mortuary. It didn’t matter what the sound was—music, commercials, or even talk radio—but it was important for him to know he wasn’t by himself in this oftentimes creepy place. Given the tricks one’s mind could play on itself, a mortuary was not the place to let it run wild.
Satisfied that everything was ok and going according to plan in the office, he walked back across the loading area to investigate the source of whatever that banging had been. The medicinal smell of bleach coming from the washing machines at one end of the concrete loading area burned his nostrils. Most of the laundry here was blood stained and soiled with all manner of bodily fluids, and everything that got washed was done so in a lot of hot water and chlorine bleach. There was always a basket or two of laundry going. The machines worked at their loads, continually making soft chug-chugging sounds as they swirled the bed linen in their scalding water.
As he stepped through the doorway leading to the funeral home’s main building, he noticed that the door to the Prep Room stood slightly ajar.
He reached out to push the door open, but as his fingers touched the painted wood, a sound of heavy movement came from deep within the funeral home. Jeffrey paused, closed his eyes, and bent his head slightly in an effort to concentrate on hearing from where the sound had come.
At first, he thought he’d imagined it and after a minute of silence he was almost sure he had, but as he once again moved to push against the door, he heard it again. It sounded like there was someone slowly moving across the carpeting. It sure as hell wasn’t the sound of anyone moving with any sort of authority, but rather the hesitant steps of a person who was unsure of their surroundings, walking slowly and carefully, but not really caring whether too much noise was made.
Adamson turned from the Prep Room door, looking around for something with which to arm himself. You know… just in case. He’d been warned by the owners again and again that some of the funeral homes in the area had been vandalized and the local police were unable to find the people responsible for the destruction. The culprits, whoever they were, had spray-painted obscenities on the walls, kicked over pews and, in some cases, took out their mindless fury on the helpless dead who passively lay in state. Jeffrey would be damned if he’d allow someone to commit such acts in this mortuary… not on his watch.
He quietly tip-toed back to the loading area and after a short search found a length of metal rebar leaning up against a wall; a left-over from the construction of the newly remodeled office which now stood where the garage and storage shed had once been. Feeling like he was something close to armed, Adamson bolstered his courage, drew a deep breath and walked past the Prep Room and on toward the doorway of the funeral home.
The gray carpeted hallway stretched out before him like an empty airport runway with three visitation rooms: two on the left and one on the right. The hallway ended on the far side of the building at the foyer and jogged at an abrupt angle, bending sharply to the right, leading to the building’s entryway and on toward the chapel. Jeffrey stood silent for a moment and intently listened for any further sound of movement. Hearing none, he took three steps forward and, with his heart racing, gently pushed open the first door on his left.
Inside the small room were several low platforms called biers on which caskets were laid during visitations and services, two sets of candles on ornate pedestals, and the wooden Aaron casket the funeral home received the previous day to replace the one in which Mrs. Jacob now lay. Heavy velvet drapery covered the window and the room sat cloaked in a darkness that was almost absolute. At the point where the two drapes met, a single shaft of light came through from the street lamps outside. Its beam fell coldly across the smoothly vacuumed carpet. The room held within it an air of sullen expectancy as if it were placidly waiting for the next group of mourners to come and pour out their grief like warm molasses.
Jeffrey closed the door, and as he lifted his foot to take his next step, he heard movement once again. The direction of the sound was still unclear, but that didn’t matter one bit to Jeffrey’s adrenal system. It kicked into overdrive the instant he’d heard that first clattering sound. His heart leapt up into his throat and took up a painful, throbbing residence. A light queasy feeling roiled deep in his bowels. His limbs burned with an almost electric feeling. Fight or flight clawed at the edges of his perception.
He stepped forward, deciding to methodically check each room one by one before venturing deeper into the dark of the building, and reached out to nudge open the door on the right. He pushed against the wood slowly and let it swing open on its own.
Leaning in, he inventoried the interior: couches sat patiently along one side of the room, tawdry landscape paintings littered the walls, as well as the dark oblong shape of a casket which dominated the front. He stepped a little deeper into the room, looking first to one side and then the other. With great care, he circled the room in an attempt to investigate every corner; reveal every nook and cranny. He soon reached the casket in the dark and peered into it, using the sparse light from the doorway to illuminate his vision.
Mrs. Devon lay in her rosewood casket patiently awaiting her service which was scheduled for late the following day. The smell coming from the large number of flower arrangements surrounding her casket bordered on overwhelming. It was an odor so sweet that it threatened to sour Jeffrey’s already turbulent stomach. He turned from the casket and made his way back toward the door and walked through it into the hallway, absentmindedly leaving the door partly ajar.
His heart continued to race like an unbridled pony and his belly still felt all tight and oily as he stepped back into the dim hall. The last visitation room in the building lay just ahead and to the left. He lifted up onto his toes like a small child sneaking down the stairs on Christmas morning and tiptoed toward the final door. Jeffrey turned the knob and pushed the door open with his shoulder, just enough so he could stick his head through. The inside of the room lay much like the others: silent, still and quite empty.
He slid his body back between the door and the doorjamb, but as he did so the sound of rustling once again reached his ears. Only this time, he was able to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from—the chapel. He was sure of it now. Since the intruder was not in any of the visitation rooms, the chapel was the only logical answer. With one more quick backward glance into the visitation room to verify its vacancy, he closed the door, gripped the
