“There was a suicide last Thursday night,” Corman said. “In Hell’s Kitchen.”
“The one on 47th Street?” Kellerman asked. “Jumped out the window?”
Corman nodded.
“All the work’s been done already,” Kellerman said. He picked up a severed hand, dropped it into a transparent plastic bag. Then his eyes shot over to Corman. “You look familiar.”
“We’ve met before,” Corman told him.
“Oh yeah,” Kellerman said. “I remember now.” He sunk his hands deep into the meaty open cavity of the body on the table. “That’s right, you’re a … a …”
“Photographer,” Corman said. “Free-lance.”
“Yeah,” Kellerman said. “You came down about a year ago.”
“To shoot a few faces,” Corman reminded him. “I had a death-mask idea.”
Kellerman laughed. “Death mask, huh?” He shook his head. “Everybody’s interested in the morgue except the people who work in it.” He laughed again. “Sometimes I want to get one of them down here to clean out the condensation drains. That would give them a taste of what it’s really like. You have somebody crawl up a pipe and scoop out a handful of maggots, that’ll be the last of their interest in the morgue.” His eyes returned to the body. “So what are you interested in now, more death masks?”
“That woman I mentioned,” Corman said. “Did anyone come down to identify her?”
Kellerman nodded. “Surprising, too. Like they say on the street, a zip-top piece.”
“She was Jewish?”
Kellerman smiled. “Unless she was trying to pass,” he said.
“Name’s Rosen. Sarah Judith Rosen.” He shook his head at the thought of it. “You know, we don’t get many nice Jewish girls down here.”
“Maybe she wasn’t very nice,” Corman said. He took out his notebook, wrote down the name. “Know anything about her?”
Kellerman shrugged. “No. Why, is she somebody’s daughter?”
“She was a college graduate,” Corman said. “At least that’s what they say at Number One.”
Kellerman looked at Corman curiously. “So, not only a Jewish girl, but a college girl. The world is getting strange.”
“Do you know anything at all about her?”
“Just that somebody’s picking her up tomorrow.”
Corman felt the tip of his pen bear down on the open notebook. “Who?”
“A funeral home on the Upper East Side,” Kellerman said.
“They left a message on the machine. Tomlinson’s Chapel.” He watched Corman intently. “You think she was some big shot’s daughter?”
Corman let the question pass. “She was starving, wasn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah, she was,” Kellerman replied. “Very severe malnutrition.”
“What was she hooked on?”
“Hooked?”
“The needle marks.”
Kellerman shook his head. “She wasn’t hooked on anything at all.”
“But there were needle marks,” Corman said. “I took some pictures of them.”
“Those were needle marks, all right,” Kellerman said. “But not from shooting dope. They were too big for that.”
“What’d they come from?”
“My guess is she’d been selling blood,” Kellerman said. “The puncture marks were very large. They looked like they came from the sort of needle they have at those blood-buying places down on the Bowery.”
Corman nodded and guessed that selling blood was the way she’d been able to afford the Similac. “When are they going to pick up tomorrow?” he asked.
“Message said one P.M.”
“Would you mind if I came by?” Corman asked.
Kellerman looked at him cautiously. “What for?”
“I just want to take some pictures,” Corman assured him. “I won’t bother anybody.”
Kellerman thought about it. “I guess it would be okay,” he said finally. “But just be sure you act like you happened by. I don’t want the relatives or whatever to think I set them up.”
“Okay,” Corman said. He looked back down at the body, saw Sarah Rosen’s instead, Julian’s idea floating in his mind like a small white raft in a stormy ocean vastness.
Once outside, Corman quickly got the number of Tomlinson’s Chapel and gave them a call.
The voice at the other end sounded as dead as his customers. “Tomlinson’s Chapel. How may I help you?”
“I was wondering about someone who’s going to be at your place tomorrow.”
“Be at our place?”
“A body. A woman. Sarah Judith Rosen’s the name.”
“Yes, what about her?”
“I was wondering if you could tell me who’s making the arrangements for her.”
The voice grew suspicious. “Are you a relative, sir?”
“No.”
“And what is your capacity, may I ask?”
“I’m a photographer.”
The voice chilled. “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out information to unauthorized individuals.”
“I just need the name of her parents,” Corman said.
“I’m sorry,” the man replied firmly. “But as I told you, we are not allowed to give out information to unauthorized individuals.”
Corman started to blurt another question, but the click of the man hanging up silenced him, as if a label had been stamped on his forehead, blocking him forever: an unauthorized person.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
CORMAN ARRIVED at Julian’s office a few minutes later and placed the few photographs he had of the jumper on his desk. “She might be the one you’re looking for,” he said.
Julian went through the photographs quickly, then glanced up at him. “What’s the whole story, David?”
“She jumped out a tenement window in Hell’s Kitchen a few days ago.”
Julian nodded. “With a doll?”
“She threw it out first,” Corman said. “She’d been feeding it Similac.”
Julian’s eyes drifted back down toward the pictures. “Terrible.”
“She graduated from Columbia,” Corman said.
Julian’s eyes shot up toward him. “Columbia?” he said unbelievingly.
“And she was Jewish,” Corman added.
Julian’s eyebrows drew together slightly. “From a prominent family?”
“I don’t know yet,” Corman said. “But I was thinking about that idea you mentioned,” he said. “Slow decline.”
Julian smiled, let his eyes fall back to the photographs and linger there. “What else do you know about her?”
“Just what I told you so far,” Corman said. “I wanted to be sure you were interested.”
Julian thought about it for a moment, squinting slightly as he continued to gaze at the pictures. “I’m interested,” he said finally. “I need a few more details, but the basic situation sounds promising.” He looked back up at Corman. “What’s your time frame?”
“For what?”
