Chapter 1 ~ Prologue

The ringtone carries a peculiar melody - not a personalized tune selected specifically to identify a loved one or a foe to avoid; the banal factory ring seems to convey a sense of doom. The accompanying vibration-induced dance on the glass table nudges the phone away from me, as if the handset itself feared the incoming call. The caller ID displays the ominous and exasperating Unknown. I answer regardless, altering my voice the best I can to throw off the unwelcome intruder. The same way one cannot un-ring a bell; I could not un-answer that call and avoid the events that it precipitated. The brief conversation - laconic in both nature and delivery - would inextricably link me to a man I had met less than a year before.

"Is this Brooke Blake?"

"Yes…" I grudgingly acknowledge.

"Do you know a Frank Moretti?"

"Yes…" I acquiesce one more time, with mounting unease.

"This is Lisa Bryer at Ridgeport Medical Center. I regret to inform you that Frank Moretti has died. You may retrieve his belongings and claim his body at your earliest convenience."

"Hold on," I clamor with legitimate angst, "What? Claim his BODY? I barely know Frank; I ran into him eight months ago…"

"Listen honey," she interrupts, an undertone of profound exhaustion in her voice, "I have even less time than you to deal with this. I have a dead man in my charge with nobody claiming his remains. You don't want him? That's fine, I'll deal with it."

It. The disdainful syllable reverberates down to my core.

"No, wait. I'm sorry. I'll be right over."

A million thoughts rush through my head, not the least of which an estimate, probably grossly exaggerated, of how much that ordeal will cost me. While I struggle to feel sadness instead of inconvenience, I resolve to remain professional and politely decline responsibility in regards to Frank's remains and estate - both of which probably amount to pretty much nothing at this point.

I profoundly dread hospitals; which is rather ironic given that I make my living in them. I am a drug dealer. Not like the despicable thugs that prey on innocent victims and stop at nothing to get them hooked on their poison; I, for one, pay taxes. I push legal drugs, typically with integrity, sometimes with the patients' best interest in mind, once or twice even alluding to potential side effects. I am a strong proponent of better living through chemistry; therefore, I never go anywhere near an actual sick person. I sell to doctors, flirt with them, and cajole them into prescribing MY drugs to as many patients as possible. I am a stunning five foot nine impeccably primped pharmaceutical representative. When doctors see me approaching - with my tailored Armani suit perfectly hugging my size-2 figure and my wavy blond hair bouncing to the rhythm of my Louboutins on the terrazzo - they’d prescribe arsenic to babies if I asked them.

To me, entering a hospital to attend to a person who is already dead represents the optimum in counter-productivity. Ultimately though, the gnawing guilt vanquishes my reluctance; I surmise that the brief inconvenience of a face-to-face dismissal will assuage my shame of knowing that Frank died alone.

I can't recall the drive from my home to Ridgeport Medical Center. I'd be unable to provide an alibi should law enforcement demand 'where I was between 11:00 and 11:30 the morning of March 2nd, 2012.' A parking spot, just a few steps from the entrance, is suspiciously available. For once, I wish I could have parked as far away as possible, even conceivably using the lack of parking as an excuse to avoid seeing dead Frank altogether. I wait a while for someone to whisk that prized spot from me, to no avail. Like the condemned heading for the execution chamber, I leave the comfort of my Lexus and head for the hospital's general entrance.

I approach the welcome desk staffed by two homely women and arrogantly flash my credentials - old habits die hard. They obediently wave me right through; doctors always leave orders to promptly send me in. I realize that I must have bribed those two gatekeepers with pastries and candies quite often, judging by their ample girths and affable dispositions. For the life of me, I can't recall ever interacting with these women. Not only are their bland looks utterly forgettable, I tend to overtly dismiss the rank-and-file. Pressed with the task of christening these two, I'd go with Humpty and Dumpty.

"I'm sorry, not this time," I shove my badge into my Coach purse, "I'm actually here on personal business."

They both flinch, unable to repress the smirk that comes from learning that I - perfect Brooke Blake - may have a health problem.

"I'm here to see someone, a patient," I correct, "actually a dead patient. Forget it; I'm here to see Nurse Lisa Bryer."

"A nurse?" mocks Humpty, "isn't that quite a step down."

"Not really, I'm talking to you, am I not," I flash my signature veneered smile that entitles me to demean people without them realizing that they are - in fact - the butt of the joke. Thank you, Sir! May I have another?

Humpty (or is that Dumpty?) blushes, validated.

"If you could hurry along," I plead, pointing at my Rolex.

"Of course, right away, Brooke."

I turn on my heels and head for an isolated chair in the waiting area. Aside from scarce visitors and the occasional delivery man, the lobby is quiet. Obviously, the most severe trauma cases enter from the back, where the ER is located, in order to preserve the hospital's curb appeal.

After a few interminable minutes - I can't recall the last time I was kept waiting for anything - a stout and determined-looking woman crosses the lobby, bee-lining in my direction. I hear her coming my way, her sensible footwear squeaking on the polished floor, as annoying as nails on a chalkboard. Her mousy-brown hair is cropped short - a true wash-and-wear coiffure - just above earlobes pierced with studs of the Walmart variety. Her plain, hospital-issued scrubs could use some serious tailoring, and her only jewelry is a Mickey Mouse watch. I rise to meet her.

"I don’t shake hands," she offers as greeting, "too unsanitary." Without missing a beat, she introduces herself and instructs me to follow her. Ever the multi-tasker, Nurse Lisa Bryer has perfected the 'walk and talk'.

"Listen, Mrs. Bryer…"

"Call me Lisa," she interrupts, "I'm highly efficient and low on ceremony. I'll just need your signature on a couple of papers and we'll both be on our way."

We reach the elevator bank. Lisa presses the up arrow button using her left elbow. A quick glance at the illuminated floor numbers directs her to the next available cab. We step in and Lisa instructs me to press '5'; "I don’t shake hands, neither do I touch elevator buttons," she justifies.

For the second time, I attempt to extirpate myself from the situation.

"Listen Lisa, about Frank…"

"Here we are. Take a seat," she interrupts.

We reached the office of Lisa Bryer, RN, before I could make a graceful exit; therefore, a clumsy one will have to do. Aside from the prominent name plate on the door, the office is nondescript with nary a photograph or personal memento to give it a touch of humanity. I choose the chair closest to the door and sit on the edge of my seat, ready to dash out the moment I am dismissed. Lisa is ignoring me and my discomfort, buried in mounds of file folders, shuffling from one pile to the other.

"There!" she victoriously announces, brandishing a green folder.

Determined to get my point across once and for all, I unfurl a convoluted diatribe without taking the time to breathe.

"Listen, Mrs. Bryer… Nurse Bryer… Lisa! I don't really know Frank all that well. I just wanted to let you know that. In person. Because Frank was a good man and he deserves that much. So, thank you for your time. I'll be leaving now."

As I stand to leave, Lisa drops the green file on a random pile and sinks into her worn office chair. She's aged ten years in the past two minutes. The fierce and efficient Lisa Bryer, RN, looks defeated.

"I understand," she quietly laments, "be on your way; I'll call the M.E. and get it taken care of."

Again with the ghastly: it. Cold shivers run down my spine.

"What do you mean, M.E.? Was Frank… murdered?" I mutter. For all the time I spend in hospitals, the day-to-day operations strangely elude me.

"Of course not," she scoffs with a hint of mockery, "Frank Moretti collapsed on a sidewalk. A witness called 911 and he was brought here DOA. The only identification he had on him was a library card; he was also carrying your business card, that's how we could get hold of you. You wouldn't believe how many people die alone; all their relatives are estranged and their friends are nothing more than casual and convenient acquaintances. The Medical Examiner's Office handles all those unclaimed."

A phone rings in the distance and Lisa's head turns slightly toward it; somehow hoping the faint toll will call her away. The ring stops and is replaced by muffled laughter. Lisa looks down, certain that any conversation involving the slightest amount of merriment doesn't involve her.

"Anyway," she continues, with forced enthusiasm and a tad of incrimination, "I guess that's not your problem. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."

I am paralyzed. Part of me wants to dart off and run from this place as fast as I can, but my legs won't move. I need reassurance.

"The M.E. will find a next of kin, or at least give Frank a decent burial, correct?"

Lisa sighs and rubs her eyes, attempting to erase the dismal picture forming in her head - one she sees repeated too often.

"They'll try," she concedes. Her tone is suddenly compassionate, understanding. "Since we have a name, they'll go to Social Security to find a birthplace, parents, siblings, wife, or children. However, Social Security probably has a few thousand entries with the name Frank Moretti. They simply don't have the manpower needed to find the next of kin, assuming there's even one alive. Like I said, unless someone comes forward…"

"And if they can't find any relative…?" In spite of my better judgment, I carry on.

I look up inquisitively; Lisa's expression indicates that I've asked too much. Some questions are better left unasked, and especially unanswered. She opens the desk drawer closest to her and pulls out a cigarette.

"I quit twenty years ago," she reveals, "and even now, once in a while, I'd kill for just one puff. If I were diagnosed with a terminal disease tomorrow, the first thing I'd do is pick the nasty habit right back up; that's how much I miss it."

Lisa gently lifts the unlit cigarette to her nose and deeply inhales the tobacco aroma. She gently presses the filtered tip to her lips as if kissing a lover goodbye, before finally putting the cigarette back in the drawer with a forlorn sigh. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, just long enough to regain her composure and gather her thoughts.

"I used to be an investigator with the Medical Examiner's Office," she starts, "I lasted three days. The workload is unbearable, with a dozen open cases at all times. My first investigation was for a homeless man who cracked his skull while dumpster diving. The doctors couldn't stop the hemorrhaging in his brain, so he died and ended up at the M.E.'s."

"Did you find a next of kin?" I probe, knowing full well the answer.

She snorts, "well, I for sure did not. I quit, remember? But, no, probably not, he must have ended up at the University - probably the closest to a higher education he ever got." Lisa smiles at her joke, even though she must have said or heard it countless times.

"Medical research?" I volunteer, prodding Lisa to continue in the process.

"Exactly, unless the body is crushed, has a contagious disease, is overly obese, or is severely decomposed, the anatomical board gets the first claim."

Visions of swarming vultures forge in my head. I shoo them away.

"Unless, of course, the deceased's religion prohibits it," Nurse Lisa stipulates. "Was Frank Moretti a Jehovah’s Witnesses, Christian Scientist, or Shintoist?"

 "I really don’t know," I stammer, shaking my head, "he may have been Catholic at one point… or maybe Jewish? He sometimes quoted scriptures, who does that?"

"A lot more people than you think… did he quote Old or New?"

"I don't know," I blurt with exasperation, "aren't all scriptures old? He quoted the Bible, not some New Age Scientology bogus creed."

"I mean Old or New Testament - from which book was he quoting? If he referenced Jesus, we'll know he wasn't Jewish."

I stare at Nurse Lisa blankly. "I. Don't. Know." I cadence with visible irritation. "I. Never. Asked." I rub my temples to thwart a fast-approaching headache. "Frank Moretti loved Johnny Cash and cowboy movies. He hated intolerance and feckless hustle. He never cursed and always respected others. Above all else, he loved children. Apparently, I didn't know him well; I really can't tell you which god - if any - he made his own."

"I am not judging," Lisa assures me, "I'm simply trying to help you make the best decision. If Frank was Jewish, he would want to be buried as quickly as possible; a Catholic wouldn't care."

"Let's go with wouldn't care then. For how long will the anatomical board keep him anyway, a week?"

"More like two to three years," she estimates, "they will dissect him like a frog: every single organ, muscle, and nerve. They may hack him into pieces, thus allowing his body to support a wide range of research - a leg may be sent to an orthopedic researcher, for instance, while his head would be studied by a neurosurgeon."

"You mean like a cadaver chop shop?" A tidal wave of nausea engulfs me.

"Sure, if you want to look at it that way," she morbidly concedes.

"Trust me," I willfully take deep, long breaths, "I don't want to look at it any possible way. Don't we have options?"

"Once you turn the body over to the anatomical board, you have no say in its disposition. However, there's always a chance Frank could be spared the chainsaw."

I exhale a sigh of relief… prematurely.

"Some research doesn't involve cutting the body," Nurse Lisa explains, "but rather studying how a body endures a car crash or whether safety equipment can protect a body from an explosion or fall. Ever saw those crash-test life-size dolls used to assess car safety?"

I neither answer, nor blink. I painfully swallow.

"Well, they're not all fake dummies, you know. Also, some researchers in criminal forensics expose cadavers to various environments and observe how they rot. Some corpses are even used to test military equipment such as body armor or protective eyewear - to determine whether or not the eyeballs would cave in the skull…"

"Stop!" I yell, "I heard enough! Why are you being so graphic?"

"Don't be a hypocrite," Lisa openly condemns, "are you sincerely offended that Frank's body could be blown up rather than patiently sliced into tiny pieces. What difference does it make?"

"I don't know yet! I don't know if it makes a difference or not. I need time to think - stop badgering me!" My eyes well up unintentionally. Lisa notices but doesn't relent.

"Listen, you can decline the post-mortem experimentation - that's your call; however," she carefully weighs, "unless you make other arrangements, he'll end up in the state's mortuary for cremation. His ashes will spend four months there, as per state law, after which he'll be disposed of in the Gulf of Mexico."

"Dumped in the Gulf?" I stammer in utter disbelief, "Frank will be dumped in the Gulf?"

Lisa's smirk is condescending. In one slash of the tongue, she has slaughtered Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny.

"What did you expect?" she slights, "why should the State care anymore than you do?"

I am visibly distraught and Lisa compassionately takes notice. Finally.

"It's not like he'll be scattered on the beach," she soothes, "boxes containing the cremated remains of all unclaimed bodies are emptied into the Gulf twice a year. A boat motors three miles out, the captain says a prayer, and the boxes are emptied out."

"This is unacceptable," I announce with a resolve I didn't know I possessed, "we are not barbarians for crying out loud! Where do I need to sign, I'll be taking care of Frank."