Pumpkin Eater. Jeffrey Round

synonyms of condescension, disdain, and pride. An unusual usage, Dan thought as he read on, only to learn that in its original form a morgue was a room in a prison where jailers studied the newly convicted to help identify them in future. It was only later, in the fifteenth century, that the word came to designate a room used for cold storage of bodies.

      Not to be outdone, the ever-colourful Brits came up with their own euphemisms: “Rose Cottage” and “Rainbow Room,” which allowed doctors to discuss such matters freely in front of worried patients.

      In one of the first detective stories, Edgar Allan Poe had written famously of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Since then, few had bettered his creative ingenuity. Without realizing it, he’d established a number of crime fiction conventions, including that of the eccentric but brilliant problem solver, an ineffectual police force, and what was to become known as the “locked room mystery.” That single work changed

       the course of literary history, though its author thought

       little of it other than to say he felt its popularity stemmed from being “something in a new key.” Novelty

       or not, it earned him a substantial fee of $56 on publication in 1841, adding a further brick in the wall of Poe’s literary immortality. That, of course, was after a lifetime of financial hardship, but before being murdered at forty and defamed posthumously by his literary executor. Was his reputation as a great writer any consolation to him now?

      Dan settled in for a long wait. Every once in a while someone in a uniform came through the hall and tossed him a sympathetic smile, telling him it would be just another few minutes, before disappearing down the corridor and around a corner that hid the aftermath of who knew what disasters, ideal or otherwise?

      At ten thirty, a technician came by. He did a double take and turned back to Dan.

      “Hey, sexy. Fancy meeting you here.”

      Dan looked up and smiled. “Howard. How are you?”

      “Missing being in your loving arms, but otherwise doing very well. How are things? How is, um — Kedrick?”

      “Good memory. We’re both well, thanks. It’s been a while.”

      “It has, hasn’t it?” A spurt of embarrassment showed on Howard’s face. “Sorry about that last time we were together. I guess I was a little jealous or something.”

      Dan shook his head. “Don’t mention it.”

      “Did the beer stains come out of your jacket?”

      Dan smiled. “Pretty much. So how did you come to be working in the city morgue? Didn’t you use to work in film?”

      Howard made a face. “Precisely. I used to do hair and make-up, but I find this far less stressful.”

      “Are you kidding?”

      Howard gave him a rueful look. “Have you ever worked with actors?”

      “Thankfully, no.”

      Howard checked his clipboard. “Say, you’re not waiting for unit three, are you? The murder vic from the slaughterhouse?”

      Dan nodded, suddenly alert. “That’s me.”

      “Come on down the hall. They’re nearly finished,” Howard told him. “I can probably sneak you in if we’re quiet.”

      “I think you said something like that the last time we saw each other,” Dan said with a wink.

      “Still a cheeky boy.”

      Dan followed him to a set of double doors with a red light blinking overhead. Howard turned the knob and peered through the crack. He waved Dan in after him.

      The body lay on a table, covered by a sheet up to the shoulders, leaving the head exposed. From across the room, Dan could make out the severed ear base, the dried blood turned black and grimy.

      There were three men in the room. The first, clearly

       a morgue attendant, carried a clipboard loosely under his arm. The second was the fleshy cop from the slaughterhouse last night. Probably continuity, Dan decided. He would have stayed with the body until the autopsy was completed to provide a continuity of evidence. In other words, so that no one could sneak in and fiddle about with the remains. Once that was done, the body would be sealed in a bag and left undisturbed till it was released to family. The other officer was new. He was smooth-faced and boyish, almost pretty. He’d have had a hard time in the training academy, Dan thought. Probably needed to prove himself at all times. His longish hair was slicked back Latino-style. Definitely not a regulation haircut.

      Both cops were consulting sheets, making marks as the coroner told them his findings. They were as unlikely a pair as Jack Spratt and his lean-hating wife, the one small-framed and tidy, the other oversized and as unkempt as they came. The lumpy officer looked as though he’d never learned to tuck in his shirttails or iron his trousers. Even his boots were scuffed, the laces loosely tied.

      “We’re almost finished,” said the morgue attendant, glancing over at Dan and Howard. “You can come in.”

      The two cops glanced over with disdain, reminding Dan of the original meaning of the word “morgue.” Toronto cops had a reputation for being arrogant. To a degree it was deserved, but not by all. Dan had heard that small town cops resented them for making them all look bad. He’d met his share of cops. For the most part, he could take or leave them. Many were just ordinary folks off the beat, but some had a hardened attitude, as though they felt hard done by and ready to take it out on anybody who gave them cause. As if somebody had forced them to enter the ranks.

      Apart from his size, the larger cop was nondescript. If he had the nerve for it, he’d probably be successful working undercover. He could take on any disguise with that doughboy face, potbelly, and stooped shoulders. With minimal effort, he might easily be mistaken for a truck driver, construction worker, or even a biker.

      The other barely looked old enough to be a cop.

       He was chewing gum, making loud smacking noises. His small stature emphasized his cocky attitude, as though he needed to make up in presence what he lacked in size. His eyes were green. Envy, zealotry, hard to tell. He had a girl’s nose and pouting lips. His hair, thick and honey-blonde, was the kind that seldom made it to middle age without receding, usually along with a sagging middle.

      The larger cop said something to his partner, who turned to regard Dan with greater interest.

      “You the one that found him?” he threw out.

      “Yes, I am.”

      “Missing persons investigator, I understand?”

      “Correct,” Dan said. He could almost hear him thinking, Wannabe cop.

      The officer turned away as though he couldn’t possibly be of further interest.

      “I have some information that might help identify the victim,” Dan offered.

      Both officers turned to him.

      “What would that be, sir?” asked the larger one.

      “I spoke with my client this morning. The man I’m searching for — Darryl Hillary — has a gold-capped lower incisor.”

      “Well, you’re too late. We already know who this guy is,” replied the younger officer with more than a hint of surliness. “We got his fingerprints on file.”

      Dan was aware of the competitiveness police officers felt around him. He wasn’t a cop, yet he often found himself working in their presumed territory.

      “Might I ask if this is the person I’m searching for then?”

      The blonde cop smirked in a humourless way. “Ask all you want, but it’s none of your business, sir.”

      Dan felt his anger igniting. There was more than one way to say “fuck you” to an arrogant prick who took his authority too seriously. As far as