Jutta Profijt - Morgue Drawer Four

“Do you think you could turn on the TV in Conference Room Two for me?” I asked. He nodded, grabbed his coat, turned on the TV, and drove home.

“A condom was not used. But lubricant was,” Martin reported the next morning.

A hooker. Holy hang-gliding whores, that woman was a pro! And, holy crowing cocks, Martin was like a new man this morning. He’d already taken his coat off and swung open the door to the conference room so vigorously it almost damaged the wall. I winced, as I sat in front of a morning talk show.

“Are you here?” he asked carefully. “You’re not saying anything.”

“I’m here and can tell you what the current national weather conditions are right now, what today’s forecast is, and how many calories a butter croissant without butter has.”

He didn’t seem to know what to do with that answer for a second. Then he stared at the screen. The repugnantly upbeat talking head with the artificially tousled hair and a smile paralyzed by too much cosmetic surgery was just explaining what should be part of a really healthy breakfast: muesli, minus the sugar, soaked in hot water and then rinsed down with a glass of freshly squeezed fruit juice. Personally, if I had still had the choice, I wouldn’t chase pap like that with a glass of juice; instead, I’d blast it down the pipes with a high-energy surge from the toilet tank, but on this point tastes do indeed diverge just a bit.

“Good. The report is complete; should we go through it once?” Martin suggested a bit abruptly.

The gentleman was offering me his cooperation on a silver tray? Yes; so what was the deal with him today? Had he resorted to taking drugs? Smoking, swallowing, shooting up? I resolved not to inquire further but just play along.

“I’d love to, Martin. Great.”

I sounded like a social worker reciting a standard de-escalation script in response to insults or death threats, as blasé as if I’d been asked what time it was. Outwardly casual and friendly, but artificial like a Christmas tree in Abu Dhabi.

“There is still no clue to her identity,” Martin lectured, “apart from the quality of the dental work, which presumably points to Eastern Europe.”

“I see,” I said.

They call that “active listening” when you keep mumbling things like “hmm” and “uh-huh” and “you don’t say” now and again. I learned that on TV, at five forty-five, when they run the “Be Your Own Ghostwriter” segment on effective communication in today’s world.

“Her overall health status was fairly good, but she was perhaps a bit underweight.”

“Uh-huh.”

An irreproachable effective-communication strategy: I swallowed my objection that she was unable to benefit from good health anymore as she now, unfortunately, and despite an excellent constitution, was dead, because Martin might have taken that as a provocation. So, I just said “uh-huh.”

“There were some fibers under her fingernails that could have come from an expensive wool carpet.”

“Hmm.”

At the next rhetorical pause I would have to start over with “I see” to keep applying my effective-communication skills, but it didn’t come to that.

“Overall we can say that the woman died a natural death, which the person who intended the body to disappear either did not realize or did realize, but nevertheless did not wish to follow the prescribed procedure for reporting a death, with the issuance of an official death certificate.”

“What conclusion can we draw from this?” I asked carefully, using the word “we” intentionally to solidify Martin’s sudden engagement and to clearly signal solidarity on my end.

“She was not murdered, so there is no murderer.”

“How does that help us?” I asked, since I couldn’t really follow Martin’s train of thought.

“Since there is no murderer who killed the young woman, there is also no reason to kill you, because you did not discover a murder when you saw the woman in the trunk.”

My standard rhetorical script stuck in my throat. So that’s why Martin was in such a good mood. He had discovered that the guy he thought was the woman’s murderer wasn’t a murderer at all, and so all was right with the world again. There was just one snag.

“But someone did kill me, Martin!”

The self-control I had laboriously drilled into myself was now down the tubes; my response to this unbelievably stupid finding by my only possible earthbound assistant was no longer informed by morning television for the rhetorically self-righteous but instead by the action flicks I had taken in between ten last night and two this morning.

“Somebody, whether it was the guy who stowed that chick in the trunk or somebody else, KILLED me! I couldn’t care less if some underweight babe kicked it because she ate some nut or a blue bean, for that matter.”

Martin gasped for air, but I wasn’t done yet.

“Maybe the guy who put her in the trunk didn’t kill her, but we still totally know for absolutely sure that he didn’t want to be connected to the dead Jane Doe. So he wanted to get rid of her. So he might not have been particularly happy that somebody, namely the guy who stole his car, suddenly found out that he had a dead woman in his trunk. So, it may have occurred to him to push the little car thief off the bridge.”

Martin was getting paler and paler, and now he looked just as unhappy as he had last night.

“But you don’t know whose car you stole, do you?”

“No,” I replied. “But the other guy doesn’t know that, either.”

Martin collapsed into one of the conference chairs, completely exhausted. “So what do we do now?” he asked.

“We’ve got to find out who the b…” I quickly swallowed the word “bitch” and continued, “…who the body is.”

Martin looked at me admonishingly, maybe he sensed the word before I changed my phrasing.

“The police are responsible for that,” he said.

“The police won’t be able to figure anything out, the way things work in their world,” I said.

“In ‘their’ world?” Martin asked.

Ugh, again with the slow uptake that keeps pissing me off. “OK, the woman has been dead for eight days, right?” I asked.

He nodded.

“And she hasn’t been reported missing yet, right?”

Nodding.

“And she’s got Eastern European choppers and is presumably a pro?”

More nodding.

“Do you think she’s been staying in Germany legally?” Now he’d finally gotten it!

“But…” he began. But I definitively refused to entertain any further protest.

“People in the real world do not think you’re a cop,” I said. The mere idea that Mr. Roly-Poly Blunderhead here could be a member of a law enforcement agency was a complete joke. “You’ve got a chance to find out her identity.”

“But what should I say about why I’m looking for her?”

If I’d had eyes, I’d have rolled them up so high they spun through my head twice.

“Just say that you fell in love with her,” I joked.

Martin took the suggestion seriously. “But then I would need to know her name,” he objected.

“You could have seen her waiting in line at the grocery store and immediately fallen head over heels for her,” I said, spinning the web tighter. Just like in those romantic comedies they run on cable between three and five in the morning for the sentimental and sleepless. Even though I was making fun of him, I recognized it was a terrific idea. Martin would play the unhappy-in-love guy with absolute credibility. He came off as harmless and inspired pity. If he couldn’t get any information about the woman using that whole shtick, then nothing and no one could uncover her identity. Bingo!