Chapter 2 - The Guardian in the Morgue
The squeak of the intake technician's rubber-soled shoes paced around the perimeter of the room for what felt like an eternity. He reviewed shipping manifests, filed carbon copies, and finally retreated down the service hallway to grab breakfast. The moment the outer magnetic lock buzzed shut, Walter ripped the sheet away.
"Now," Walter urged, grabbing my shoulders. "Sit up slowly. Lean on me."
Agony tore through my spine as I forced my dormant muscles into motion. My legs felt like dead weights, pins and needles stabbing into my soles as blood recirculated. Walter wrapped a thick wool utility jacket over my bare shoulders and shoved a pair of worn canvas work pants into my lap.
"Whose clothes are these?" I asked, my voice raw and gravelly.
"Belonged to a cleaner who quit last month," Walter replied briskly. "Nobody checks the lockers in the basement boiler room. Put them on, Arthur. We have less than fifteen minutes before the transport van arrives from the mortuary."
Stumbling like a newborn deer, I managed to dress myself. Every movement was a victory against the poison still lingering in my bloodstream. Looking down at my bare left ring finger, a sharp pale circle marked the spot where my wedding band had sat for twelve short hours. That ring was an heirloom, passed down from my grandfather. Leticia had pried it off without a second thought, treating me as nothing more than a profitable carcass.
"Why are you helping me, Walter?" I asked, leaning heavily against the stainless steel autopsy sink while splashing cold water onto my pale face. "You’re risking your job, maybe even your life."
Walter paused, his hands holding a pair of heavy rubber boots. His lined face hardened, shadows deepening in the creases of his eyes. "Five years ago, my boy worked as a surveyor up near Flagstaff. He got mixed up with a glamorous woman who convinced him to take out an accidental death policy before their wedding. Three months later, he was found at the bottom of an abandoned copper quarry. No autopsy, closed casket, fast cremation. The woman vanished with four hundred thousand dollars."
I froze, the chill of his words settling deep into my marrow. "You think it was Leticia?"
"I don't just think it, Arthur. I recognize Octavio," Walter said, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and simmering rage. "He went by the name Marcus back then. He was listed as her brother then, too. I spent half a decade tracking their trail across three southwestern states, watching obituaries, waiting for them to surface. When I saw Octavio walk through those double doors an hour ago holding your death paperwork, I knew God had finally delivered them to my doorstep."
The puzzle pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Leticia hadn't wandered into my drilling office by chance fourteen months ago. She hadn't fallen for a middle-aged, dirt-covered contractor with grease under his fingernails out of romance. She had studied my public filings, noticed my company was debt-free, seen the sizable life insurance policy mandated by my commercial bank loans, and systematically baited me into her web.
"They're professional widow-makers," I whispered.
"Exactly," Walter agreed, handing me an old ballcap to hide my face. "And they're sloppy this time because they got greedy. They rushed your toast at the reception, and the missing glass is making them nervous. Come on. The freight elevator leads straight to the service alley where my pickup is parked."
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We slipped through the service corridors, moving between steam pipes and buzzing electrical conduits. The morgue was waking up; phones rang in administrative cubicles, and delivery drivers unloaded morning supplies. We kept our heads down, Walter guiding me with the practiced ease of someone who knew every blind spot in the facility's security cameras.
When the back doors opened, the crisp desert morning air hit my lungs like a shock wave. The sun was just cresting the Superstition Mountains, painting the sky in deep streaks of amber and violet. To the world, Arthur Mendoza had died of an unexplained heart attack in the early hours of Sunday morning. But as I climbed into the passenger seat of Walter’s beat-up Dodge Ram, I knew I had never been more determined to live.
